The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  “We split up, I think,” John says. “I’ll go ahead. George, you follow behind. If there’s anything unexpected, Horace will let us know. So if you see him, run. Hide. I’ll come find you when I think it’s safe.”

  The falcon has spent most of the journey circling the sky over our heads, but he is now resting on John’s outstretched arm. We agree, and he releases Horace and takes off in a slow run, down the road and over the first hill until he’s out of sight.

  George hangs back, letting Fifer and me walk ahead. She makes a show of ignoring me, so we’re quiet for the next few miles, concentrating on the path in front of us. The rain is still coming down, turning the road into a river of mud. It’s slow going, trudging through the ankle-deep sludge.

  Fifer is shivering under her wet cloak, her lips nearly blue with cold. When she steps into a pothole and trips, I grab her arm to keep her from falling. She looks grateful, for a second. Then she yanks away from me and storms off, muttering under her breath.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  She whirls around, a look of disgust on her face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I smirk. I can’t help it. “Theologists have long believed that our time here on earth is—”

  “Not that, you idiot,” she flares. “What I mean is, can you do anything? Nicholas said you’re a witch, so I’m asking you if you can do any magic.”

  “Oh,” I say. “No.”

  “You’ve never done any spells? Curses?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not even by accident? Say, wished harm on anyone and caused it to come true?”

  “No,” I repeat.

  “Well, do you get lucky a lot? That’s what happens to untrained witches, you know. They do magic without realizing it and think they’re just lucky.”

  “Do I seem lucky to you?”

  Fifer snorts, her face softening a bit. “I guess not. Although you did survive jail fever. I guess now you know why.” She purses her lips, thinking. “There must be something you can do. Otherwise—”

  She’s cut off by Horace, soaring toward us and clipping the tops of our heads with his outstretched wing.

  “Run!”

  We sprint across the muddy road, hurling over the wall and into the fields, searching for somewhere to hide. The grass is too low to offer cover. The only trees are in the distance, but if we’re fast enough we might make it.

  I grab Fifer’s sleeve and start toward them when I hear it. Softly at first, then louder: the unmistakable thundering noise of horses, their hooves pounding through the mud. Whoever’s coming, they’re close. We won’t make it to the trees before we’re spotted.

  Fifer grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” I say. “They’re going to see—”

  “No, they’re not.” She reaches into her cloak and pulls out a long silk cord with three knots tied in it. I recognize it immediately: a witch’s ladder. Witches use them when they need to perform difficult or time-consuming spells quickly. Their energy and power are stored in the cord, and they’re released whenever a knot is untied. Blackwell showed us what they were in training, how they worked.

  I suppose he would know.

  Fifer yanks a small tuft of grass from the ground and starts to untie one of the knots from the cord, her fingers trembling as the sound of the hooves grows louder.

  “Enlarge.” She flings the grass into the air. The blades expand and shoot upward, forming an enormous overgrown hedge. It’s at least four feet high and ten feet long. The grass is so high it curls over on itself, thick enough for us to hide under.

  We crawl beneath it, pulling our cloaks and bags tightly around us so they can’t be seen from the road. In the distance, I see them: four men riding under the king’s standard. Fifer watches them, wide-eyed. We both go still and wait for them to pass.

  They don’t. The horses slow to a canter, then a trot, then stop completely, less than fifty feet from us.

  “I’ve had to piss for miles!” grumbles one man. I hear his feet splash in the mud as he dismounts his horse.

  “Hurry up and have done, then. Nothing here is stopping you.”

  “I’m coming, too,” says another, slipping from his saddle.

  The two men make their way across the field, heading in our direction. They march straight up to our hedge, stop, and proceed to unbutton their trousers. Fifer grimaces; she looks horrified. I smile a little. I can’t help it. Pissing men don’t bother me in the slightest. I was the only girl among twenty male witch hunters. I’ve pretty much seen it all.

  “So what do you think?” one guard says.

  “Dunno,” says the other. “Ten more miles, maybe?” He shakes his head. “Bloody Stepney Green, middle of nowhere—”

  “Not that. I’m talking about her.”

  Her. They’re talking about me. Fifer shoots me a look. She knows it, too. I stare at the guards through the hedge, willing them not to say more.

  “Aye. But I wouldn’t worry too much,” the guard continues. “D’you really think Pace would send us if there was any chance of her being there?”

  Fifer’s expression turns to confusion.

  Shut up, I plead silently. Shut up, shut up.…

  The other guard looks doubtful. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Look, she can’t be in three places at once. And if you ask me, Stepney Green’s the least likely of all.”

  Three places? Where else does Caleb think we are?

  “Even still. You’d think they’d at least send a witch hunter with us.”

  “What for? You don’t think we can take a little girl?”

  “She’s not just a little girl.”

  Fifer narrows her eyes at me. I shrug, as if I hear this sort of thing every day. But my heart is pounding so hard it’s a wonder they all can’t hear it.

  “She’s dangerous,” the guard continues. “Who knows what she’s capable of now that she’s with Nicholas Perevil. I say we search the place as we’re supposed to and get out of here. If we find her, we’ll let Pace take care of her.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” The men button up their trousers and turn to walk away.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. That was close, I think. Too close.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? That she’s a witch hunter and a witch?” He tuts. “Blackwell ought to be more careful about who he recruits next time.”

  Damnation.

  I look at Fifer. She stares back at me, her expression blank as a fish’s. I open my mouth to say—I don’t know what—but she turns away, either in fright or disgust. Probably both. She sits, unseeing, unmoving, as the two guards join the others in the road. They mount their horses and ride away, kicking up a fountain of mud in their wake.

  Damned bigmouthed idiots! I should have taken them out when I had the chance. Well, it’s too late now. Nicholas won’t be happy that Fifer found out about me, and neither will George. Where is he, anyway? I’m going to need his help managing Fifer when she snaps out of this daze she’s in. She’s still staring blankly through the hedge. I slide out from under the hedge to look for George. The second I do, she pounces.

  “You’re a witch hunter!” She shoves me to the ground and jumps on top of me. “A goddamned witch hunter!”

  “Fifer! Stop!” She’s hitting me now, punching my arms, my stomach, my face. I can’t fight back, not really. I’ll just hurt her. Or worse, I’ll kill her. I grab her wrists to try to stop her, but she yanks away and slaps my face and rakes her fingernails down my cheek.

  “I could kill you! I will kill you! You—” She lets out a string of obscenities so blistering and outrageous I actually start to laugh. Until she grabs a hank of my hair and pulls. Hard.

  I let out a yelp, and for a moment I forget I’m not supposed to fight her. I grab her shoulders and fling her off me. She tumbles into the grass, but she’s up in a flash, cuffing me across the head so hard my ears ring. I jump on top of her, and we
start rolling around on the ground, both of us slapping and pulling hair and screaming.

  There’s a streak of movement in the distance, and suddenly George is there, standing over us with a horrified expression.

  “Oi!” He hops around us, dodging our flailing bodies. “What the hell is going on?”

  We keep fighting.

  “Would you two quit? Quit it, I say!” George takes me by the waist and pulls me off Fifer. She jumps up and flies at me, her hands spread like claws. I catch her wrists, and the three of us stagger around, reeling like drunkards in a brawl before tumbling headlong into the hedge.

  “Peace, for God’s sake!” George shouts, prying us apart. “What the hell is going on?”

  Fifer scrambles to her feet. “She’s a witch hunter!” She lunges for me again, her hands tightened into fists.

  George grabs her before she can get to me.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieks. “Go get John! We’ve got to kill her. Right now! He can, or you can. Or I’ll do it myself!” She pulls out her witch’s ladder.

  “You can’t kill her,” George says.

  “Yes, I can!” Her fingers fumble around a knot. “I’ll curse her into a thousand pieces—”

  George yanks it out of her hands. “D’you want Nicholas to die?”

  “What?” Fifer looks horrified. “No!”

  “That’s what will happen if you kill her. She’s the only one who can find that tablet. You know that. So it shouldn’t matter to you what she is. Witch hunter, demon, she could be the devil for all you care.”

  “She is. She is the devil.” Fifer seethes. “And you.” She rounds on George, jabbing her finger at him. “You’re awfully calm about this. So help me, if you knew she was a witch hunter and didn’t tell us…”

  George and I exchange a rapid glance.

  “You knew,” Fifer whispers. “You knew and you didn’t tell me. Why? How could you do that to me? Or John?” Her eyes go wide. “Nicholas—”

  George holds up a hand. “He knows. Of course he knows. I didn’t tell you because he told me not to. Didn’t see any reason for you to know.”

  “No reason?” Fifer screeches. “No reason to tell us she’s a vile, lying, barbaric bi—”

  “Fifer.” George raises his eyebrows.

  “You don’t really believe she’s going to help us, do you?” Fifer says. “She means to run us in circles long enough for Nicholas to die, then turn us over to her friends!”

  “I’m not going to do that,” I say.

  “She’s not going to do that,” George repeats.

  “I don’t believe you,” Fifer says. “I don’t believe her. I don’t believe any of this.” She’s pacing back and forth, shaking her head. Finally, she stops. “I’m telling John.” She turns and heads for the road.

  “No.” George grabs her sleeve. “We keep this among us.”

  “No!” Fifer says. “He needs to know. Do you know what he’ll do if he finds out?”

  “Aye. I do know. Which is why he can’t.” Fifer opens her mouth to argue, but George shakes his head. “The main thing is finding the tablet. You know that. Right now, we can’t afford it to be about anything else. If we tell him, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  Fifer doesn’t reply.

  “Look, when we get to Humbert’s, you can write to Nicholas,” George continues. “Ask him yourself. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “Why would he keep this from us?”

  “He has his reasons.” George holds the witch’s ladder in front of her. “Do we have a deal?”

  Fifer lunges for the ladder, but George yanks it away.

  “Fine,” she rages. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good. Now wipe that murderous look off your face. Here comes John.”

  I look over the hedge and see him coming toward us in a slow run. He’s completely coated in mud.

  “Oi, man. What happened to you?” George says, looking him over.

  “Jumped in a ditch.” John wipes his face with his sleeve. “Nice hedge,” he says to Fifer. She shrugs and doesn’t reply. “Those guards, they’re headed the same way we are. I suppose they’re looking for us.” He looks at each of us in turn. “Did you hear them say anything?”

  None of us reply.

  “I could have sworn I asked that question out loud,” John says wryly. “Fifer?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me! I don’t know anything!”

  John raises his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Everything! Nothing! I don’t know!” She gives her witch’s ladder a little shake. “It’s just… I’m upset because I had to use one of my knots. I only have three. I didn’t want to waste it on something so stupid.” She gestures at the hedge.

  “It’s not stupid; it saved you,” John says.

  “It doomed us!”

  “Don’t be such a tragedy queen,” I say irritably, rubbing my scalp. It smarts from where she pulled my hair. “So you used a knot. You can make another at Humbert’s.”

  Fifer glares at me, and without a word, she stalks off toward the road. George hurries after her.

  I look at John. “What was that about?”

  “Fifer didn’t make those knots—Nicholas did,” John replies. “She’s not quite powerful enough for that yet. He was going to make more, but… you know.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s too bad.” I can see how those knots would come in handy.

  But it’s good to know Fifer isn’t as powerful as she pretends to be.

  ANOTHER HOUR PASSES, AND THE sky begins to grow dark. The rain that has dogged us most of the day has turned back into snow, coming at us in gusts and swirling around our feet. Eventually we reach a crossing, the road splitting into two lanes. One is wide and well paved, leading into town. The other road is barely that—footprints in an expanse of knee-high grass that looks as if it’s been walked on maybe twice in the last month. John checks his map again and, of course, that’s the road we take.

  The snow falls faster and harder, and what little path we had is swallowed by snow and darkness. Every now and again I catch a flash of red in the sky, blinking in the darkness like a crimson star. Spook lights, I suppose; we must be nearing a bog or a marsh of some sort. I just hope we don’t have to cross it. While bog spooks aren’t dangerous, they are very irritating. They’ll make you play a thousand stupid games before letting you cross the water in peace. I’m too tired to deal with that right now.

  Finally, we come upon a series of hills, each steeper than the last. I lose my footing on the icy ground a few times, so John walks beside me, holding my arm to keep me steady.

  “How much longer?” Fifer moans. “I’m cold, I’m hungry, my feet hurt—”

  “We should be coming up on it now,” John says. We crest another hill, the steepest one so far. When we reach the top, John points to the valley below. “There it is.”

  Humbert’s house. It’s more castle than home, really, built entirely from gray stone and surrounded by an enormous square moat. Only a pair of arched footbridges joins the house with the surrounding land. It might look like a fortress were it not for all the ivy, the leaves gone red for the winter, lacing the stones like veins. Multiple gardens fill the landscape, cut through with ponds and more arching bridges. The whole thing is covered in a light dusting of snow, like a dream.

  We scurry down the hill and cross the bridge that leads to the inner courtyard. The house is less imposing here, more domestic: half-timbered walls, diamond-paned windows, a large stone fountain. When we reach the front door, it swings open almost immediately and a doorman ushers us into an impressive entrance hall. Glittering brass and crystal chandeliers. Shiny black-and-white checkerboard floors. Rich wood-paneled walls, hung with a series of oil paintings. Tasteful nudes, nothing violent here at all. There’s a particularly nice one of Venus and Cupid that takes up nearly an entire wall.

  “Hullo!” booms a voice. I look around to see Humbert Pembroke waddling toward us, a large glass
of brandy in his hand. He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him: very short, very portly, dressed finely in a brightly colored silk jacket and velvet trousers. “What happened to you lot?”

  He looks us over. John’s still covered in mud. Fifer’s got streaks of dirt on her face and grass tangled in her hair. I’m sure I look just as bad. George is the only one who looks moderately clean. How does he do that?

  John—in an absurdly loud voice—fills him in about our run-in with the guards. Humbert nods and makes appropriate listening noises, but it’s clear he’s too distracted by me to really pay attention. He can’t keep his eyes off me. The second John finishes, he turns to me.

  “So you’re her, hmm?” Humbert bellows.

  “Who?” I say.

  “What?”

  John turns to me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “Humbert’s a bit deaf, so you’ll have to speak up,” he whispers. “And I think he just wants to know if you’re the girl Nicholas told him about.”

  “Oh.” I walk over to Humbert and stand directly in front of him so I don’t have to shout. “Yes,” I say. “I’m her.”

  Humbert smiles and snaps his fingers. Instantly a maid arrives. She takes one look at our dirty faces and mud-covered clothes and sends us upstairs to bathe and be ready for dinner in an hour.

  Moments later I’m standing in an upstairs bedroom, waiting as a servant prepares me a bath. I look around, impressed. Beautifully appointed rooms. Rich drapes. Carpets so plush they’re ankle-deep. Tester beds, fat with goose down mattresses, layers of linen sheets, and soft fur-lined blankets. This house is as fine as any of Malcolm’s palaces, finer than Blackwell’s, even. If he knew Humbert was a Reformist, he’d take all of it, along with his head.

  As I undress and slip into the bath, Humbert’s maid—an older woman named Bridget—comes in with a stack of clothing.

  “I thought you’d prefer a dress for dining.” She holds it up.

  I don’t, but I guess I can’t complain. It’s a pretty thing: dark blue velvet, the skirt overlaid with rich gold panels, the bodice embroidered with some kind of bird woven in silver thread. She lays it out, along with a pair of slippers and earrings, gold and sapphire to go with the dress. There’s even a matching ring. I stare at them, wide-eyed. I’ve never worn anything this nice in my life. I never had any reason to.