John turns back to me and nods, as if he knew what I was thinking. For a minute we look at each other, neither of us saying a word. The thrill I felt earlier comes rushing back. I should move. George would want me to. I should want to, too.
Except I don’t.
I hear someone clear his throat and I turn around. Humbert is smiling at us, but Fifer is glaring and George just shakes his head.
“I need a drink,” he mutters.
Humbert steps over to the flask with the orange liquid and unhooks it from the stand. “I’ve got just the thing.”
THE NEXT DAY PASSES WITH no word from Peter. I’m anxious to begin searching for the tablet—rather, for the thing that will lead me to the tablet—but Humbert is dead set against our wandering around without Peter’s protection. He’s worried about the guards; he’s worried about us, me in particular—“the frail little thing,” he calls me.
I don’t push it. Not because I’m worried but because I don’t know what to do. I spent the morning with John walking Humbert’s property, poking through his endless number of rooms, but came up empty.
I don’t think whatever I’m supposed to find is here, at least not in this house. It’s not that simple. If it has to do with Blackwell, it can’t be. Either way, I won’t find it with Peter and the others trailing behind me. I’ve got to find a way to search on my own.
That evening after supper we move into Humbert’s sitting room. He summons a musician from somewhere, possibly the last century, by the look of him. Skeletal, wispy white hair, bony hands clutching a lute. He perches on the edge of a chair and begins to warble out a dusty tune.
George and Humbert, absurdly, start dancing. Fifer paces in front of the window, watching the spook lights I saw the evening we arrived, only tonight they’re green instead of red. Every now and again she’ll glance at John, mutter under her breath, and then turn back to the window again.
The musician plucks away, hitting more wrong notes than right. I glance at John, sitting in the chair across from me. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, a look of intense pain on his face. Finally, he looks down and sees me watching him.
Help, he mouths.
I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a laugh. He grins and points at the door. I nod. He uncrosses his long legs, rises from the chair, and slips from the room. I wait as long as I can stand, thirty seconds, maybe, then do the same. He waits for me down the checkered hall, in front of a set of wide double doors inset with stained glass panels. The library. It’s the only room we couldn’t visit this morning, closed for cleaning and reshelving.
“Well, that was completely awful.” He points to the door. “Want to go in?”
“Won’t we get in trouble?”
“I think it’ll be all right,” he says. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? I don’t think Humbert will arrest us.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a troublemaker,” I say, but I’m smiling.
“You have no idea.” He smiles back. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” He presses his hand against the door and, with a heavy creak, pushes it open. “After you.”
Inside is a vast, cavernous room, with vaulted stone walls as tall as the room is wide, inset with oak shelves and filled entirely with books. The floor is laid with bright green and blue tile, arranged in a complicated geometric pattern. The ceiling is a glass dome, open to the starry sky like an oculus.
But it’s the enormous tree in the center of the room that commands the most attention. It sprouts from the floor, a massive thing, the trunk at least five feet in diameter, its many leafless branches extending like arms into the night sky.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?”
John nods. He’s watching me closely.
“How did you know it was here?”
“My father told me about it,” he says. “But I thought he was exaggerating.”
We make our way toward the tree, our footsteps echoing off the hard tile floor. I don’t make it more than a few steps before the dark room bursts into light, the candles in the many sconces fitted along the wall flickering into flame. I flinch a little.
“It’s just an enchantment,” John says. “The lights come on when the room is safe. If it senses danger, they go off—or don’t come on at all. It’s security, I guess you could say.”
“It’s a library,” I point out. “Why does it need security?”
“Because it’s a library with a very magical tree inside,” John replies.
“The tree is magical?” We’re standing in front of it now. Up close it’s a curious gray color, entirely stripped of bark. It almost looks like bone.
He nods. “If Humbert were to get visitors—say that duchess friend of his—and they happened to stumble inside…” He shrugs. “That’s probably why the library was closed this morning, so Bridget could top up the spell. She’s a witch, you know.”
I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be.
“What does it do?” I say, finally. “The tree, I mean.”
“Oh.” John runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure, exactly.” But something in his expression tells me he does.
Suddenly, I want to touch it. It’s bold; stupid, even, to want anything to do with magic, especially in front of John. But I want to see what it does. And since those enchanted lights seem to think I’m safe, maybe I am.
I reach out, tentatively, touch the withered gray trunk. Feel the smoothness of the wood beneath my hand. The tree shudders slightly under my palm, and with a sound like striking matches, it flares to life. Leaves bud, sprout, then unfurl, thousands of them—more—in shades of green so bright and vibrant they don’t seem real.
I let out a surprised gasp, then start to laugh. The leaves continue to come furiously, spreading through the branches until the once-dead tree now looks as alive as a summer day. I turn to John.
“Why did it do that?” I say. “What does it mean?”
John swipes his hand through his hair. “They—I don’t know.” Again, something in his expression tells me he does.
“What would happen if you touched it?”
He looks away from me and doesn’t reply. I could swear he’s blushing.
But I don’t let it go. “Go on, then.”
He shoots me a look: half-annoyed, half-amused. After a moment he lifts his hand and presses it against the trunk. Nothing happens at first. But then, with a sudden pop and a soft rustle of leaves, a tiny bird appears on one of the topmost branches. It opens its beak and lets out an unnaturally loud chirp. He shuts his eyes, looking relieved and flustered all at once.
I start to giggle then. I can’t help it.
“Now you have to tell me,” I say. “Surely you know. I know you—”
The bird goes still then, stops chirping. And without warning, the candles in the sconces flare out, plunging the room into near darkness. Without thinking, I grab John’s arm, spin him around, and pull us both behind the tree.
“Don’t move,” I whisper.
“All right,” he says back. “But… what are you doing?” His back is pressed roughly against the trunk, and I’m pressed roughly against him, my fingers digging into the front of his shirt. He’s so close I can smell him: clean and warm, lavender and spice.
“I—you said the lights go out if it’s not safe,” I say, and I’m the one blushing now.
“Ah.” His lips twitch into a smile and I wait for him to tease me, to get back at me for making him touch that tree. But he doesn’t. His smile disappears and he just looks at me. His gaze travels from my eyes to my lips, lingers there, then moves back to my eyes again. I look at him right back, and for a moment I think he means to kiss me. I feel a fierce rush of warmth at the thought of it—which gives way to a cold snap of fear.
I pull away from him. Take one step back, two. John doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop me. But he doesn’t take his eyes from mine, either. He holds them, steady; and after a long moment he simply nods. He knows
about the herbs I was arrested with, knows what I used them for. It occurs to me that maybe he’s figured out a lot more than that.
The library doors slam open then, echoing through the silent room like a shot. Fifer stomps toward us in a whirl of red hair and indignation.
“Here comes danger now,” John murmurs.
“Oh ho! Exactly what is going on here?” She plants her hands on her hips and taps her foot. “Hiding in dark, shadowy nooks, are we?”
John rolls his eyes. “We’re not hiding.”
“And it’s not dark. Or shadowy,” I add. Except it’s both. Fifer glares at me; John ducks his head and laughs under his breath. A stray lock of hair falls over his forehead, and I feel that urge again to brush it away.
“Is there something I can do for you?” John glances up at Fifer. “You look rather upset.”
“Upset?” Fifer shrieks. There’s a sharp rustle of leaves overhead and the tiny songbird lets out a loud, indignant chirp. “Is that a bird?” Fifer points at it as if it were a dragon. “What is that doing here? And why is this tree full of leaves?”
“I don’t know anything about the leaves,” I say, a bit too loudly. “We just came in here to look at the lights.” I point at the shower of green sparks, shining through the oculus overhead.
John winces.
“Yes. The lights.” Fifer turns to him. “We need to talk about that.”
“No, we don’t,” he replies, sounding weary all of a sudden.
“Yes, we do. You know what it means. The prophecy—”
“That’s not what it means.”
“What about the prophecy?” I say.
“Says you,” Fifer continues, ignoring me. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong,” John fires back. “You’re just not thinking clearly—”
“Oh, please! You’re the one with your head in the clouds, ever since—” She stops at the warning look on John’s face. “Fine. But why else are we here if not for that? It’s not to walk around aimlessly, or to poke around Humbert’s cathedral, and it’s certainly not to go hiding in libraries under trees with girls, making birds—”
“That’s enough, Fifer.”
They glare at each other.
“Fine. But you have to come with me now, anyway,” Fifer says. “Humbert needs you. Something about a tonic for that lute-playing crypt keeper of his.”
“You really are as sweet as poison, you know that?”
She sticks her tongue out at him.
We follow Fifer back into the sitting room. The lute player is lying on the settee, hands folded in his lap, breathing heavily. George sits beside him, his lips pressed together as if he’s sealing off a laugh.
John blinks. “What happened?”
“He’s had a bit of a spell, that’s all,” Humbert crows. “Transported by the beauty of his own artistic expression.”
The corners of John’s mouth twitch. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m going to bed now,” Fifer announces. She stalks out of the room, nearly colliding with Bridget, who walks in carrying a tray of tea. She sets it on the table and begins pouring.
Fifer stops in the doorway. Turns around. Glances at the tea, at John, then back at the tea again.
“Will you be needing your bag, John?” Fifer asks. Her voice is kind, helpful… and utterly unlike her. John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy attending to the lute player.
“Uh, yes. Thank you.”
Fifer ducks into the hall and comes back a few minutes later, carrying his bag. She sets it in front of him and smiles.
“Maybe I will have some tea, after all.” She walks to the table. Hovers over the tray. Reaches for a cup but doesn’t pick it up. Does it again. What is going on with her? She’s acting strange, even for Fifer. “On second thought, I don’t think I will, after all. See you in the morning.” She darts up the stairs, her red hair flying.
“Such a sweet girl,” Humbert roars.
No, she’s not. And I’m suspicious. I’ve seen girls in the maids’ chamber behave like this before. Usually because they’ve got a boy stashed in their room and are afraid of getting caught. That’s not happening here, of course, but whatever Fifer’s up to, it’s guaranteed to be a lot worse than a boy hiding under her mattress.
I get to my feet. “I’m going to bed, too.”
John looks up at me. Lucky, he mouths.
I grin and head for the stairs, straight to Fifer’s room. I stop in front of her door, my hand on the door latch. Then I pause. Maybe I don’t want to know what she’s doing. Maybe it’ll make things worse between us if I try to find out. And things are bad enough as it is.
The second I step away from the door, it flies open and Fifer yanks me into her room. She slams the door and pushes me against it, a weapon from Humbert’s cabinet clutched in her hand: a spring-loaded triple dagger, by the looks of it. She holds it to my throat.
“Do you even know how to use that?” I say.
“Shut it. Why were you lurking outside my door?”
“I thought you were up to something. I wanted to see what it was.”
Fifer pokes my neck with the blade again. “You don’t get to suspect me of anything.”
“But something’s going on, isn’t it? Outside, with the spook lights. And the tea downstairs. What is it?”
She pushes away from me and starts pacing the room, muttering to herself. “Should I tell her? No. But the prophecy… and I can’t exactly show up with a bloodthirsty maniac—”
“I’m not a bloodthirsty maniac.”
“Shut it.”
“Show up where?”
“I said, shut it.”
She walks from the door to the window, back and forth, chewing her fingernail. Finally, she turns to me. “I don’t like you.”
“I realize that.”
“And I don’t trust you. But the prophecy seems to think I should.”
“What does that mean?”
Fifer marches to her bed, pulls a piece of parchment out of her bag, and thrusts it into my hand. I recognize it immediately: Veda’s prophecy.
“Read the third line.”
“Come third winter’s night, go underground in green, what holds him in death will lead you to thirteen.” I hand it back. “What about it?”
She stares at me a moment. “I’m going to tell you something, but I need you to hear me out before you say anything. Can you do that?”
Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to like what I hear. But I nod anyway.
“Winter’s night. Nicholas, John, everyone else thinks it’s a date. The third night after the winter solstice, which is a week from now. But I think it’s something else.” She pauses. “Winter’s night isn’t just a date. It’s also a party.”
“A party,” I repeat.
She nods. “It happens every year. Different places, different times. It lasts for three nights. This year’s party happens to be in Stepney Green. The very same place Nicholas sent us to. And see those lights?” She points out the window, at the twinkling green lights in the distance. “They’re not spook lights. They’re nymph lights. Sent into the air every night during Winter’s Night. The first night is purple, the second red, the third green. Come third winter’s night, go underground in green. Get it?”
“I guess,” I say. “But Veda didn’t say anything about going to a party.”
Fifer narrows her eyes. “What are you, fluent in seer now?”
“Are you?”
“As it so happens, yes. It’s my specialty.” She says this rather haughtily.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You wanted John to go to this party, and he didn’t want to. That’s what you were fighting about on the way here. That’s why he was so angry tonight.”
Fifer shrugs. “He thinks it’s a stretch. He thinks I just want to go to the party and I’m using the prophecy as an excuse.”
“Are you?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be telling you about it,” Fife
r fires back.
I ignore this. “What kind of party is it?”
“Just a little get-together. Well, maybe not so little. A bit of food, a bit of drink, a lot of chaos. It’s fun. Everyone goes.”
“Everyone?” I don’t like the sound of that. “Who’s everyone?”
“Witches, of course. Wizards. Revenants, hags, demons… mostly the nondangerous variety, but not always. Ghosts. We try to keep them out, but, you know, that can be hard. Don’t always know they’re there until it’s too late.”
“Are you saying you want me to go?”
“Of course I don’t want you to go,” Fifer snaps. “You think I want to bring a witch hunter to a party like that? You’re even more insane than I thought.”
“I’m not insane. I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
She waves it off. “I don’t want you to go to the party. But after hearing what I’ve told you about it, if you feel as if you might find something there”—I notice the emphasis on the word—“I can’t stop you.”
I’m about to tell her to forget it. John’s right: It is a stretch. The words all line up, but I have a hard time believing Veda’s prophecy amounts to no more than a party invitation.
Yet… there is a ring of truth to it. At the very least, it’s a lot of coincidences. And Blackwell always says there are no coincidences.
“Yes,” I say. “I think we should go.”
Fifer goes quiet. Then her eyes flutter shut in an expression that almost looks like relief.
“That was good,” she says, finally. “Very decisive. I could tell you really felt it. In here.” She thumps her chest in imitation of Humbert.
“No shilly-shally,” I agree, and I almost see her smile.
“What should we do about the others?” I say. “If John didn’t want you to go and finds out we both did—what?” A look of guilt flashes across Fifer’s face.
“That’s the other thing.” A pause. “I drugged them.”
“You what?”
“I took something from John’s bag and slipped it in their tea.”
“That’s really dangerous!” I say. “You can’t go around putting herbs in people’s drinks like that. Each dose has to be measured exactly! The amount you’d need to knock out someone Humbert’s size would be enough to kill poor George—”
The Witch Hunter Page 17