“Whatever happens tonight, I just want to say thank you,” I finally manage. “For taking care of me. For saving my life. I know that can’t make up for what I’ve done, but I wish—” I stop. There’s no point in saying what I wish. “Chime is very lucky,” I blurt instead.
“What?” John jerks his head up. A stray lock of hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to push it away. “What did you say?”
“Chime,” I say again. “I met her at the party. Fifer introduced us. She said you were—” I stop. A wave of pure jealousy surges through me, so strong it makes me dizzy.
“No.” He shakes his head. “She’s not. We aren’t—” He breaks off.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
I don’t. I don’t know what’s happening. The only thing I do know is that when I look at him, his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed and dark, he looks as miserable as I feel. Without thinking, I reach my hand up to his face and brush the hair off his forehead.
At my touch, his eyes widen in surprise. I freeze, feeling foolish. What am I doing? I start to pull away, but before I can, he catches my hand fast between both of his, wrapping his fingers around mine and holding them tight.
We stay that way, just staring at each other, neither of us speaking. I don’t feel that familiar sensation of fear or the need to pull away. This time I feel something unfamiliar: the need to hold on tighter.
Someone clears her throat. I look up and see Fifer standing in the doorway, holding both of our bags. She looks from John to me then nods, as if she’s come to some kind of understanding.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says. “But we need to start getting ready.”
John drops my hand. He leans over his bag and hastily shoves everything inside: the lemon, the knife, the bandage. Then, without a word, he gets up and leaves, pushing past Fifer without a glance at either of us.
Fifer steps inside the cabin and shuts the door. She drops our bags on the ground and begins pulling things out: undergarments and gowns and slippers and jewelry.
I help her dress, lacing her into the same gown she wore the first night at Humbert’s, the copper silk with the green bodice. She moves to the mirror next to the bed and fixes her hair, pulling it away from her face, little ringlets falling down around her freckled cheeks. Her bruise is still evident, but she manages to hide most of it with powder.
She spins to face me. “Well?”
“You look pretty,” I say.
“We’ve got some work to do on you, though.” She eyes me critically. “You’re pale and your hair is a fright.” She snatches my things off the floor: the blue dress with the bird embroidered on the front, the matching hair combs, the jewelry. “Let me see what I can do.”
After what seems like forever, Fifer finishes with me. I look at my reflection in the mirror and, I have to say, I don’t look too bad. By some miracle, she’s managed to tame my hair. It’s smooth and shiny and falls over my shoulders in soft waves. She pinned back the sides with the combs, just the way Bridget did, even added a bit of color to my cheeks and lips to hide how pale I am.
“Don’t forget these.” She hands me the sapphire earrings and matching ring. The one Humbert asked me to wear. I slip it on my finger. In the cabin’s dim light, I can just make out the tiny heart etched underneath.
“Thank you,” I say. “For someone marching to her untimely demise, I don’t look half bad.” I mean it as a joke, but Fifer scowls.
“We won’t leave you there,” she says.
“I might not make it out,” I say.
“But we won’t leave you there.” She gestures at the door. “Come on. The others are waiting.”
Outside, dusk is approaching and the clouds are beginning to part, revealing the bright moon behind them. John, George, and Schuyler stand by the door.
Schuyler is dressed in his usual black, George in all blue. Without all the feathers and brooches and bright-colored clothing, I almost don’t recognize him. John has on black trousers and a white shirt under a black jacket trimmed in red. But his hair is still tousled, the wind blowing curls across his forehead and into his eyes. I realize I’m staring at him, but then he’s staring right back at me.
Schuyler tips his head back and groans. “Not this again,” he says. “I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”
“What are you talking about?” I turn to him.
“You. Him. This.” Schuyler waves his hand between John and me. “All these feelings. Flapping about the ship like frantic birds in a cage. Love! Hate! Lust! Fear! Ugh. I feel as if I’m trapped inside an Aegean tragedy.” He glances at George. “You’re not going to start singing, are you?”
George grins. But I look away, my face flaming.
“Shut it, Schuyler,” Fifer says softly. “Let’s just show them and get on with it.”
Schuyler pulls several pieces of paper from his coat. A piece of parchment, a wilted ticket, fragments of a map.
“How many?” Fifer says.
“Four,” Schuyler replies. Then he takes the parchment and rips it in half. “Now five.”
“Good.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheet of thick, creamy paper. I recognize it immediately. The delicate black script on the front, the bright red rose stamped on the top: the invitation to Malcolm’s masque. She takes the ragged pieces of paper from Schuyler’s hand and stacks them on the deck, one on top of the other. Then she takes the invitation and places it on top.
“What are you doing?”
“We need an invitation to get inside the masque,” Fifer says. “I know you said we could pass the one back and forth, but I figured out a better way.” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out her witch’s ladder. “Two knots left.” She holds up the length of black silk cording. “One of which is going to come in really handy right now.”
“Ah,” George says. “That is a good idea.”
“I thought so, too.” Fifer unties the knot and places her hand on top of the stack of paper. “Alter.”
I watch as the map fragments, the ticket, and the two torn pieces of parchment shift and grow, changing shape and color until they become exact copies of the original invitation. Fifer starts passing them out.
“What kind of spell is that?” I say. “Is it like the one you did on the road to Humbert’s, turning the grass into a hedge?”
“The principle is the same, yes.” She hands me an invitation. The paper is slightly warm to the touch. “The idea of taking something and turning it into something else that’s similar. It’s called transference. It’s actually a very handy spell. It needs a great deal of magic behind it, though. I couldn’t do it without Nicholas’s help.” She holds up the cord and gives it a little shake. “He can transfer almost anything into anything else. It’s pretty amazing.”
Just then a man comes up behind us. He claps John on the back, and they shake hands. This must be the captain.
“We dock in about fifteen minutes,” he says. “Best to get your things and wait by the plank. It’ll be a quick stop. No need to stay here any longer than we need to.” John thanks him, and then he’s gone, striding across the deck and barking orders at his men.
We gather our bags and the Azoth—I’ve got it fastened under my skirt; it’s so long the blade nearly grazes the floor—and cross the deck to the railing, watching as Blackwell’s house looms into view.
From the river, it looks like a fortress. Four massive stone slabs, impossibly tall and straight, form the outside walls. On each corner is an even taller domed tower, topped with tiny flags, each emblazoned with a bright red rose. Blackwell’s standard. Surrounding the house is another enormous stone wall. It lines the riverbank, stretching on for what seems like miles before turning inward to enclose the rest of the house.
Set in the middle of the wall is a single, small iron gateway, leading from the river into the moat within. Most of the time it’s closed. But this evening it’s open, like an eno
rmous, gaping iron-toothed jaw. I can almost feel it waiting to devour me.
Normally Blackwell’s home stands empty. But tonight it’s crowded with ships of all sizes and shapes, carrying passengers from all over Anglia. Farther upriver are smaller barges, carrying people from their homes in Upminster. As they grow closer, I can hear the oarsmen beating time on their drums. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounds like a heartbeat.
We slide into port. Two men rush over and quickly lower the gangplank, and it lands with a muffled thud on the dock below.
“Quickly, please,” one of the men says, waving us on.
“This is it,” George whispers. “Masks on.” He slips his over his head: a plain black one. That took some convincing. The mask he wanted to wear was turquoise and covered in peacock plumes. “If you wear that, it’ll take anyone five seconds to realize it’s you,” John had pointed out.
I pull my mask out of my bag, the black one with the pink feathers, and tie it on.
The five of us walk down the bridge. The second we step foot on the dock, the gangplank is whisked back up and the boat glides away, disappearing down the river, back to sea.
“INVITATIONS?” A DARK-UNIFORMED GUARD EXTENDS a white-gloved hand to us.
We’re standing at the top of a wide set of stone stairs that lead from the dock to the entrance of Blackwell’s home. The walls loom over us, damp and black with mold.
John hands over our magically altered invitations. I feel a squeeze of fear—What if he can tell somehow?—but he only nods.
“Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you,” John says. He takes my arm then, steering me down the path in front of us.
I look around, impressed despite myself. Before tonight, this landing was never anything special. Just an expanse of dirt and scattered rocks, a nothing space that led from the water gate to the second gate of the inner ward. But now it’s covered in grass and a freshly laid gravel path, lined with enormous potted trees and lit with a thousand candles. Musicians are stationed in the center of the clearing, strumming lutes and playing the pipes. The light, cheerful music seems completely out of place here.
John looks around, his eyes wide through his mask. His is plain black, too, just like George’s. Humbert was able to round up only two like that. The rest were covered with feathers or jewels or fur. George got the first plain mask; John and Schuyler threw dice for the second. Schuyler lost. Somewhere behind me walks an annoyed revenant sporting a hideous, furry, cat-shaped mask.
For a moment I feel relief that we made it safely inside. I half expected Blackwell’s guards to be on us by now, slapping us in irons and hauling us away, into the dungeon or God knows where else, never to be seen again. But that’s not his way. If he knows we’re here, he’ll wait. Wait until we’re cornered and helpless and then—only then—will he strike. Hard and fast to knock us to our knees, to make us beg, make us wish we were already dead.
That is his way.
We pass through the second gate, into the rose garden. This garden is Blackwell’s most treasured possession. There are over a hundred species of roses here, carefully cultivated to bloom year-round, even in wintertime. Normally, they’re kept under blankets in the cold months to keep away the chill. But tonight they’re uncovered, beautiful and bright in shades of red, pink, yellow, and orange.
Guests stroll along the gravel paths that wind through the bushes, pointing and gasping at the array of topiaries that spring from the ground. Enormous shrubs carefully trimmed into towering pyramids, perfect circles, boxy squares, sometimes all three, one shape stacked on top of another. Others are pruned into animal shapes: owls, bears, even elephants, and their enormous green eyes stare unblinkingly as we pass. The hedge maze generates a lot of excitement, too. But after training, I rather lost my taste for them.
Soon the servants appear and begin ushering us inside. We follow them from the garden down a long stone walkway and through an enormous stone archway, into the main entrance hall. We trudge up the long staircase, through one of the many sets of doors that open into the great hall.
The great hall is just that: great. Three hundred feet long, a hundred feet wide. I can’t begin to guess how tall the ceilings are. The walls are covered in rich tapestries: scenes of hunters on horseback, carrying spears and bows and arrows. But instead of the usual quarry—deer, boar, or wolf—they’re hunting people. Specifically, witches and wizards. There’s even one that features witch hunters roasting their kill on a spit.
I wish I could spare John the sight of that.
We push through the room. An energetic tune fills the air, but it’s nearly drowned out by the sound of hundreds of guests milling about, gossiping, dancing, or huddled in groups along the window seats.
There are masks of every shape and type. Some are plain or lightly decorated, like George’s and John’s. Others resemble the heads of bears, wolves, and tigers, their mouths opened wide in toothy snarls. Some masks are covered in feathers of every color imaginable, others adorned with precious stones: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and even diamonds. I even see a few full-face masks, their fixed expressions grotesque, almost sinister. Especially since you don’t know who might be underneath them.
I glance at the ornate clock mounted above the stage. Eight fifteen. In thirty minutes, I’ll put my plan into place. That’s when I’ll excuse myself, tell the others I’m going to the privy. In reality, I’ll be going to the tomb. At nine, just as the masque starts, Schuyler will tell the others I’ve called for them. He’ll lead them outside, only instead of finding me, they’ll find Peter, waiting with a ship outside the gate. Then Schuyler will have slipped away to meet me, and he and I will destroy the tablet. Afterward, if I’m alive, Schuyler and I will catch up to them.
But I don’t count on being alive.
“I don’t like this.” Fifer looks around. “All these people, I feel as if they’re all looking at us.”
“They’re not,” John says. “It just feels like it because you’re nervous. Try to calm down.”
“How can I calm down? Have you seen all these tapestries?” Fifer bites her nails. “I feel as if I might be sick. Maybe if I get some air—”
“You can’t,” John replies. “We stick to the plan. And that means staying put until the masque starts.”
“Let’s find a place to sit,” I say. “Somewhere close to an exit so we can slip out unnoticed.” I spot an open area by the set of doors we came in through. You can’t see or hear much from this far away, but that doesn’t matter.
We push through the crowd, and I feel people’s eyes on me as we pass. Fifer is right—they are watching us. Then one boy—man? Hard to tell through the mask—after another steps up, sketches a quick bow, asks me to dance. As politely as I can, I turn them down. But the attention is starting to make me nervous.
“What’s going on?” George whispers.
“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “Maybe they think I’m someone else? I’m not sure—”
“It’s your dress,” John says. “The bird on the front. It’s that duchess’s symbol. Humbert’s friend. Remember?”
Of course. The silver bird embroidered on the front of my dress, the symbol of the House of Rotherhithe. How could I have forgotten? That’s who everyone thinks I am: Cecily Mowbray, the Duchess of Rotherhithe’s granddaughter. A lady-in-waiting to Queen Margaret, a lady in her own right, Caleb’s friend. Blond and petite, just like me.
Another boy approaches me. But before he can finish his bow, John grabs my hand and pulls me into the throng of dancers. He places one hand on my back, takes my hand with the other, and pulls me to him. Together we move slowly, quietly, in time with the music.
I should be thinking about Malcolm, who is somewhere in this crowd. I should be thinking about Blackwell, about Caleb, who is here, too. I should be thinking about my plan, the tomb, the tablet.… Instead, all I’m thinking about is John. The smell of lavender and spice, the faint trace of lemons. The way he looks at me, the press of his body
against mine, so close I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. It matches my own.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
“What are you sorry for?” he says softly.
I shake my head. I’m sorry for nothing, I’m sorry for everything; I’m sorry for the impossible way I feel about him, for the impossible hope he might feel the same. But I know I can’t tell him that.
“I know how hard it must be for you to help someone you hate,” I say instead.
He pulls back a little, tilts his head down, looks at me.
“I don’t hate you,” he whispers. “Maybe I should. But I can’t. Because I know you now. And the you I know—brave and strong, but still so frightened and vulnerable—isn’t someone I can hate. That person, I can only—” He breaks off, unable to find the words.
“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “I understand.”
“Do you?” He looks down at me. Slides his hand along my cheek and lifts my face to meet his, so close our lips are an inch apart. Less. He dips his head. I can feel his breath on my skin.
Then he kisses me.
I forget about everything: my fear, my plan—I even forget about the tablet. All that matters is the feel of his lips on mine, his hands on my face and in my hair, the sense of safety he gives me. I never want it to end.
At the sound of applause, we leap apart; I hadn’t realized the music had stopped. John stares at me, eyes wide through his mask, his lips parted, the shock on his face evident. Shock at what? That he kissed me? Or shock that he felt something, the same thing I felt? Still feel: thrill, desire, hope, all tangled together in a breathless little knot.
He reaches for me; I step toward him. I feel a tapping on my shoulder, but I ignore it, not wanting to turn away from him. And when I feel it again, I turn around, a refusal on my lips, thinking it’s another stranger confusing me with someone else. But it’s not a stranger. Because the moment I see his eyes, black as a snake’s even under his wolf-shaped mask, I know who it is. I would recognize him anywhere.
Blackwell.
The Witch Hunter Page 25