The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  She’d do it armed this time, at least. There was a dagger on her belt and she found a thick branch to serve as a staff. The bluebells had wilted away and there was nothing but green light and green shadows all around her. She was excited and nervous and apprehensive of running into the poachers again. She sent her familiar on ahead and kept to the road.

  “Princess.”

  She knew that voice. It was the summer solstice, dark rich earth, cool forest shadow.

  Ewan.

  She stopped, her heart beating loudly in her chest. She turned slowly, hoping she didn’t look as eager as she felt. She had no idea, after all, if he’d care to see her again. He wore the same brown leather coat, stitched at the seams with thick laces. His breeches had been mended under the knee, where the poacher’s knife had caught him. His eyes were pale and green, even from a distance. She could almost believe that he wasn’t real, that she’d dreamed him up.

  “It’s Theodora, actually.”

  “Princess suits you better.”

  She tilted her head. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  He flashed his rare smile. “You think too much.”

  And then his fingers were tangled in hers and they were moving through the woods, Theodora’s cardinal-familiar was a streak of red between the leaves. Somewhere along the way she lost her staff and tucked her hem up into the belt she’d stolen from her father, which she’d hung with pouches of things she thought she might need in the woods. She’d brought a hunk of bread and cheese, salt and rowan berries, an empty spell bottle, and amber beads. She didn’t need any of them, just Ewan.

  He brought her to a small grove on the other side of the wilted bluebell wood. “Step where I step,” he murmured and she watched his feet carefully, matching his stride. There was no snapping of twigs or crunching of acorns, just two shadows moving between the trees, stopping in a patch of sunlight. He was still holding her hand when he showed her the deer, lying together in the grass, ears twitching. They lifted their heads at once, white tails flicking. Theodora froze, holding her breath. The deer were beautiful, with rough fur and wide dark eyes. The sun caught the pollen drifting over them.

  They met every day that summer, sneaking off into sunlit meadows and exploring. The endless round of balls and parties, the new gowns and the politics of the Order ceased to matter. They just kept her from where she wanted to be. She ignored her parents and her sisters, and was downright rude to Alphonse when he called.

  One afternoon in the garden, a white stag leaped the hedge and chased him right off the estate. Theodora knew she should be more careful and circumspect but she was filled up with joy and longing, and there was no space left in her for anything else. She was a tapestry already embroidered, a story already told.

  She grew tan and lithe from running in the woods. He washed his hair in the river every morning before he found her. And he always found her.

  It was madness to feel so much so soon. It tingled through her and made her head swim like champagne.

  He took her to his house once, when fat rain pattered through the branches and the wind nibbled at them. It was a small hut made of wattle and daub, tucked between two oak trees. The branches were woven together to create the support for the roof. A circle of stones held the remains of a cooking fire near the front door, which was hand-carved willow wood. A small clay gargoyle perched protectively in a tree.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked curiously.

  “It’s not much,” he said softly, sounding as uncertain as she’d ever heard him. “It’s not good enough for you.”

  She speared him with a direct gaze. “I’ll decide what’s good enough for me, thank you very much.”

  He stood, rain dripping from the ends of his hair as she ducked inside the small hut. It was dark and smoky and smelled like apples. There were two pallets on wooden boards, one in each corner. A table with two chairs sat between them. The floor was covered in wood shavings and dried flowers.

  “Who are you really?”

  He filled the doorway. “Just a woodcutter’s son.”

  “You’re more than that,” Theodora returned evenly. “What’s your last name?”

  “Greenwood.”

  “The Greenwoods of the greenwood?” she echoed with a smile.

  “Aye.”

  She rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. At first he didn’t move, afraid she’d bolt the way a rabbit bolted when there was movement nearby. She kissed his left cheek, then his right. Her lips were damp and cool. He could see rain beading her eyelashes.

  His arms slid around her, hands cradling her hip bones. She’d taken to wearing the simple dresses the village girls wore while in the forest. There were no petticoats or pads between his callused fingertips and the curve of her body. She leaned into him, heat racing along her, starting at the point where his lips touched hers. She traced the muscles on his arms, down to his strong wrists. His palms stroked up her side. His tongue touched hers and her thoughts fled until she was nothing but flesh and nerve endings.

  When she kissed him back, he spun her around, pressing her against the wall. The moment went primal and sharp, like pink summer lightning.

  Just when she wondered how much more she could possibly with-stand, he pulled away. She tightened her fists in his shirt, gasping.

  He frowned. “My father’s coming.”

  “How do you do that?” she asked, bewildered. “I can’t hear anything but the rain.” Not to mention it was difficult to concentrate on anything but his mouth, the way he moved, the smell of rain and smoke in his hair.

  He pulled her behind him. “We can’t be seen.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are you ashamed of me, Ewan Greenwood?”

  “Don’t be daft, Princess,” he said as they darted behind the hut and continued deeper into the woods. “But my father isn’t fond of witches.”

  “Isn’t he one himself?”

  “Why do you think he’s not fond of them?” he returned drily.

  She picked her way through the undergrowth. She was learning to move softly. She’d probably never be as quiet as Ewan but she was proud of her progress. It was proving useful in helping her sneak out of the house at night as well.

  “Is he so fearsome then?” she asked, knotting her damp hair up at the nape of her neck. “Your father?”

  Ewans smile was brief and crooked. “Not in the way you think.”

  “Is he a poacher?” she asked carefully, not wanting to insult him. The sun peeked through the clouds. Mists snaked between the tree trunks.

  “He’ll only eat fish and the plants he finds in the forest,” Ewan replied. “He won’t eat animals at all.”

  “Truly?” She’d been expecting a wild man of a woodcutter, such as the one from the story of the girl in the red cloak.

  “He’s a gentle sort but he’s the size of an ogre,” he continued. She could tell by the way he spoke that he loved his father very much. “The poachers stay away because they’re afraid of him. We’ve just enough magic between the two of us to convince them our grove is cursed. They say Herne hanged himself from one of our trees.”

  “Clever. Aren’t you afraid of the Greymalkin?”

  He snorted. “Here? Why should they bother with us?”

  “I know,” she agreed sheepishly. “Papa is obsessed with them,” she admitted. “He thinks they wait around every corner.”

  “Maybe they do, in your world.” He slanted her a glance. “I expect he only wants to keep you safe. I would too, if you were mine.”

  “I am yours.”

  He stopped walking. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t I, you great baboon?”

  He laughed and the sound seem to startle them both. She’d never heard him laugh before. “Trust you to find joy in being called a baboon,” she muttered, still cross that he hadn’t immediately declared his undying love. He went serious, turning her to face him when she tried to stomp away.


  “I only meant I have nothing to offer you,” he said, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. “Theodora, I live in a hut in the woods. It’s charming to you now but when winter comes, you’d sing a different tune.”

  “Winter is cold?” she said witheringly. “I had no idea.”

  “Society’s cold too when you cross it, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Hang society.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, every inch the noblewoman. “I have a generous dowry,” she added proudly. “Enough to buy as much firewood as we’d ever need.”

  “Firewood’s free to the ax here, Princess.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said quietly. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. They were green and mysterious, and as indecipherable as the forest. “I’m not a fool, Ewan. I’m trying to tell you that I have money enough for the both of us.”

  “I know what I am.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Do you really think your father would give you that dowry if you married me? I’m poor and wild, even for a woodcutter.”

  “I have jewels,” she insisted. “I could sell them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  His calm demeanor changed and she saw the wildness in him, the dark fierceness that ran through him like a river. “I want you,” he told her harshly. “Just you.”

  He kissed her again, deeply and darkly until she shivered with it. “I only have secrets,” he said huskily. “And it’s not enough.”

  “Secrets?” She raised an eyebrow. “I love secrets.”

  “I knew you would.” He grinned suddenly, looking younger. He looked around carefully before pulling off his coat. His shirt followed, exposing tanned muscles and narrow hips. Theodora swallowed, unable to look away. Lightning could have struck her blind and she’d still have looked. “What are you doing?”

  His hand went to his belt. Her eyes widened. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

  He turned his back, chuckling, and kicking his boots off along with every last stitch of clothes he had on, until he was standing in the dappled sunlight naked except for the scars on his arms. “I want to show you something,” he said, over his shoulder. She bit back several inappropriate remarks.

  And just when she thought he couldn’t get more beautiful, she was proven wrong. He shimmered with the sunlight until she blinked, wondering if she was getting silly and swoony like girls in sensation novels. His muscles strained and moved, skin rippling as it turned to white fur. He fell to his hands, only they’d already transformed into hooves. He tossed his head showing off a massive rack of antlers. The tines curved up to the sky.

  Ewan was the white stag.

  His eyes were wide and green, and reflected his keen perception, his composure.

  The white stag was Ewan.

  “You’re a shape-shifter,” she said reverently.

  He took a step toward her, so huge the ground trembled slightly underfoot. His ears flickered. Her familiar flew out to perch on his antlers, glowing as red as the strawberries he’d once left her. She reached out to stroke one of his tines. He snorted out a breath and she jumped, startled. She laughed, shaking her head. “I love you, Ewan.”

  And then he was himself again, clothed in nothing but the sun and shadows.

  When he reached for her, she was already reaching for him.

  Chapter 42

  Emma woke up in a painted forest, cradled in Cormac’s arms.

  “You fainted,” he said, stroking a lock of hair off her cheek. “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor,” she assured him, trying to sit up. Her head spun. Cormac shifted to let her move, but he didn’t take his arm away from her waist. “I didn’t faint.”

  “Sure looked like it to me. Scared me half to death.”

  “You fight warlocks,” she half smiled. “An unconscious girl is nothing to that.”

  “But you are everything.” She blushed as he met her eyes. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Another one of my mother’s memories,” she replied, glancing at the settee. Theodora was still asleep, her hair tangled over pale cheeks. “She must have put it in the painting of the bird. Is that even possible?”

  Cormac looked thoughtful. “She’s been in this room for a very long time and magic tends to like patterns and repetition. So yes, I suppose it’s possible. And the bird would have been a comforting symbol to her, as you’ve said.” His hand was warm on her lower back, stroking her spine. “What did you see?”

  “My father.” She tilted her head to look at him. Her eyes were wide. “I think I saw my father.” You could ignore the same green eyes but there was no denying antlers. They weren’t exactly a common hereditary trait. And she’d been born almost exactly nine months after her mother wed Alphonse Hightower. She wasn’t Emma Day, child of Lord Hightower. She was illegitimate.

  “Lord Hightower?” Cormac said. “Why is that? He’s not from one of the families.”

  “I don’t think he’s my real father.”

  “Who then? Butcher? Baker? Candlestick maker?”

  “The man with the antlers.”

  “From the rooftop?”

  “Yes.” She pointed to her antlers.

  “I suppose it makes a strange sort of sense,” Cormac allowed. “And he did save your life.”

  “You both did.”

  “You saved yourself just as much.” He shrugged, as if embarrassed by the compliment. She had to grin. It was so unlike him to squirm like that. “But it’s a memory your mother would definitely have felt she needed to hide.”

  “That I’m a bastard?” she asked wryly. “Yes.”

  He took her by the shoulders, willing her to believe in what he was saying. “And I was born without magic. Do you think less of me?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then why should you imagine I would think less of you because of something you have no control over?” He didn’t say anything about society; they both knew the aristocracy would care very much indeed.

  She waited. He waited. Finally, she blinked. “And that’s all you have to say about it?” Most people of her acquaintance would shun her company if they found out. She might even be expelled from Rowanstone.

  “You’re hardly the first baby to be born on the wrong side of the blanket,” he replied calmly. “And if no one knows about it by now, no one ever needs to know.” He raised his eyebrows. “I assume Hightower doesn’t know?” She shook her head. He didn’t think she realized how tightly she was squeezing his fingers. “Then I’d leave it be.”

  The door opened before she could say anything else. “The carriage is ready … oh, dear. What’s happened?” Mrs. Peabody blinked at both of them sitting together against the wall.

  Cormac helped Emma to her feet while she tried not to flush bright red. “Lady Emma fainted.”

  Mrs. Peabody pulled a silver vinaigrette out of her apron. “Do you need smelling salts?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Emma assured her, more than glad not to have to inhale the sharp stench of whatever concoction Mrs. Peabody had in her vinaigrette. Gretchen’s mother favored a vile combination of vinegar, ammonia, and rosemary.

  “It’s the shock of seeing your mother in one of her black moods, I expect,” she said with a comforting smile as they descended the stairs. “Go on, now. It’s too nice a day to spend worrying. Have your young man take you out for some ices.”

  “He’s not…,” Emma broke off. “That is …”

  Cormac winked at the housekeeper. “I most certainly am her young man.”

  Chapter 43

  By the time Cormac caught up to the ship the next day, it was floating near Blackfriars Bridge. He’d had to double back twice to lose Colette, who had been following him all day. She was determined to find the famous Greybeard ship. It was cloaked from warlocks, Madcaps, thieves, and oathbreakers but he wasn’t entirely convinced it would be enough to keep his sister out.

  And he had enough to worry about with keeping Emma from the Ord
er and the Order from Emma, never mind his five wild sisters. Emma couldn’t have killed those girls. He knew it in his bones. But that wasn’t nearly good enough for the Order or the magisters. They’d had fits over the name of Lovegrove and yet he still couldn’t find anyone with any relevant details. The return of the Greymalkin family certainly wasn’t encouraging them to be more forthcoming. And if the Order ever realized the Greymalkin had showed any interest at all in Emma, she’d be bound and her spirit-deer trapped in a bottle before she could blink.

  He’d seen what happened to witches when their familiars were bound. Her mother was proof enough of the danger.

  The hell he was going to let that happen to Emma.

  He would be banished. They couldn’t bind him, not like the others. But he’d sworn to serve the Order above all else and the magisters would punish him severely if they discovered his weakness. He was risking bringing dishonor on his family, on his forefathers who had served for centuries.

  All for her.

  They’d think him bewitched. There was no denying she was somehow connected to the murders. He’d seen how she was dragged to the victims and only magic could accomplish that. So for all their sakes they had to figure it out—and soon. He knew the Order and for all their sterling qualities, they were traditional to the point of blindness. They held to the sins of the fathers, and they didn’t forgive. If the Sisters ever broke their pattern, the Order would be irrevocably lost about how to stop them.

  Cormac hurried down the gangplank to the dark blue hull. The white scrollwork glowed and the bottled eyes watched his every step, finally glancing away when they recognized him. The colorful blown glass witch balls clinked together overhead like icicles. He didn’t go toward the ladder to the magister’s hall where Emma had been dragged. The meetings were held in the captain’s quarters on deck. A wind-witch winked at him as he passed, the wind-knots at her belt and in her hair floating in a breeze that never seemed to abandon her completely. He winked back. He might be distracted, but pretty girls should never be ignored.

  “Cormac.” Ian, a fellow Keeper, was leaning against the wall just inside the door. “Thought you’d forgotten about us, mate.”