“From what?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
He made a sound of frustration. “You can’t be serious.”
“Just trust me, Godric. Everything is fine.”
“You said that the time you convinced me to set that rowboat on fire for your mock Viking funeral. I lost my left eyebrow. It took all summer to grow back.”
• • •
Gretchen dreamed of wolves every night.
Her mother dragged her to the dressmakers to look at bolts of fabric, and even as she was stuck with pins, all she could think about was wolves.
She attended the opera and heard not a word of any song, only howling.
She walked down Bond Street with her cousins, looking at ribbons, oranges, jeweled hair pins, and glove buckles, but all she could see in the windows were wolves.
She stayed up late at night, craning her head out of the window to hear howling. She wasn’t sure if she was hearing dogs, foxes, or wolves, but she listened anyway.
She read everything she could find on wolves and shape-shifters. Wolfwater would allow her to shift into a wolf, but only once. She took to carrying it tucked into her corset, just in case.
She sought glimpses of Tobias at balls and soirees and interminable supper parties, but the Order had taken its Keepers off surveillance. Every available Keeper was needed to fix broken wards and ground wild magic that lashed out like an electric storm. Mostly they were needed to track down Sophie.
News of Sophie’s escape reached all the witching families, right down to the hags scratching a living selling tinctures in Whitehall. There were so many protective spells hanging from every door and garden gate, carriage lantern and horse bridle, that they made the fog sizzle. Gretchen sneezed once and a swarm of gargoyles attacked her bonnet.
Oracles and soothsayers worked day and night to locate Sophie but couldn’t narrow it down beyond London. The area around Greymalkin House was strictly patrolled and off limits. The Order had even taken to searching homes and interrogating witches at random. When Gretchen noticed a sudden surplus of milky white pendants the size of marbles, Emma told her they were meant to glow when in the presence of a Greymalkin. Emma spent most of her time dodging anyone wearing a necklace, which was proving difficult.
Gretchen watched a herd of sleek black pegasi fly over the street. Or was it a flock? Either way, it didn’t bode well for the success of the Order’s attempt to control the magical backlash. Neither did classes on defending oneself against curses and dark magic, though Gretchen enjoyed the latter a lot more.
Penelope stepped down out of the carriage, a thick linen apron wrapped around her dress.
“We’re not baking cakes,” Gretchen told her, grinning.
She adjusted her gloves. “Daphne is the one throwing the spells today,” she said. “I mean to be prepared this time.” There was a lace fichu tucked into the neckline of her dress, covering every inch of her chest and throat.
The school halls were unusually quiet, the floor creaking as they made their way to the ballroom. The smell of smoke and burned salt prickled in Gretchen’s nostrils. They joined Emma. “What did we miss?” Gretchen whispered.
“Nothing yet.” Emma glanced at Penelope. “Are you planning to gut fish in that outfit?”
“Laugh now, but when you get boiled beets all over you, I’ll be the one laughing,” Penelope replied primly. “Isn’t that what this class is all about? Being prepared?”
Daphne took her position at the front of the room, next to Miss Hopewell. Her chin was lifted haughtily, but Gretchen was learning to read the uncertainty under the gesture. It wouldn’t help her duck boiled beets though.
“Girls, your attention, please.” Miss Hopewell clapped her hands. “Today we will be casting shield spells, just like the Ironstone students did at the demonstration.” She paused when one of the younger girls raised her hand. “Yes, Agatha, what is it?”
“My pendant is glowing!” She held up the crystal, wide-eyed. The girls around her stepped away, as though she were contagious. Frantic whispering erupted. Emma paled, even as Gretchen and Penelope surreptitiously stepped in front of her.
Miss Hopewell sighed. “Never mind that. Protective spells like that always go off in the ballroom,” she explained. “If you’d been listening in class, you’d know that. There’s too much magic residue and spells actively seeking you out. Look around, most of your pendants are glowing.”
Emma released her breath. Gretchen and Penelope parted, looking innocent. Miss Hopewell had already returned to her lecture.
“You want a shield of light that will envelop you. A bubble works best, but we’ll start small and work our way up to that. Blue light is preferable. Take a moment to picture it in your mind’s eye and then pull magic from yourself. It helps to concentrate on your witch knot. It can act as a conduit.”
“What about daggers?” Gretchen asked. “Throw one of those and you’re right as rain.”
“A lady does not go about stabbing people,” Miss Hopewell said severely.
“But ladies go about being murdered, is that it?”
“You are not going to die, Gretchen,” Miss Hopewell said, exasperated. “I do wish you’d stop being so violent. There is no need for it. We have the Order to keep us safe.”
Gretchen scowled. “But—”
“And should you miss with your beloved dagger,” she continued, “then you’ve just handed your opponent another weapon, haven’t you?”
“I don’t intend to miss.”
“No one ever does,” she said. She nodded to Daphne. “Begin.”
Daphne tossed a handful of red wax wafers into the air, the kind used to seal letters. Each had a word scratched into the surface. They hovered for a moment, before transforming into hornets, magpies, and red sparrows with sharpened beaks.
With a flick of her wrist, Daphne released them all at once. Her magic hurled them with lethal accuracy. The girls fell back a step, throwing up energy shields with varying degrees of success. Blue light flared up and down the ballroom. The smell of burned fennel and apple was thick. Catriona and Clarissa had the best shields, repelling all spells until the wax wafers melted away. Cormac’s sister Olwen flickered in and out of view, though her shield remained, glowing brightly.
“Good,” Miss Hopewell interrupted when everyone was red-faced and panting for breath. “Daphne, you may join the others now and work on your shield. If you are tired, draw power from the earth, from the trees in the garden, and from the water falling in the fountain. But never, never, from each other.”
“Why not?” one of the girls asked.
“Because it would drain a person of his or her power and energy. Not to mention that it is very rude indeed.”
Miss Hopewell marched up and down the line like a general, flinging elf-bolts. They left welts when they made contact, leaching energy until one felt feverish and ill. One of the girls fainted. Gretchen had to put her own hair out when it accidentally caught fire. Emma’s antlers got tangled in a volley of elf-bolts and bled green sap. Furious, Emma fried the bolts with lightning bolts that shot from the chandelier.
Gretchen’s magic fizzled out before the others. She tried to force her shield to stay active, but it fell apart in a rain of blue sparks. They hit the floor, leaving pockmarks. She wiped sweat off her brow crossly.
“Shields won’t do any good against Sophie,” Daphne said beside her, sounding as frustrated as Gretchen felt. “I told my father as much.”
“And what did he say?”
“That the shields are only meant to protect us long enough for a Keeper to finish the job.”
“Bollocks to that,” Gretchen said, reaching down to unhook the dagger tied to her ankle. She threw it at one of the hay-bale targets.
“Now that, I want to learn,” Daphne said, when she’d retrieved it, even as Miss Hopewell glared her displeasure.
Gretchen tested the dagger’s tip on her forefinger with a grin. “It’s not like needlepoin
t.”
“I should hope not. Pass it here.”
“Never mind Sophie,” Penelope whispered to Emma. “Those two getting along so well is what’s really scary.”
Chapter 15
Dancing the waltz at a May Ball seemed even more ridiculous than usual.
The first of May was a Threshold day, as powerful as All Hallow’s Eve and the summer and winter solstices. Everyone was certain that Sophie would make her move, having gathered enough magic to cast any spell of her choosing.
Which made dancing an odd choice, to Gretchen’s mind.
But witching society believed there was safety in numbers, and several Keepers had been dispatched to the event. Gretchen would attend, like everyone else, because it was expected. But better to put on a silk gown and topaz earrings and gloves that refused to stay up around her elbows than feel helpless. She tucked salt into her slippers and the wolfwater vial into her corset just in case.
She went by the academy first, determined to make yet another attempt at listening in on Sophie’s spell. Perhaps being inside her room again would help. Most of the students who boarded had already left or were in a frenzy of last-minute hairdressing. Emma was already gone and Penelope was being escorted by Lucius.
Before Tobias had kissed her, Gretchen would have found it odd to be escorted by a Keeper. Truthfully, she did still find it a trifle odd, but mostly she just wondered if Tobias would be there. He hadn’t followed her to the school ever since the Order had pulled the Keepers off surveillance of the cousins. Finding and stopping Sophie had become the only goal.
Gretchen marched into Sophie’s old chambers with a determined step. This time she would get it right. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She breathed slowly and deeply until her heart wasn’t hammering in her ears. She listened but could only hear the same words again and again.
“Only a warlock’s spell.”
“I need more,” she said.
“Only a warlock’s spell.”
“Yes, I got that bit, actually.”
“Only a warlock’s spell.”
“Honestly, you could try being helpful,” she snapped peevishly. “Which spell—”
“What are you doing?” Daphne demanded, closing the door behind her. Her magical talent for targeting spells exactly where they needed to be brushed over Gretchen. The resulting chorus of dead witches snapped her head back.
“Alas no witch’s rhyme.”
Gretchen clamped her hands over her temples and tried not to be ill. “Alas no witch’s rhyme,” she repeated, her voice tinny and distant.
Daphne froze. “What did you say?”
“To turn back time.”
There was more, but they were talking over each other, like singing a round.
“To turn back time?” Daphne guessed, interrupting the psychical litany. “I know that spell.”
And just like that the chanting ceased. Gretchen blinked at her. “You do?”
“Well, it’s a rhyme, really,” she said. “Everyone knows it.”
Gretchen raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t a witch until very recently, Daphne. I wasn’t raised in this world.”
“Oh, right. Anyway, it goes like this: ‘Alas, no witch’s rhyme to turn back time; only a warlock’s spell unrings the bell. To rise up those that fell, court thee the Seven Sisters well.’” She paused as it sank in. Gretchen still didn’t think the rhyme in its entirety made that much sense. Daphne began to pace, wide-eyed. “Sophie means to raise the dead.”
Gretchen stood slowly. “She can do that?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “But it requires sacrificing a witch so that the spirit of the dead person she is summoning has a place to dwell. Among other things.”
“Like the bones of a murdered witch?” Gretchen hazarded a guess.
“Yes. And the Seven Sisters,” she added. “The Greymalkin Sisters were at their most powerful when seven of them roamed together. She must have originally summoned the three who were easiest to control or anticipate.”
“I think it was convenience, actually. When Emma opened the gates, they happened to be there to take advantage of it.”
She shivered. “There haven’t been Seven Greymalkin Sisters together since the Great Fire of 1666. They say there was blood in the streets.” Daphne drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. “She needs to summon all Seven Sisters in order to work the spell.”
“Can she do it?”
“Yes,” she said tightly. “I’m very much afraid to say I think she can.”
“But she won’t,” Gretchen said, steel in her voice. “Because we’re going to stop her.”
Daphne met her gaze and nodded. “You’re bloody right we are. My father’s at the ball; we’ll warn him about the spell.”
“I don’t even know why they’re bothering with this ball,” Gretchen muttered as they rushed down the hall.
“Because the Threshold day will amplify our magic just as it amplifies Sophie’s.” Daphne lifted her chin haughtily, which was an impressive feat seeing as she was half running. “And because we do not bend to villains.”
Carriages were dispatched to and from Grace House, to take the students to the ball. Gretchen shouldered aside a clump of giggling younger girls about to step up into a carriage pulling up the lane. “Sorry, urgent business,” she said.
The girl fought back. “That’s our carriage!”
Daphne just glared at her until she gave in, sulking. Daphne climbed inside and Gretchen was lifting her skirts to follow when a streak of silvery mist leaped between her and the steps. She stumbled back.
Her brother’s wolfhound.
Again.
He was even more agitated than the last time he’d found her, leading her to Godric drunk on London Bridge while Sophie sent Rovers to steal the bones of a murdered Madcap that were about to be burned. She cringed to think of what trouble Godric was in now.
“Bollocks,” she said. “Daphne, my brother’s in trouble. I’ll catch up when I can.”
Daphne just shut the door, shouting for the coachman to drive on. Gretchen was going to find her brother and rescue him.
And then she was going to hit him over the head with his flask of whiskey.
When a bird with strange toad-green eyes landed on her windowsill and dropped an apple seed from its beak, Emma knew it was time to visit the Toad Mother.
She packed a satchel with the whittled deer, the poppet of Sophie, and various traveling supplies. The bridge was quiet, with most witches preparing for their May Day festivities. Clouds scuttled across the sky and the pomegranate lanterns swayed under a steady wind. Salt and rowan berries clogged the gutters on either side of the road. Wind chimes made from knives and scissors dangled from shop posts, catching the light and clinking together like cutlery at a dinner party.
Nerves danced in her belly as she counted three alleys down and turned right, then left and right again onto Bonesong Alley. The Toad Mother’s hut looked the same, if less lively. There was no pink smoke coming from the chimney today. The last time she’d been here every aspect of the hut buzzed with magic. You could cut yourself on the grass, choke on the pink smoke, lose yourself in the army of acid-green toads. But now there was only one single toad hopping across the path as Emma crossed the stones to the front door. And the legion of gargoyles who watched clients approaching to ring the bell were gone. The ground was littered with bits of shingles.
Something was wrong.
“Hello?” she called out hesitantly, pushing the front door open. Anxiety sang through her. “I received your message.” The only reply was the squeak of rusty hinges.
A small hole in the wall served as the hearth, with most of the smoke belching back out to hang in the rafters. Smoke wasn’t the only thing bumping against the ceiling. Dozens of small gargoyles hovered overhead, jolting together, scraping the walls and leaving dents. They buzzed toward her, and she dropped the glamour hiding her antlers. The less magic they could smell on her, the less likely
they were to attack. They drifted away, confused. One turned to stone before he made it up to the wooden beam and fell with a thunk.
Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling. The jars of herbs, dried flowers, sea salt, graveyard dirt, eye beds, iron nails, bones, and braids of hair that usually stood in orderly rows were opened, upended, and broken over the floor. There was a table, a tipped-over bench, and a cot in one corner.
And the Toad Mother.
She was on the ground, her long hair fanned out over the hearthstone, behind a spinning wheel. The toad bones stitched into the fringe of her shawl had been crushed under a boot tread. They left a fine powder that glowed faintly yellow, like fireflies. When Emma reached her side, the Toad Mother opened her eyes. They flared green.
“Emma,” she croaked. Her silver toad pendant floated in the blood collecting in the hollow of her collarbone. Luminescent toad-familiars crouched around her, gleaming wetly.
“What happened?” Emma asked. She didn’t know how to help her. There was so much blood and her skin was already waxy and clammy. The hilt of the knife protruding from her rib cage was made of jet. “What do I do?”
When she went to pull it out, the Toad Mother shook her head. “Don’t. It’s too late.”
“It’s not. I’ll fetch a doctor.”
“Too late,” she insisted. “Couldn’t take my magic,” she coughed, smiling smugly even through the pain. “Not the first to try. I cursed myself back when I was your age when my lover tried it for himself. I decided anyone else who tried would just end up with a dead witch.”
“But who did this to you?”
“I didn’t recognize him. Just his wheel pendant.”
“A Keeper?” Emma sat back on her heels. “Not a debutante? Sophie Truwell?”
“Don’t let the Greybeards find you here,” she said, grimacing as she pressed at her wound.
“What was he looking for?” Emma asked, surveying the spell ingredients scattered in the dust. The Toad Mother’s eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep them open. Emma wasn’t even sure if the other woman could still see her.
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