Escape to Witch City

by E. Latimer

  Emma grimaced at her mother and went back to staring out the window.

  In the far distance, the clock tower rose above the rest of the city. It was a crooked, blackened spire against the light of dawn, still damaged from the Great War.

  She shuddered, shifting her attention back to the street and to the bakery they were passing. Outside, a round man in a white smock was shaking a tray of bread rolls into a basket, his breath rising in silver clouds above his head. The shop was festive, decorated with thistle over the doorway. A cluster of holly berries was pinned to the mandatory See a Witch, Say Something! poster hanging in the window.

  There was a second poster beside the first, this one larger, with tattered, sun-faded edges. In blocky letters it asked HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WITCH? Underneath was a drawing of a woman, though it was so faint Emma could hardly make out her face. Most of the wanted posters around town were very old. There were so few adult witches left in London.

  She slouched in her seat as the carriage rumbled past, glancing away quickly. It was not a poster of Lenore, but it was still enough to make her stomach sour all over again.

  If the magic in her blood was over 15 percent, she would fail The Testing. Would the witch hunters drag her away? Would they paralyze her with a thistle dart and put her straight onto the Witch Express?

  “Oh my goodness.”

  Isolde’s horrified voice made Emma turn, eyes narrow. But surprisingly, that tone wasn’t directed at Emma. Instead, Isolde was staring out the window.

  Emma twisted around in her seat to find the carriage passing a small, single-level cottage. Or at least, it had once been a cottage. Now it was more of a burnt husk. You could still see the outline of the house it had once been—four walls and a space for a door—but it was entirely blackened, hollowed out inside, and the roof was completely gone.

  This time, when she pressed her face to the glass, her mother didn’t say anything.

  It wasn’t just the charred stones of the cottage that sent a chill down Emma’s spine, or even the fact that something on the inside of the ruined house was still smoking. No, it was the purple ribbon strung from the trees all around it, a bright red W pattern repeated over and over, encircling what was left of the building.

  The symbol of the Witch Queen.

  The sight sent a tremor of shock through her. Emma pressed herself back against the seat; across from her, Isolde gave a strangled cry.

  Emma recalled the drawing of the Witch Queen she’d seen in the East Wing library, and the depiction of her army in the Throne Room mural. Somehow, those images hadn’t prepared her to see the symbol in person. She felt instantly shaky, her heart crowding up into her throat.

  Did it mean that the members of the coven had all been rebel witches? Were they still out there after all these years, plotting to enslave everyone again?

  On the street, people crowded around, pressing up against the purple ribbon in an effort to get a better look at the scorched shell of the house. Several tall, black-hatted witch hunters circled the exterior of the cottage, and the crowd cleared out of the way as soon as they came into sight.

  Emma’s stomach suddenly churned with nerves. She imagined she could detect the faint scent of smoke.

  “Oh, I’m beginning to feel faint.” Her mother pressed the handkerchief more tightly against her face, blinking furiously, her eyes watering.

  Emma turned her head toward the window, rolled her eyes, and craned her neck as she tried to get one last look at the ruins of the house.

  “Oh.” Isolde’s voice was a soft gasp, and Emma felt her mother grip her arm tightly. She turned, alarmed to see Isolde’s hand pressed over her chest, her face pale.

  “Mother? Are you…?”

  Isolde drew in a long breath, and some of the color returned to her cheeks. She shut her eyes tightly, but didn’t release her grip on Emma’s arm. “Tell me when we’ve gone past.”

  Emma leaned against the seat, letting the carriage rock them back and forth.

  She waited one beat, and then another just to make sure, before saying quietly, “Alright, we’ve gone by.”

  Isolde’s eyes snapped open, and she stared at Emma. Abruptly, she twisted in her seat until her nose was inches away from Emma’s own. The sharp tang of smelling salts assaulted Emma’s senses and she wrinkled her nose. “Listen, Emmaline. Their witch child—the one who didn’t get away—she might be at The Testing. Be sure you don’t speak to anyone except your cousin, if you see him. Be sure to keep him company. Comfort him if he’s scared.”

  And just like that, Emma’s guilt was gone, replaced by a familiar, slow-burning anger expanding in her gut.

  It was the first time her mother had shown any concern over someone being nervous about The Testing, but of course it was the prince she was worried about, and not her own daughter…

  Emma made a noise of distaste and tugged her arm out of her mother’s grasp. “No, thank you.”

  “Emmaline Black.” Her mother sat up straight, clearly furious, and Emma braced herself for a lecture. But before her mother could explode, the carriage lurched to a halt, and from somewhere just outside came the high-pitched sound of a train whistle.

  Both Emma and her mother leaned forward, and Emma shoved the velvet curtain out of her way. She had to lean to the side and mash her face against the glass, but she could see the sleek black side of the train as it snaked past in front of their carriage.

  Her stomach clenched at the sight of the windows on the cars, each covered by a cage of thick iron. The noise the train made between whistles was audible even through the walls of the carriage, the heavy whoosh and pant of the engine like a giant set of lungs.

  The Witch Express had been around for ages, since the end of the Great War, in fact. The queen allotted a tremendous amount of money for its upkeep every year, in order to keep the underground tunnels operating. It was miles and miles of track, all the way to the central city of Scotland, where witches were rehabilitated. These tracks, and the stations along them, were part of an entirely separate system from the one that regular folk used to get around. This was the first time Emma had seen the Express up close.

  Immediately, she hated it. The noise of the heavy machinery pumping away; the wheeze and whistling of its engine; the steam hissing out from underneath. It was too loud, too large, too ominous. Too much of everything, really.

  She watched it go past, trying not to picture it as an angry iron dragon on its way to devour witches. She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to relax as the train disappeared into a tunnel.

  If she let herself get worked up, the Noise would start again.

  The carriage jerked forward and they traveled in silence for the next few minutes, with Isolde still pressing the handkerchief to her nose, eyes fluttering shut.

  For a moment, Emma let herself scan her mother’s face. Whether Isolde had meant to or not, she’d had a lighter touch with the white face paint today, and Emma could see bluish circles beneath her eyes.

  She really didn’t look well, and Emma found herself wondering if her mother had increased her daily portion of thistle wine. At royal events, Isolde drank when the queen drank—the same as the rest of the court—but sometimes she would take it into her head that she must be better than the court, that she must follow in the footsteps of her sister, who consumed thistle at every meal.

  She wondered when her mother’s hands would start to shake all the time, like the queen’s did.

  No one, Emma thought darkly, would have the guts to say it out loud, but the thistle was undeniably poison in large quantities, even if you weren’t a witch. She’d seen the effects, and she’d felt them after the witch hunter incident all those years ago. She’d been sick for a week. Isolde had confined her to her room, saying she was grounded for playing foolish games, but Emma knew it was to avoid suspicion.

  The carriage jerked again and t
hen slowed, and the driver called from up ahead, “The square, my lady.”

  They’d arrived.

  Emma whipped around in her seat, one hand pressed to the window. Now her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. There was the square, with the massive stone pillar and the statue in the center. On the other side, she could just make out the top of a series of white tents.

  Emma swallowed hard. Her mouth suddenly tasted horrible, as if she’d been sick and then immediately forgotten. She felt she might be sick now.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Her mother’s voice was sharp, and too close to her left ear. “We’ll come to pick you up when you’re done. The soldiers will escort you back here.”

  Emma didn’t move. “The Test…d-did your sister take it? Lenore?”

  Her mother didn’t answer, and when Emma turned to look at her, the expression on her mother’s face made her flinch. Isolde was glowering at her daughter, clearly thunderstruck. “H-how dare you—I t-told you never to—” she stuttered, and then cut herself off as the door swung open. The driver, in his neatly pressed black uniform, stood at attention beside the carriage steps.

  Emma stood sharply and made her way out the door.

  The entire massive space of the square stretched out before her, and it was filled, corner to corner. The lineups snaked out from a series of white tents and filtered through the square, roped off with red velvet cords. Purple thistle had been woven into the links, vivid and dark against the red ropes.

  She felt a sharp poke in the small of her back, and heard the annoyed hiss of her mother’s voice from behind her. “Go on. And you had better pray you don’t take after Lenore.”

  Shocked, Emma stumbled down the carriage steps, flinching as the door slammed behind her. The carriage took off almost the moment her shiny black shoes hit the cobblestones. Fuming, Emma forced herself to turn around—toward the square, toward the lineups and the tents rising over the crowds of children.

  Lenore. Isolde had actually said the name out loud.

  It didn’t seem like a good sign.

  A number of solemn-faced guards stood at the entrance booths before the tents. Emma paused in front of the closest one, stomach churning. The guard jumped up when he spotted her, his eyes wide, and stammered that she should follow him.

  He led her away from the crowds and around the back of the white tents, where a tall fence had been erected around a second, smaller cluster of canvas tents. The guard ushered her through the fence with a nod and a jerky bow, and then hurried away without a word.

  Emma found herself in a strange little plaza. It was quieter here. There were only three tents—much bigger than the ones in the main square, but made of plain canvas. There were also fewer children: three lines, with no more than five or six children in each.

  A few of them glanced over at her and then away, back toward the tents. All of them were visibly nervous. They were dressed in silks and satins, thick winter overcoats, fur hats, and shiny shoes. Their breath hung over their heads in silver puffs, and a few were stamping their feet against the frosted cobblestones, shivering. Emma recognized some of them, and she realized she’d seen them in court, though she couldn’t put names to faces.

  This must be the nobles section.

  She hesitated, glancing back at the opening to the plaza. There was only one guard posted there. He was leaning against the fence beside the queen’s poster, his expression bored. Emma was fairly sure she could walk past him if she wanted to.

  But what then? Wander the streets and become a pickpocket? Hide in gutters and alleyways, hoping none of the soldiers would ever find her? None of that seemed realistic, so after a moment of hesitation, she joined the nearest line, behind a girl in a white lace dress and a violently pink winter jacket.

  The line may have been only five children long, but it certainly wasn’t moving. Emma shifted from one foot to the other, clutching the fabric of her dress in both fists, trying to ignore how tight her chest was.

  At least there was plenty to look at through the gap in the fence. Vendors wove between the ropes of the lines, offering trays of sweets for sale, or jewelry made from dried thistle vines—the delicate blooms of the purple flowers trapped in clear stone pendants.

  Several tall figures moved through the crowd, and Emma spotted the nearest one, his wide-brimmed black hat and the beaded cross at his neck.

  He pushed his hat back as he passed, and Emma caught sight of wide blue eyes and blond stubble and felt a shock of recognition.

  Captain Tobias McCraw looked very different than he had the night before. It was like all the fight had been drained out of him. His expression was bleak, and his entire posture had changed. His shoulders were slumped, and Emma noticed the top of his uniform was missing a button. His collar had been stripped of the shiny metal pins that signaled his status as a captain.

  When McCraw paused, his blue eyes settling on her briefly, she felt frozen in place, as if her bones had turned to ice. He shifted his staff from one hand to the other, and her heart squeezed in her chest.

  Did he recognize her somehow? Or worse…did he know about the Noise? Did he think she was a witch?

  A moment later he turned and began to move through the crowd toward one of the tents. Her shoulders slumped in relief, and she let her gaze wander once more, this time toward the gate along the edge of the square. It was tall and laid with bricks, and there were witch hunters stationed at each entranceway.

  Just beyond, the party was in full swing. Red and white circus tents rose above the crowd, and the brassy sound of the band echoed out into the surrounding streets. Even the blackened, half-crumbled structure of the clock tower looked festive from here, bathed in a rainbow of light from lanterns strung between lamp posts.

  As soon as she made it through the tents, she could go beyond the gate. It would all be over once she passed the test.

  If she passed the test.

  All at once, reality set in. It felt as if someone had sucked all the air out of her lungs, leaving her dragging in short, shaky breaths, her head spinning.

  The Testing was mere steps away. She was about to find out if she was a witch or not.

  The line moved forward a few inches, and Emmaline shuffled after the girl in front of her. Her hands were shaking, and she curled them into fists at her sides. It was no good; every time she tried to shove the panic down it crawled right back up into her chest and throat, choking her. She’d barely taken two steps when the pulsing whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of someone’s elevated heart rate echoed in the back of her mind.

  No. Not here. It couldn’t happen here. Not in front of every witch hunter in London.

  Her panic spiked as the line moved again, bringing her closer to the tents. To The Test. She had to get this under control now.

  Emma ground her teeth and pictured herself forcing the Noise back, slamming the door shut. There was still time to manage this, she told herself; the Noise wasn’t nearly as loud as it had been at court the night before.

  Emma could picture the door now: the thick oak wood; the silver knob. She pictured herself shoving a shoulder against the door, forcing it closed, sliding the deadbolt home with a metallic click.

  The Noise cut off abruptly, and she let out a relieved breath.

  Beyond the white fence, someone with a bullhorn had begun calling loudly over the noise of the crowd.

  “Your Illustrious Majesty, Queen Alexandria, welcomes you! On this fine day, picture her in your head, the savior of our fair country, who swept in as the witches tried to crush us beneath their boots. Our Thistle Queen, brave and noble.”

  Grateful for the distraction, she stood on her tiptoes, trying to peer over the fence to see who was speaking. But a moment later a great murmur went up from the crowd, and someone in the distance cried out, “Stand aside, stand aside!”

  Two of the girls in the line next to her
seemed to have a better vantage point than Emma did, because they were giggling and nudging one another, leaning sideways to peer out the gate at something. The Coventry Twins. She’d run into them at court a few times, but they’d never talked to her. They looked identical, with their poofy crinoline dresses, blond ringlets, and faces painted in the court fashion, each wearing a white lace choker woven through with dried thistle flowers.

  Emma glanced away quickly, hoping they didn’t notice her.

  Then she spotted the cause of the giggling and had to repress a groan. A pair of red-coated guards were escorting someone through the crowd toward them. A someone with messy black curls and a pale, pointed face. His hair was just as rumpled as ever, and he looked a little dazed as he was marched forward, but at least his neck was no longer covered in ink.

  There was another loud giggle from the girls in the next line as he was escorted past them and straight into the nearest tent. Emma grimaced, first at them and then at him. Edgar kept his nose in the air, not looking at anyone, and only pausing long enough to chide one of the soldiers for making him drop his poetry book.

  Behind Emma someone made an annoyed hmm. She turned to see a girl in a green-and-white lace dress, butterscotch-colored curls spilling over her shoulders.

  Emma hadn’t even heard her approach.

  Emma squinted, trying to remember if she’d seen her before. She did look vaguely familiar. The daughter of some baron or another, she was fairly certain, though the family hadn’t been at court in a while.

  The girl didn’t look at Emma. She was watching Prince Edgar go into the tent. Once he’d vanished inside, she began to jiggle up and down on the spot, muttering nervously to herself.

  Emma understood how she felt. She couldn’t stop thinking about her mother’s words, just before Isolde had pushed her out of the carriage. Her gaze drifted back to the ruined clock tower in the distance.

  How much had her mysterious aunt Lenore contributed to the burning of London? Had she been one of the witches who collapsed the clock tower and killed all those people? Had she cast horrible spells to mutate anyone who spoke out against the Witch Queen?