The Whisper Witch Page 12

  “We are still here.”

  “Stop it!” That was Penelope, trying to hold her up. “Can’t you see her ears are bleeding?”

  Miss Hopewell rushed forward. The other students squeaked with alarm. It was just one more layer of voices.

  Gretchen threw up into a potted plant.

  “Well, that’s not very ladylike,” Daphne remarked.

  Moira went to visit One-Eyed Joe to make sure the magic leaking through the Dials neighborhood hadn’t affected him. His flat was on Pillory Street, tucked into a building that looked ready to fall over. But inside, his room was tidy and sparse, with none of the clutter of his stall in the goblin markets. He smiled at her when she popped her head in. “Well, here’s herself,” he said.

  She shrugged out of her coat as quickly as she could, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. Though it was warm outside, he had a fire burning in a cauldron and a warm brick wrapped in flannel at his feet. The air was humid and smoky. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Of course I am,” he scoffed, as always. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because it’s hot as Hades in here, old man.”

  He cackled. “I’ve always wanted to visit exotic islands where the sun beats like a fiery heart.”

  “And a poet today, besides.” She shook her head at him, grinning. “Have you been into the gin again?”

  “Not a’tall,” he said. “What brings you by?”

  “There’s something in the air,” she said. “Even the goblins are watching their backs, and you know them, they’ve got the delicate sensibilities of a bull. And I had a run-in with the White Lady in the Seven Dials.”

  “So I heard.” One-Eyed Joe coughed into a pink handkerchief.

  His dark face was more wrinkled than she remembered, like cracked earth. Her familiar butted her head against his arm. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said.

  She filled the kettle and set it to boil, making a note to gather more water before the end of the week. He was running out again, and there was only half a stale loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese in the cupboard. “What have you been eating for supper?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “Not very hungry.”

  “Well, you’ll eat now,” she warned him. “I’ve brought muffins and sausages from the street cart and also those dried apricots you like so much.” She brought him a tray piled with food and strong tea in a chipped mug. He made the steam into somersaulting mice for Marmalade to chase.

  The tea brought the sparkle back into his eyes, and he sat up a bit straighter, though she still wasn’t fond of the wheeze in his breath. “I hear there’s a fine young lad bringing you flowers.”

  Moira rolled her eyes. “Now who told you that, you old gossip?”

  “I’ve my ways. Will you let him catch you?”

  She snorted and handed him a piece of cheese. “Eat this.”

  Even feeling poorly, One-Eyed Joe was as stubborn as three mules. “You could marry into the fancy and have a roof over your head instead of under it.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t be daft.”

  “It’s not daft to want you safe,” he grumbled.

  “It is when you’re babbling about earls’ sons marrying raggedy orphan girls,” she tossed back. “He’s having a go at the wild life,” she added dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  “And you overestimate me,” she said fondly, bringing him an extra blanket when he shivered. “You’ve got the ague and it’s addling your brain.” She kissed his clammy forehead. “I’ll bring you some tonic later tonight,” she promised. “And have Cedric pop in as well.”

  “Don’t bother the boy,” One-Eyed Joe muttered, his eyes drifting closed. “It’s just a wee fever.” He’d barely finished his sentence before sleep claimed him. She watched for a moment longer, chewing on her bottom lip, before turning away.

  She was down the street when her feet prickled suddenly. She was yanked into a doorway before she could even contemplate changing course.

  That’s what she got for taking the road like the fancy instead of the rooftops like a Madcap.

  She didn’t recognize the person who was now gripping her arm behind her back, threatening to snap it out of its socket. She was at an odd angle and there wasn’t enough room in the doorway to reach her dagger, even if she could have loosened his hold, which didn’t feel likely. It was like being grabbed by an ox. It smelled like it too.

  “Oi, leave off!” She struggled, trying to kick back hard enough to shatter a kneecap or, better yet, something he valued a little more highly. He twisted away.

  “Someone wants to see you,” he said in her ear. His voice didn’t sound familiar. His breath smelled like black ale, and the only places that served black ale were in the goblin markets. He was a witch, she knew that much at least.

  “Son of a bitch,” she cursed as he forced her up a narrow staircase, the steps splintered and stained under her boots. He slapped his free hand over her mouth, stifling any plans that involved screaming at the top of her lungs. Not that she’d have expected it to grant her much help. In this neighborhood, you saved your own life by pretending not to hear most of what went on behind closed doors and back alleys. Or even out in the middle of the street.

  Her mind raced. Procuring rare magical ingredients for One-Eyed Joe and her own paying clientele had its dangers, but she couldn’t think who she might have angered lately. She didn’t deal with warlocks or Rovers, which didn’t win her friends, but she was faster than they were.

  Usually.

  She was forced into a small apartment with a few broken ladder-back chairs, a wooden table constructed from an old door and stolen bricks, and a shelf with chipped crockery. There were two boys near her age, a girl with long brown hair, and another young man with lavender eyes and a matching violet hat.

  Fear turned to fury, lighting like a dry field in high summer.

  “What the hell, Atticus?” Moira spat when her captor released her. Her dagger was in her hand before she’d fully regained her footing, but he’d already kicked the door shut and stood in front of it, beefy arms crossed. He couldn’t stop her familiar though, and Marmalade swiped at him before leaping through the wall. Moira shifted so the dirty grate with its old cauldron was behind her.

  “Thank you, Ogden,” Atticus said, playing lord of the manor despite his Cockney accent and the mended seams of his stolen coat. Atticus turned to Moira and spread his hands out as if he were in the Prince Regent’s new Carlton Palace instead of a shabby room with mice nesting in the corners. “Welcome.”

  Moira didn’t know what he was doing here, but she knew it was nothing good. She didn’t know who the new bloke was either, but Atticus and his regular gang, Rod, John, and Piper, usually kept to a back alley behind a bookshop in the goblin markets. The last time she’d seen them was when they’d broken Strawberry’s wrist.

  She bared her teeth. “Go to hell, Atticus.”

  “And here I was going to offer you tea,” he said with his smug smile, the one she always wanted to slap off his pretty face. She lost what little patience she had and made a move toward him. Ogden came up behind her, crushing her fingers until her dagger clattered to the ground. He kicked it away and stepped back, again without a word. Piper bent to pick it up, smiling. She hated Moira as much as Moira hated Atticus. Maybe more.

  “Now, now,” Atticus preened. “We’ve come up in the world, Moira. You’ll have to show me some respect.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.” She rubbed her aching fingers. A cart trundled by outside, shaking the entire flimsy building. Dust trickled from the ceiling. Cold air blew through the cracks in the wall. “What are you doing in this rat’s nest, anyway?”

  His pretty violet eyes narrowed. He claimed they were proof of his royal Fae bloodline, but he was as much a fairy prince as she was. It was a glamour, pure and simple. “We need a dead witch’s teeth. And you’re going to get them for us.”
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  “What do you need them for?” she demanded, not even bothering with the rest of his idiotic demand. As if she would ever work for him.

  “I don’t ask questions, my pretty,” he replied. Piper snarled at the endearment. “But we have a fine patron now. A gentleman. You’ll be well compensated.”

  “Get them yourself.”

  “I would, but it’s proving distressingly difficult to procure.”

  She snorted. “Who are you fooling with those fancy words? I knew you when you begged for coins and rotten leftovers at Leadenhall market.”

  Atticus was fast, she had to give him that. He never fought his own battles unless he had a clear advantage, and she was cornered and outnumbered. The slap rocked her head back, splitting her lip open so that she tasted blood. Pain bloomed like a red flower, sending roots into her back teeth.

  Piper clapped her hands like a child at a carnival. “Oh, well done, Atticus. It’s about time someone took her down a peg.”

  “Shut it, Piper,” he snapped, his furious eyes never leaving Moira’s face.

  She refused to touch the throbbing ache of her cheek, only spat blood on his boots. “You’re as stupid as you are mad if you think I’m going to help you,” she said, half laughing.

  “I don’t see how you have any choice,” he returned. “There’s five of us against little raggedy you.”

  A cup rolled off the shelf, smashing into pieces.

  “Um, Atticus.”

  “I said, shut it, Piper.” He fisted his hand in Moira’s hair, forcing her head back. She dug her nails into his wrist. “I can offer you so much more than the old man and your pathetic gang,” he said.

  She smiled at him even though her scalp hurt. “You could never offer me anything that would even tempt me. I’ll take winter hail on a broken rooftop over a house of gold with you in it any day.”

  A frigid wind rattled violently at the window. Atticus jumped, his hold loosening slightly. Frost filled the holes in the walls and crept down the chimney, limning the cauldron with ice. Winter howled in the narrow room, hurling itself about like icy daggers.

  “It’s a ghost,” Piper said through chattering teeth. “That’s what I was trying to tell you!”

  Atticus’s hat was plucked off his head by an invisible hand. He swallowed nervously. “Do something!” he ordered the others.

  Rod and John swiped at nothing, coming away with frostbitten fingertips. Even Ogden looked nervous, clutching a charm of iron nails and red thread. Moira didn’t bother worrying about a ghost; instead she punched Atticus right in the face. He howled, staggering back and letting go of her hair. She leaped out of reach, picking up a chair to use as a weapon.

  Pip crashed through the glass behind her, his teeth in his little gargoyle face surprisingly jagged. He flew straight for Ogden, who was still blocking the door. His leathery wings slapped at Ogden’s face and his talons raked at his skin, leaving raw gashes. Ogden stumbled aside, punching at the gargoyle. Pip darted away, angry as a hornet.

  Moira rushed to the doorway, pausing briefly. “The Greybeards will never let you trade in witch’s teeth, you idiot.”

  Atticus tossed his blond hair off his face, hiding behind Rod, John, and Piper, who had surrounded him. “Who do you think wants to buy them?”

  When her parents finally left for the theater, Gretchen closed herself up in her bedroom with a pot of tea and her new grimoire. She thought she felt a tingle in her witch knot when she smoothed her palm over the cracked leather cover. The tiny bells shivered.

  She paused over a spell designed to silence gossip. There was a whisper of sound, like a voice carrying across a great distance. She couldn’t help but think the spell would be more effective with the addition of honey and beeswax. She didn’t know why the thought popped into her head, but the ensuing silence from the whispering had a decidedly smug quality to it.

  She read about iron horseshoes hung over doors for good luck, hagstones on red cords for protection and to see fairies, and putting the name of a disagreeable person in a jar of honey. She considered testing it on Daphne but decided if she was going to experiment with magic, it should be for something more useful. Unfortunately, there was no spell on how to stop your mother from throwing you at eligible bachelors like kitchen leavings tossed in the pigpen. She felt certain she wasn’t the first to wonder about such a spell. Surely one of the Rowanstone students over the years had discovered something. She made a mental note to ask around between classes.

  She stopped at a page with a black border like mourning paper. It was a protection spell listing salt, an iron nail, rowan berries, and red thread, like most of the magic preferred by the Order. It also called for a thunderstone, the sketch showing a small flint arrowhead like the ones Godric used to collect when they were little. She’d helped dig them out of ancient barrow mounds on the country estate. They’d spent that entire summer hunting for the elves and fairies they were sure had left them behind.

  If a Keeper like Tobias intended to follow her around like a bloody hunting dog, it might be a good idea to have a few spells in her arsenal. The instructions were simple enough. And Mrs. Sparrow had encouraged her to study and practice, after all.

  And frankly, if it helped stop the constant muttering and headaches, she’d gladly dance naked in a toadstool ring in the middle of Hyde Park.

  Feeling instantly more cheerful now that she had a plan, Gretchen went next door to her brother’s room. It was still kept ready for him, with clothes, books, and her old sword collection on the wall. It was bad enough that Gretchen had always collected odd things like snail shells, dragonfly wings, and strangely shaped rocks, but Godric had to pretend her sword collection belonged to him in order to keep the peace.

  Under the swords was a stack of wooden chests with brass hinges packed with Godric’s old toys and knickknacks. The first was a jumble of toy soldiers and broken kites. The next was filled with cedar and lavender sachets to guard against moths and mice. Under a toy boat with a collapsed mast and a paint box was another, smaller box wrapped with twine. It rattled promisingly. When she opened it, it was filled with rocks, acorns, and several chipped arrowheads. The spell had also called for an adderstone, but she decided a hagstone would work just as well, since there were a few already in the box. She picked a small one, the hole in the center worn through by the constant kiss of the ocean.

  The house was quiet all around her as Gretchen gathered the rest of the ingredients from the kitchen and her mother’s sewing box. Back in her room, she drew a teacup-sized circle out of salt on the floor and placed three rowan berries and a spool of red thread in its center. She added a sprinkle of flower petals from the vase on her desk, just because it appealed to her. She was beginning to realize that her instinct for patterns and collections of items from tiny bird skulls to swords, were as much a magical trait as a personality trait. It was strange to consider how little she might actually know of herself.

  She wrapped the blunt end of the arrowhead in red embroidery floss, adding a hagstone and a wrinkled rowan berry struck through with a bent silver pin. It was an unusual assortment that would horrify her mother’s elegant taste—which was only part of the reason Gretchen decided she liked it. It tingled briefly, but even so it was only a curious necklace and nothing more.

  Magic might be inherent in certain items and combinations therein, but something more had to be awakened for it to have a true effect. Emma’s power over the weather was intrinsic—it came from her own self. She could channel it into a spell for healing if she practiced hard; the same way Gretchen’s talent for recognizing spells might be channeled. If she learned to control it before it killed her outright, of course.

  The thunderstone pendant needed to be awakened. If she’d been a hedgewitch with no ingrained power of her own, she would have to steal that power from the earth, the rain, fire, trees, birds. A warlock would steal it from another witch, or kill for it, as Sophie had done.

  Gretchen, being Gretchen, had frustration
, disobedience, and impudence to spare, but she wasn’t certain it would do her much good in this case. She leaned over the talisman, drumming her fingers on her knees. “Well? Do something!”

  She was going to have to remember that speaking idly was no longer a luxury for a witch without full control of her powers.

  Preferably before she was struck deaf and her head exploded.

  She clutched at her ears as dozens of voices whispered urgently, making gooseflesh rise on her arms. It was a jumble of noise, as disconcerting as hearing footsteps above you when you knew the attic was empty.

  She read the spell again. She’d collected everything that was required, but her magic was telling her something was clearly missing. She clenched her teeth. It was remarkably difficult to think with all the disembodied chatter.

  The amulet was meant to protect her from harm. It was a shield or, better yet, a sword. The arrowhead needed to remember that it was an arrowhead, not just a trinket. It needed to remember how to be a weapon.

  Before she could change her mind, Gretchen sliced through the skin of her thumb with the chiseled point. Pain flared. The cut opened.

  “And that is the only pain of mine that you will ever have,” she said. “Or allow others to have.” She pushed all of the adrenaline and anxiety the whispering caused into the amulet.

  “Only a warlock’s spell,” the voices shouted in a chorus that made her head snap back. She was left with the rasping of her breath and blood trickling from her ears. And no particular clue as to what it meant.

  But the magic in the amulet was sound.

  When Emma climbed up into the waiting carriage, Cormac grinned at her from the rear-facing seat. Startled, she jerked back, her antlers scraping the side of the carriage. She glanced out of the door quickly as it shut, hoping the school footman hadn’t heard her squeak of surprise. She twitched the curtains shut. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Why?”