The Secret Witch Read online

  “I think not,” Emma burst out. Kneeling was the last straw. You could only steep in fear so long before you began to feel numb to it.

  He forced her down until her knees hit the witch knot painted in white on the floor. Iron shavings stood in mounds around her, like glittering ant hills. She felt weighed down, with a pressure in her head, the way she did before a particularly vicious storm.

  The magisters were stern and silent until Emma couldn’t help but shift from one knee to the other. Her hair was damp and stuck to her neck, her walking dress streaked with mud and stained with fruit pulp. She’d never felt less like an earl’s daughter.

  “Emma Charlotte Day, daughter of Theodora Lovegrove.” They used her mother’s maiden name and didn’t mention her father at all. They also hadn’t technically asked her a question so she stayed stubbornly silent. Sometimes fighting petty was better than not fighting at all, whatever Cormac might have to say about it.

  The magisters exchanged disapproving glances. The bald one drummed his fingers on the table in front of them behind the screen; another made notes on a sheet of parchment. She heard the scratch of the quill. She knew what they were doing. They wanted to intimidate her into babbling like a child or dissolving into tears. But she’d made her curtsy to the queen in a ballroom full of pompous courtiers. She faced debutantes on a daily basis. She’d even sat through a three-hour supper with her father once. She wouldn’t crack so easily.

  “You flout our rules. You would be an oathbreaker like your mother?”

  “My mother’s ill, not an oathbreaker.” She frowned. “And what rules?”

  Cormac’s warnings sounded in her head again. Don’t lie. Don’t fight.

  Her own warning battled his: Don’t trust Cormac.

  Someone in the confines of the ship screamed. The bottles shivered at the sound. She cleared her throat so her voice would sound stronger than she felt. “I don’t know your rules enough to break them.” But she was feeling decidedly in favor of learning them for the express purpose of demolishing them.

  Fear, apparently, made her contrary.

  “Then know this.” The magisters were still lecturing her. She probably ought to pay attention. “Ignorance will not save you from the consequence of the witch bottle if you do not answer truthfully.”

  It was clearly a threat, even if it didn’t make sense to her.

  “She doesn’t know what that is.” Cormac spoke quietly from the shadows. He was leaning in the doorway, looking faintly bored. His white cravat glowed in the half-light. She hadn’t even known he was there, watching her being interrogated. If fear made her feel contrary, Cormac was making her feel downright feral. “You’ll have to do better if you want to frighten her into obedience.”

  She turned her back on him on principle, even though her nape tingled, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Pain flared in her bruised kneecaps. “Why is he here?” she snapped.

  “As he was there when the spell was cast and the body found, he stands as your intermediary. He accuses or supports as he sees fit.”

  She was doomed.

  “The Lacrimarium are witches who can bottle familiars. They’re named after a type of jar the ancient Romans used to collect the tears of mourners at funerals,” Cormac explained to her, avoiding the actual question of whether or not he was going to support or accuse her. As if there was any doubt. “Their victims survive, but without their magic, most go mad.”

  “It’s an unfortunate side effect,” a magister agreed.

  “An unfortunate side effect,” Emma echoed. She thought of Aunt Bethany’s magical badger and about her mother, and glanced at the bottles again. The faces were even worse, now that she knew she wasn’t imagining them. A person’s essence shouldn’t be trapped like a mouse in the pantry. She leaned away. The magic in the symbol under her feet slapped at her. Her nose began to bleed.

  “Your mother’s isn’t here,” Cormac answered quietly. “She trapped herself so we couldn’t do it for her. It’s a rare gift. The Lacrimarium are few and their magic hard to navigate.”

  She wiped her face, blood streaking her sleeve. “Good.”

  “Did you or did you not break a binding spell, causing irreparable damage?” one of the magisters demanded.

  Emma lifted her chin. “I didn’t even believe in spells until two nights ago.”

  “That is not an answer, Lady Emma.”

  “I don’t even know how to cast a spell,” she insisted. “Never mind uncast one.”

  “You opened gates we haven’t mapped yet, random gates that might take weeks, even months to locate. The Greymalkin family walk free in London along with all manner of hungry spirits.”

  “My mother’s perfume bottle broke accidentally. That’s all.”

  One of the magisters sucked in a startled breath. “The bottle.”

  “As I said,” Cormac pointed out smoothly.

  “She’d have to be enormously powerful to manage that unintentionally,” his companion returned doubtfully.

  “Think of her mother.”

  Emma felt the moment they all turned to stare at her again. “Your mother defied the Order,” a magister said sharply.

  “Did she?” Emma retorted, remembering what her aunt Bethany had said. “How?”

  The magisters paused.

  “You don’t know, do you?” she pressed. “So how dare you call her an oathbreaker?”

  “We know when magic has been worked against us, little girl,” he said sternly. “And you have no notion of how many witches died to keep the Greymalkin Sisters locked out of London. Even before Margaret York’s untimely demise.”

  “Magisters, I do not believe that Lady Emma had anything to do with her death,” Cormac said deftly. “Tobias and I followed the trail of the blood curse and it did not lead us to her.” He stepped fully out of the shadows. “But she did see Margaret’s familiar in the form of a star-nosed mole. And it turned red, as expected.”

  “As if the Greymalkin mark wasn’t proof enough of murder,” a magister muttered.

  “Lady Emma’s witch knot didn’t appear until afterward. And you know she doesn’t belong to us until it appears.”

  “I don’t belong to you now,” Emma said defiantly.

  “In fact you do,” was the magister’s reply. “We claim all those who bear the knot.” She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off. “We will deliberate.” They began to talk lowly among themselves.

  “What part of ‘don’t fight’ gave you pause?” Cormac asked harshly.

  “Does it even matter?” Emma asked, suddenly exhausted. She stood up just because she could. She wove on her feet. “How would I know? None of this should even be real.”

  “The Order is real,” he said. “And the ruling witching Families. And they can have you bound or broken, Emma.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you brought me here.”

  “I gave you as much time as I possibly could. You could have spent the last day and night in the brig, awaiting questioning.” She couldn’t read his expression; it was both too complicated and guarded. She wished, irrationally, that he wasn’t quite so striking. It wasn’t just being handsome; anyone could be that. His nose was a tad too long … but there was something in him that drew the eye and held it. “I’ve taken oaths to protect the witching Families and society at large.”

  “From me?” she asked, spreading her arms mockingly. She knew she looked as bedraggled as she felt. “How brave you are.”

  “Emma.”

  Whatever he’d been about to say was lost in the shuffle of movement as the magisters rose from their seats behind the screen. “We have decided.” A cold voice filled the crowded space. “We will accept Cormac’s testimony.” He paused. “For now.”

  Emma bristled at his tone. Orson paled. She blinked, confused. She was fairly certain she wasn’t as scary as all that.

  “Mrs. Sparrow,” another magister spoke, this time uneasily. A woman had joined them. She looked haughty a
nd calm; tall and thin with black hair. The others watched her as though she were made of spiders and thorns.

  She glanced at Emma. “So you’re the Lovegrove girl then, are you?”

  Emma nodded, mouth dry. Mrs. Sparrow narrowed her eyes, then sighed. “You’ve scared her half to death,” she muttered, before blinking long and slow, like a cat.

  Cormac swore under his breath. Everything went gray, like Aunt Bethany calling up the mists again. Emma felt soft as water. The gray brightened unbearably to a searing white, then went black.

  Cormac caught her as she crumpled.

  Chapter 21

  Penelope and Gretchen landed in the Serpentine River.

  Penelope’s long hair wrapped itself around her throat into a rope that threatened to choke her. Gretchen surfaced next to her, sputtering. She treaded water, scowling at Penelope. “I really don’t like him.”

  Penelope was too tired to reply. She swam until she could feel the bottom of the pond under her toes. Magical travel left one feeling disoriented and drained, with all the vigor of a wet washcloth. She coughed to clear her lungs of water as she waited for Emma to land, shouting her usual creative curses.

  “Gretchen,” she finally said, slowly, warily, when nothing happened. “Where’s Emma?”

  Gretchen’s eyes widened and she spun in a circle, treading frantically. “Did she land before us?”

  “I was the first one through,” Penelope said. “Wasn’t I?”

  Gretchen took a breath and dove deep down beneath the surface. The water churned under the force of her kicking. Ducks scattered indignantly. Penelope realized she had no idea how deep the pond was. Gretchen popped back up, took a deeper breath and disappeared again. Penelope lowered herself under the water and opened her eyes. Everything was murky and faintly green. She went as deep as she could, trying to see Emma’s red-brown hair, or the sway of her gown.

  Nothing.

  After several burning breaths, Gretchen swam closer, shaking her head. They both kicked up to the surface. “I can’t see her,” Gretchen said, gasping. “I don’t think she’s down there.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Penelope asked, eyes red. “It means she hasn’t drowned.”

  They dragged their weary bodies back to the bank. “But it also means she never made it through the doorway.” She snarled. “Now I really hate Cormac.”

  Penelope hauled herself out of the cool water, shivering. Her dress weighed more than she did, dragging her down. Her muscles ached and worry gnawed at her with dull, rusty teeth.

  “We have to find her.”

  Gretchen was already on the grass, reaching down to help her up. “Just as soon as we figure out how to find those bloody goblin markets again.”

  “We’ll just have to go back to my mother’s stillroom,” Penelope said, twisting water out of her hem. “And go through the cellar door again.”

  “You might want to get away from there,” a girl interrupted. “You’re starting to draw attention.” She wore patched breeches and a striped waistcoat. She wasn’t wrong. People riding by were pausing to watch, a few even pointing. Hyde Park was accustomed to horses and rowboats, not swimmers.

  “Want the Order to find you?” the girl asked acidly. “Your choice. But I’m not hanging around waiting for that lot.” She darted into a copse of trees.

  Gretchen and Penelope exchanged a startled glance before Gretchen shrugged and took Penelope’s hand, yanking her after the girl. They found her sitting on a low branch, swinging her feet carelessly. She grinned. “Good choice.”

  “Who are you?” Gretchen demanded.

  “Moira’s the name,” she answered, hopping down to the ground.

  “Gretchen Thorn,” Penelope introduced them. “And I’m Penelope Chadwick.”

  Moira tilted her head. “Penelope, you say?”

  “Do I know you?” she asked quizzically. She felt certain she’d remember meeting a girl who went about dressed like a boy. Even Gretchen hid her identity when she followed Godric about, wearing his borrowed breeches.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I doubt that, don’t you? I’m not exactly a debutante.” She smirked.

  “How do you know about the Order?” Gretchen asked.

  “I know things about the Order that would make your hair curl,” Moira added darkly. “Bound my brother to the wheel, didn’t they? Before they bottled him and made him mad.”

  Gretchen blinked at Penelope. “Was that even English?”

  Penelope shook her head. “I can decipher Shakespeare in my sleep, but I have no idea what she just said.”

  Moira rolled her eyes. “Why would One-Eyed Joe send me to help you two?” she muttered. “After I gave him presents and everything.” She pushed her long, unbound hair off her face. “The Order traps the familiars of witches they don’t like or binds their powers when they’ve been troublesome. Unfortunately, the prats think everyone who doesn’t do exactly as they say is troublesome.”

  “They were on the bridge,” Penelope said. “With a cart.”

  Moira sucked in a breath. “Brought the iron cart, did they? Bloody bad luck.”

  “Our cousin was left behind,” Gretchen added. “We need to get back there to find her.”

  “It’s too late for her.” Moira shrugged. “When the Order takes the bridge, there’s no one safe. They’ll have her already.”

  Penelope felt herself blanching. “Where would they take her?”

  “To the ship.”

  “Then let’s go,” Gretchen said. She paused at the edge of the trees when Moira didn’t move. “What?”

  “You’ll never find it. It’s cloaked with invisibility spells.”

  “I thought you said you were sent to help us?” she retorted. “Not that we even know you to trust you.”

  Moira lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “One-Eyed Joe knows things, he does. He wanted me here and that’s good enough for me.”

  “So help us find the ship!”

  “They won’t keep her there long,” she said. “If they plan to keep her, they’ll send her to Rowanstone.”

  “Is that …” Penelope paused. “A prison?”

  “May as well be,” Moira snorted. “But no, not exactly. I can tell you how to get there but I’m not going near the place myself. Too many bloody fancy folk about.”

  “Thank you,” Penelope said.

  “Always ready to cause the Keepers some trouble. Now, keep up.” She tossed them an unrepentant grin over her shoulder. “Because if the Order tracks you, you’re on your own.”

  Chapter 22

  Emma woke up confused and disoriented. She couldn’t figure out where she was, beyond a comfortable feather mattress in a warm room that smelled of fennel and beeswax. Her mouth tasted like fennel as well. It made her tongue itch. She sat up slowly, pushing her hair off her face. The light outside the window was golden and crossed with long shadows.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed to survey the rest of the room. She could have been in any fine house in London. There was a wide mahogany bed with brocade curtains, two stuffed chairs by the fireplace, a desk with a plain writing table, and an armoire for clothing.

  It was only when she stood up for a closer look that the chamber showed its strange underbelly. A small red bundle hung from a ribbon on one of the clothes-pegs. A large blue bead in the shape of an eye was fixed to the wall above the door, and the door itself was painted with gilt knot work so complicated it hurt her head to follow its pattern.

  It all came crashing back.

  Witchery.

  The Order of the Iron Nail.

  Cormac.

  She indulged in a most therapeutic and ill-mannered tirade of curses, in several languages. Her Latin was better than her French, but she fancied anyone listening would understand her meaning well enough.

  Trouble was, Emma had no idea if anyone was listening.

  A quick peek under the bed and in the empty armoire proved she was alone. She tried the door, without much
hope that it was unlocked. When it swung open easily she jumped back warily. Relief and suspicion warred within her. She eased carefully out of the room, but only after she’d grabbed the nearest candle-stick as a weapon. Holding it up threateningly, she stepped farther out in the hall. The walls were papered in burgundy paisley and they stretched on and on in both directions. There were no other doors.

  Frowning, she quickened her pace. The hallway didn’t change. Even when she broke into a run there was only the silk paisley paper and the occasional sconce and decorative ceiling molding. There wasn’t even a staircase or a front door to hint at where she might be. And since she’d fallen unconscious on a ship, she might not even still be in London. How would Gretchen and Penelope find her? And how would she find them if they were in trouble?

  She was well and truly a prisoner of madmen.

  She ran back to the bedroom because it was the only other place available to her and the unending hallway was proving surprisingly unnerving. She recalled the feel of the earth pressing down on her in the cellar and choked. She wouldn’t panic. She was a witch, wasn’t she? She had options she’d never dreamed of.

  And a window.

  Never mind witchery—this was far more practical.

  There was a bowl of salt and rowan berries on the sill which she flung aside impatiently. The window opened, letting in a rush of cool air that cleared the strange taste out of her mouth. She was three stories up, overlooking a pretty London garden and carriage lane. The lane was bordered with a high wooden fence and flowering lilac. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Everything outside her window looked perfectly ordinary not only to London, but also to the neighborhoods she was familiar with. She might even be able to walk home.

  The sky was darkening quickly, revealing the first star of the evening. The smog was too thick to see Sirius, but Venus twinkled through the haze. The trees shook their branches at her, but they were too far away to touch. She’d never be able to swing onto one without breaking her neck. She may as well have tried to reach for Venus herself.