The Secret Witch Page 8

  “Truly?” Relief had her teeth chattering. Little comfort to Margaret, though.

  “Yes. And she set the fire herself.”

  “How is that possible? She was in the back of the garden room.”

  “I’ve just been told by the Order her magic gave her the ability to control fire. When she got hurt, it spiked and a candle set fire to the curtains. That part was an accident.”

  Relief was delicate and short-lived, like an eager moth drawn to a candle, moments before its wings caught fire. “Only that part?” She met his gaze. He looked grim. “Are you implying it was murder?”

  “No. I’m not implying it.” He let go of her. “I’m saying it outright.”

  Chapter 12

  Emma spent most of the night pacing her bedroom floor, and listening for Keepers and God only knew who else to come for her. The witch knot was still on her palm, but at least it no longer glowed.

  People didn’t just start glowing. It simply wasn’t done. Whatever Cormac might have to say on the matter.

  His urgent warnings still rung in her head. She felt like a church bell, reverberating with iron aftershocks. She jumped at every sound. Fear made her feel like her mother’s witch bottle, broken and jagged. She still had the paring knife she’d slipped into her reticule earlier. She wasn’t entirely sure how useful it would be against magic.

  Magic and witches and secret societies and murder.

  It seemed too odd to be true, and too real to be a delusion. Her mother was clearly involved with some very peculiar things before she went mad. Emma couldn’t help but wonder if it was the cause of her illness in the first place. She felt a little crazy herself at the moment. All of this over a broken perfume bottle.

  Cormac’s presence in the whole debacle was not helping.

  Even remembering the nights she’d wept into her pillow over him, her heart still raced to see him. Clearly, there was something severely wrong with her. The proper reaction was anger and disdain. She ought to snub him.

  Instead, she’d been caught prowling his rooms in the middle of the night.

  No, she absolutely positively would not think about him now. Surely, she had priorities and they had nothing to do with the feel of his arms around her.

  She stopped pacing long enough to press her hot cheek to the cool glass of the window. The light was turning pearly, mist curling through the gardens and over the cobblestones. The gas lamps flickered, barely piercing the pale gloom of London at dawn. Most of the Beau Monde wouldn’t rise for hours yet; balls went so late into the night that Emma saw a few carriages emblazoned with family crests trundling home. Ladies in wilted finery and gentlemen in creased waistcoats slept inside, half-drunk.

  In an hour, the house would be full of soft puttering, with footmen bringing in coal and setting the tables, and milk being brought to the back door. For now, she could have been entirely alone in the marble and stone house. Even the last star had faded.

  It wasn’t long before she saw one of the family carriages deposit her father at the front door. He’d spent the entire night at his club, as was his habit. She darted down the stairs to find him handing his hat and gloves to bleary-eyed Jenkins. The old man’s wig was askew.

  “You’re up early,” her father said to her as he passed her on the landing. He didn’t stop.

  “Wait,” she said. She crossed her arms against the cold of the house. The maids weren’t even down from their attic rooms yet to light the fires.

  “Emma, I’ve yet to sleep. Make it quick.” He looked down his nose at her. “You ought to be in bed.”

  “I know,” she said carefully. If she was too direct, he’d snap at her and she’d never get any answers. She mustn’t mention her mother. “Something happened last night.”

  He stifled a yawn. He smelled of port and smoke. “I’m really very tired, Emma. Talk to your aunt Mildred. That’s why she’s your chaperone.”

  “We were at the Pickford ball,” she said hurriedly as he started to climb the steps. She tried to keep pace. “Where that girl was murdered.”

  He looked briefly taken aback. “I heard a fire broke out because of the tremors and she panicked. Murdered is a rather harsh word, surely.” He patted her arm awkwardly. “No need to be frightened now.”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “Oh. Well. Good night, then.”

  Frankly, it was the most he’d spoken to her in years.

  But it wasn’t nearly enough.

  “Someone mentioned Mother,” she blurted out, despite her best intentions to be subtle. “Something about the Lovegrove sisters …”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “That subject is not open to discussion.”

  “But …”

  “Good night, Emma.” His frigid tone brooked no disagreement. He marched away without another word. Frustrated, she watched him go with narrowed eyes. When she heard his bedroom door shut firmly behind him, she hurried back down the stairs. She plucked her shawl from the parlor, scrawled a hasty note, and slipped out the front door.

  If she had anything at all to do with that poor girl’s death, even inadvertently, then she had a duty to find out what had happened to her. And to prevent any such thing from happening again.

  Outside, the coachman had already taken the carriage around the side to the stables, but the horses were still harnessed. “I need you to take me to Berkshire,” she told him.

  “What, now?”

  She nodded. “This very moment.” Before she changed her mind. “To my mother’s house.”

  He only sighed, opening the door for her and pulling the steps down. She handed him the folded note. “And please have this delivered to the Chadwick town house before we leave.”

  He called into the stables to arrange delivery, while she sat clutching her hands, the four-petaled mark on her palm hidden under her gloves. She didn’t relax until the carriage rolled into the street and neither her father, nor Jenkins, chased her down to demand she return to the house or ask where she was going.

  The sun was over the rooftops and the treetops by the time they reached the country house. She rarely visited, even though her father’s estate was next door. He kept his wife, Theodora, here and only brought guests to his own manor. Penelope’s mother, Bethany, had given up any claim to the Lovegrove family house once she saw that Theodora was only easy when she could stare at Windsor Forest, which pressed up against the old Tudor house. Gretchen’s mother, Cora, distanced herself from the family entirely, barely acknowledging she had sisters at all.

  A housekeeper opened the front door, blinking owlishly at Emma. It was early for visitors, even if they’d been accustomed to them in the first place. “Bless me, it’s the mistress’s daughter,” she said with a bemused smile.

  “Hello,” Emma said politely. She had no idea what the housekeeper’s name was. “I’ve come to see my mother.”

  “Of course you have.” She beamed. “I’m Mrs. Peabody. You won’t remember me after all these years.” The housekeeper led Emma up to the second floor. The house was full of dark wood and white walls, and old paintings. She opened a door with a handle shaped like a drooping flower. “Here you are. Ring if you need anything.” She hesitated as Emma stepped across the threshold. “Mind you don’t stand between her and the window. She gets … agitated … when she can’t see the forest.”

  Emma nodded to show she understood. She couldn’t seem to speak the words that stuck in her throat like a too-large mouthful of honey cake.

  The bedroom was large with no curtains on any of the windows, nor on the old-fashioned wooden bed. Every view showed the forest everywhere, even on the walls, which were painted with trees. Emma recognized her aunt Bethany’s artwork. The branches were black silhouettes, reaching and tangling together like lovers’ fingers. They arched up over the ceiling. A massive oak tree was also painted around the fireplace, stretching out branches in all directions. The sunlight caught the minutely detailed green leaves. The roots unfolded like the hem of a
complicated dress. In a crude hand, a small red bird had been added to the crevice where a branch split off from the trunk.

  Theodora Lovegrove Day reclined on a chaise longue, staring at the forest through the glass. Her hair was brushed and clean but loose and tangled at the ends. It was black like Penelope’s and had none of the red sheen Emma’s had, like deer fur. Her eyes though, were the same shape and her nose had the same tilt.

  “Maman?” she said, and had to clear her throat and try again when her voice broke. It seemed odd to call this stranger “Maman.” She took a cautious step closer, watching her mother’s face. She was still pretty, if pale. She was murmuring to herself, too softly for Emma to make out the words.

  Emma crouched beside her. “Maman?”

  Theodora glanced down and then back to the forest without a trace of recognition. Emma knew she shouldn’t feel hurt, but she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling regardless. She took a deep steadying breath. “Lady Theodora, I’ve come to ask you some questions.”

  Theodora shrugged. “Doctors ask too many questions.” She cringed suddenly, clutching at her arms. “I don’t want to be bled again. Slimy leeches.” She scratched at the inside of her elbows until her skin welted and bled.

  Emma tried to stop her. “Don’t,” she said, noticing a lattice-work of faded scars over her mother’s witch knot. She’d clearly been scratching at it for years and it was still as dark as ink. “Please, I’m not a doctor.” She held up her own palm, showing the symbol the color of weak tea. “See? I have one too.”

  A sweet bright smile changed Theodora’s face entirely. She pressed her fingertips to the glass. “Do you see?” she asked. “He’s watching.”

  Emma crossed to the window, looking out to the gardens below and the lawns stretching to the woods. “I don’t see anyone,” she said carefully, remembering feeling the same way at the ball the night before. “Who’s watching you?”

  Theodora only smiled dreamily. Emma swallowed back tears, feeling exhausted and helpless.

  “They won’t take me into the woods, but they can’t stop me.” She lowered her voice. “I can fly.” She bounced a little in her chair. There were dried leaves under her feet and acorns cluttered on the windowsill and scattered on her lap. “And I don’t even need a broom.” Her eyes moved as if she was following the circuit of something Emma could not see. “Pretty strawberry bird,” Theodora giggled before turning to stare at her so abruptly and fiercely, Emma leaned back. “Are you the white stag?”

  She rose to her feet. “No, I’m your daughter.” Wind pressed at the glass and it shuddered. Windsor Forest remained still as a painting in the distance.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Emma.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Emma.” She sniffed. “But you smell like trees. Sit next to me.” She patted the cushion. “I like to watch the forest,” she confessed quietly after Emma perched on the foot of the fainting couch.

  Emma tried to smile, wishing her cousins were with her. “I like to watch the stars.” Anxiety made her mouth dry and her lips stuck to her teeth. “Do you remember your perfume bottle?” she asked. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door was closed tightly. “The witch’s bottle?”

  Theodora blinked but didn’t reply.

  “It broke,” Emma continued. “I wanted to know what it was.” She paused. “What I am.”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “Yes. But the Lovegrove girls are different, aren’t they?” She pointed to the witch knot. “We can do things other people can’t do, can’t we?”

  Theodora giggled again.

  “What can you do, Maman?”

  “Anything,” she said happily. “Everything.” She looked at the forest, then at Emma, dropping her voice to a loud conspiratorial whisper. “I’m still waiting,” she sighed. “Always waiting.”

  And then no matter how Emma tried, she could not get her mother to say another word. She finally left, when Mrs. Peabody brought up her mother’s tea tray.

  If there were parents more frustrating than hers, she’d yet to hear of them.

  Chapter 13

  Hyde Park was the most privacy three girls accustomed to chaperones and a various assortment of maids and footmen were likely to get. Emma returned to London and waited for her cousins inside a small grove of oak trees, while seriously wondering if her mother’s madness was contagious. She pulled a rolled-up scrap of parchment from the reticule dangling from her wrist. She’d made a list in the carriage on the way back from Berkshire. It was everything Cormac had told her and her own account of the night. If she was going to get to the bottom of this mess, she’d have to be practical. Gretchen would advise immediate, and preferably violent, action, and Penelope would quote some dead poet at her.

  It was too late for poetry.

  Though to be honest, the poets had as much chance as she did at figuring this out.

  She rubbed her hand on the skirt of her walking dress until the skin chafed and went red. The knot looked angry but it didn’t disappear. Emma sighed. Back to her list, then.

  A deer poked her shy head between two low-hanging branches, chewing a mouthful of grass. Or whatever it was deer ate. She was delicate and strong, all muscled flesh under the red fur.

  Emma held her breath, list forgotten.

  The second deer was equally beautiful. She pushed farther into the grove, bluebell blossoms between her teeth. Her white-tipped tail flicked back and forth.

  The third deer made Emma curious. She couldn’t help a wide smile, even as her heart pounded in her chest. She was afraid the sound of it would startle them away. Herds of red deer weren’t uncommon in the park, but they tended to run away from people and horses. They didn’t gather next to them like guests at a tea party. And they didn’t bring their families, all picking their way past the oaks. She felt as though she were in a painting, as if nothing around her was quite real.

  One of them brushed past her and she smelled the musk and mud of its body. She stayed as still as she could even though some primal part of her wondered, quite loudly, if she shouldn’t be running for her life right about now.

  “I swear I don’t hunt,” she offered, her voice sounding odd in the stark peace of the grove. Several deer lifted their heads at the disturbance. Their hooves were powerful, and she remembered the stable boy who’d had his leg broken last week by a peevish pony. If a pony could be dangerous, what about wild deer? “And I don’t eat venison.” At least, not after today. “Anyway, I was here first.”

  She was reduced to false bravado in front of placid, grass-nibbling deer.

  The moment stretched on, impossible and beautiful.

  But by the time she counted thirteen deer, Emma was decidedly nervous.

  Especially since the last to push past the oaks was a stag, with a huge rack of velvet antlers, like polished and gilded branches. His fur was thick, turning from winter gray to summer red. He towered over the rest, all muscle and primal power. Another deer shifted to brush past her, making room for the stag.

  When he bellowed, Emma jumped, adrenaline tingling under her skin. The sound was loud and ancient, wild in a way London folk couldn’t understand. This wasn’t a wildness to do with too much champagne or dancing until dawn. This was cave paintings and stories told after dark. It was primitive and as old as the stars.

  The stag turned his head to stare at her.

  She wondered if anyone had ever been eaten alive by a herd of deer.

  When his eyes met hers, she felt the connection in her bones. The trees shivered and flattened under a sudden gust of wind, showing their leafy underbellies. The birds fell silent. Fear fled, too wispy and unnecessary to hold onto. Something akin to joy bubbled through her, like hot springs coming out of barren rock. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel lonely.

  She lifted her hand, the one with the painted witch knot. She moved slowly, so slowly it was like being underwater. Her fingers hovered over the stag. She paused. A r
ed bird darted over her head. The stag stayed still, patient.

  “Please don’t bite me,” she murmured, barely louder than a breath, as she stroked his shoulder. When he didn’t snap at her, she dug her fingers into the thick fur. It was both rough and soft. She had the insane urge to lay her cheek on it. The knot on her hand felt warm.

  And then her entire body felt warm. She could smell everything: the rich earth, the tender new grass, the crushed acorns, the faintly skunk-like odor of fox pups in a nearby den, the very sun on the hills. She felt different. Unconstrained.

  Furry.

  A quick, startled glance froze her breath in her throat and her every thought somewhere in the back of her head. She felt an urge to run, to bound through the forest. The wind tugged at the hem of her dress, revealing a leg now lengthening and narrowing and growing a sheen of red fur. Her bones shifted, not unpainfully, and bent at angles at odds with her body.

  She’d traded an unearthly glow for fur. Not precisely an improvement.

  Still, she abruptly and quite desperately wanted to believe in witchcraft. It was a far more beautiful justification than madness.

  The deer around them continued to eat. A few stepped nearer, blinking those wide liquid eyes. Ears flickered. A head turned sharply. Several tails lifted, flashing white.

  “What the bloody hell is—urk.” Gretchen strangled her own words, snapping her jaw shut so fast she nearly bit off her tongue in the process.

  The deer scattered, going off in every direction, like a storm of shooting stars. The stag bellowed and charged away, flinging clumps of dirt at them. Emma stumbled back, ducking to avoid being skewered by an antler. Under the privacy of her skirts, her leg turned back into ordinary flesh.

  Gretchen goggled at her. Before she could say anything, Penelope joined them, squeaking as she stumbled into the grove. Her eyes were wide. “I was nearly trampled to death by a herd of deer!”

  “Emma was petting a stag like it was Lady Pickford’s pink poodle,” Gretchen returned with a quick grin. “So you’ll have to do better than that.”