by Unknown
He threw an apron at Luke and then a knife, hilt first. Luke fumbled the catch and cut himself across the palm, and John Leadingham grinned.
‘Lesson one – make sure you end up on the right end. Now . . .’ He pointed at the corpse of a pig, swinging gently on a butcher’s hook driven in under its chin. ‘This is a man. Where are you going to stick that thing?’
For the next three hours Luke worked harder than he’d done in a long time, and by the time Leadingham let him stop he was sweating, gasping and spattered with gore, the knife slipping in his bloodstained hand.
His head was spinning with all the new information – where to nick an artery, where to slice a tendon. What would incapacitate a witch, and what would merely slow him or her down while they healed themselves. And all the time, as John Leadingham barked out, ‘Femoral artery, kidney, achilles,’ Luke stabbed the pig and yanked out the knife.
‘Don’t think strength can help you. If they clock what you are – carotid artery – your best bet is to get their trust, get in close, then when they least expect it, strike. Spleen! Stick ’em as hard and fast as you can, and get out. Pulmonary artery! No, not there, you dolt. That won’t do more than give them a nasty scar and they’ll be up and at you before you can say “Spring-Heeled Jack”. Here . . .’ He stabbed the knife in between the ribs with a grunt and a crunch that made Luke’s stomach turn. ‘You’ve got to remember, a witch’s magic lies in their strength, and their strength lies in their blood. Draw off enough blood and you’ll weaken their magic too. Right kidney! Good, good man. Now, go for the tendons behind the knee – no, don’t stab, slice. That’s right. Brace their weight against yourself to get a purchase – and remember they’ll likely be slippery with blood.’
At last he stopped and took Luke’s shoulder, turning him panting and red-faced to look at him.
‘This is easy enough with a dead pig that doesn’t dodge or strike back or cry with pain. Now I want you to do the same thing, but imagine this pig is a girl – a girl who cries out as you come at her with the knife and tries to get away.’
‘You want me to imagine this pig is a girl?’ In spite of himself, Luke stifled a smile. His chest was rising and falling, and his limbs felt like glue, but the idea still made him want to laugh. ‘How desperate d’you think I am?’
‘Just try it.’
‘If you say so.’ It was hard to think of anything but the fat, bristly carcass swinging to and fro, but Luke shut his eyes and pictured a girl hanging where the pig was, a blonde maybe like Phoebe, her blue eyes wide with horror as he came towards her with the knife. ‘All right, I’m picturing it.’
‘All right then. Go. Aorta!’
Luke opened his eyes and lunged, knife outstretched, for the pig’s throat – and behind him a voice screamed, ‘No! Oh God, spare me!’
Luke stumbled, slipping in the blood, and the knife fell from his hand as he slammed against the pig, grabbing at its cold, clammy flanks to try to steady himself.
‘What the hell?’
John took a step forward out of the shadows and his face was grim.
‘That was all it took, was it? Me screaming like a girl – and a bloody poor imitation, if I do say so myself – and you were tripping over your own feet and turning to jelly?’
‘Damn.‘ Luke could have kicked himself. Damn.
‘You think you’re a man, Luke, and you are – but it’ll take more than a man to kill this girl. It’ll take a Brother. One of the Malleus. The test of the knife, the test of fire – they’re nothing to this. Because with this you have to defeat yourself, as well as the witch, d’you understand? They’ll use every weapon they can against you – they’ll weep, they’ll plead, just as they’ll fight and lame and maim. If you’re afraid—’
‘I’m not afraid,’ Luke broke in roughly. John put his hand on his shoulder.
‘I didn’t say you were, son. But if you are afraid, they’ll see that and they’ll turn your fear against you. And if you have a kind heart, they’ll turn that against you too. So you must have no heart, understood? You must have no fear. You must be nothing but the hammer.’
‘There’s worse fates than marrying for money, Rose.’ Clemency put a sugared plum in her mouth and smiled, her plump cheeks dimpling, her lips sticky with syrup. ‘I should know. And better a rich wife than a poor spinster.’
Rosa sighed. Clemency put it gently, but the truth beneath her words was hard. What other fate was there for a girl of her class and education? She had no way of earning a living, she knew nothing. And what was the alternative? Living out her days as Alexis’ unwanted spinster sister – despised by everyone and dependent on Alexis for everything from dress money right down to her food.
‘But . . .’ She bit her lip. She wanted to say: But it’s different for you. But was it? She looked at the portrait of Clemency’s father-in-law, Lionel Catesby, which hung between the two tall windows overlooking the park. The long golden beard, the red nose, the great belly like an aged Henry VIII. Philip was not his father – not yet. But he was halfway there and in a few years . . . Rosa looked at Clemency and tried to imagine Philip Catesby knocking on her door, climbing into her bed, kissing her with that great scratchy blond moustache and putting out a hand . . .
Heat rose up in her face and she fumbled and dropped her teacup.
‘Oh, Clem!’ She jumped up, dismayed, as the tea flooded out across the Turkey rug, soaking into the silk. ‘I’m such a fool! Oh, where’s my wretched handkerchief?’
‘Don’t be silly. Sit down, Rose, and stop flapping.’ Clemency stretched out a hand to the bell and a moment later a maid came hurrying in.
‘My cousin has spilt her tea,’ Clemency said. ‘Would you clear it up and refill the pot, please, Liza?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Liza curtseyed and then knelt, her hand outstretched over the stain as she whispered the words of a spell. Rosa watched, relief fighting with envy as the tea stain misted into the air and disappeared, leaving the rug clean and untouched. If you married Sebastian, you could have a maid like Liza, her treacherous subconscious whispered. No more hiding and whispering and pretending to be what you’re not. If you married Sebastian . . .
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Clemency asked lightly as Liza rose and left. There was a smile in her wide blue eyes. ‘You’re not worrying over that nasty old rug, are you? Philip’s mother gave it to us when we married and personally I’d be delighted if the horrid thing went up in flames. So hopelessly old-fashioned! But, as she never fails to say when she comes for tea, there’ll be forty years of wear in that rug. It’ll probably outlast my marriage.’
‘What!’ Rosa looked up at Clemency, really shocked. Clemency just laughed, showing her pretty pink dimples.
‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant, well. You’ve seen the way Philip drinks and eats and rides. His father didn’t make old bones, did he?’
Her voice was careless and something about her mocking expression made Rosa’s heart twist and wring. Was this what awaited her? A marriage of convenience, where she could talk about her husband riding himself into an early grave with equanimity and barely even shudder?
‘Clem, don’t talk like that,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘What if Philip heard you?’
‘It was a joke! Anyway, he won’t be home from the Ealdwitan for hours. They’re voting on an accord today. Something about use of magic in outwith workplaces.’
‘Well – the servants then. You know what I mean.’
‘Don’t be so po-faced, Rose.’ Clemency sat back in her armchair and looked across the table at Rosa, her eyes laughing. ‘You know me, I’m just a tease. I always have been. I adore Philip. And what’s turned you into Little Miss Prim all of a sudden?’
‘Nothing.’ Rosa twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, watching as the blood drained away and they grew pale and waxen. Then she let go and th
e pink flooded back in. ‘Nothing. Just . . . thinking. What’s it like being married, Clemmie?’
‘Rosa! If you mean that then it’s my turn to be shocked. Definitely not in front of the servants.’
‘I didn’t mean that!’ Rosa said crossly, feeling her cheeks grow hot again. ‘Or at least – well, not just that. The whole thing. Stop teasing me.’
Clemency looked at her, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. The dimples came and went in her cheeks.
‘Well, it’s rather uncomfortable at first, and it certainly takes some time to get used to. But after a little while you grow to rather like it. Sometimes it can be positively pleasurable, even though his moustache certainly makes matters a little tickly. But then Sebastian is clean-shaven so that needn’t worry you. Does that answer your question?’
‘Clemmie!’ Rosa couldn’t stop herself laughing. She felt her own mouth turn upwards in a reluctant smile. ‘You’re incorrigible! I meant – what’s it like to have breakfast every day with the same man, see him in his –’ she lowered her voice, and whispered, ‘nightshirt. What’s it like to know that you’ll be with him every day until you’re old and grey, both of you?’
‘I might not be,’ Clemency said, but the laughter had gone from her eyes and her face was serious. ‘I don’t know, Rosa. I can’t answer all this. You’re asking me to tell you what marriage to Sebastian would be like, and I can’t do that. I’m glad I married Philip – he’s a dear, even if he does clip his moustache on to my bedroom carpet and snore. It’s a small price to pay for all this.’ She waved her hand at the room they were sat in, the high French windows, the chandelier above their heads, and the Meissen cups on the silver tea tray between them. ‘But Philip is not Sebastian, and Sebastian is not Philip.’
‘No,’ Rosa agreed. She thought of Sebastian, of his cool eyes, his mouth with its thin, sensitive lips smiling at her over the candelabra, of his hair, slicked to dark gold beneath his tall top hat, of the lean, deceptive strength of his shoulders beneath his beautifully cut tailcoat. No, Sebastian was not Philip.
Clemency was looking at her, her eyes lazy but thoughtful. Then, almost as if she were reading Rosa’s mind, she said, ‘He’s handsome enough, so it can’t be that. Rich and handsome: what more do you want?’
Kindness, Rosa thought. Love. But she didn’t say it.
‘I wish I’d been born a boy,’ she said instead, ‘so I could go and make my own fortune. Doesn’t it rile you, Clemmie, that we have to always be the ones to wait, while they do the fighting and the adventuring?’
‘Well, you weren’t born a boy,’ Clemency said pragmatically. ‘And short of magicking sovereigns from the air, I don’t see what you can do other than make a good marriage.’
‘Maybe I should,’ Rosa said mutinously. ‘Make magic sovereigns, I mean.’
‘If you started spending magicked gold the Ealdwitan would have you in irons under the Thames before you could say “traitor”. There’s no point in wishing things were different, Rose. You just have to play the hand you’re dealt. Anyway . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly three. The dressmaker will be here soon for the final fitting. When she’s finished, why don’t I walk you across the park and I can meet Philip at the headquarters.’
‘I thought women weren’t allowed inside?’
‘They’ve introduced a ladies’ room. I know – imagine the scandal. Philip said that when the vote was passed Augustus Rokewood nearly shouted himself into an apoplexy. And, even worse, wives are now permitted in the green dining room. Not in the main one though – that really would cause an outcry. Where would all the men go to hide?’
‘Only wives?’ Rosa asked.
‘Well, I expect they’d stretch a point for sisters,’ Clemency said, folding her napkin. ‘And fiancées,’ she added, with a sly sideways look. ‘But I think that would be the outer limit. Otherwise, Philip says, all the wives would rise up in fury imagining their husbands’ mistresses running amok over the vichyssoise.’ She nodded at Rosa’s cup. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Well then, I shall ring for Liza to clear before the dressmaker gets here.’
‘Clemmie . . .’ Rosa said desperately as Clemency stretched her hand towards the bell. The words came rushing quick before she could think better of them, regret them. ‘Clemmie, isn’t there anything Philip could do for Alexis? He does so want a post and I know—’
‘I can ask,’ Clemency said, but her eyes were sad. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath, Rose. You know I love you, and I know we’re cousins, but it’s not a strong link compared to the bonds that tie the Ealdwitan together. It’s not easy to break into their ranks. You need a close connection, really. A first-hand relationship, either by blood or . . .’
She trailed off. She didn’t have to finish. Rosa knew. Or by marriage.
She swallowed.
‘Would you do it?’ Her voice was low and caught in her throat. ‘Would you marry him?’
‘It’s not as simple as that, is it?’ Clemency looked at her pragmatically. She pressed the bell and the chime rang out deep in the bowels of the house. ‘He hasn’t asked you, after all. Sebastian Knyvet is no boy to be had for the asking, you know. He’s brought back more than wealth and trinkets from the East, he’s brought a reputation too, and not entirely the good kind. I dare say you’ve not heard the rumours, but I’m a married woman – I hear more. He has broken hearts, and more than hearts. You won’t ensnare him by batting your eyelashes and lowering your fan. Unless I’m very wrong, he’s looking for something more than a bread-and-butter school miss.’
‘Is that what you think I am?’ Rosa stood. She felt her magic crackle across her skin, like a prickle of anger. Clemency shook her head.
‘Don’t be a fool, Rose. You’re my cousin and my friend – my sister in all but name. Sebastian is intrigued, I can see that. But he’ll want a woman who can meet him halfway, match him strength for strength.’
I have strength, Rosa thought. Her fists clenched inside her kid gloves.
‘You will have to play this very carefully if you want him. Do you want him?’
Do I want him? Rosa thought. She bit her lip, staring into Clemency’s wide blue eyes.
‘Do you want him?’ Clemency repeated, impatiently this time. ‘Do you want to save Matchenham and give your brother a future, yes or no?’
It was as if a hand had closed around Rosa’s heart, crushing it. She felt as if she were drowning in the blue of Clemency’s gaze.
‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Yes . . . yes I want to save them.’
‘Good. Then the first step is to get you a habit that doesn’t look like it was fitted on a badly stuffed scarecrow.’
‘I like my habit,’ Rosa said mutinously. ‘It was good enough for hunting at Matchenham.’
‘Hunting at Matchenham won’t win you any suitors other than fat, red farmers. You look good on a horse; no, you look devastating on a horse. If we’re to make him fall in love with you . . .’
‘We?’ Rosa said tartly. Clemmie opened her eyes even wider than nature had made them.
‘I can see if I leave this up to you you’ll be more likely to end up a bride of God before you’re a bride of Sebastian Knyvet.’
‘I am not a damn nun!’ Rosa cried hotly. ‘Will everyone stop going on as if I’m training for a convent?’
‘Clearly not with that language!’ Clemency said, her face shocked. But her blue eyes were laughing above the primly pursed mouth. ‘No, Rose, you are not in training for a convent. But you will have to tread a very fine line with Sebastian Knyvet, between virtue and allure. And something tells me you may find it easier to navigate on horseback.’
It was dark when Rosa got home and as she hurried up the stairs, the clock struck six. She would have to dress for dinner straight away.
‘You rang, Miss Rosamund?’ Ellen’s voice cut across her whisper. Rosa jumped convulsively and put the gloves behind her back, but the rent had already begun to knit.
‘Oh! Ellen, thank you. That was quick.’ Her face flamed. She could see it in the mirror, the pink flush of her cheeks clashing horribly with her dark-red hair. Every thought had gone out of her head, except for the guilty knowledge of that tear, mending itself behind her back. Please God Ellen didn’t ask her what she was holding . . .
‘Yes, miss?’ Ellen repeated, a trifle impatiently. She’d probably been in the middle of fetching something for Mama. Rosa took a breath.
‘Oh, um. Could you . . . I’m about to dress for dinner. Could you bring me up some hot water and I’ll ring the bell to be laced in about twenty minutes?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Oh, and for tomorrow . . .’ Her heart gave a little leap against her ribs, a half-thrilling, half-sickening feeling, like taking a fence too fast and seeing the ditch on the other side a hoof-beat too late. ‘Tomorrow the dressmaker is sending across my new habit. Would you tell Fred Welling to look out the side-saddle?’
