Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  ‘Thank you.’ Titus cleared his throat. ‘My name is Titus White, and you have my condolences for your . . . er, condition.’

  Seb’s laugh sounded like a leaky pair of bellows. ‘I’m not dead yet, Mr White, despite appearances. Now, what brings you to see me? I’m intrigued.’

  Watching him carefully, Titus said, ‘I want to talk about the dead girls.’

  For a moment Seb didn’t speak, and the two men regarded each other as the groans of the sick filtered through the walls. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I have a ward, a girl about the same age as those who died. I’d like her to be safe on London’s streets.’

  ‘I see. And what makes you think you can do anything about it?’

  ‘I have a very particular set of skills,’ Titus said, leaning forward. ‘Skills I have acquired over a long career that I think will be useful in a case like this.’

  ‘Oh? A career doing what?’

  Titus gave a thin smile. ‘Witch Finding. Now, are you going to help me put a stop to this?’

  Seb scrutinized Titus for a long moment and then settled back in his chair. ‘I will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Titus held up his fingers. ‘Three victims?’

  Seb nodded. ‘That I know of.’

  ‘All found in the alleys and backstreets of Southwark?’

  ‘Yes. Orphans, I suppose, about eleven or twelve. Poor, ragged wretches.’

  ‘But child deaths are common, especially during a plague outbreak. Why were these different?’ Titus waited as Seb took a rattling breath.

  ‘The poor usually die of disease or starvation, but those girls did not bear the marks of such things – no buboes, no infected wounds. Physically, they seemed reasonably healthy.’

  ‘So you don’t know how they died?’

  ‘Oh, I know how they died, I just don’t know what caused it.’

  Titus frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean, sir, is that those girls died of fright.’

  ‘Fright?’

  ‘Their bodies were stiff and contorted, their eyes and mouths wide open.’ His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘As if they’d died . . . screaming.’

  ‘God’s bones . . . Did you report this to the Order?’

  ‘Of course. I told them something deadly stalks the streets of Southwark and I needed help to investigate.’

  ‘But they did nothing?’

  ‘Not a thing, damn them,’ Seb spat. ‘But then what do they care about the poor and the destitute?’

  ‘The Order is a plague in itself,’ Titus murmured.

  ‘Pirates and murderers, they are.’ Seb let out a juddering breath. ‘I cling to life with all my strength, Witch Finder, but when I’m gone I will not miss this world we’ve built.’

  ‘Here, take this.’ Titus pulled out his hip flask and put it into Seb’s shaking hand. ‘And if you remember anything else send a message to Arthur Lowe at the Bannered Mare.’

  ‘Arthur Lowe?’

  ‘Circumstances have forced me to travel incognito.’ Titus smiled. ‘Farewell, Sebastian.’

  ‘Farewell. And Witch Finder?’

  Titus paused by the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful. Whatever it is out there, I don’t think it’s a man.’

  12

  A PROMOTION

  ‘My familiar is a cat night-black – Rare Ted is his name.’

  Zoe Lake, the Witch of Blean Common

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hopkins’ voice, cold and controlled, spoke right into Hazel’s ear.

  How did he get behind me without me hearing? she thought wildly. And did he see Bramley?

  ‘I asked you a question –’ his voice in her other ear now – ‘I expect an answer. Face me, William, and explain yourself.’

  Hazel turned around and found Hopkins standing so close that she had to lean back against the desk. His soft face was expressionless but the tightness around his lips made Hazel’s insides feel watery.

  ‘I was . . . I was dusting, as you asked, General,’ Hazel said, trying to control the shake in her voice. Hopkins still didn’t move and the desk cut into her back.

  His eyes frosted over. ‘If you were dusting, then where is your cloth?’

  ‘I was just about to—’

  ‘Never lie to me!’ Hopkins shouted. ‘Tell me the truth, or I’ll feed you to the hounds.’

  Hazel whimpered with fear. This short, stout man had no powers like those of the witches and demons she had faced, but his eyes seemed to pierce her soul. He knows I’m a girl. He knows I’m a witch. He knows everything . . .

  Bramley, now hidden deep in her hair, sent out a pulse of magic. Its warmth spread over her scalp and down her spine.

  Hazel took a breath and spoke as calmly as she was able. ‘I’m sorry, General, but when I saw the name on that file I couldn’t resist taking a look.’

  ‘Which name?’ Hopkins hissed.

  ‘Why, Nicolas Murrell – everyone in London is talking about him.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Hopkins took a step back.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hazel said. ‘They say he’s a dangerous criminal, and your star prisoner. I was curious and just wanted a little peek at his file.’

  ‘You know what happened to the curious cat, don’t you, William?’

  ‘It got fed to the hounds, sir?’

  Hopkins’ eyes thawed just a little. He nodded at the folder. ‘So you can read. That’s unusual for the son of a rat-catcher.’

  ‘My father taught me,’ Hazel said, relieved that the larger sum of Hopkins’ anger seemed to have passed. ‘He said it was important to learn so I could better myself.’

  ‘A shrewd man.’ Hopkins leaned past her, shuffled the papers back inside the folder and retied the ribbon.

  ‘I’m truly sorry for looking where I shouldn’t,’ Hazel said humbly, ‘but I’ve wanted to be a Witch Hunter all my life, and it is my most fervent desire to help the Order in any way I can.’

  ‘What you did was wrong, and what’s worse is you allowed me to catch you in the act – you’ll need to be cleverer if you want to be a Witch Hunter.’ Hopkins drummed his fingers on the folder. ‘But I think you are honest at heart. Tell me, William, can you write as well as read?’

  Hazel nodded eagerly. ‘My penmanship is excellent.’

  ‘Mm, well, it so happens that my scribe has been indisposed and I need someone literate to replace him. Do you think you’re up to the task? It won’t be easy – you’ll be at my side all day, taking notes and transcribing my interrogations.’

  Bramley crawled nearer to her ear. ‘That means you might get close to Murrell – say yes quickly before he changes his mind.’

  Hazel drew herself up to her full height. ‘It would be an honour, General.’

  ‘Good. But remember, you’re on trial. Fail, and it’s back to cleaning duties. Come with me – I want to show you the scribe’s room.’

  Hazel, still feeling a little wobbly, followed him to the end of the corridor. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, General, what happened to your last scribe?’

  ‘I regret to say he was hurt badly in the line of duty,’ Hopkins said, ushering her into a small room with a desk and a window overlooking the Tower precincts.

  Shelves of books and ledgers lined the walls and in the corner was a straw mattress with some blankets piled on top; for a room in the most dreaded building in England, Hazel found it surprisingly cosy.

  ‘What happened to him?’ she asked.

  ‘It was during an interrogation. We’d been starving the prisoner, a convicted witch, for weeks and no one had noticed that she had got so thin she was able to slip her hands out of the manacles. Well, she set about poor Gerard with a will, scratching and biting . . .’ Hopkins shook his head, looking genuinely upset. ‘He’s no good to anyone now.’

  Hazel’s stomach turned as she wondered what dreadful revenge Hopkins had taken on the witch. ‘I’m willing to accept the risks if it means furthering the Order’s cause,’ she said.
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  Hopkins nodded approvingly and passed Hazel a small roll of parchment secured with a wax stamp. ‘This is my official seal. Show it to the guards to gain admission at any of the Tower gates.’

  ‘Can I go to Cromwell Island?’ Hazel asked hopefully.

  ‘Not on your own, but you’ll be seeing it soon in any case. I’ll be conducting an interrogation with none other than Nicolas Murrell tomorrow and it’ll be your job to transcribe it. So get some rest, Master Lowe, for soon your work at the Order begins in earnest.’

  13

  THREE SUMMERS OLD

  It is thought animal familiars have extended lives.

  Barring accidents, they can survive at least as long as

  the witches they accompany.

  A Study of Magical Fauna by Dr Neil Fallon

  Hazel closed the door to her room and took a shuddering breath. ‘We did it. I can hardly believe it.’

  The adrenalin that had kept her going soured in her veins, leaving her weak and shivery. All she wanted to do was curl up on the bed and go to sleep.

  ‘I know,’ Bramley said, emerging on to her shoulder and giving himself a shake. ‘You’ve done well not to get us killed.’

  Hazel looked out of the window at the surrounding walls and the guards patrolling the ramparts. Beyond rose Cromwell Island, a monolithic nightmare in black stone.

  ‘We’re in the dark heart of it here,’ she said, opening the window and letting the breeze cool her face. ‘Oh, Bram, when Hopkins appeared behind us I thought that was it.’

  ‘You talked your way out of it though, didn’t you?’

  ‘But what about next time? If I fail . . .’

  ‘You are in a jolly mood. Listen, O foolish one, it may not seem like it, but we actually hold quite an advantage over these awful men.’ Bramley scrambled down to the windowsill and fixed her with his sternest glare. ‘I mean, think about it: who on earth, who in their right mind, would ever imagine that any witch in the world would be stupid, reckless and mad enough to infiltrate the lair of the Grand Order of Witch Hunters?’

  ‘No one, I suppose . . .’ Hazel muttered, wrinkling her brow.

  ‘Exactly. Professional Hunters they may be, but the one place in England they are not looking for witches is here, within their own ranks. And,’ Bramley added with a raised claw, ‘I don’t know what this says about you, but that monster Hopkins actually seems to hold you in some kind of regard. I think he likes your gumption.’ He gave her a friendly nip on the finger. ‘I hate to tempt fate, Hazel, but so far we’re doing well. So buck up, will you?’

  ‘I’ll try. Thanks, Bram.’ Hazel sat at the desk and shook out her hair, which still felt odd being so short. ‘I hope Titus is all right. I’m beginning to wish I’d said goodbye.’

  ‘He’s about a hundred years old – he can look after himself.’

  ‘I suppose . . .’ Hazel watched her familiar as he washed his whiskers, the rust-coloured fur on his back lighting up in the sun. ‘How old are you, Bram?’

  ‘This is my third summer.’

  ‘And how long do dormice usually live?’

  ‘Ooh, ages.’ Bramley stopped washing and gave her a shrewd stare. ‘You’re worried I’ll die before you, aren’t you?’ Hazel looked away. ‘I am a bit, yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t. I’ve plenty of seasons left in me yet. And we have more pressing things to consider.’

  ‘The interrogation with Murrell tomorrow?’ Hazel said, taking off her jacket and rubbing the itchiness from her neck.

  ‘The interrogation, exactly. We’ve got to get a message to Murrell before that happens. If you simply turn up in his cell with Hopkins he’s almost certain to recognize you and give you away.’

  ‘Murrell may hate me, Bram, but I don’t think he’d turn me over to the Order.’

  ‘Not deliberately, I agree. But he might do it by accident. I mean, he’s going to be pretty surprised to see you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh! You’re right.’ Hazel felt a chilly tentacle of dread curl around her spine. ‘But how can I get to him? The Island is out of bounds.’

  ‘To you, yes, but not to me.’

  Hazel stared at him. ‘You’re not thinking of going there on your own?’

  ‘I’m not happy about it, but I don’t think we have a choice.’ Bramley settled on to his back legs and smoothed the fur over his ample stomach. ‘Besides, I’ll be fine – look how small and nimble I am. And I have an excellent sense of direction.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Hazel said, dashing to the window and picking him up. ‘Why, the very thought—’

  ‘Hush. It has to be me, and it has to be me alone. There’s no other way to get a message to that wretched man.’

  Tears pricked behind Hazel’s eyes. ‘No, no, no! I won’t let you . . . What if you get lost?’ She let out a cry of distress. ‘Oh, Bram, what if someone treads on you?’

  ‘Oh, really!’ Bramley pulled himself up to his full two-and-a-half-inch height and puffed out his chest. ‘What do you take me for? A dizzy harvest mouse? I can look after myself, thank you very much. I’ll hide in shadows and creep under doors and through bars and gates until I find him.’ Bramley’s voice softened. ‘Don’t snivel, Hazel – I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Hazel wiped her nose with her sleeve. ‘All right, you foolish, foolish mouse.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, you’ll need to get me as near to the bridge as you can. Time’s pressing, so we’d better make a move.’

  Hazel held him close to her heart for a moment, then let him crawl up to her shoulder. She put on her cap and jacket and left the office. No one took any notice of her as she made her way down the stairs and through the courtyard.

  The Embankment teemed with patrolling soldiers, gossiping officials, and prowling Witch Hunters. Keeping her eyes downcast, Hazel scurried past them all towards the bridge leading to Cromwell Island.

  ‘Hazel, we’re trying to be inconspicuous,’ Bramley chided. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so furtive.’

  ‘I feel furtive,’ Hazel hissed. ‘I’ve never felt furtiver.’

  ‘Take a deep breath, walk slower and add a bit of swagger,’ Bramley said, stroking her neck with his tail. ‘That’s it! Eyes up, girl. Nearly there . . .’

  Hazel slowed down as she passed into Cromwell Island’s shadow. One of the soldiers guarding the bridge looked at her, noted her uniform and turned back to his conversation.

  ‘I think this is as close as I can go,’ she said, bending down as if to tie her shoelaces.

  ‘I don’t know how long this is going to take,’ Bramley said. ‘And it’s a long way back to your room in the Tower, so I’ll meet you back here tomorrow. Come and find me when you can.’

  ‘You’d better come back,’ Hazel whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

  ‘I will.’ Bramley scampered down her arm. ‘No one’s going to notice a tiny scrap like me, are they?’

  Before Hazel had a chance to say goodbye, her little familiar dived into the gutter and scampered off towards the bridge. She wanted to run after him, gather him up and never let him go. Instead she slowly made her way back to the Tower.

  Sights and sounds floated past and through her. She didn’t feel the sun, or the breeze. All she was aware of through the daze was an aching sense of loss in the pit of her stomach. Bramley had gone, and for all she knew he might never return.

  She sped up the stairs, realizing she would not be able to stem the tide any longer – and sure enough, upon reaching her office and closing the door behind her, she slid to the ground and wept bitterly and long into the night.

  It was dark when Hazel, red-eyed and puffy-faced, gathered herself and decided to do some reading to keep her mind from worrying about Bramley. Choosing a book called The Black Library by Marcus Gascoigne, she lit a lantern and settled down at her desk to while away the hours until morning.

  Her eyes were just beginning to feel heavy when the door opened and Hopkins burst in.

  ‘William,�
� he cried. ‘So you couldn’t sleep either? Excellent!’

  Hazel jumped to her feet. ‘General, sir. What time is it? Is everything well?’

  ‘Oh, yes indeed,’ Hopkins said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘And it’s three in the morning. Gather your things, quickly. Ink, quills, paper, and that folding table over there.’

  ‘But where are we going?’

  ‘To interrogate Nicolas Murrell, of course,’ Hopkins replied with a grin. ‘We’re going early – I’m in the mood for torment.’

  14

  ADMINISTRATIONS

  ‘The Order is a broom to sweep this nation clean.’

  Grandee Edward Grimstone

  Laden down with fear and a portable writing desk, Hazel followed Hopkins and his two blue-robed clerks across the bridge to Cromwell Island.

  Bramley had not been at the spot they had agreed to meet at, which meant he was still inside. Hazel had no way of knowing if he’d managed to warn Murrell that she was in disguise and on her way to see him. Worse still, she had no way of knowing if he was lost, hurt . . . or worse.

  He’s not dead, she thought, more in hope than certainty. Surely I’d feel it if he was?

  A heavy door set into the wall to the side of the main double gates opened and a guard stepped out, saluting Hopkins as he and his clerks marched past. Reminding herself that she was doing all this for her mother, Hazel hefted the table more securely under her arm and followed them inside.

  A vast circular chamber, wide and tall enough for two sailing ships to sit side by side, opened up around her. The floor was like black ice, smooth, polished and shimmering in the light of a hundred lanterns. Spiralling around the wall to the vanishing ceiling far above was a walkway lined with iron-studded doors. Those must be cells, Hazel thought. And there are so many of them.

  In the centre of the chamber about forty witches in rough prison smocks were shuffling, one behind the other, in an endless circle. Their bare feet were blue with cold, their ankles swollen. The exhaustion on their faces pierced Hazel’s heart. Soldiers stood nearby, goading and shouting at any who slowed down or stumbled.