Always a Witch

by Carolyn Maccullough

  Liam looks down at her, and something in his expression turns me even colder than I already am. "What an impatient, bloodthirsty little thing you are," he says, but his voice is detached, almost clinical. "When I think you're ready." As he turns away toward the door, a hungry look unravels across Rosie's face before her good-humored smile returns.

  "I'll leave him here, then? The boy?"

  Liam flaps his hand as he reaches the door. "Yes, yes. I'll be back shortly." And he leaves.

  "You heard the master," Rosie says, her voice suddenly sugared over. "He'll see you in just a few moments."

  The boy's eyes travel upward to her face. "And then you'll bring me the cake. Like you promised?" His tone is raggedly hopeful.

  "Yes, just like I promised. Only you have to do everything the master says. Just like you promised." She gives the child a little shake until his head flops into a nod, and then she steps back, wiping her hands on her apron. "Now wait here and don't touch anything. Otherwise the master will know and he'll be very, very angry. And you don't want to see the master angry."

  The child's gaze darts to the floor again and seems to hover on the blotch of Alistair's blood darkening the carpet. Seeming satisfied, Rosie slips after Liam.

  As soon as the door closes, I scramble to my feet, and with splayed fingers, I grope along the passage, winding to my right. In just a few feet, the passage forks, one path leading to my right and one path leading downward to my left. I turn right and walk in what feels like a circle before the passageway widens again into an alcove. Although I'm fully expecting it, I still almost stumble over Alistair's body. For one long heartbeat, I freeze. I can't help it. Any second, I expect cold fingers to scrabble at my ankle. Then I crouch down by Alistair's body, studying his face in the meager light that spills through the eye-level grate.

  His features are slack, almost as if he's wearing a rubber mask. Briefly, I wonder if this is what a dead person looks like before I force myself to put one hand on his chest. There is a faint, erratic beat beneath my fingers, much like the fluttering wings of a trapped bird. I pull my fingers back as if they've been singed.

  And as if confirming my guess, Alistair's mouth suddenly twitches. A wet rattling hiss seems to be coming from his chest. "Tamsin Greene," he whispers, his lips cracking into a bloodstained smile. But his eyes remain closed.

  I choke back my scream and wait in the shadows of the passageway for more. But after a minute, Alistair's breathing slows, then stills, and everything is silent. After a moment I realize I'm holding my own breath. Please be dead, please, please. And then I confront the horrible thought that if he isn't dead, I should kill him right now. I gather the folds of my skirts in my hands. If I pressed the material over his nose and mouth for long enough, I could end this all now. My family would be safe. I stare down the trickle of blood seeping from the back of his head, my fingers tightening my skirt into clumps of material.

  I can't do it.

  The thought of killing someone, even if it's Alistair, makes me dry heave.

  With any luck he'll die here before Rosie gets back with Horace. Unable to even bring myself to touch his neck for a pulse, I step over his body, holding my skirts above my knees, and pull the door to the study open.

  "Come with me," I say swiftly, but the child only stares at me. I try again. "You can't stay here. You're in horrible danger. Do you understand that?"

  "She promised," he finally whines. "She promised me meat and bread and all the cake I could eat." The word cake has a river of longing underneath it.

  "She lied," I say brutally. "There's no cake. They're going to hurt you. Very badly. They're going to make you bleed." The child takes a step back, glances toward the door. Scrubbing his grimy hands together, he lifts them to his mouth. I study the torn and tattered shirt he's wearing, the cracked shoes that are a size too small judging from the way his big toes are poking out. "Come with me now and I'll get you cake. But you have to promise me something. Promise that you'll never come back here and that if you ever see that lady or that man again where you live, then you'll run as fast as you can the other way." I thought for a second and then added, "And you tell all the other children and their parents about these people."

  "Don't have parents," the boy says at last. "None of us do." His fingers twitch at the hem of his shirt.

  "Of course you don't," I mutter. "Okay, well, you tell all the other children you know never to go with this lady or this man. No matter what they promise." I wait until he nods and then I ask, "Have you seen them before?"

  He nods again. "She came a while ago and went away with Sally. And then he came."

  "The man here tonight?"

  But the child shakes his head once. "'Nuther man. Small-like and..."

  "Like a weasel or a rat?" I supply, and am rewarded with a half grin, revealing two missing bottom teeth.

  "That's him. He took Jimmy." The child wipes his nose with a ragged bit of sleeve, then adds, "And Tommy."

  It seems like Horace is quite the recruiter for the Knights. "You stay away from him, too, all right?"

  "And you'll give me cake?" the boy asks, his eyes tip tilting upward.

  Somehow I'll dig something out from the kitchen. I nod and just then hear a soft sound from outside the hallway.

  "This way," I whisper, and shove the boy ahead of me. We scurry back into the passage.

  "Is he dead?" the boy whispers as we skirt Alistair's body.

  "I hope so," I say, then add, "Believe me, it would be a good thing." Grabbing his hand, I pull the child after me, praying I haven't made the biggest mistake of my life.

  It feels like someone is squeezing my throat between iron fingers as we step out of the original doorway and back into the servants' landing. I half expect Rosie to be standing there with Liam, ready to smash me over the head. But no, the landing is empty except for the dusky shadows cast by the oil lamp. Putting my finger to my lips to warn the child, I pause for a few seconds, listening intently. But only the soft hiss of the wick burning reaches my ears, and so we start down the rest of the stairs as fast as I can make us go.

  For once the kitchen is empty, too; I almost expected to see Cook snoring on top of the table. It never occurred to me to wonder where she sleeps, since she seems to be such a permanent fixture. Cake, cake, where the hell would she keep the cake?

  As if reading my mind, the child steps out from behind me, his little nose twitching. "There," he says, pointing toward a large wooden breadbox. I rush over, push back the hatch, and find a batch of leftover scones, half a loaf of bread, and what looks like sugar cookies. Shaking open a cloth napkin, I dump all the contents of the breadbox inside and just manage to tie up the corners of the fabric. Then I swing the lumpy bundle toward him. His hands fasten over the cloth as if they'll never let go. Then his fingers start to fumble with the knot.

  "Not here," I hiss. "Come on." I unlatch the door that leads to the back garden as quietly as I can. Still, it makes a horrible screeching noise that seems to rip apart the night's relative silence. I prod the child ahead of me and soon we come to the side gate that I entered only the day before with Horace. It seems more like ten years. I kneel down until I am eye level with the child and reach out to tousle his hair. Then I think better of it. "Now run away from here and don't look back, ever. And don't ever come back with that lady or with anyone else, okay?" Swallowing, I add, "And remember your promise to tell the other children."

  With his eyes fixed on his precious bundle, he nods once. I shove him out the gate. He slips into the street and disappears like water down a crack in the sidewalk. Only then do I turn and creep back to the house, careful to keep out of sight of all the windows. But when I reach the kitchen door, I pause, then stretch my lungs in the deepest breath I can take. It's fresh air, even if it's soaked with the shadows of the Knight house.

  There is a small stone bench running the length of the far wall, and after wandering over to it, I sink down on it. I tuck my stockinged feet up under me and wrap my
arms around my knees and try to gulp in as much of the icy air as I can. I'm trembling and I don't think it's all from the cold.

  I should have killed him when I had the chance. Was that my terrible choice? This question roars through my tired brain, followed by the thought that if Liam was even half right about my family, the Greenes of this century have no idea of what the Knights are up to. And it looks like the Knights are even worse than I imagined. And all I've managed to accomplish is to not kill Alistair when I had the chance. At least if I had done that, maybe history would get back on track and the Greenes would make the Domani and I could somehow help them to make it better so it would last.

  The kitchen door creaks again and a backlit figure steps out of the house. I shrink farther into the shadows. Luckily, the moon has scudded behind the patchwork clouds. Idiot, idiot, idiot. It's probably Liam looking for the boy. Any second, Rosie will be back and somehow she'll know I had something to do with his escape.

  But then the figure moves forward. It's Cook and she's walking slowly, stiffly, across the grass. At first I think she's asleep, but then the clouds drift apart like torn lace and the moon gilds her face, which is set and grim. Fascinated, I watch as she heads toward the statue of the woman that I first noticed when Horace brought me here.

  Cook sniffles a little, the sound sharp in the otherwise silent garden. Then she lifts the hem of her apron and begins polishing the statue's face and hands. I frown. This seems to be taking housekeeping duties a little too seriously. Did La Spider demand that all her statues shine in the moonlight or something?

  "I haven't forgotten you, Mary," she says, stroking the gray stone swirls of hair. "How could I? I'll find a way, I promise. If it's the last thing I do. I'll find a way to make them free you."

  I lean forward, horror struck, hoping to hear more, but the side gate opens and Rosie and Horace step through. "And if he dies tonight, make sure that no one finds the body. The East River should do."

  Horace nods once. Then he catches Rosie's hand and starts kissing it. "Ah, my Rosie-Rose. When are you coming back to me? We had a good life, you and me. Didn't we? Didn't we?" It has suddenly become clear that Horace is not her uncle after all.

  Rosie snorts. "Sure, we had a good life. When we had money. But now I don't have to worry about waking up cold or going hungry anymore. And he ... he'll—"

  Horace groans. "You can't think that he'll ever marry you, Rosie? You? A prostitute from Five Points?" And his groan turns into a wheezy sort of laugh.

  "Control yourself," she says, stepping away from Horace. "He's promised me so much more than that. You'll see. And don't—" Rosie stops cold at the sight of Cook, who has straightened up, her apron clutched in her fists.

  For one second they stare at each other. Then Rosie speaks first, in a taunting voice. "Still crying over that statue?" She circles her forefinger around her temple. "Get into the house, old woman, and get to bed, if you know what's good for you."

  I force myself to remain still on my bench, reminding myself that it would do no good to leap up and turn Rosie herself into a statue.

  Cook's face contorts as if she's about to spit at Rosie. But the girl pauses, one hand cocked on her hip, her elbow thrust forward at a sharp angle. Horace shuffles his feet, looking between the women. Finally, Cook's shoulders slump and she moves past Rosie toward the back door without a backward glance. Laughing, Rosie and Horace fall in after her. The kitchen door bangs once and they all disappear.

  I stare at the statue again, at the woman's face frozen in a downward look as if she never saw what was coming for her. Then I tilt my head back and take in what stars I can in the heavy night sky. All at once, I can't bear it any longer. I close my eyes against the rush of longing for Gabriel that sweeps through me. It is so strong that when I open my eyes I half expect to see him standing in front of me.

  But only moonlight and shadows chase through La Spider's immaculate garden, reminding me that I'm still alone.

  Fourteen

  "GET UP, AGATHA," ROSIE snaps. She sounds like she has been snapping for quite a while. Blearily, I peer at Rosie. She's standing over me, tapping her foot, neatly dressed as usual, every hair swept into place. But a scowl twists at her mouth, and I have to hide my answering grin. Liam turned you out of his bedroom. Because the child got away and he's furious with you. Ha!

  Late last night, she had stomped back into our room, holding a candle. She hissed my name twice, and even though I was wide awake, I had mumbled something incomprehensible in my sleepiest voice and then rolled over toward the wall where I lay, listening to her huff around the room before finally settling into bed. Now I say in my sunniest voice, "Good morning, Rosie," and stretch my arms to the ceiling.

  "None of that. Did you see anything last night or hear anything?" She watches my face intently as if determined to pry out the truth.

  Dropping my arms, I stare at her. "See anything?" I pretend to think back. "No. I fell asleep early last night, being so tired and all. I did have the strangest dream about a swan and a rose and a beautiful horse. I think I was wearing a hat. Or maybe I wanted to wear a hat. No, actually, I was buying a hat—that was it! With pink roses on it."

  I babble on and on, adding in random elements to my dream until Rosie turns away with a muttered, "You'd better get a move on or you'll get no breakfast again."

  I leap out of bed.

  In the kitchen, Cook is zipping around, barking orders at Dawn, who wields a rolling pin. Sparing me only a soft grunt, she indicates the tea tray with Jessica's morning cocoa. The kitchen clock says I have fifteen minutes, so I snatch a freshly baked roll from the rack on the counter when her back is turned and begin stuffing it in steaming pieces down my throat.

  Which I promptly start to choke on when the door swings open and La Spider sweeps into the room. Thankfully, she doesn't even look at me. Instead, she is focused on Cook. And judging from the thin line of her lips, she's in a rage. A silence descends on the room like a shroud of fog and I force the lump of bread in my mouth to slide down my throat.

  "I asked for oysters and turtle soup. Not mussels. And Mr. Tynsdell informs me that there won't be any crystallized fruits. Why?" La Spider touches the strand of pearls at her neck while eyeing the knives on Cook's cutting board. Suddenly, I know what it feels like to be a mouse with a cat in the room. I draw back farther into the corner. Behind La Spider, the door bumps open again and I see Rosie's unsuspecting face as she attempts to enter the kitchen. Without turning her head, La Spider crooks her little finger and the door slams shut, blotting out Rosie's startled look.

  Cook's cheeks have turned the color of putty. But, twisting her apron in her hands, she faces La Spider and says, "I'm sorry, my lady. I did try. But they were out of the ones you like. I sent the girls to the market twice..." She makes a gesture toward Dawn, who opens her mouth, then promptly shuts it again.

  "What a noble effort on your part," La Spider says dryly. Her eyes veer off toward the window as if observing something interesting out there. At the same time, Cook gives a sudden yelp of terror and her whole body slams back into the counter.

  Again and again.

  In the corner, Dawn covers her eyes while Lily sinks down, wrapping her arms around her knees. Tears begin to slide down her cheeks.

  Cook grunts once and then seems to make an effort to not make any noise at all, as if knowing what La Spider requires.

  Stop it. As easily as saying the words, I reach out and snap off La Spider's power. Slowly, La Spider turns her head and I feel her gaze search the room, probing the corners. I stare at my shoes, my hand squeezing the remaining half of the roll into crumbs, which trickle down my skirt. Cook is now making these little shuddery gasps.

  "And what are you doing here?" La Spider says to me, her voice sharp enough to cut blocks of ice.

  "Just coming to get Lady Jessica's cocoa, my lady," I say, waiting for the tingling that will pass over my skin if she decides to fling me across the room. My muscles tense in preparation of
pretending to fall. But then her focus shifts back to Cook.

  "I will expect the dishes I requested. All of them."

  Cook's eyes fly open and she nods in stiff jerks. Her mouth opens to no doubt shape the words Yes, my lady, but La Spider speaks over her.

  "Get back to work." And with that she exits the room, her shoe heels meeting the flagstone floor with quiet chinks.

  "Get her some water," I say to Dawn as I hurry over to Cook, and then because Dawn doesn't move, I snap, "Now." This time she runs to fill a glass. "Can you move? Is anything broken?"

  Cook shakes her head, but her face is still gray and she allows me to put my arm around her and lead her to the table. She is moving stiffly, but at least everything seems to be working.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Dawn is muttering over and over as she places the glass of water on the table. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

  "They won't come to this house," Cook whispers, then lifts the glass to her lips and drinks steadily. "I've prayed and prayed. But they won't come. Not to this house of sin." Water spills from her suddenly trembling mouth and slips down the side of her chin. I hand her a dishcloth, noticing only too late that it's covered with flour. But Cook only shakes her head and dabs her lips, leaving a smear of flour at the corner of her mouth. She looks at Dawn. "Go out and find the crystallized fruits. Try any market you can. And go to Delmonicos and buy whatever oysters they have. At any price."

  "They'll be a fortune, Cook," Dawn gasps, but then scurries away as Cook tosses up her hands.

  Sighing, Cook lowers her arms. "I'd like to poison the whole lot of them."

  "Who?" I ask, sitting across the table from her.

  "The Knight family. They're all coming to dinner tonight. And she makes me prepare the most elaborate meals. Ten courses. As if she's the Mrs. Astor. And still she won't hire any extra help. So when the stupid girl brings me back oysters and half of them aren't fit at all and I don't have time to find any more, well, you see what happens." She swipes at her eyes with the dishtowel and I resist the urge to reach over and brush away the flour that is now dusting her thick gray eyebrows. Then she gives me a slight smile. "You're a good girl, Agatha. Don't be like the rest of them. Don't go with Master Liam to his rooms at night."