Witherward

by Hannah Mathewson

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Is that so?” He ducked his head to try and catch her eye, but she stepped away from him. “If you’ve lost your enthusiasm for this chase, I might understand. But you declined an opportunity to start an argument. It’s out of character.”

  “You can talk.”

  Eliot smiled. “That’s better. But something’s upsetting you.”

  She was about to speak when a servant appeared from the lounge opposite. Catching onto her wariness as he passed, Eliot angled his head in the opposite direction. “Come with me.”

  She followed him through a set of glass doors and into the garden. They wove between the orderly lines of flower beds, in which roses of every colour were perpetually in full bloom, thanks to a spell Cassia had cast on them. The scent was heavy in the late summer warmth; it was rising from the velvety rose heads like heat haze. She had never seen blooms as vibrant and large until she came through the portal, and she came to a stop among them, entranced.

  Eliot was still and patient as he watched her lower her nose to a crimson flower.

  “Cogna knows ’bout me,” she said.

  “Yes. You said Cogna sent the messenger who told us you were alive.”

  A fist clenched around her heart as she forced out the next words; the thought that had been festering in her mind like a disease since Whitechapel. “Cogna’s with Gedeon now. They’re working together. So Gedeon probably knows ’bout me too. I think p’raps Cogna told him I was alive and back here and he… doesn’t care.”

  Eliot’s face only registered surprise for a heartbeat before it melted into something else. Fearing it might be pity, Ilsa looked away.

  “Gedeon doesn’t know about you.”

  “Hmm. You and him are trading secret messages, I s’pose,” she teased.

  “Who told you?” She could hear the smirk in his words.

  “Just a guess.”

  “Well, you guessed wrong. If I knew how to contact him, your being here would be the first thing I’d’ve told him. He deserves to know his sister is alive, and that she’s clever and capable and brave. That she’s someone he would be honoured to know.”

  Ilsa glanced up to find Eliot standing closer than she had thought, his face betraying how ardently he meant every word, and her pulse kicked. Eliot swallowed, blinked, but mastered his nervousness.

  “I know Cogna hasn’t told him you’re alive. Because if Gedeon knew the first thing about you, if he had any idea how… he would be back in a heartbeat.”

  Despite the sun, a wave of cold trembled down her spine. Her body wanted her to close the gap between them, was pushing her forward with an icy touch. She gave into it at the same moment Eliot did, her mouth meeting his halfway, her fingers travelling up his neck to tangle in his hair. He tugged her closer desperately, until their bodies were flush against one another – Ilsa’s every nerve singing – and deepened the kiss.

  Ilsa had been kissed before; a handful of clumsy fumbles that had done nothing to answer the question of what all the fuss was about. But kissing Eliot was like hearing her call in the dark answered. She swallowed his breath like this was the air she should always have been breathing. His fingers kneaded the nape of her neck in a way that travelled down her spine and knocked every muscle along the way out of action.

  It was only when their lips disconnected, both of them breathing hard, that there was any space for another thought to push its way into Ilsa’s mind: Fyfe.

  She gasped and stepped back, out of Eliot’s embrace. He was startled back to his senses. His hands went into the air.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it ain’t you. I—” Ilsa shook her head. She didn’t have the words to explain. She wouldn’t have told him even if she could. The truth of why she didn’t want Eliot kissing her like his life depended on it – even though she really, really did – in the open of the garden, with everything she had learned that day, wasn’t hers to share. So she murmured an apology, slipped past him – at a safe distance – and practically ran back to the house.

  27

  Ilsa was a coward.

  She might also have been a bad friend. It was difficult to know for sure when her head was still spinning from the feeling of kissing Eliot.

  The fact was, Fyfe couldn’t have him, and nothing Ilsa did or didn’t do could change that. You’re not his type, Jorn had said. What was more, Jorn knew what Ilsa’s next mistake would be, and he had made it seem a lot more dire than an ill-advised kiss, meaning that she was as confident as any non-Oracle could be that kissing Eliot was a good decision. Perhaps she should have kept doing it while she was still protected by that knowledge.

  Then again – what did not his type mean? Was Eliot Ilsa’s type before he’d flirted with her in the chemist, or let his fingers linger on her skin, or his eyes linger on her face? If Eliot had never thought of Fyfe that way, how was anyone to know how he might feel about him? And if Eliot was busy kissing Ilsa, when would he ever find out?

  But no, Eliot deserved more credit than that. He had made his choice. In fact, it was all his fault. He was the one who had started soliloquising about what an honour it was to know her. He was the one who had come just a little too close, and muddled his words, and let his eyes flicker to her mouth like he had never noticed the soft, full shape of it before. She hadn’t started whatever was happening between them.

  As Ilsa stalked through the house, cursing Eliot to keep from cursing herself, the sickly scent of flowers she had left behind in the garden returned. She was outside Hester’s rooms, and the door was ajar. Tentatively, she pushed it open. A faint breeze was tickling the lace curtains and wafting the strong aroma of too many floral arrangements – and an undertone of whisky and stale cigarette smoke – throughout the room.

  It had been nine weeks since the attack that had injured Hester, and she showed no signs of wanting to re-join the world beyond her suite, let alone lead the Changelings. She was stretched out on a loveseat by the open window, a book balanced in one hand. She didn’t look surprised to glance up and see Ilsa in the doorway.

  “You got a lot of flowers in here,” said Ilsa, wrinkling her nose.

  Hester glanced around at the arrangements – some fresh, some browning – with mild disgust. “Fliss keeps bringing them. I roll my eyes every time, but I can never bear to have her toss out the dying ones.”

  Ilsa raised an eyebrow. “You can’t bear it? I don’t mean no offence, but you don’t strike me as the sensitive sort.”

  “Why on earth would that offend me? I’m not. But I can’t help thinking of how much life they have, how much character. And yet they’re just dying things. It’s sort of pathetic.”

  Her voice never faltered, but her face gave her away. She scowled at Ilsa like she had forced a confession from her. As if to change the subject she gazed pointedly out of the window, and quirked her brow. “But what am I saying? You’re very fond of flowers.”

  She was only on the first page of her book, and her reading glasses lay abandoned on the end table. She must have been looking out the window – at her view of the rose garden. Ilsa cleared her throat to change the subject.

  “P’raps I should ask you ’bout Gedeon too,” she said, lowering herself into a chair. “’Bout him leaving.”

  Hester sighed. “Cassia warned me you would come creeping.” She pulled herself into a more upright position, warning Ilsa with a severe flick of her hand not to dare try and assist her. “But as far as insight goes, I can say only that I don’t share in the lieutenants’ shock. This is not as out of character for Gedeon as they wilfully believe.”

  Hester’s tone – sure and superior – riled her. “You sure ’bout that? ’Cause it ain’t the impression I got from everyone else. They say he’s selfless. And caring.”

  “Oh, very. And do either of those traits preclude what he’s done, whatever that is? I’m certain he believes fully that it is right. Selfless and caring, just as you say
.” She paused, and shot Ilsa a patronising look, like the conclusion was obvious. “But there’s no denying it’s also foolish. That, cousin dearest, is why I am unsurprised. It is well within Gedeon’s nature to act first and think later.”

  “But he planned to leave, din’t he? Aelius has got that note from one of the wolves—”

  “Yes, he planned it,” said Hester with an impatient wave of her hand. “Yes, it would have taken time and organisation. But reflection? A modicum of doubt? Do not underestimate the fools like your brother. They can achieve a great deal without thinking.”

  It seemed unfair, but it was also unfair for Ilsa to tell her she was wrong; she couldn’t vouch for someone she had never met. And yet…

  “Well the Changelings love him,” she said. “I was in Camden the other night, and the kids were playing games where they pretended to be Gedeon. They tell stories ’bout him.”

  “Of course they love him. He’s their kind, smiling prince. He remembers their names and sympathises with their concerns. Gedeon makes people feel valued. He makes people love him. It’s his gift.” Her lip curled cruelly and she looked away. “It’s a nice touch in a leader, but a useless one.”

  Ilsa doubted it was useless, but she wasn’t about to tell her cousin that. “That ain’t why. It’s because he’s brave. He saved a pregnant woman and her husband when they were kidnapped.”

  Hester laughed. “Bren and Diana Luckett. They campaigned to have Gedeon replace me before he came of age after his little stunt.”

  Her voice was bright, her smile was wide, and still Hester couldn’t disguise the edge in her words. Ilsa didn’t think she was trying to. “They din’t mention that,” she said weakly.

  “And did they mention how many more people their brave alpha-to-be saved before he killed five wolves in a rescue gone wrong?” Now the pretence at humour was gone. Her voice cut like a hot blade, fury burning behind her hazel eyes. Ilsa felt her stomach sink lower in her abdomen. “Did they mention that the alpha they wanted so desperately pays his ransoms now, and only sometimes succeeds in finding the culprits later? Did they mention how many more of our people have been snatched from their homes since Gedeon started rescuing them? Ask Cassia how much his caring and selflessness costs us, how much less the wolves earn while dying for him.”

  “But he’s the alpha. It’s his job to help people,” said Ilsa stubbornly, even as the doubts piled down on her.

  “This is London. Death and hardship are built into it like the stones in its streets,” Hester said, determination in her features. “A faction leader’s job is to swing the pendulum in her people’s favour as often as she can, with as little damage as possible and as much of her conscience as she can afford to keep.” She sighed, softening. “Your brother’s heart is always in the right place. But one does not lead two hundred thousand people with one’s heart, cousin dearest.”

  As brutal and dispassionate as it was, what Hester said made sense. There would always be difficult choices. A leader with too much heart – someone vulnerable to letting those choices tear them apart – was no use to anyone.

  “But Gedeon’s grown hardened, of course,” said Hester, as if she’d read the direction of Ilsa’s thoughts. “He makes better decisions every day. With each dire mistake he changes, and he listens. I’ve learned how to make him listen to me. I may not be the true alpha any more, but I’m his voice of reason.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Or I was. I thought he listened. Perhaps our young alpha has tired of making better decisions.”

  “So he din’t ask you ’bout this?” challenged Ilsa. “Nothing that might be a clue?”

  Hester sighed. “I can’t be of any help. I spent a week in a healing potion haze, and when I came to, they told me my back was broken, my magic was gone, and I was in charge. That’s all I know.”

  “And before the attack?”

  “Before?”

  Ilsa shifted in her chair. “I been thinking p’raps something else got Gedeon worked up. Cassia said she and him had a fight…”

  “Yes, about Millwater.”

  Hester said no more, and a weighty silence fell between them. As Ilsa studied her cousin for potential tells, she had the unshakable feeling that Hester was doing the same. The gaze that met hers was bold, unwavering, and cut straight through her in a way even Alitz Dicer had failed to do. Ilsa had forgotten who was interrogating whom by the time Hester tossed her braid over her shoulder and sighed.

  “I suspect Cassia came down a little too hard on his decision, and it riled him. Powerful men often like to think they can take advice from us, but it’s seldom the case.”

  “D’you know why he cancelled the trip?”

  “Cancelled? That was the day of the attack,” said Hester matter-of-factly, her eyebrows raised.

  “But I thought the attack weren’t ’til after.”

  Hester opened her mouth, and closed it again, frowning. She made a small sound of displeasure. “You’re right, I’m sure. I’m afraid I don’t remember much about that either. I don’t know if I hurt my head or what else, but it’s all a bit of a blur.”

  Hester shook her head regretfully, then pushed her obvious frustration with herself aside. Her hands lay calmly in her lap. Her shoulders were straight but relaxed.

  “Memory loss?” Ilsa probed lightly.

  Hester, so obviously loath to admit to weakness, narrowed her eyes. Then that cruel smile curled the corner of her lips. “And what of it? I would give up all my memories and start afresh in exchange for my legs and my wings back. Wouldn’t you?”

  Hester had seen her scars; she knew the answer. But Ilsa whispered anyway, “I’d give up mine for a lot less than that.”

  Her honesty took Hester by surprise, and the cruelty evaporated. She cocked her head to one side. “You know, perhaps I would too,” she said, in a tone that suggested lamenting the horrors of their pasts was a delightful way to bond.

  Now that her heart had stopped skittering from Eliot’s touch, she remembered a dozen reasons, besides Fyfe, that she should have thought twice. She believed that Eliot didn’t know where Gedeon was, but he was definitely hiding something.

  “What d’you think of Eliot?” Disdain flashed across Hester’s features, and Ilsa added, “Need I ask?”

  Hester gave a short, forced laugh.

  “Have you always detested him? ’Cause he thinks really highly of you.”

  “I know he does. I was his alpha for sixteen years before little Gedeon came of age, and a loyal soldier will always love his queen.”

  Ilsa shook her head. “If Eliot was a good soldier, why’d you remove him as commander of the wolves?”

  Hester faltered, her expression pained. Her attention roamed to the window. Eventually, she took a shaky breath. “Eliot is loyal to a fault,” she said, almost to herself. “To a hopeless, impossible fault.”

  If Hester was being dishonest, she didn’t have a tell. Her memory of the attack was missing. Her knowledge of Gedeon’s behaviour was as Cassia had told her. And her opinion of Eliot wasn’t muddied by resentment like Cassia’s, or infatuation like Fyfe’s – and yet it was more damning than anyone’s. The way Hester said it, loyalty sounded like a curse.

  She wouldn’t meet Ilsa’s eye as she said, “I stripped him of his command because I was angry. And paranoid.”

  Whether that was anything close to the truth, Ilsa couldn’t tell. “You don’t hate him, then?” she probed.

  A slow breath. “I don’t know.”

  Another loaded silence settled between them, and when it became clear Hester wouldn’t be the one to break it, Ilsa stood to leave. “May I speak plainly?”

  “It would be an utter blessing if somebody would.”

  “I just can’t decide what to make of you, Hester.”

  “And I know just what to make of you,” she said, her bitterness spent. When their identical hazel eyes met, Hester was looking at her like an old friend. “I know you, cousin dearest. You’re drawn to the damage in others; to their
darkness.”

  Ilsa opened her mouth to argue, but she couldn’t form the words. Was Hester right? Was that the real reason she had never severed ties with Bill Blume? Why, of all the sorry cases in her boarding house, the orphaned and abused Martha had been her ally of choice?

  “It’s alright,” Hester said lightly. “You’re not a monster. We respond to the parts of ourselves we see in other people, whether we realise it or not. It’s what makes them real to us. It’s why you’re here, in my room.”

  “I was just passing.”

  “The room you’ve claimed is the other way.”

  “I—” Ilsa realised with a thud that she was right.

  “On a personal note, cousin dearest.” Hester inclined her head towards the window overlooking the rose garden. “A word of warning. Eliot’s darkness runs deeper than you believe. He is a ticking time bomb, and if you are too attached you will be obliterated.”

  She said the last almost triumphantly, and even as a shudder ran through her, it took all of Ilsa’s strength to tear her eyes from her cousin and leave.

  28

  Ilsa sat on her bed, the diagram she had found under Gedeon’s mattress open in her hands.

  She had looked at it at least a dozen times, hoping that some meaning would pop out at her. She had memorised the numbers and symbols, and read them every which way; from left to right; clockwise and anti-clockwise around the shape in the middle, and kept them in her mind all day long, in case she discovered them elsewhere.

  But nothing could make the diagram make sense, and unless it related somehow to the amulet, it didn’t even matter. But something kept her from giving up her fascination with it. It was an irrational fancy, but a little voice inside said Gedeon had left it for her. She clung to the diagram and its secret meaning like it was the tether with which she would reel her brother back home.

  * * *

  It was the following evening, and Ilsa was barrelling down the main staircase, her eyes on her feet, when a second pair of shoes came into view.