Weather Witch ww-1

by Shannon Delany

  He sat. His hands clenched in his lap like a schoolboy readying for a scolding. “A delightful tale?”

  Maude nodded encouragement.

  “And if I know none?”

  Maude blinked. “Any tale that might not frighten a wee one will do.”

  He closed his eyes, pondering. “And if I know none?”

  “Just tell one your mother or father told you.”

  “They told me no tales.”

  Maude’s mouth slid closed, lips pursing. “Then something read to you?”

  He shook his head.

  “And you yourself—in neither of your libraries have—”

  Again he shook his head.

  “I see,” she murmured. “Then I guess the task falls to me.”

  Bran made to rise but Maude lifted her hand and, surprising them all, stopped him.

  “The task may fall to me tonight, but she is your sweet daughter tonight, tomorrow night, and forever, and so the task will be passed along.” She sat on Meg’s other side, spread her skirt so it lay neatly, and said, “Have you heard the tale of the Wise Little Fool?”

  Meg shook her head.

  “Well, little dove, tonight you shall!” And with that she leaped into an exciting tale of adventure that required wild gesticulations, funny voices, and one brief song. At the end, all three were smiling and Meg looked somehow healthier.

  There were hugs from both adults and a quick peck on the forehead from Maude as she tucked the child in.

  “Might I have a cup of water?” Meg asked as they prepared to leave her in the dark.

  “Oh,” Maude said, looking at Bran. “I suppose one cup won’t hurt.” She bustled away, filled a cup from Bran’s personal pitcher, and returned with the requested drink.

  Meg gulped it down. Immediately. “Might I have another?”

  Bran took the cup and refilled it. This one the child set on the floor at her bedside. She smiled at them both and laid back, snuggling her head into the pillow.

  “You’ll need to brush those tangles out in the morning,” Maude whispered as she passed him by and headed for the main door to his chambers.

  “Wait,” he said, stopping her by placing his hand upon the door.

  Her eyebrows rose.

  He lowered his hand. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “The first night in a new place is most often the hardest. Good luck. To you both.” Then she opened the door and ducked outside to leave him wondering.

  En Route to Holgate

  “Which one is it?” the Tester asked, a grin twisting his features. “Who has been begging for water?” From behind the bars of the wagon the prisoners all stared at him, licking their lips. “Bring me a canteen,” he commanded a Wraith. “Here!” He shook it so the sloshing of liquid was unmistakable.

  A dark-haired boy lunged forward, his eyes caught on the canteen, arms shooting between the bars.

  The Wraiths clamped down on his wrists, holding him pinned.

  “You, is it?” the Tester asked. “You are the one who called last night’s storm and disrupted the balance?”

  Most of the wagon’s inhabitants looked at the Tester blankly. A few looked away.

  “Know this. If you are thirsty it is for one of two reasons. Either you have been without water for too long or you are Drawing Down. And it is only through Drawing Down that you can call a storm, or Light Up. That is why it is so easy to find your kind. You are as thirsty for drink as we are thirsty for your power.” He looked at the Wraiths. “Whip him so that all might see the price of disobedience.”

  They hauled him out, kicking and shrieking.

  The Tester looked at the prisoners coolly, saying, “There shall be no storms, there shall be no weather of any variety unless we command it.”

  Then they tore off the boy’s shirt and whipped him until his skin was raised and red with welts.

  Holgate

  It was the sound that woke him. Bran sat bolt upright, the covers falling back as the chill caught him, kissing all the way along his neck. He tugged at his nightshirt’s collar and sat there in the dark, catching his breath and wondering why it didn’t feel like he’d screamed at all.

  He ran a shaking hand along his throat but felt no lingering hoarseness. So he listened, the night heavy and deep in his ringing ears. When the shriek came again he launched out of his bed, covers flying, and vaulted toward Meg’s room, catching the waiting lantern in his hand as he flew past his nightstand.

  The light from the lantern was harsh, washing out the scene before him and casting the child in an eerie glow. Seated in the center of her bed, her eyes were screwed tight against some unmentionable horror, eyelashes quivering as her entire body trembled. She screamed again, covered in a sheen of sweat and caught in a cruel nightmare’s snare. He leaped across her bed and pulled her into his arms to wake her, but hopped back, Meg clutched to him, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  His feet were damp.

  As was her entire nightgown.

  He glanced down at the horn cup beside her bed. Turned on its side, there was not even a drop of liquid remaining within. Carefully he held her out before him, feeling her slick arms slide in his grasp. Tightening his grip, he gave her a little shake as her mouth opened in another cry. “Meg!”

  Her eyes flew open and she gasped like someone too long beneath water. “Papá?”

  “What happened?” he asked, setting her on the edge of her bed—one of the few spots yet dry. “Did you”—he glanced at her wet gown—“wet yourself?”

  “I…” She looked down, mystified. “I was frightened…” She shivered, the cold and the damp combining to wreak havoc on her tender skin. Her flesh turned to goose pimples and she rubbed her arms furiously, her tiny brow knitted.

  “Well. You most certainly cannot stay like that,” he muttered, setting the lantern on the floor and opening the chest at the foot of her bed. He rummaged through things, shifting one thin stack of clothing and then another. The chest held the remnants of her mother’s things and any worldly possessions not already on her back. There was nearly nothing to speak of between it all.

  “Here,” he said, tugging free an old chemise with a drawstring neckline. It was far too big for a child of her size and would pool around her feet if she stood, but at least it was dry. “Take that off,” he said, “and put this on.”

  Timidly she set her feet on the ground and he turned away until she said, “I am well.”

  He turned and looked at her, the chemise’s neckline slipping down to expose one petite shoulder, and the ridiculous way she hiked the hem up so she wouldn’t trip over its startling length. He could not help but smile. “I am going to send for Maude,” he explained. “You may stay here while I do, or you may come along.”

  She wiggled awkwardly forward, but followed him as he left her room and crossed the main bit of his to where a horn hung by a crank and flywheel. The Maker spun the crank so the flywheel hummed and a small crystal lit and blinked. He leaned toward the horn. “Yes. Servants’ quarters.”

  There was a hum and the sound of someone speaking in the distance.

  “Yes. Maude.”

  A pause and then there was more noise, as if someone spoke to him from far, far away.

  “Are you speaking to her now?” Meg asked, stepping closer, her eyes on the horn.

  The Maker wrinkled his forehead and nodded. “Yes,” he said into the horn. “We need you now. And fresh linens. And a nightgown if you have one to spare.”

  A sound like tinny laughter drifted out of the horn.

  “No, of course I understand you don’t have one to spare. Just come. Quickly, please.” He grabbed the handle as it spun free and pulled it to a grating stop. The stormcell’s crystal blinked off and the strange hum ceased.

  The room was heavy with silence as they stood there staring at each other.

  “Do you remember what you were dreaming?”

  She shook her head, damp curls clinging to
her forehead.

  Bran reached out a tentative hand and slid a few locks back from her heart-shaped face. “Are you certain? Try and remember. Anything. It might help.”

  She puffed out her cheeks and blew out a deep breath. “Water,” she finally said, screwing her face tight in thought. “I remember water.”

  The shutters rattled so hard the water in Bran’s washing bowl rippled and they both jumped.

  Bran laughed, setting a hand on her shoulder. But the sound felt false in his ears and he was certain she saw the way his gaze shot, telltale, to both the shuttered window and bowl.

  But she giggled and they stood together for the minutes it took Maude to dash up the stairs, linens in hand.

  She was breathless at his door and bent over to suck in air after taking a quick look at Meg to reassure herself that nothing was broken so badly it might not yet be mended. She clutched the linens to her chest and rallied. Rising she said, “She is wet?”

  “Yes. She was.”

  Meg looked away.

  “It’s the water,” Maude said with a frown.

  Meg’s head snapped up, but Maude was already walking toward her room, muttering about having given a child with a pea-sized bladder just enough water right before bed that any dream would wring it back out of her. “It’s not your fault, little dove,” she assured as she stripped the bed and tossed the wet sheets on the floor. “Oh.” She paused, seeing the broad stretch of wet on the mattress. “It seems quite wet.” She glanced at Bran, but his expression revealed nothing. She folded an old blanket she’d brought along and spread it over the wet area before placing a sheet over it.

  Maude patted it. “Much better. Now. Let’s get you out of that before you trip and kill yourself.”

  Bran snorted. “She needed to be dry. Warm.”

  “No disrespect intended.” She smiled at him and, twirling the child around, stripped and redressed her faster than Bran could leave the room. “Come, Meggie,” she said. “Scoot in.”

  The little girl crawled across the now lumpier bed and settled in. Maude pulled the covers straight up to her chin, seeing her wiggle happily beneath them. “There’s a good lass,” she said, and swept the last of her darkly sticky curls away from her face before leaning over to give her another soft kiss. Maude turned and Meg’s hand snapped out to grab her wrist.

  “Sing me a song?” she asked, her eyes imploring.

  Bran leaned in the doorway, watching the scene play out.

  Maude glanced at him. “Who could ever say no to such a face?” She sat at the bed’s side and, taking Meg’s little hand in her own much larger one, splayed out her tiny fingers and began to sing “Rise Gentle Moon.” Her face lifted as the song carried her happily along and she raised her eyes to the ceiling. She blinked, one note strangling in her throat before she caught the tune and continued.

  But it was too late. Bran was looking where she had looked.

  “What?” he asked as soon as the song ended and she stood and readjusted Meg’s covers.

  “A spider. I thought I saw a spider,” Maude said. “I hate the furry-legged bastards.” She brushed past him and snagged his arm, leading him out of the room quickly.

  “Spiders bother you that much, do they?” he asked as they neared his door.

  “Yes. Wretched beasts.”

  He nodded. “I was wondering…”

  “She should sleep straight through the night now. But no more water before bedtime.”

  “No. Not about that.”

  “Oh. What then?”

  “Are you still seeing the baker’s son?”

  She looked down. “You are the one that ended what was between us.”

  “But what if I wanted to begin things anew?” he asked, reaching a hand toward her face.

  She stepped back faster than either of them expected, her back bumping up against the door. “No,” she said, the word a frantic puff of air. “No.” She looked back toward Meg’s room—the dark spot from which soft snoring much like the purr of an oversized barn cat sounded. “She needs stability. And we”—her eyebrows slid closer together—“are anything but stable when we’re together. We’re like powder and match.”

  “That merely means explosive,” he insisted, taking a step forward again.

  “No.” She ducked beneath his arm. “We are explosive,” she conceded. “Dangerous. A combination that flaring can both wound and maim.” Before he could say another word she ducked out his door and dashed into the darkness of the hall.

  Chapter Eleven

  No one conquers who doesn’t fight.

  —GABRIEL BIEL

  Philadelphia

  The pounding on the door of Rowen’s chamber was only rivaled by the pounding in his head. “God,” he groaned, pulling the pillow tighter over his forehead and pressing it against his ears so hard his head echoed with the throbbing of his pulse.

  “Rowen!”

  He recognized the voice and rolled out a groan again. Catrina. What was Catrina doing at his door this early…? He peered out from under the pillow, eyes squinted against a surprisingly large amount of sunlight. “Wha—” He vaulted up in bed, the covers falling back and off of him, and grabbed the bedpost as he knelt on the mattress swaying. “Damn it…”

  The pounding changed to a nearly-too-polite knock. “Young Master Rowen, it seems you are running behind by a bit today, young sir.” Jonathan. “You do have…” There was a pause, a sigh, and muttering between Jonathan and Catrina. “You do have a rather imperative previously scheduled engagement, young sir…”

  “What time is it?” He released the pillow and let go of the bedpost long enough to press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and growl. “What day is it…?”

  “Open the door for me!” Catrina demanded.

  “Young lady, that is quite unseemly … I daresay he is in a state of undress…”

  There was the noise of a scuffle, a few words exchanged between the two outside that caused Rowen’s eyebrows to rise in surprise.

  A key turned in the lock and the door swung open, Catrina lunging in with Jonathan right on her heels, grasping for the key and settling for her wrist instead. She thrashed against him for a moment, but froze when she spotted Rowen on his bed. In only his loose-fitting nightshirt.

  Catrina had the good graces to blush.

  Jonathan took advantage of the moment and wrested the key from her hand, holding it high in victory.

  Rowen glared at them both and pulled the quilt around him.

  It was not nearly fast enough that Catrina failed to notice the strength in his bare legs or the slight bit of hair on his chest, just viewable between the open laces at his neckline.

  “What the devil are both of you doing here?” Rowen demanded, following the question up quickly with, “Jonathan, trousers, please?”

  “Yes, milord, of course, milord.”

  “Did you truly drink that much that you do not remember what occurred last night?” Catrina asked. “Everyone knows of it!”

  Rowen drew back, worry plain on his face. “What occurred last night … between us?” He swallowed hard.

  Catrina blushed. Harder. “No, no. Of course not … Do you not recall your challenge?”

  Rowen looked at Jonathan askance but took the buckskin breeches he offered and, clearing his throat and pointing with his chin, instructed Catrina to turn her back on him. As soon as she was facing his armoire, he dropped the quilt long enough to pull on his pants and tuck in his shirt.

  Then he paled, remembering. “The duel.”

  “Yes!” Catrina spun around, disappointed. At seeing him nearly dressed or at the fact he’d challenged a man to a duel? “You could send Jonathan with an explanation that you were quite in your cups when you threw down the gauntlet, and that with the return of daylight your senses also returned and you realize now that Lord Edward was right. This is precisely why duels occur most oft in daylight—so you might sleep off stupidity. They would surely be lenient if you admitted being so
horrendously wrong due to the evils of alcohol…”

  “But I was not completely soused. Not until after they left.”

  Jonathan grumbled something as he put away Rowen’s nightclothes.

  Catrina wrinkled her nose. “True, but they do not know that. So you just say—”

  “So you would make me a liar twice over? I was not drunk. And not wrong.”

  “Rowen. You made a bad decision. In the heat of an argument. You tried to protect someone’s honor—someone whose honor was not hers to give—all because of some time you spent with Jordan in the past. You were wrong to do so. Many times over.”

  He glanced at her and then at the window and the light flooding in. “What time is it?”

  “The bell in the main square rang out eight just moments ago,” Jonathan said.

  “Just enough time,” Rowen muttered.

  “Yes,” Catrina agreed. “If you write the note and send Jonathan—”

  Rowen fixed his gaze on her. “Just enough time to make it to Watkin’s Glen,” he corrected. “Are my sword and pistol ready?”

  “Wh—”

  Jonathan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Catrina shouted. “I will—I will…” Her eyes widened, realizing what the most potent threat was. “Tell your mother.”

  Rowen sighed. “Do so. My head is already pounding, my fate already sealed. I am no marksman. Tell her so she might at least scream something akin to a good-bye to me—as it will surely not be a farewell that passes from her lips.”

  “Why … I…”

  “Do not, Catrina. Do not bring additional drama to me in this, the last hour I will likely spend on this Earth. Let me at least do what I said I would. Let me at least be enough of a man to be true to my word.”

  “Rowen…” she protested weakly.

  He addressed Jonathan. “Will you do me the honor of standing as my second?”

  “It is not even legal…”

  Jonathan ignored her, nodding. “Of course, young sir. ’Twould be my honor.”

  “And if the moment comes—you will be man enough to end my agony?”