He shrugged, his brown cheeks gaining a cute reddish tint. “Honestly, with everything I’ve seen and heard? I just needed to check. Cut me some slack here.”
Donna pushed down any lingering guilt—it wasn’t like she was really lying to him. She was human. Okay, so maybe she’d been enhanced after her injuries, but that didn’t make her less than human. At least, that’s what Aunt Paige had always told her. In her aunt’s view, the modifications that Maker had created to save her arms and hands made her “more than human.” Which sounded a little better.
Didn’t it?
“You look cute when you blush, Sharma.” Teasing him seemed the best way to go.
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t blush.”
“Sure you do. You’re doing it right now.” Donna grinned and felt some of her worries drift away as Navin’s slow smile appeared, just like old times.
“You’re crazy. All the magic must’ve gotten to you.”
“I am not crazy.”
“You must be, if you’ve got the hots for a college dropout with nothing better to do than throw lame parties for kids like us.”
Now it was Donna’s turn, and she squirmed as her cheeks flushed. She hadn’t even gotten round to mentioning Xan yet. “Shut it, Biker Boy.”
So the teasing and fighting began again, and this time they did make too much noise and had to stop suddenly after a polite knock on the door from Dr. Sharma.
They lowered their voices and talked long into the night. Donna told Navin about the Wood Monster and the hunting elves, about the night she lost her father in the woods, about the multiple operations and magical tattoos needed to fix her injuries. It was almost as though the earlier revelations with Xan had prepared her for this, like they had been a dress rehearsal for the Big Performance. For so many years, the idea of telling Navin the awful truth had been both a dream and a nightmare for Donna; it seemed too much to hope for that he might actually still accept her.
She watched her best friend’s kind and familiar face relax as she opened up to him, and prayed that she wasn’t going to end up hurting him.
Back in her own room, way past curfew, Donna stripped off her clothes and threw them onto the wicker chair in the corner of her room. She pulled on pajamas and rubbed her aching arms and wrists. It felt good to get the gloves off, even if it meant she had to look at the intricate patterns. Well, it wasn’t like she hadn’t taken the stupid things off enough times tonight already. Maybe she should start leaving her gloves at home. See what Aunt Paige made of that.
She swallowed as she remembered the look on Navin’s face when she’d finally shown him the truth—the tattoos that made her “more than human” and a lot more dangerous than your regular seventeen-year-old girl. Navin’s reaction? Incredibly, he had held her hands in his and told her it didn’t matter to him if she was covered from head to toe in purple paisley. She was still Donna; she was still his best friend.
He was amazing and she wondered, not for the first time, what she’d done to deserve such a good and loyal friend. Sighing, she turned on the bedside lamp and switched off the main light, going over to the window to check that it was closed against the cold. As she lifted the curtain aside, she thought she heard something outside the window; a sort of scrabbling and snuffling sound. Now what?
Holding her breath, Donna angled her body to cover the reflection of her lamp in the glass, the better to see outside. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, so her view consisted of a row of yards and an alleyway, with the taller buildings of downtown Ironbridge beyond that. She strained her eyes, trying to see into her aunt’s pristine back yard.
Something bounded over the fence, a darting shadow with a long tail and huge eyes that caught the light of the moon. Just another damn cat. She let out a sigh of relief and determinedly pulled the curtains tightly shut. There’s nothing out there, Underwood, she told herself. Just go to bed.
But of course, she couldn’t sleep, and her mind kept whirring with all the things that had happened. First, there was the wood elf at Maker’s. The old alchemist claimed to have “dealt with it.” How he’d done that Donna wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but whatever had gone down while she was there, he certainly didn’t want her to tell Aunt Paige about it.
And it was odd that Maker had mentioned Simon Gaunt. Was the Order’s secretary involved in whatever Maker’s so-called experiments were? More importantly, could she find out for sure without alerting anyone to her suspicions?
Then there’d been the second elf that attacked her and Xan on Ironbridge Common. It was too much to hope for that it had been simple chance. Maybe it really was only a stray, but then why wasn’t it in the remains of Ironwood Forest with the other strays? The fact that the targets of the attack had been a daughter of the alchemists and a human-faery hybrid indicated something a lot more sinister than simply a random encounter. Donna wasn’t naïve enough to believe that two dark elves in as many days was nothing to worry about; not to mention her near-certainty that something had been watching her and Navin outside Xan’s house after the party.
So why didn’t she just ignore Maker’s warning and spill everything to Aunt Paige? That was the big question—maybe even bigger than anything else that was happening. What was stopping her from relieving herself of this burden and handing it over to the alchemists?
Even before the tangle of questions had finished filling her overwrought mind, she knew the answer. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her aunt; it was more about her growing suspicion that she couldn’t trust the Order. Donna had never really been comfortable with the organization that practically ran her life—a secret society that kept secrets from her even about her own parents.
She had a horrible suspicion that all of these things were linked, but she didn’t know how the pieces fit together. Of course, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t find out. Starting tomorrow.
Donna sat in Simon Gaunt’s wood-panelled study at the Frost Estate, trying not to fall asleep as Alma Kensington droned on about alchemical theory. Her tutor was talking about the prima materia—the first matter—something that Donna knew she should be more interested in, but it was difficult to focus on anything after what had happened to her and Xan last night.
And after what she’d shared with both him and Navin. She hoped that her guilty conscience didn’t show on her face.
Her eyes wandered to one of the many portraits of long-dead alchemists that hung around the study. It portrayed a spooky-looking dude in a black skullcap and Elizabethan robes; he had deep-set eyes and a crazy white beard. The inscription beneath read:
WHO DOES NOT UNDERSTAND SHOULD EITHER LEARN
OR BE SILENT.
These words were attributed to Dr. John Dee, mathematician, astrologer, and Master Magus. Quentin had once told her that Dee might even have been a spy for Elizabeth I in England, although those were just legends.
Donna sighed. If Dr. Dee’s words should be taken to heart, she really ought to keep her mouth shut about all the things that had been happening lately—she sure as hell didn’t understand them. There was a lot about the Order of the Dragon that she didn’t understand, and those parts that were becoming clearer weren’t exactly filling her with a warm fuzzy feeling.
Alma Kensington chose that moment to turn her ash-blonde head and fix Donna with her watery blue eyes. Her straight nose and pointed chin matched the long lines and angles of her body. “Donna, are you unwell this morning?”
Donna felt a frozen smile, more like a grimace, spread across her lips. “I’m just tired, Alma. Sorry.”
Her tutor pulled herself up to her not insignificant height. “Perhaps I should speak to your aunt. This seems to be happening more often lately … ” She let her voice trail off suggestively, the warning clear.
Gritting her teeth against the desire to yawn, Donna sat up straighter in the green leather chair and shook her head. She swallowed the yawn so that she could speak. “Really, I’m fine. I was up too late reading.”
<
br /> “Something interesting, I hope,” Alma replied coolly, before turning back to the PowerPoint display on the pull-down screen.
Lunchtime couldn’t come fast enough, and Donna gladly escaped her makeshift schoolroom to get some fresh air out on the vast grounds of the Frost Estate. Shivering in the cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and set off on a circuit of the gardens, taking in the gradual desolation that the approaching winter had wreaked on the beautiful plants and flowers.
The elaborately arranged flowerbeds had an underlying order and purpose that a casual observer wouldn’t see: everything was laid out according to the rules of sacred geometry. It was one of Quentin’s pet projects, and Aunt Paige had once told Donna that the gardens actually protected the estate from attack. There were elaborate swirls and arcs crisscrossed with diagonal lines in clashing colors. Some of the most seemingly chaotic flower arrangements were, in fact, carefully designed to mirror geometric shapes and precise angles. If viewed from the sky, the whole thing would look amazing—kind of like a secret message that only the stars could read.
In the eastern corner of the grounds, far in the distance, there was a constant curl of smoke winding its way from the ground and up into the sky. Donna had seen it there during cold weather and hot, throughout all seasons, and regardless of whether there were leaves to be burned or not. Aunt Paige had once told her it was just a bonfire, but if that was true, then why would it be burning all year round?
She returned to the house early, forcing herself to nibble on a sandwich that the kitchen staff had sent for her. She wasn’t even remotely hungry, but forced herself to take a few bites as she wandered the hallways. Her mind kept flashing back to images of the wood elf attacking Xan, just as the one in Maker’s workshop had attacked Navin the previous day. Blowing out a breath, she gave herself a shake and changed direction, stepping out of the way of two members of Quentin’s staff who were discussing some kind of building work as they walked down one of the many richly carpeted hallways. Alma wouldn’t be back yet, so Donna decided to head down to the main library for a while.
She often wondered what it would be like to live in such a grand house, which apparently had been a consideration when she was first orphaned. She usually came to the conclusion that it would be a lot more trouble than it was worth; the restrictions and sense of forced decorum here would drive her slowly insane.
And besides, living with Quentin and Simon would be weird.
She was always so grateful to Aunt Paige for taking in such a badly injured and traumatized child. Aunt Paige hadn’t ever shown her anything but care and kindness—her own particular brand of practical kindness, to be sure, but that was mostly enough. If she sometimes came across as a little strict, Donna realized this was probably because her aunt had never had a husband or children of her own; she was not the most natural mother-figure. And, of course, Aunt Paige always seemed too busy for a family, what with full-time work and the demands of the Order.
Stopping at the end of a quiet corridor on the ground floor, Donna pushed through elegant doors and into Quentin Frost’s favorite library. When she was younger, the archmaster had seemed like a distant, mysterious figure. Almost magical, which wasn’t so very far from the truth.
Not that she actually saw much of Quentin, even now. He had grown more and more reclusive over the years, and Donna had only seen him perhaps half a dozen times in the past year, either at the Sunday dinners Aunt Paige encouraged her to attend or very rarely when he “came out of retirement” to teach one of her practical classes. But back when she was young, he had occasionally found her in his library browsing through the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, and he’d seemed genuinely delighted that she showed such a keen interest.
The other name for this library was the “Blue Room,” for obvious reasons. The three-piece suite in the center of the large space was upholstered in the softest royal blue velvet, and the walls were a sort of duck-egg shade interspersed with tiny cornflower motifs. Personally, Donna thought the whole thing was kind of overdone, but Quentin liked to have color-themed sitting rooms.
The lounge area of the library was no exception. The couch was positioned in front of a low coffee table made of rosewood, and on that rested one of Quentin and Simon’s favorite evening pastimes: a chess set. But it was no ordinary chess set; there was nothing regular about it beyond the beautiful checkered board. This was elemental chess, something the alchemists had developed from the traditional game. Donna still hadn’t learned how to play—the pieces had different names and were associated with the stars and planets. It had always looked confusing to her, and not really like something she could imagine herself playing.
Navin would probably love it.
In one corner of the room stood a lofty grandfather clock, jammed in between two huge bookcases. She wandered over to its familiar bulk, taking in the sharp smell of wood polish and blinking her eyes against the fumes. The clock had recently been cleaned, and it gleamed under the bright ceiling spotlights.
Donna looked more closely when she realized that the clock had stopped. She checked the time on her cell phone and looked back at the ornate clock’s face—yes, it appeared to have run out of juice (or whatever it ran on) about twenty minutes ago. She ran her hands along the smooth wooden casing, picking up the sticky residue of the polish on her green velvet gloves. She wondered how the clock opened, since there didn’t appear to be any obvious mechanism or catch. Gazing back up at the ivory face, with its large roman numerals and its elaborately curved hands sitting still and silent, Donna placed one hand on the glass covering the timepiece and felt around for some way of opening the front. She could at least see how easy it would be to change the time.
Biting her lip in concentration, Donna stretched higher on tiptoes, both hands on the clock face as she peered around the back of the case. Perhaps somewhere behind the clock …
“What do you think you’re doing?” said a sharp voice behind her.
If it was possible to jump any higher, Donna thought at that moment she would have done it. As it was, she leapt into the air with a shriek, then turned to face the owner of that stern voice.
“I asked you a question, young lady.” Simon Gaunt’s pale face pulled into grim lines, and his flint-gray eyes were narrowed with suspicion.
“Er … I … ”
“Well?”
Donna swallowed, trying desperately to wipe the guilty look off her face and resenting how like a child he made her feel. It wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong. Plus, it felt strange that the normally unflustered Simon was undeniably … flustered? Anxious, even. Now isn’t that interesting …
She fixed her face into a mask of on-her-best-behavior. “I came here to look at the books, Simon. The Blue Room always makes me feel … um, peaceful.”
“So peaceful, it seems,” he replied dryly, “that you find yourself examining the furniture instead of the bookshelves.”
“I was only looking at it, I wasn’t doing any harm. I wondered how it worked, that’s all.” She cringed inwardly as disbelief crossed Simon’s usually smooth face. “It’s stopped, you see?”
He raised his perfectly groomed silver eyebrows. “Really? I had no idea you had such a burgeoning interest in horology. I must tell Quentin; I’m sure he’ll be quite fascinated. You’ll have something to talk about with him.”
Horology? God, that sounded so boring. Donna tried to smile, walking away from the grandfather clock and nearer to the couch where she had carelessly thrown her backpack. “Hardly.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “I was just curious.”
“Hmm.”
Simon’s noncommittal grunt sounded harsh, but at least he had stopped staring at her with such outright hostility. Donna was shocked by his manner and tone. Sure, the Order’s secretary was unpleasant at the best of times, but even for him this was pretty bizarre. He wasn’t just angry; he seemed … scared. This crazy defensive attitude about something as innocent as a st
upid clock got her thoughts humming. What was Simon trying to hide?
Any minute now, would wood elves come pouring out of the clock, breaking free from captivity after Simon and Maker’s mysterious “experiments”?
Pushing aside these fantasies, Donna tried to look polite and apologetic; it would do her no good to antagonize him. “I’m sorry, Simon. I really was just interested. I’ll get back to my books.”
Simon looked at her backpack. “Which seem to still be in your bag, I see.”
She walked to the couch on shaking legs and sat down. “Yes, here they are. I had some to return to the library.”
He just stood in the doorway, watching her.
Donna tried to hold his gaze, but it was difficult. Her skin crawled and broke out in goose bumps as he seemed to look right inside her.
He pushed thinning strands of lank brown hair away from his damp forehead. “Well, aren’t you going to get them out, then?”
“What?”
“Your books, Donna. Aren’t you going to get them out of your bag?”
With trembling hands and cursing her nerves, Donna began to undo the fastenings at the top of her backpack. She tried not to feel Simon’s steely eyes on her and just focused on pulling out the first book that her fingers touched.
Almost letting out the sigh of relief that threatened to burst through her chest, Donna gratefully looked down at an ancient copy of Frenchman’s Creek.
“Got it,” she said breathlessly. She hoped Simon wouldn’t notice that the book didn’t even belong on Quentin’s shelves.
“Excellent.” Simon rubbed his hands together so that the dry scraping sound they made was audible. Without another word he turned around and left the room.
Donna dropped Du Maurier’s classic work of swashbuckling adventure and romance into her lap and brought shaking hands to her face. What had that been about? She knew there were secrets upon secrets in the Order—so much that she didn’t know about, and probably never would—but Simon had just treated her like a criminal. He had been protecting the clock. But if it was such a big secret, why was it proudly on display in a public room? She’d been reading books in this library for most of her life. Then again, she had never really paid attention to the clock before. It was, after all, only a clock—something that was, as Simon himself had pointed out, just a piece of furniture.
The Iron Witch Page 10
