“Well, I am now,” I snap. “But no. At the time, I—” I hesitate. I don’t want to tell them what I’m afraid of. It feels like admitting to something bigger.
“What was it?” Fifer presses.
I turn away from them, toward the water. I can feel their eyes on me anyway.
“I was afraid of being alone.” My voice is quiet, small. I don’t know if they can hear me over the sound of the men shouting on deck or the waves lapping against the ship’s hull, but I keep going. “Of dying alone. Caleb says we all die alone, but I don’t think that’s true, not really. It’s different to face it alone. To know that no one is coming, that no one will ever come. To know it’s just you and that’s all it’ll ever be—”
I break off then, turn around to find the four of them staring at me, a chorus of horror and fear and sympathy on their faces.
“Are you still afraid of that?” Fifer says. Her voice is as quiet as mine.
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes against their unrelenting stares. “I don’t know what I’m afraid of anymore. I don’t see why it matters, anyway.”
“It matters a lot,” she says. “Because what if the tomb isn’t the same this time? What if your fear isn’t? There’s no telling what you’ll have to face in there. What happens if singing doesn’t work?”
I feel my eyes go wide. I hadn’t considered that. I never imagined the tomb might be different. Never imagined it might be worse.
“I don’t know what condition you’re going to be in, after it’s over,” Fifer continues. “You’re also weaker now than you were then, when you were training every day, and you’re hurt. If Schuyler is there, he can help you destroy the tablet. Besides you, he’s the only one strong enough to do it.”
I turn to him. “You agreed to this? Why?”
Schuyler sighs. And for once he doesn’t look amused or indifferent. For once I can see the years and the things he knows flash across his eyes, a dark shadow behind the blue.
“Because Fifer asked it of me,” he says. “Because I don’t want her going in there alone. Because I don’t want Nicholas to die. Because I think Blackwell is more dangerous than any of us knows. Because if I don’t, I’m going to be hunted as much as you are.” He shrugs. “I’ve got a very long life ahead of me. I don’t want to spend it running.”
I sink down on the deck and draw my knees to my chin. No one says anything; there’s nothing to say. But after a minute George scoots next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says firmly. “I told the others: Anyone who can take on Hastings and live to talk about it can take on anything.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Maybe that’s what the test will be. A ghost, a basket of flour, and a brace of dead fowl.” Fifer and Schuyler smile.
But when I look at John, he’s not smiling at all.
The sun begins to set. The waters around us go calm, but the sailors on board grow loud. A few bring out instruments, a violin and a lute, and begin warbling off-key tunes. Others begin a loud game of cards on deck. Another group starts throwing dice.
George stands up. “I think I’ll try to get in on that card game,” he says. “Try to win back our passage money. Anyone feel like staking me?”
John pulls out a couple of coins and tosses them to him. “This is all I have left. Try not to lose it all in the first hand.”
George looks shocked. “Me? Lose? I think not. I’ll have our money back within the hour—just you wait.” He winks at me and gallops down the stairs.
“I think I’ll go for a walk around deck,” Schuyler says. “Gaze at the moonlight and all that. If that’s all right with you.” He looks at John. “Wouldn’t want to anger the warden.”
John shrugs. “As long as Fifer goes with you. And as long as she keeps a sword on you at all times.”
Fifer snatches the Azoth off the deck and pokes the blade against Schuyler’s back.
“Feisty.” Schuyler grins. “Shall we?” He holds his arm out for Fifer. They walk down the stairs and across the deck, their heads together, whispering.
I turn to John. “You let them go off together?”
“Clearly, they go off together all the time. I haven’t been able to stop it yet and I’m not likely to. At least I can make sure she’s armed.”
I smile. Then I realize he’s left here alone with me. No doubt the last place in the world he’d want to be.
“I guess I’ll just go to sleep now,” I say.
John lifts an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me to leave?”
“I—no,” I say. “I guess I’m just saying you don’t have to stay.”
“I’m fine,” John says. “But I am hungry. Are you?”
“I guess. Maybe. I don’t know.”
He smiles a little. “It’s really a yes or no question.”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll be back.” I watch him go. I don’t know why he cares if I’m hungry or not. I guess because he knows in order to keep Nicholas alive, he needs to keep me alive. Which includes keeping me fed. I can’t take it to mean anything but.
He returns a few minutes later, carrying a bundle of cloth. He unwraps it and lays the contents in front of me. Cheese, figs, apples, ham, a loaf of bread, a flask of water.
“No cake,” he says. “Sorry. But I did ask.”
I blink. “No, this is perfect.”
“Dig in, then.”
After we eat, he clears everything away and settles on the deck beside me, his back against the wooden railing. He takes a drink of water from the flask and passes it to me. We’re quiet for a while, listening to the music on the deck and the sound of the water washing against the hull.
“How did Caleb know you were here?” John says, finally.
“He said Blackwell had a seer.”
John nods. “We knew that. Or figured it, anyway. Does he know we’re going to the masque? Was that why he was here? To try to stop you?”
“No. And I don’t think Blackwell knows, either. If he did, he wouldn’t have sent Caleb. He would have just waited. Caleb came because he wanted me to witch-hunt for him again. He said if I went against Blackwell, he wouldn’t be able to save me. He said—” I stop.
“What?”
“He said if I didn’t come back with him, I was on my own.”
“What did you say?”
“I—” I swallow hard. “I said good-bye.” I look at my feet and go quiet. John doesn’t say anything. But I can feel his eyes on me in the moonlight.
“Do you love him?” he asks suddenly.
The question startles me so much that I drop the flask to the deck, water splashing on my feet. John quickly scoops it up and recorks it.
“He was my family,” I say. “Of course I love him.”
“I didn’t mean in that way.”
I think about it. Caleb was my best friend; he was my whole life. There was a time when I thought I loved him as more than a friend, hoped he might love me back. But I knew he found me lacking. Not pretty enough, not ambitious enough. Not enough, period. For all I fought it, I knew we were becoming different people. That the only thing that kept us together was my dependence on him and his sense of duty to me. And when I said good-bye to him today, I knew—deep down, I knew—he was relieved to see me go.
I glance at John. His eyes are fixed on the deck in front of him, but I know he’s listening. I can see it in how still he is, the set of his shoulders, the way he grips the flask in his hand, that he’s listening.
“No.”
He looks up then, and for a minute we just look at each other.
“Why did you ask me that?”
He takes a breath. Looks out at the water, a crease forming between his eyebrows. When he looks back at me, his eyes are as dark and still and deep as the sea around us.
“I wanted to know. That’s all. I guess I just needed to know.”
“Oh,” I say. We fall quiet again. And even in the silence it feels as if he
’s trying to tell me something and I him, but neither of us knows what. Or if we do, we’re too afraid to say it.
“You should get some sleep,” he says, finally. His voice is very quiet. “I brought you a blanket.” He pulls it out of his bag and hands it to me. It’s thick and gray and smells of salt and cedar, like the ship.
“Okay,” I say, my voice equally quiet. “Thank you.”
I lie down on the deck, tuck my bag under my head, and pull the blanket up to my chin.
But I can’t sleep. My thoughts are full of Caleb and John and Blackwell and the tomb, wondering what’s going to happen. But there’s no point. Every time I imagine one thing, something worse comes along to replace it. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I open my eyes and look at John. He’s sitting with his back against the railing, his legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back, watching the sky.
“Is this really your ship?” I say.
He lowers his head to look at me. “Yes.”
“How?” I say. “I mean, I thought you didn’t want to be a pirate.”
“I don’t.” He shrugs. “But when my father joined the Reformists, he got rid of all his ships. All except this one. It was his favorite. He gave it to me, I guess in hopes I’d change my mind. I didn’t, but I still didn’t want to give it up. So I hired someone to run it for me.”
“Oh.” I think a minute. “But if it’s your ship, why did you have to pay the captain to come on board?”
A small smile crosses his face. “Because he’s still a pirate,” he says. “He’s ruthless and crass, and he’s not known for his charity. But I trust him, and I like him. In the end, that is all that matters.”
I close my eyes again. Finally, with the soft rocking of the ship, the strains of off-key music, and John’s steady presence beside me, I fall asleep.
I’M JOLTED AWAKE, THE SUDDEN rocking of the ship rolling me off my bag. I open my eyes and peer through the railing. The skies are cloudy and gray, the waters choppy. Around me, the others are just starting to stir. Fifer and Schuyler are huddled together, talking in low voices. George is yawning, buried underneath his blanket and shivering.
I sit up and pull my own blanket tighter around my shoulders. A sharp, cold wind blows across the deck, lifting my hair and whipping it across my face.
“Where’s John?”
“He went to get food,” George replies. “And to find out when we arrive. I hope it’s soon. If this boat doesn’t stop rocking like this I’m liable to get sick.”
John appears then, the boat lurching as he walks up the stairs. He winces and grabs the railing to steady himself. He sets the food down in front of us and hands me a goblet.
“Medicine,” he tells me. “It’s not very good, but I didn’t have a lot to work with. Might want to drink it while it’s still hot. I can’t promise it’ll taste any better cold.”
“Thank you.” I take it from him. “What did you find out?”
“We’re about four hours from Upminster. But there’s a storm coming in, so it might take longer. Either way, we should be there by sundown.”
John hands out the food—some bread and hard cheese—and sits next to me.
“I asked the captain to drop us off a mile downriver from Blackwell’s,” he says. “I know there will be other ships around and we could probably blend in, but there’s no sense in taking a chance.” He looks at me. “I hope that’s all right.”
I nod. “That’s good. Thank you.” I tear off a piece of bread but don’t eat it. I’m too nervous to have much of an appetite. Judging by the way the others pick at their food, I guess they’re not hungry, either.
“It should be easy enough to get in,” I say. “We only have one invitation, but we can pass it back and forth. Once we’re inside, we just need to blend in with everyone else.”
Everyone else.
Malcolm, Blackwell, Caleb. Every witch hunter I’ve ever known. Not to mention guards and servants and a hundred other people who might recognize me. I suppress a shiver and keep going.
“Once we’re inside, don’t try to hide. Blackwell is alert to that sort of thing. Stay in the open, but try to avoid talking to people as much as possible. The performance starts at nine, and that’s when we’ll go down to the tomb.”
Schuyler puts an arm around Fifer. I don’t know what she’s thinking, not the way he does. But by the way she chews on her lip, I can guess.
“Then you wait,” I say. “You can’t do anything but. Stay close by, but not too close. Act like guests and you’ll be fine. No one will bother you. There are too many important people at this masque for Blackwell to risk irritating anyone. But if there’s any sign of trouble while I’m in there, Schuyler, get them out.”
“But what if something happens when you’re still inside?” George says.
“Then he’ll come back and get me.” I look at Schuyler. “Right?”
Schuyler looks at me, his bright eyes darkening with sudden understanding. “Whatever you want, bijoux.”
I turn to the others. “It’s not the best plan in the world, but it’s good enough. As long as everyone sticks to it, we should be fine.”
Except it’s all a lie.
Everything I’m telling them is a lie, and only Schuyler knows the truth. He heard me thinking last night, listened to my thoughts, just as I wanted him to. He knows what my real plan is. Knows that to keep the others safe, it’s the only thing to do.
We sit in silence for a while. The ship continues to rock back and forth, sails flapping furiously. A handful of men run around the deck, roping down barrels and crates and cannons to keep them from sliding overboard. Abruptly, John jumps to his feet and walks away, striding quickly across the deck and into the captain’s cabin. I look at George, but he just shrugs.
Soon I see the dark shape of land in the distance and know we’ll be arriving soon.
“We should probably get ready,” I say. “Fifer, we’ll have to change, but I don’t know where—”
“You can use the captain’s cabin.” I turn around to see John standing above me, holding his bag. He looks awful. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale. Even his lips are pale. “But I need to check your stitches first. We could do it here, but I thought you’d be more comfortable inside.”
“Okay.” We walk across the deck, the boat still pitching back and forth. I have to stop a few times to steady myself, but John plows ahead. I follow him into the cabin.
Inside, it’s nothing but luxury. A carpet covers the floor, velvet drapes surround the wide, square windows. A wide oak table sits in the middle, surrounded by chairs. At the far side of the cabin there’s a bed built into the wall, covered in plush bed coverings in different shades of blue, and next to it, a small desk with a mirror mounted on the wall above it.
“Where do you want me?” I say.
“The table is fine.”
I climb on top of it and lie down, and John stands over me. He looks at me a moment, then clears his throat.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll need to see it.”
I pause, then pull up the hem of my tunic, exposing my stomach. He’s seen me before. He’s a healer; he’s seen a lot of people before. But this feels different. The cabin feels warm, but maybe that’s the blush I can feel creeping up my neck, into my cheeks. I turn toward the window so he can’t see.
John leans over me and begins to unwrap the bandage, his fingers brushing my skin like a caress. My heart is pounding so furiously, it’s a wonder he can’t hear. Or maybe he can.
“This looks good,” he says after a minute. “I expected worse. Maybe your stigma helped after all. I don’t know. But for someone with thirty-two stitches—”
“Thirty-two? ” I turn to face him. “You gave me thirty-two stitches?”
He nods. “It was bad. I thought you were going to die. If that blade had gone half an inch deeper, you would have. If you had, I—” He stops, busying himself with bandaging me up again.
“What?”
“
I don’t know. I just didn’t want you to die.” He looks at me. “I know what you are now, but that doesn’t change anything. I still don’t want you to die.”
The ship gives an enormous lurch then, pitching forward and rocking from side to side. I grip the edge of the table to keep from rolling off. John places his hands firmly on the surface, his head bowed. I can hear him breathing. Deep, slow, even breaths, the way he did after he stitched me up.
“What is it?” I say. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer. But there’s another lurch and he slumps into a chair beside me.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he whispers. He reaches under the table and slides out his bag and starts digging through it. He pulls out a knife and—of all things—a lemon. He quickly slices it in two, holding one half to his nose and breathing deeply.
I watch him, my eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
He still doesn’t answer. He just sits there, breathing in the lemon. The sharp, tangy scent fills the tiny cabin. Finally, he speaks.
“Remember when you asked why I wasn’t a pirate, like my father?”
“Yes.”
“It’s because I get seasick.” He looks at me then, his face as gray and colorless as the sky and sea outside. “Horribly, violently seasick. In fact, it’s all I can do not to throw up on you right now.”
He sets the lemon on the table and smiles a little, so I know he’s joking. But probably not much. He looks awful.
“My father and I tried everything. Drafts, spices, herbs. But nothing worked. The only thing that takes the edge off is a lemon. When I was a kid, I used to squeeze the juice all over my clothes. It helps a lot, but it stains them terribly. It would make my mother crazy.”
I remember the drink Bram gave me at the party. The one he said would taste like the one thing I wanted most in the world. The one that tasted like lemons and spices, the one I thought tasted like shandygaff. The one I thought was meant to remind me of Caleb. But it wasn’t Caleb. It was John.
I feel a sickness then, one that’s got nothing to do with the sea. There’s a churning in my stomach and a terrible, hollow ache in my chest. I need to say something to him, but I don’t know what.
The Witch Hunter Page 24
