The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  Bethany smiled her serene smile. “I assume they used more lurid language. But I did warn you, kitten. I don’t see why you insist on having a Season. You don’t need to marry. Your father has set you up with an inheritance to rival what mine would have been.”

  “If you hadn’t married Papa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Not for a moment,” she replied. “Friends who blow with the wind are not friends at all. I found a good man with a good heart. And he fills out his jacket rather nicely, if I do say so myself.” She reached for her cup. “I love your father and I’d be happy to be Mrs. Chadwick instead of Lady Bethany, if your grand-maman wasn’t so …”

  “Invested?”

  “I was going to say violent,” she returned drily. “You know she loves my title, and your own, more than we ever shall. More than my own mother did.”

  “I know. That’s part of the reason I agreed to this Season. It makes her so happy.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to trade your happiness for hers, whatever she might have to say on earls’ sons and vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. She never had a Season. She can’t understand.”

  Penelope stole a sip of rich melted chocolate from her mother’s teacup. “I know. But I want what you and Papa have. I want love.” She gave a dreamy sigh, perfectly able to picture it: a man with wide shoulders and tousled hair, reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets as they rode through a summer storm.

  “You’ve time enough for that, surely.”

  “I hope so. Because I also know perfectly well that I only receive the invitations I do because of my inheritance and my uncles’ connections. Being the niece of two earls with impeccable reputations does wonders.”

  “Those men are pompous bores but I suppose they have their uses.” She made a face. “Cora has outshone them in dull propriety, which is saying something. I never thought a sister of mine would turn out so bland. You never can tell, can you?”

  Penelope knew perfectly well that Gretchen’s mother had equally damning things to say about Bethany, though being boring was never one of her sins.

  “Don’t let them change you.” Her mother stroked a hand over her hair. “Did you get caught in the rain?”

  “You could say that.”

  “That sounds rather ominous,” she teased. “Should I be shivering?”

  “No, of course not. It’s only …” She shook her head dismissively. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Papa would say I’ve read too many novels.”

  “Pish, there’s no such thing,” her mother replied instantly. “As well he knows.”

  “I felt … odd. Too much excitement, I suppose.”

  Bethany looked at her. “Did you remember your rhymes?”

  “Salt for meat and salt for defeat,” Penelope recited obediently. She shook her head. “Maman, some of your rhymes have never made sense,” she added with a kiss to her cheek. “Good night.”

  She was at the door when her mother spoke quietly. “Oh, before you go, hand me that ring, would you? The one in the dish just there.”

  “Of course, Maman.” The little porcelain dish painted with violets had been there for as long as Penelope could remember. She’d played with its trinkets as a little girl. Her favorite was the small silver bell that tinkled merrily when she shook it. The ring was a simple pewter band, set with tiny seed pearls. She’d handled it before, wondering at the dark spots that never scrubbed clean and the one pearl on the edge, melted flat.

  So there was no explaining what happened when she touched it.

  The world tilted suddenly until she wasn’t herself anymore.

  She was the girl wearing the ring. Her hand seemed to glow briefly. She could see the ring gleaming on her finger by the lamplight. No, not lamplight.

  Firelight.

  She was dressed in a simple white shift and there was snow falling lightly. Rope tied her tightly to a wooden post, chafing her hands and neck raw as she struggled to free herself. Her hair was untied, long and blond, utterly unlike her regular dark curls. Smoke billowed thickly around her, choking her. It made her feel listless, drugged.

  Not just snow, but thin white ash, drifting in the cold air.

  She heard the snap of the flames as they ate through the hay packed between the logs, as they traveled mercilessly toward her, hungry and insatiable. The winter moon watched unblinking. People pressed closer in a circle around her, held back by fear, smoke in their lungs, and guards with spears. Ice and snow melted in the town square, running in rivulets on the cobblestones and catching the moonlight.

  This isn’t real, Penelope thought frantically, even as other alien thoughts braided with her own.

  I won’t let them hear me scream.

  It was an empty vow of course. No one can hold back the screams, not even girls who aren’t really being burned at the stake.

  The shriek ripped from her throat, echoing in the velvet-and-lace-trimmed room. The smoke made everything hard to see, the faces of the silent crowd, her own mother in her favorite yellow dressing gown. Penelope coughed, choking.

  And then her mother had her tightly by the wrist, flinging the little pewter ring onto the carpet. It lay there looking innocuous and pretty, just another bauble. Penelope gasped for breath, sweat dampening her neck. It took a long, painful moment for her to realize she wasn’t actually on fire. She was safe in her mother’s parlor with the candles and the chocolate pot.

  Her father burst into the room, sword in his hand. The door slammed into the wall, knocking a painting off its hook. The glass cracked, shooting shards at their feet.

  “We’re all right, Phillip.” Her mother was white as the ashes from the pyre.

  “What the devil happened?” he demanded, searching the shadows grimly.

  “I … nothing,” Penelope said hoarsely, her throat burning dry. “A dream … I must be more tired than I thought.”

  “I heard screaming.” His sword point lowered to the floor. He used his other hand to tip her chin up. “Should I call for the doctor?”

  His wife shook her head. “No, love. She’s not ill.”

  Penelope wasn’t sure she agreed with that assessment.

  She suddenly felt exhausted, so tired she could barely focus on her parents’ concerned faces. The idea of being burned at the stake seemed distant and ridiculous. She was too tired to care about anything but her bed. She yawned, eyes watering. “I just need sleep,” she mumbled thickly. She trudged wearily through the small crowd of servants, hurrying down the stairs from the attic with candles and questions. The housekeeper was holding a boot like a war club. Penelope didn’t see the look her parents exchanged behind her, resignation laced with something else, something close to fear.

  Only worse.

  Chapter 11

  Emma froze.

  This had seemed like a much better idea just a few minutes ago.

  The mark on her hand flared so brightly the room was briefly gilded, like the tail of a comet. Cormac had her pinned to the door. He still smelled of smoke and his shirt was open at the throat.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded. His hold tightened.

  She kept her face down, hidden in the shadows of her cloak. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to know it was her, even though it was her own stupid fault she was even here in the first place.

  He gripped her wrist, forcing her palm back. The mark glowed. “I’ll ask you one more time. Who sent you?”

  There was nothing of the earl’s son who’d carried an injured girl, or the young man who’d thrown buckets of water at a raging fire, and especially not the person who’d once asked her about the stars in a winter garden. This was a part of him she had never seen before, a cold gleam she’d only ever associated with the lords when they returned from a particularly bloody hunt.

  She shivered. “No one sent me,” she insisted, her voice barely a whisper. She stared at her palm, traced with bright, impossible lines. Cormac, instead, stared at her. She could feel it, and kept he
r face turned away.

  “I don’t believe you,” he drawled, leaning so close that she felt the breath of his words on her cheek. There was nothing but darkness between them.

  This wasn’t going at all as planned.

  She tried to yank free of his grasp. Her hood fell back. When she finally turned to look at him, his aristocratic profile was unyielding and frightening. Until he recognized her. His shock was palpable. He released her so quickly she stumbled.

  “Emma!” He looked more flustered than she felt, which was saying something. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  She caught herself on the edge of a bookshelf. “I was looking for you, actually.”

  “Were you now, love?” he purred, regaining his composure. He was probably used to finding girls in his chambers. He leaned one hand on the wall by her head, boxing her between his body and a table. “I had no idea. You should have said. I’d have been more welcoming.”

  “Not for that!” She absolutely refused to let on that her breath was suddenly hot in her chest.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, running his lips along the side of her neck until her knees felt as if they were made of water. She shoved at his chest. He was laughing as he stumbled back. “If you’re not here to kiss me, love, you should go home. I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.” He was speaking as though he wasn’t covered in soot, blood, and bruises.

  She narrowed her eyes. He thought he could distract her and embarrass her until she fled. “You have answers, Cormac. And I have a lot of questions.”

  “And no sense of self-preservation,” he countered. “You can’t just call on a gentleman. Alone. At night.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “Which just proves my point. I’m desperate and I need your help.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want my kind of help,” he said quietly, with a small, self-deprecating smile.

  “I agree,” she said. “But surely, it’s better than none at all.”

  He shook his head, his disheveled hair falling over his forehead. “The fact that you can say that proves how little you know of me.”

  “Yes, we established that a long time ago.” His gaze snapped onto her. She lifted her chin, inwardly cursing herself. She’d sworn she’d never mention her silly daydreams of their courtship, or that stolen kiss under the mistletoe.

  “You really want my help?” he asked, stepping close to her again, as if he was trying to intimidate her or impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. As if she didn’t already know how serious it was that parts of her anatomy were glowing. “Then take my advice,” he said. “Get back in your carriage and go home. Now.”

  “That’s your advice?” she echoed. Truth be told, it was more of a squawk. “Not good enough,” she added, flinging her hand up so that the light seared his pupils. “What the hell is happening to me?”

  He pushed her arm away, blinking. “It’s just a witch knot; it’s nothing to fly into the boughs over.”

  “I AM GLOWING. Though I admit it’s usually only a brief flash.”

  He winced, covering her mouth when her shout reverberated through the plush room. His other hand went around her waist, dragging her close.

  “Whgtdfmll,” she mumbled, glaring daggers at him. If there was any justice in the world, his eyeballs should have shriveled up and his hair fallen out under the fury of her glower. The entire parlor should have spontaneously combusted.

  The wind slammed through the open window. An inkpot slid across a table. A candle fell over.

  “Damnation,” he cursed, annoyed. “Stop it. Isn’t one fire a night enough?” He released her abruptly to toss the contents of the water jug on his washstand at the smoking curtains.

  “That was the wind,” she pointed out, “How could that be my fault?”

  He just shook his head, disgusted. “Come on,” he said, gripping her elbow and dragging her into the hall. She dug in her heels. He tugged harder. “I’d rather you didn’t burn my house down around my ears.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. And I won’t be put off. What exactly is a witch knot? Is it contagious? What does it mean?”

  “Hush,” he hissed. “Not here. It isn’t safe.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you home. You can’t very well travel alone.”

  “I got here by myself, I’ll have you know.”

  “And look what that got you.”

  She looked at him pointedly as he hauled her down the servant stairs and out onto the pavement outside the carriage house. “Point taken.”

  “Tell me you have a hack,” he muttered, keeping to the shadows along the fence that bordered the house from the neighbors.

  She sent him a smug smile and motioned to the waiting coachman out front. He tipped his hat at them. “There.”

  She climbed inside and waited for Cormac to do the same. He sat on the backward-facing seat, as all gentlemen did. He was silent for a long moment as the horses broke into a walk, pulling the carriage through the gathering fog. The stars were swallowed, one by one. It always made her feel lonelier when they went.

  “I suppose this is better than the carriage ride I just took with several very disgruntled members of the Order.” He looked at her pointedly, as if she ought to know what that meant. “If any other Keeper but myself had found you tonight, you’d be in chains.”

  She shivered. “Why didn’t you do the same then?”

  He didn’t answer, instead looking out the window as London passed them by. The white columns made the houses look like a parade of ancient temples.

  Emma swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She uncurled her fingers, her palm open like a flower in her lap. “Please, explain this to me,” she said simply.

  “All witches have a witch knot.” He shifted, his knee pressing against her. The dark confines felt suddenly intimate. “I should think as the daughter of one of the infamous Lovegroves you’d know that much, at least. You are descended from a long line of witches, it’s no use trying to pretend otherwise.”

  She tilted her head, wondering when exactly he had decided she was gullible. Probably somewhere between the time she’d kissed him with embarrassing enthusiasm and before he’d jilted her. “I don’t believe in witchcraft, Cormac. I’m not a child.”

  “Then perhaps you might explain to me why it’s raining inside this carriage?”

  He was right. A very fine rain was falling from the worn ceiling, misting on her cloak and in his dark hair. She jerked back and the rain stopped. “That’s not possible.”

  “It is for a witch.”

  “Did I really make it rain?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “And you should know better.”

  “What about the earthquake?”

  “The Order believes gates to the Underworld have been opened.” He paused, frowning. “Possibly because of that witch bottle you broke.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t break it on purpose.” She frowned back. “And what in the world is a witch bottle?”

  “It keeps spells and sometimes other things. Worse things.”

  “And the Order?”

  “They keep the peace between witches, and hunt warlocks.” She pinched her nose. “That’s not actually helpful. And what’s a warlock, then?”

  “A dark witch, who uses magic for evil.”

  “Pretending for a moment that I believe you,” she said, feeling chilled and awkward and ridiculous. Still, it was hard to argue with rain falling from the ceiling of the hackney cab. “How do you know so much?”

  “My family is like yours.”

  She glanced curiously at his hands. “But you don’t have a knot.”

  “No,” he said, his voice emotionless. “I don’t.”

  She considered pressing him for details but he looked away, his jaw clenched. “Though you haven’t been tested,” he added. “You appear to be a weather-witch.”

  She thought of the rain in the garden and had no counterargument
to make. “At least I’m not glowing anymore.” She should probably be terrified, but there was such a swirl of confusing thoughts in her head that she felt slightly numb. She wondered idly if her father knew anything about this.

  “The knot is very faint at first, and it gets darker the more you use your magic. It only glows at birth and at death,” he explained. “Though never quite as prolonged as yours.”

  Emma frowned. “But I’ve done neither today, thanks very much.”

  “Your powers were unbound. That is a kind of birth. Certainly to the councils.”

  “Councils?”

  “Governing bodies of witches. There’s the Council Arcanum for all magical creatures. And the Order of the Iron Nail who keep the peace, as I said. Magisters who make the judgments and The Weird Sisters who … keep to themselves.”

  “How very … parliamentary,” she remarked. “And dull. My father sits in Parliament and gives long speeches about taxes and hedgerows,” she pointed out. “If we’re talking about witches, shouldn’t it be more exciting? Flying on broomsticks and the like?” She paused, eyes wide. “Can I fly?”

  “No,” he said, half laughing. “And believe me,” he continued drily. “The Order is more exciting than you care to know. And they’ll be sending Keepers for you now.”

  She swallowed nervously. “Should I be afraid?”

  “Yes,” he said, sounding sad and resigned.

  “Of you?”

  He paused, his smile dark and mocking. “Perhaps.”

  She shivered, replaying the events of the night. The smell of smoke was still acrid in her nostrils. “Margaret … that was my fault? My mother’s perfume bottle caused an earthquake?”

  She couldn’t help but stare at Margaret’s blood on Cormac’s collar from when he’d carried her. Her stomach roiled and her eyes stung. “I feel sick.”

  “Emma,” Cormac said sharply. He grabbed her arms and gave her a little shake. “Listen to me very carefully. You are not to blame.”

  “How can you know that?” She didn’t even kick him for shaking her. Mortified, she felt better when he was touching her.

  “Because there were other marks on her body,” he said quietly.