The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  “Girls, girls, fighting over me again?” Atticus laughed, still perched safely out of reach on his dais. “Moira, you know you can join us. All you have to do is apologize. And obey.”

  She blinked innocently. “Is that all?”

  He preened, proud of his blond beauty, his reputation for cruelty, and his devoted gang. “Aye, my beauty.”

  Moira tilted her head, considering the offer. The lads shifted nervously, self-preservation instincts honed to a point. Atticus rarely fought his own battles. “Nah,” she said finally, with mock regret. “I’d rather do this.”

  She smashed the end of the staff into Piper’s foot, the one pinning Strawberry to the ground with her own hair. Piper howled and fell back against the wall. Moira spun, lifting the staff and walloping the three boys, one after the other. The first fell down, blacking out before he hit the dirt. The second, John, got a bloody nose, but the last, Rod, managed to duck out of the way just in time.

  Atticus climbed higher on his crates. Strawberry dragged the heavy gargoyle down the alley. She was holding her arm at an awkward angle, teeth clenched. Piper launched herself at Moira, clawed hands going for her eyes. Moira swung the staff again, going low this time. She swept it behind the other girl’s knees and knocked her flat on her backside. Marmalade streaked up the crates, hissing at Atticus.

  Rod got in a good hit, cracking the breath out of Moira’s chest with a flat-palmed strike. She gagged and tumbled into more crates piled in a kind of protective gateway. She crashed through them, scattering their makeshift fortifications. She kept hold of the broom handle, using it to help her back up to her feet. She jabbed out, aiming for eyes and noses and other vulnerable areas. John, Rod, and Piper dodged, unable to get closer. John’s nose was crooked and already swelling.

  Moira swung the staff over her head like a slingshot and they scattered. She climbed the boxes, the charms on her boots making her especially agile. She grinned, closing in on Atticus. Too late he realized his precious gang wasn’t standing between them anymore.

  “You’ll leave Strawberry alone, you tosspot,” Moira said darkly, jabbing at him with the end of the staff, just enough to make him sweat. She knocked his hat off just because she could. It tumbled down into the alley, spattered in mud.

  “Why you—”

  He didn’t have a chance to finish his threat. Moira slammed the staff into his stomach, knocking him backward. He sailed off his throne, hit the fence, and tumbled over. There was a shout and a distant splash as he landed in the Thames.

  His gang froze, shocked. Moira hopped back down to the ground. “You can come at me again or you can go fish him out,” she said. “Your choice.”

  “This isn’t over,” Piper hissed at her before they broke into a run to find Atticus. She was the first to jump off the fence in a show of heroism. Moira wasn’t sure how getting herself immersed in the dirty water of the river was going to help and she didn’t much care.

  She darted down the alley to the wheelbarrow where Strawberry slumped, the gargoyle at her feet. She was cradling her wrist. “I think it’s broken,” she said. Her spirit-mouse was curled up on her shoulder looking mournful.

  Moira swore. “Get in,” she added, nodding to the wheel-barrow. She dragged the gargoyle by the ears, keeping a wary eye on the curious passersby. The glamour only worked once the gargoyle was inside the wheelbarrow. She could smell salt and flowers, as usual. “You had to get a beast of a blighter,” she huffed, straining until she thought her eyeballs might explode.

  “I wanted to do my part for once.”

  “You always do your part.”

  Strawberry sighed. “Not like you do.”

  “Just watch out for warlocks and Rovers,” she muttered, sweat dripping into her ears. The bridge wasn’t crowded yet and the pomegranate lanterns hadn’t even been lit, but the ends were always a bit suspect, no matter the time of day. She got the gargoyle to the cart and hopped up beside Strawberry.

  “Now comes the hard part,” she said. Her arms felt like jelly. She grabbed the stone ears and hauled. The gargoyle tipped back and crashed into the wheelbarrow, tipping them both precariously. Moira scooted over, crushing Strawberry. A gargoyle’s wing tip gouged painfully into her tailbone but the wheelbarrow righted itself. Strawberry’s eyes were tightly shut and the lines around her mouth were white with pain. Her wrist was swollen and mottled with bruises.

  “Well, so much for that idea,” Moira wheezed. She shoved damp hair off her face. “We might have to leave it behind.” A witch’s ladder made of painted crow feathers worked into a braided cord hung from a signpost overhead. She flicked it idly, going through her options. A jar of blue evil-eye beads watched her from the nearest window. One of them blinked. She took another cautious glance up and down the bridge. They were starting to attract attention. “Blast.”

  She leaped off the wheelbarrow. “Right. Let’s go.” She skirted around the front to pull Strawberry to One-Eyed Joe’s tent. She was reaching for the handle when the first familiar arrived, a fox with pointed ears who sniffed around the gargoyle. Three cats, a crow, and a swan with a vicious beak followed. Moira yanked on the wheelbarrow. One-Eyed Joe’s illusion charms were strong, but she didn’t know if they could hold if too many witches grew nosy. The goblin markets could turn volatile without warning.

  When a Rover sauntered out of the shadows between the buildings, Moira swore. She couldn’t keep this one at bay with a broom handle and a handful of illusion charms. She felt the menace rolling off him. The Order mostly kept them in check, but trust the bleeding Greybeards to be nowhere around when they might actually be useful for once.

  “What have we here, my dears?” he asked unctuously.

  Strawberry slid off the end of the wheelbarrow, covering the gargoyle with her skirts. She smiled sweetly, despite her wrist. “We’ve heard onions left in the sun for three days in horse urine increases magical power.” She reached back for the pretend-onions, slimy with rot. “Would you like to try one?”

  He looked suspicious but he stepped back nonetheless. It afforded just the distraction needed for Cedric to walk up behind him and cosh him. The Rover gurgled and fell in a heap. Cedric didn’t even pause, he just went straight for the gargoyle and hefted it into the wheelbarrow.

  “Cedric.” Moira grinned at him. “Brilliant timing as always.”

  Strawberry clambered back onto the uncomfortable heap of gargoyles, patting her hair into place. Cedric grabbed the handles and pushed the wheelbarrow. “What happened to you two?” he asked. “Or do I even want to know?”

  “Atticus.”

  Cedric’s jaw tightened. “Of course.”

  She shrugged, grinning despite her aching arms and the splinters in her palms. “I pushed him into the river.”

  Cedric’s smile was brief. “Again?” He readjusted his grip as the wheelbarrow thudded over the uneven cobbles. “What’s in here? Rocks?”

  “Pretty much,” she said. “Gargoyles,” she added in a whisper.

  He scowled. “Why didn’t you send word? It’s not safe to be hauling this much magic around alone right now.”

  They stopped in front of One-Eyed Joe’s striped tent. Cedric helped Strawberry off the back as Moira poked her head in the doorway. No customers. “Wheelbarrow’s back,” she announced.

  “Onions?” he asked, looking up from a small shell he was carving into a cameo.

  “Good crop,” she assured him. She jerked her head toward Strawberry, who followed Cedric inside meekly. “Atticus’s boys roughed her up.”

  “Did they now?” One-Eyed Joe asked mildly, lighting his pipe with a smoldering lily stalk. The embers smelled like wine and sugar. “Doesn’t look broken. Just a sprain.”

  With her hair pushed back tidily, the bruises in Strawberry’s face were stark. Cedric’s eyebrows lowered. The smoke from the pipe formed into wasps. They hovered for a moment before shooting off down the bridge. “Let’s just see how he sleeps this week,” One-Eyed Joe added with a chilling smil
e.

  Moira was already rummaging through the trunk under the table. She pulled out a length of torn fabric and wound it gently around Strawberry’s wrist. Cedric stood back patiently, his hands in his pockets.

  “Tuck a sprig of lavender in the wrappings,” One-Eyed Joe said, pulling a handful from a jar.

  “I didn’t know lavender worked healing magic,” Strawberry said.

  “It doesn’t. But the scent is soothing.” He glanced at Cedric. “And you?”

  “Dropping off a list for Mandala,” Cedric replied. Mandala owned an apothecary shop on New Bond Street. He passed over a roll of parchment to One-Eyed Joe. He glanced at it, the smoke from his pipe turning into beautiful dancing girls with peacock tails.

  “I’ll need a few days.”

  “She reckoned as much.”

  One-Eyed Joe nodded. “Right then, it’s getting crowded here and none of you are buying. So off you go.”

  They stepped outside, back into the sunlight. Cedric tipped his head. “Don’t take any chances tonight, Moira. Atticus will be looking for you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She shrugged. “Aren’t you staying? The Cursed Fiddlers are playing at the Three Goblins. You love them.”

  “Have to head home,” he called over his shoulder, already walking away.

  Strawberry sighed, watching him. “Do you think he’ll ever notice me?”

  Moira shook her head. “That boy works for the fancy. He doesn’t have time for a sweetheart.”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what would make him stay?”

  Moira smiled. “Not me, Strawberry. He’s like a brother to me.” And he’d been her brother for a lot longer than her actual family. He’d been right there next to her when her older brother was carted away by the Order. “And not you either, I’m sorry to say. I reckon he’s after a girl who will break his heart.”

  Chapter 28

  “Duck!”

  Emma didn’t duck so much as sprawl ungracefully on the scuffed parquet floor. Someone giggled. She felt sure it was Daphne. She rolled over onto her back, huffing a sigh. “Somehow, I’d assumed magic would be more glamorous.”

  Gretchen’s face was the first to peer over her. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I really thought I had it that time.”

  Emma stayed where she was. The floor was hard and uncomfortable but it was a great deal more uncomfortable to have broken glass, pendants, and chandeliers flying at your head. Which had been happening all morning.

  Clearly, the famous Lovegrove magic needed work.

  Gretchen was attempting to harness and focus her natural abilities, which was resulting mostly in any charms in the vicinity exploding. The ballroom ceiling was damaged with scorch marks and various substances she had no wish to investigate more thoroughly. The mural depicting the story of Medea was definitely the worse for wear, but that was only partially their fault.

  The ballroom was converted into a training space when the schools were first established. The two buildings mirrored each other inside and rumor had it that there were doors leading between them. Needless to say, students searched on a regular basis and tried to blast them with spells on the rare occasions when they were found. Apparently a great many closet doors had fallen victim.

  “Don’t worry.” Catriona drifted by. “This isn’t how you die.”

  Emma rubbed her face, feeling only a little reassured. Gretchen helped her to her feet as she still tended to wobble, either under- or overcompensating for the weight of her antlers. Penelope was picking crystal beads from the chandelier out of her hair.

  Miss Hopewell, one of the teachers, shook her head. “Let’s try another demonstration,” she said. “Lady Daphne, if you would?”

  The rest of the girls were safely huddled on the other side of the ballroom, except for Daphne, who was smirking. She’d been sneering since she’d found Cormac in the garden with Emma, so Emma supposed a smirk might be considered an improvement.

  Despite the fact that it was deeply unfair, Daphne was not only a favorite of the teachers, but she was also the most gifted in the school when it came to offensive spells. Her natural talent guaranteed that any magic would find its target. If she’d applied her aim to pistols or longbows, she’d have been a crack shot. It drove Gretchen to distraction.

  Daphne preened as she sauntered up beside the cousins. “Of course, Miss Hopewell.” She tossed her perfect ringlets before lifting her chin. Her expression changed, went from smug to focused as she faced the targets. Whatever else the cousins might think of her, there was no denying she was serious about her skills and the Order. Her father was the First Legate, which made him even more powerful than the magisters.

  The targets were a line of large haystacks along the back wall. Some were painted with regular bull’s-eye circles, but most were far harder to negotiate. Charms, amulets, and various magical triggers were hidden inside the hay. This morning alone, Gretchen had released a swarm of bees, made a turnip talk, and set all the dogs in the neighborhood howling. Even now her wolfhound-familiar pranced up and down the street. He’d first emerged when Emma and Penelope had to pull Gretchen off Daphne for the second time.

  “Begin,” Miss Hopewell instructed.

  Penelope went first. Her natural magic had less chance of interfering, especially if she wasn’t physically touching any of the charms.

  “Shield,” Miss Hopewell told her.

  Elf-bolts of gray-green energy ejected from the haystack, seeking Penelope out like little arrows. They were fast and vicious. Penelope’s hair lifted into the air, full of static. Emma and Gretchen stood beside her even though Miss Hopewell waved them away. Penelope flung the first few aside, muttering bits of Shakespeare under her breath, not because it helped her magic in any way, but because it calmed her.

  “You’d do well to learn Latin,” Miss Hopewell muttered. She seemed to find Shakespeare too wild for her classes. Especially when Penelope yelled: Ass head and a coxcomb and a knave! and some of the girls started to giggle uncontrollably.

  The elf-bolts came faster and thicker, like a volley of arrows from the battlement of a besieged castle. There were too many to stop individually. Penelope had to create an energy shield, the way they’d been taught that morning. It was made of blue light and looked like a lopsided, old-fashioned wooden shield. It wasn’t quite strong enough. The first bolt went through her hair, the second pierced her shoulder. It didn’t draw blood or leave an obvious mark, but Penelope wilted, turning as green as stewed celery.

  Emma and Gretchen both placed a hand on each of her shoulders, without comment. They pushed magic at her shield until it glowed brighter, purer. The elf-bolts disintegrated on impact.

  “And attack,” Miss Hopewell ordered.

  The elf-bolts stopped, replaced by bats.

  Penelope threw salt. Gretchen added a handful of iron nails. Emma cursed.

  Nothing happened.

  “Salt and iron aren’t enough,” Miss Hopewell remarked, which would have been more helpful before the bats began closing in. “They are only a vehicle for your magic in this case.” She paused disapprovingly. “And that language is certainly not acceptable, Lady Emma.”

  With the three of them working together, it became easier. They found a rhythm that allowed them better control than they had on their own. The bats transformed to hornets and then back to elf-bolts.

  Emma caught the flick of Daphne’s fingers but too late.

  Much too late.

  Her aim was so true that each bolt was hit and turned into a boiled beet that exploded all over the cousins. Red pulp splatted into their faces, hung from their hair, and stained their dresses. The other girls couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I may actually kill her,” Gretchen said, pulling a mangled beet out of her ear.

  “Honestly, girls.” Miss Hopewell sighed. “You’re going to have to practice far more often if you want to catch up.” She left to summon a scullery maid.

  “I thought the Lovegroves’ magic went b
ack for centuries,” Daphne said, all false innocence.

  “And I thought your family’s charm went back that long,” Gretchen shot back. “Guess it skipped a generation.”

  “The sooner you realize you’re embarrassing yourselves and the school, the better,” Daphne said darkly. “The academy has a reputation to uphold.” She smiled archly before flouncing away, too fast for Gretchen to fling handfuls of mashed beets at her face.

  The cousins stood in the middle of the ballroom, dripping vegetable matter and wondering why anyone would want to be a witch in the first place.

  Chapter 29

  Penelope was walking down the lane to the side door of the town house when Cedric rushed out of the stables. He was wearing his customary trousers and white shirt, his dark hair falling into his face. He didn’t say a word, just swung her up in his arms, wild-eyed.

  She held on to his shoulder, fully expecting to be dropped on her backside. Her hem caught the breeze, ruffling up over his arm. He rushed inside to the nearest bench, setting her down carefully and crouching next to her. The horses lifted their heads curiously in their pens.

  “I’ll get a doctor,” he said, frantically.

  She blinked at him, dazed from being grabbed so suddenly and then carried about. She hadn’t realized he was so strong. Or that he’d gone mad since breakfast, “I am fine,” she said, when he looked like he was going to be sick on her shoes. “I suspect you might be coming down with something though.”

  “You’re covered in blood,” he babbled. “You’re in shock. Where are you hurt? We need a doctor!” His babbling turned rapidly to bellowing. Penelope glanced down at her red-stained dress, chest, and arms. Comprehension dawned.

  “It’s beets,” she assured him quickly. “It’s beet juice!” she yelled louder in case anyone had heard him shouting for a doctor. When her parents didn’t come flying through the stable doors, she relaxed.

  Cedric sat back on his heels, befuddled. “Beets.”

  She wrinkled her nose sheepishly. “From the academy.”