The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  Daphne’s lips pursed. “It’s everywhere,” she admitted sourly, wiping her hands on her gown, as though the residue had left traces on her skin.

  “How dreadful,” Sophie murmured, just before her eyes rolled back in her head. Cormac caught her before she hit the ground. Lilybeth started to weep again. The investigator finally arrived, ducking under the concealing branches. He saw the body and cursed under his breath.

  “Not another one,” he said, looking sad and exhausted under the scars on his face. He snapped his gaze onto Cormac and Virgil before examining the girl. “Report.”

  “She’s been marked,” Cormac confirmed.

  He sighed. “Damn.” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “Lady Daphne. Are you hurt?”

  “Not at all. Lord Blackburn has been with us the entire time. And Virgil, of course,” she added when he went beet red with the need to be noticed.

  “Good, good. How’s your father?”

  “Very well, thank you, Sir Reginald.” She shot Emma and Penelope a smug glance.

  Reginald squinted at Emma and Penelope. “I don’t know you two.”

  “They’re Lovegroves,” Virgil said as though he were confessing that they were spies for Napoleon.

  “Is that so?”

  Emma and Penelope stepped closer to each other. Emma had no desire to be reacquainted with the magisters. “Actually, it’s Lady Penelope Chadwick,” Emma pointed out.

  “And Lady Emma Day,” Penelope added.

  “I was with both these ladies and I can assure you they were not involved,” Cormac said.

  “How did you come to find the body?”

  Emma swallowed. “A wind pushed me.”

  “A wind?” Reginald frowned at Cormac. “A harpy? No one mentioned any sightings recently.” Harpies were strange bird-women who attacked with all the force of storm winds. They were local to Greece but occasionally traveled farther.

  “No, sir. We detected no other creatures in the area. Lady Emma is a weather-witch.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why the wind brought her here.” He rubbed his chin, watching her thoughtfully. She tried not to squirm.

  “I don’t understand it either,” she finally offered.

  “Perhaps it’s a simple matter of magic reacting to magic?” Cormac suggested. “After all, Lady Emma comes from a very powerful and ancient family. She may be more sensitive to magical undercurrents than we are.”

  “Than you are, certainly,” Virgil snickered.

  “That is not helpful,” Reginald snapped.

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “Hmm. See all the ladies home, would you, Blackburn?” Reginald ordered. “I’ll speak to them again after I’ve had time to investigate the matter further.”

  “Certainly. We’ll have to go on foot though.”

  Lilybeth shook her head frantically. “It’s not safe. I’m not going. He doesn’t even have any magic.”

  There was a strangled silence. Daphne nudged her hard. “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “We have a carriage waiting at the end of Rotten Row,” Virgil interrupted smoothly. “I can see Lady Daphne, Lady Lilybeth, and Lady Sophie back to the academy, but I’m afraid there isn’t space for everyone else.”

  “Actually, we prefer Lord Blackburn’s protection,” Emma announced in ringing tones she hadn’t quite meant to carry so far.

  “Fine.” He dismissed them curtly and turned to assess the victim.

  Cormac, Emma, and Penelope began the walk through the park and back to the school. “What did she mean you don’t have any magic?” Emma finally asked him, burning with curiosity. “You’re a Keeper.”

  He didn’t look at her but his expression was faintly mocking, almost bored. She knew he was hiding some darker emotion. “The Fairfax family has been a witching family since before the Battle of Hastings.” The corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Nearly as long as the Lovegroves.” He shrugged. “But magic can skip generations, or individuals.” He turned his left hand over to show her his bare unmarked palm.

  “You don’t have a knot.”

  “No. I joined the Order anyway, like every other Fairfax male. I had to train harder than everyone else. I still do. And I have to prove myself worthy every single day.”

  Emma made a face. “I’m beginning to know how that feels.”

  He snorted. “Sometimes magic’s a harsh mistress.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you were prepared for it and it skipped you. I had no idea it existed and I grew antlers.”

  “I think you’re fetching with antlers.”

  She ducked her head slightly, blushing. When they reached the schools, Cormac bowed over their hands. “Ladies. It’s been interesting.” He waited until they were inside before he hopped over the decorative fence separating the two buildings and went up the path to Ironstone’s front doors.

  When Penelope followed Emma up the stairs, she paused. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to let you spend the night alone after what just happened?” Penelope shook her head. “Honestly, I’m insulted.” She nudged Emma to keep climbing. “Come on, we can make a Greek temple out of our pillows like we used to when we were little. And chocolate,” she asked from the maid they passed on the landing. “We’re going to need a pot of chocolate.” She tilted her head, considering. “Make that two.”

  “I wonder if magic is always like this,” Emma said wryly. “Full of murders and ghouls and mean girls, and rules that don’t make any sense.”

  “You know what my mother says about rules,” Penelope replied, dragging her swiftly down the hall. “They only benefit the few with the power to make them in the first place.”

  “How is it that your artistic mother and Gretchen’s proper mother are even related, never mind sisters?” Emma shook her head. She dropped into a chair. “Thank you, Pen. You were right. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “At least you don’t kick like Gretchen.”

  “Or snore like you do,” she teased.

  “I don’t snore!”

  Chapter 38

  “Pardon me, miss,” a footman spoke from the doorway of the parlor. “A message has just come for you.”

  “For me?” Emma set down her book and took the hastily folded paper. It was ripped unevenly, and the message had been written crosswise against what appeared to be a recipe for lavender water. Definitely not from her father. Not that she’d expected him to write, but if he had it would have been on pristine parchment with a red wax wafer to seal his letter. “Who sent this?”

  “Some boy who tried to nick a bag of potatoes from the kitchen. Cook was not pleased. He asked that it be taken to either you or your cousins.” The footman bowed and left.

  Emma held the paper up to the window where the sun was setting in a sky the color of tangerines. “Hogarth’s Print Shop off Piccadilly. Find Cormac. Hurry. Moira.”

  She didn’t know anyone named Moira. She stuffed the note in the pocket of her dress, mind racing. The name sounded familiar. Hadn’t Gretchen and Penelope mentioned a girl named Moira from the day Cormac had sent them through the cellar door into the Serpentine?

  Emma pounced on the first person she saw outside the library. “Have you seen Olwen?”

  Daphne disengaged her sleeve from Emma’s grasp, smoothing out the wrinkles she’d created. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Olwen,” Emma repeated impatiently. “Have you seen her?”

  “I believe she’s in the garden, as usual,” Daphne replied. “Why do you want to see Cormac’s flighty little sister?”

  Emma didn’t reply, she was already bolting down the hall and into the gardens. She found Olwen tucked in a circle of lilac bushes. Her long pale hair was unbound as usual, reaching past her elbows. She was braiding daisies into a crown.

  “Oh hello,” she said to Emma. She had none of the insecurities and drama of the other
girls; instead she seemed to float like a sleek ship between jagged icebergs.

  Emma smiled a distracted greeting. “I need to find your brother. Do you know where he is?”

  Olwen blinked. “Why?” Emma showed her the note. Olwen rose to her feet, her gentle eyes hardening. “Talia had a night-mare last night.”

  “Who’s Talia?” Emma asked.

  “One of our sisters,” she replied. “She has premonitions. She said Cormac would need help before the moon rose.” She dropped the circlet of flowers to take a scrap of parchment out of one of the many pouches on her belt. It was rolled into a little scroll. Opened, it was blank except for a few bits of periwinkle petals and stems.

  “We don’t have time to send a messenger to all of his usual haunts,” Emma interjected.

  “I know. This is a tabula.” When Emma didn’t look any more informed, she continued. “Most families make their own paper with a secret blend of ingredients. We can then use it to communicate with each other. There are magic mirrors too, but they are cumbersome.” She pulled a stub of charcoal from another pouch and used it to scrawl Cormac’s name plus the print shop. “Come with me.”

  Emma followed her out of the bushes and into the formal garden, along the box hedges and white gravel paths. Olwen stopped at one of the torches the footmen were lighting as the sun took the last of the honey-and tangerine-colored light with it. She held the end of the parchment into the flame and watched it burn, black smoke curling over their heads. “And now we wait for a reply,” she said, pulling a larger scroll out of the first pouch. “The fire sends the message so it burns into the recipient’s paper, or clothing.” She made a face. “Occasionally into our skin as well,” she admitted, rolling up her sleeve. On the inside of her elbow were faint scars, spelling out the words “Where are you?” “I walk the gates. Trouble is, I don’t always know when or where I’m going yet. It takes a while to learn how to control it.”

  Emma thought of the rain that soaked her every time she became slightly emotional. “Yes,” she agreed. “It certainly does.” She glanced at the spiraled horn dagger on Olwen’s belt. “Is that why you wear that dagger?” She’d never seen the younger girl without it. She even wore it strapped to her ankle during comportment lessons when all they did was climb in and out of carriages, trying not to flash a glimpse those same ankles. It was the most tedious class by far, but their teacher insisted that witches were ladies too and needed to retain their place in polite society.

  “It’s made from unicorn horn,” she explained. “Mostly, I’m welcome in the Faery lands.” She shrugged. “But sometimes I’m not. And this is one of the only weapons that can be used against the Fae and dark magics … here we go,” she interrupted herself, and lifted the underside of her hem. Fascinated, Emma watched words burning into the thin fabric. They wrote themselves as though Cormac was right there holding the quill. “On my way.”

  “Thank you!” Emma squeezed her hand and pivoted around to dash back into the house. She needed her pelisse—a thick, fur-lined coat—for the cool air, a dagger of her own, and a way to sneak out without being caught. She didn’t have time to trail footmen or maidservants, especially if Cormac was in trouble. She didn’t even know how to summon the Order.

  “I’ll go with—blast.” Olwen shimmered and disappeared entirely, looking annoyed as she faded.

  Emma didn’t have time to wait and see if she would find her way back quickly. She gathered her things and wrote a note on an ordinary piece of parchment. She shoved it into the butler’s hands yelling, “Call the Order!” before tearing down the front walkway. She raced down the streets, dodging around surprised gentlemen, street sweepers, and wary milkmaids making their way back to the bridge to their farms. The black iron lampposts were like bare trees in winter, silhouetted against a darkening sky. Emma passed by confectioners, dressmaker shops, and haberdasheries, before finding a closed print shop. Her lungs were searing the inside of her chest and her legs had all the steadiness of marmalade.

  Cormac was talking to a girl peering over the edge of the roof above, her long black hair streaming over her shoulders. “Thank God, it’s you,” she said to him before pausing. “Never thought I’d say that.”

  “What’s happened?” He frowned up at her. “I just got your message. I thought you hated this part of town.”

  “I do,” she said with great feeling. “Now more than ever. And I’m not keen on going to the Order for any reason, but you don’t seem quite as bad as the rest.”

  “You don’t know him very well, do you?” Emma interrupted but there was no real heat to it. She ducked into the alley, still catching her breath.

  Cormac’s expression was thunderous. “Emma! What are you doing here?”

  “How do you think I found you?” Moira asked. “I’m Moira,” she added to Emma. “Fast work. Can you climb? I’ll put down a ladder around the side of the shop.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve found a bloody gate, haven’t I?”

  “Show me.” Cormac’s eyes shone. He glanced at Emma. “Stay here.”

  “Not likely,” she replied, darting around him, racing farther down to the alley and vanishing into the shadows. Cursing, he bolted after her. She was already a third of the way up the ladder. Her antlers shimmered in and out of sight. He could reach her foot from the first rung. She pointed at him. “I’ll kick you if you even try it.”

  “Be reasonable. You’re not trained for this.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” she returned, as if he’d suggested she kick a kitten instead of him.

  “This is what I do.”

  “Well, technically, I may have accidentally opened the gates so I should learn how to close them, wouldn’t you say? And anyway, I was invited.”

  “This isn’t tea. And Emma,” he said, trying another tack. “Your antlers are showing.”

  “Then better I stay out of sight, don’t you think?” she retorted reasonably as she slipped onto the roof.

  Grumbling, he climbed up after her, cautiously slipping an iron-wheel binding pendant out of his cuff. “I thought Madcaps disdained ladders?”

  Moira shrugged. “They’re necessary in some parts so we hide them on the roofs.” She broke into a trot, confident of her footing despite the height. “The gate’s fairly small but I can’t be sure nothing’s come through. I don’t want my rooftops overrun with ghouls. But I don’t know how to close it either,” she admitted grudgingly. She led them over to the next shop and over a makeshift bridge that reminded Emma of walking the gangplank. “It’s actually over the bakery here, but you can’t get up that building because of the ovens.”

  She stopped on the corner of the bakery, which was emitting a strange soft lavender light. There was a broken gargoyle statue and shattered shingles around a fissure of light. It burned violet, expanding to create a door of darkness in the shape of a reptile’s pupil. Something leaked out, sliding and oozing over the roof toward them. It was a deep slimy green, like bracken and blackwater. Emma backed up, feeling nauseated just seeing it.

  “That’s magical residue. Something’s definitely been through here,” Cormac said. “Don’t let it get on you.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Emma said. Clouds began to gather overhead, eating up the stars.

  “Rain would not be helpful right now,” Cormac told her as he pulled various items out of his pockets. Emma’s antlers shimmered into full view as she focused all of her concentration on keeping both the rain and the ooze away.

  Cormac tossed a large handful of salt in front of the gate. The purple hue of the light turned violent and seared the eyes. The edges were like paper burning.

  “Torch it,” he ordered. Moira crouched down and immediately began to strike sparks with her flint. “Use this one.” He handed her a crystal flint and three twists of hay braided with dried lavender and lily stalks.

  “What can I do?” Emma asked.

  “I need nine rowan berries and nine iron nails,” he said, tossi
ng her leather pouches. “And a drop of witch’s blood. Moira?”

  “She’s busy.” Emma rushed forward, already using the pin of her brooch to stab herself in the thumb. Blood welled to the surface.

  “Not yet,” Cormac said, scowling at her small wound. “Stay well back until I say so. Gates don’t like being closed.”

  Moira struck the flint against the steel again, methodically and sharply. A spark ignited and blew out before it touched the hay-twists tinder. She swore and tried again, the cameo around her neck swinging back and forth.

  A hound’s head emerged from the gate. It was roughly the size of a pony, with eyes that glowed red and malicious. Saliva looped in ropes off its jaws, sizzling when it hit the ground. It had teeth as sharp as stone arrowheads. It was only vaguely canine, more like some twisted mutant combination of pony, dog, and gargoyle.

  Emma tripped on her hem, falling onto her backside. She kept counting berries, scooting out of the way of the thick residue even as blood dripped down her palm, over her witch knot.

  “Ghost dogs?” Moira leaped out of the way. “Aren’t they usually friendly?”

  “You’re thinking spectral dogs.” Cormac dodged a string of saliva. It seared through the broken wing of the gargoyle. “That’s a hellhound. Don’t look it in the eye!”

  As the hellhound pushed through the small gate, black fur tinged with violet fire, Cormac gathered the berries and the nails and set them onto the salt. Moira was several paces away, still striking with the flint. “Nearly there,” she panted.

  Cormac pulled a slender iron dagger from his boot. It looked heavy and old and was inscribed all over with runes and symbols. A glass vial filled with salt was set into the hilt. He stabbed at the hellhound, jerking back to avoid its clamping jaws. The smell of sulfur overpowered them, worse even than the smell of the Thames on a hot day. It snaked out of the gate, practically visible in its stench. Moira tucked her face into her loose cravat and Emma now understood why she wore one. It was a smell she sincerely hoped never to experience again.