The Secret Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  She stared at him. He raised an eyebrow. “Cormac, go home. If I don’t want to be caught, I need to go now.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You are not,” she blurted out. “Why would you?”

  He leaned forward so suddenly she edged back. “Emma, don’t be obtuse. I’m not about to let you do this alone. You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you know.”

  She tilted her head. “You could get into trouble.”

  “I’ve been in trouble since the day I met you,” he replied, banging on the ceiling with the flat of his hand. The coachman responded immediately and the carriage lurched into motion.

  The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves echoed around them. Emma couldn’t look away from his shadowed face, his cheek-bones sharp in the very faint lantern light. He wasn’t smiling one of his usual smiles, only watching her as if she was a mystery, as if she was precious. The memory of their last kiss burned between them. Emma shifted, suddenly feeling nervous. What was it about him that made the world narrow to a pinpoint?

  He reached out, his hand sliding along her arm. She shivered and he grasped her elbow and tugged her forward so she was sitting next to him on the seat. The carriage rolled on, jostling them together. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “We may as well pass the time,” he whispered back, his voice husky and sweet. His eyes were dark as a moonless night, dark as a midnight lake closing over her head. She could drown and not care. She’d have suspected him of using some sort of magic if she didn’t know better. He leaned closer, glancing at her mouth with a ghost of a smile.

  “What’s changed?” she asked, before his lips touched hers. He froze there for a moment and her breath was hot in her throat. Her mouth tingled as if he’d already kissed her.

  “What do you mean?” he murmured.

  “You kissed me at Christmas.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. Her breath trembled.

  “And then you acted as if you barely knew me.” She was embarrassed to bring it up but she couldn’t go on thinking all these confusing thoughts about him and feeling these confusing feelings. He’d protected her and betrayed her too often. She had to take responsibility for her own heart, before it was too late. She forced herself to keep speaking, even though her voice felt too loud and too real in the soft warmth of the carriage. “Is this just a game to you then? Another girl on your list?”

  “You’re not just another girl.” He didn’t pull away from her, only leaned over onto the cushion.

  “Aren’t I?” She touched her antlers lightly. “I suppose not.”

  He sighed, jerking his hand through his hair. “Last Christmas, when I kissed you, I didn’t know you were a Lovegrove. I only knew you as Emma Day.”

  She frowned. “So?”

  “So then I joined the Order. If I stayed with you and they saw we had a connection, they would have ordered me to exploit it.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Even then? Before the gates? Before everything else?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in the goblin markets? When you let them cage me?”

  “Especially then. They would have sent someone else, someone a lot less gentle. People are afraid of your mother and her power, and so they’re afraid of you. She defied the Order. You don’t know how rare that is.”

  “I’m beginning to think she was right.”

  “Maybe she was. But if the Order knew I had any sympathy at all that night on the ship, they would have suspected you of that murder. You don’t want to end up in Percival House on the moors—a kind of magical prison,” he explained before she could ask.

  “Or bottled and bound,” she added.

  “Yes,” he replied grimly. “They’ve been watching you since you were born. The only thing that shielded you and your cousins was your mother’s spell. Not only did it bind your powers so you couldn’t be hunted, but it made it so no one could talk to you about witching families with any kind of sense. You simply didn’t understand. She was clever, your mother.”

  “She’s not like that now,” she said in a small voice.

  “She paid the price willingly,” he said, digging his fingers in her hair and tilting her head back so she had to meet the full force of his gaze. “I would too.”

  She smiled sadly. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? You won’t forgive me? Even knowing why I did what I did?” His fingers tightened.

  “I won’t have anyone else hurt because of me,” she told him. “Not even a Keeper?”

  “Not even a Keeper.”

  He closed the distance between them slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She had every opportunity to stop him, to move away, to break the moment. Instead she leaned in as well, until his mouth was on hers, or her mouth was on his, it hardly signified so long as they were together, breathing the same air, sinking into the same moment, closing any gap that might lay between them. His arms went around her, crushing her to his chest. Her hands slid around his neck. His tongue touched hers and for a blessed brief moment it no longer mattered where they had been or where they were going. There was only his mouth, his hands, and the way they fit together.

  Outside the carriage, the roads slowly changed as they left the city for the outskirts. Dawn turned the sky pink and glittered on the dew. The mist was soft and birds sang from the hedgerows. The air changed, blowing crisp and clean into the open window. It smelled like leaves and damp earth and home.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop, the thump of the coachman as he vaulted off the seat jerked Emma back to reality. “Wait.” Cormac caught her hand. “There might be Keepers watching the house.”

  “But I’m allowed to visit my own mother, surely.”

  “Yes, but we need to keep up the deception that we are nothing to each other.”

  She took a deep breath, willing away the nervous twitch of her scalp around her antlers. He curled his forefinger under her chin briefly. “Forgive me?”

  She nodded once. They didn’t speak as the footman opened the door and lowered the steps. Cormac stepped down first and then motioned sharply for her to do the same. He scanned the area warily.

  She descended into the courtyard. Emma looked at the house, turning her Fith-Fath ring around her finger nervously. Her mother’s spellbox was tucked under one arm. Cormac closed his hand around her elbow, propelling her forward as though she were his prisoner. He looked as he had when he’d turned on her over Margaret’s body. She lifted her chin and shot him a rebellious look. He winked at her from under the brim of his hat.

  Mrs. Peabody answered the door with her bright smile. “Bless me, back again so soon? What a good girl you are.” She moved aside to let them in. “Lady Hightower is still abovestairs, but she’s awake. She had a bit of a wild night, I’m afraid, but she’s calm now. No doubt seeing you will be a balm.”

  Emma swallowed, not as sure about that as the housekeeper seemed to be. In the privacy of the house, Cormac’s hand slipped reassuringly into hers. He squeezed her hand hard and she glanced at him. He was looking at her antlers. She winced and shoved so much power into her glamour that the clouds raced over the sun for a moment, darkening the stairs. Mrs. Peabody blinked. “Strange weather today.”

  Theodora was curled up on the same fainting couch where she’d reclined the last time Emma had visited. Her hair was neatly brushed this time, but her eyes were slightly feverish.

  “Is she ill?” Emma whispered.

  “No, just a bad night,” Mrs. Peabody assured her. “She’ll be right as rain, don’t you worry.”

  Emma approached cautiously as the housekeeper shut the door behind her. “Maman?”

  Theodora didn’t look away from the window and the woods beyond.

  “I want to ask you about your spellbox,” Emma continued carefully. She held it out and Theodora finally glanced at her.

  “It’s pretty.” She stroked it like a pet bunny, before flipping the lid open. She recoiled.
“Smells like iron.” She stuck her tongue out. “But I like this,” she added in a reverent whisper, lifting the antler charm bound in black thread. The rings clinked together. She slipped the silver one over her finger, heedless of the cumbersome charm.

  “Why did you bind my cousins and me?” Emma asked, watching her carefully. “Can you remember?”

  Theodora blinked. “I like to keep things in bottles.”

  Emma froze, looking at Cormac. “What kind of things?” She tried to keep her tone light, not wanting to scare her mother with her impatience.

  “All kinds of things.”

  “Like magic?”

  “People go in bottles. So does dirt. And teeth. And medicine.” Theodora nodded proudly. “I collect them.”

  Triumph surged through Emma. “Can you show me?”

  Theodora looked out the window longingly. Emma followed her gaze. “If you tell me where they are, I can get them for you,” she suggested. “You don’t have to leave the window.” Theodora nodded, then frowned sternly. “Don’t break them.”

  “I won’t.”

  Theodora looked right through her for a moment. “It’s under the bed,” she whispered loudly.

  Her pulse pounding in her ears, Emma knelt by the bed. She lifted the blankets and peered underneath. Hundreds of acorns were hidden in piles underneath and, if the lumps were anything to go by, between the feather mattresses. There was a small trunk set precisely in the center. It bristled with dust, puffing up in little clouds as she dragged it out. Theodora didn’t leave her couch.

  The trunk was brown leather with brass hinges. It didn’t look special in any way. There were no magical markings to hint at its contents. She opened it, half-afraid of what she was going to find inside. The clink of glass against glass had Theodora turning her head sharply. Emma smiled weakly in apology.

  There were bottles of varying sizes and shapes, just like the ones that crowded the shelves in Aunt Bethany’s stillroom and the school apothecary. They were mostly clear glass, though a few were warped and green and clearly much older. Some were filled with nothing but acorns or seeds. One held rosebuds, another salt and red thread, another yet was a mixture of earth, pearls, and a bent iron nail suspended in rusty liquid. Three held water, and one was clearly just a discarded perfume bottle. Emma had no way of knowing what spells were trapped inside and which should be released.

  Or if any of them was the bottle that had made her mother mad.

  “Did you trap your magic in one of these?” Emma asked.

  Theodora’s only answer was to hum to herself.

  “This is important,” Emma said, sharper than she’d intended. “I need to know how you defied the Order. Why you bound us and yourself. And I need to know why I keep finding the Greymalkin victims.”

  Theodora put her hands over her ears and shook her head, humming louder. Most of the words were garbled, only a few were clear: gold, door, oak.

  Emma rubbed her face, the weight of the antlers making the back of her neck ache. The bottles were useless without an explanation. And clearly, none was forthcoming. The whole trip was useless. Her mother didn’t know her. Her mother didn’t know anyone or anything anymore. She was a broken doll and Emma didn’t know how to fix her.

  Cormac strode over the faded rugs toward her. “Your mother’s bottle wouldn’t be in there,” he said. “If that’s what you’re searching for.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’d be able to see her familiar inside. Not to mention the Order has been through this house already. They’d have found that trunk ages ago.”

  Emma let the lid slam shut. “Blast.” She pushed to her feet. “Maman, can you tell me who Ewan is?”

  Theodora’s head whipped around so fast, Emma actually took a step back. “Ewan? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I thought you might.”

  Theodora’s lower lip trembled. “I miss him.”

  “Is he the reason you did what you did?” Theodora only shrugged bad-temperedly. “He saved you in the forest, didn’t he?” Emma continued. “And you fell in love with him. But you married my father instead.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why? Why, Maman? How did Ewan die?”

  Theodora shook her head violently from side to side, covering her ears with her hands like a child. Emma’s shoulder slumped as she bit back angry tears. Cormac went to the tea tray and brought Emma’s mother a plate. He waited until she’d noticed it before smiling his charming smile. “Lady Theodora, would you like some cake?”

  Her hands lowered away from her ears. Cormac offered her the generous slice of gingerbread with a bow, as if earls’ sons were accustomed to fetching and carrying every day. And Emma would have bet Keepers definitely didn’t usually fetch and carry for mad witches who defied the Order. She wanted to kiss him all over again.

  Theodora reached for the cake, now giggling happily. “Gold is good but silvers better,” she sang. Cormac’s chain of charms fell out of his shirt, poking through the buttons. The iron-spoke of the Order clinked against the plate.

  Theodora screeched.

  Cormac drew back but she’d already knocked the plate from her hand. It shattered on the floor. Theodora pointed at his pendant, still screaming and baring her teeth savagely. Cormac hurried to slip it back under his cravat. Theodora went silent but she followed him with a hateful gaze. It all happened so fast, Emma had barely moved from the side of the bed.

  Mrs. Peabody burst into the room, taking a small bottle and a spoon from her apron. “What’s all the fuss, poppet?” she asked briskly as she poured laudanum into the spoon. Emma used the side of her foot to slide the trunk back under the bed, just in case. “Carrying on in front of your nice guests here. Not polite, is it?”

  Theodora spat on the floor. Mrs. Peabody sighed. “Time for your medicine.” She slid the spoon into Theodora’s mouth before she could move, holding her mouth and nose firmly clamped until she swallowed. Mrs. Peabody patted her hand. “There, poppet. All better.”

  “Gold is good, silver’s better She drifted off, her head falling forward as the laudanum took effect. “The lion stalks the maiden fair when the bear leaves his lair.” She smiled. “But where the hunter goes, only the serpent knows.”

  “What does that mean?” Emma asked, wide-eyed.

  “Lord, I don’t know. She’s been singing it for years now, ever since she fell ill.” Mrs. Peabody blew hair off her face. “I was the head housemaid when your mother was little. She and her sisters were such pretty little things. And your mother had wit and courage such as you’ve never seen.” She shook her head sadly.

  “Will she be all right?” Emma asked.

  “Sleep will do her good, it always does. I expect the excitement of visitors was too much for her. Your father hasn’t been here in years.” She pursed her lips, clearly stopping herself from offering her opinion. “Still, he did her a kindness keeping her here. Could have had her in Bedlam Hospital, couldn’t he? But only the woods from her childhood calms her.” She paused. “It was good of you to visit again,” she said to Emma.

  “I should have come more often,” she admitted, feeling like a horrible daughter.

  “She wouldn’t have remembered,” Mrs. Peabody said. “The first time your aunt came Lady Hightower threw porridge at her. Didn’t stop until Lady Chadwick started painting those trees on the wall, and then she was full of orders and advice. They seemed to help a little. So does the laudanum.”

  “I’ll visit again,” Emma promised even though all she wanted was to be out of the house and into the sunshine. The clouds raced away from the sun and fell apart like cobwebs.

  “Don’t fret, child. Your mother, as I knew her before, wouldn’t have wanted you to see her like this in any case. I’ll have your carriage brought back around, shall I?” Mrs. Peabody left the room.

  Emma watched her mother’s eyes move frantically beneath her lids. “That rhyme she was singing, about bears and lions. Do you think
they’re familiars?”

  “They could be,” Cormac replied.

  “So it was a spell?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  She paced the room. “We’re not any closer to an answer, are we?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She stopped in front of the crudely painted red bird. “This was her familiar,” she said softly. “I found it in the Witch’s Debrett’s.” She ran her fingertips over the bumpy paint. “She misses it, even if she doesn’t know why.” She traced the swoop of the bird’s wing. “It’s a strange room, isn’t it? With all these trees. And this one—ow!”

  She drew her hand back. The red paint had chipped off, revealing a rusty nail still stuck in the plaster and she’d scraped herself. There was a tiny fleck of red on her finger, and she wasn’t sure if it was paint or blood. She felt her eyes roll back in her head.

  Definitely blood.

  Chapter 41

  1796

  Theodora went back into the forest.

  She didn’t wear her red cloak.

  She walked down the path, peering hopefully into the leaves. She didn’t know what she’d even say to Ewan if she saw him, only that she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She spent an embarrassing amount of time at the window staring at the last spot she’d seen him. She saw rabbits, a fox, and once, a white stag. But no Ewan.

  So she decided to seek him out, despite what her parents would say, or her sisters, or society in general. She didn’t care that he was a woodcutter’s son. She only cared that he had saved her life, that he was strong and handsome and solitary. She’d even asked her father if he knew any local families with a son named Ewan. Bethany looked at her curiously but she just laughed and said she heard the village girls talking. She understood now why Cora would ask Bethany to paint her husband’s portrait. She almost suspected a love charm but shed checked herself thoroughly for magical residue and could find none.

  And she couldn’t find Ewan either. There were no more strawberries, no shadow of a man under the trees.

  So she’d brave the woods to see him again.