Weather Witch (13 page)

He stepped through the kitchen’s doorway, his mouth watering and his eyes tearing at the mix of scents. The butter churn sat empty in the corner, the day’s butter made so early in the day Rowen preferred to think of that time as night. Between the spices, the meat sizzling as it turned on the spit over the always-smoky fire, and the pungent scent of the small turn dog working the wheel to keep the spit moving, the kitchen featured the richest atmosphere in the entire house.

The cook raised a hand in greeting and returned to chopping vegetables for the next day’s meals. The serving girls all smiled in Rowen’s direction, a few curtsying. They were all keenly aware that Rowen was untouchable and had become like sisters to him as a result, some older, some younger, all undeniably fond of him and perhaps a bit too protective.

Nancy spun about to greet him, her hair held in a tight bun at the back of her head and yellow as cooked corn, fists on her generous hips, apron covered in flour and grease. “Well if it isn’t the hero home again,” she joked, her cheeks plumping as she smiled. “Did you show Miss Jordan the trick you’ve been practicing?”

For a moment the serious set of his face softened. “Yes. I did. I surprised her. Twice.”

“Twice was it?” she teased, picking up her rolling pin to jab him in the stomach. “Twice is a respectable number of times to do a thing.”

He let out a little
oof,
his expression going boyish and goofy.

“She wanted an encore, did she?” She winked at him, her eyes sparkling.

She needed one, he thought, remembering slipping the pin to her in a sly fashion. His face fell into a more somber expression. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“In the wine cellar.”

His smile returned for a moment. “Thank you, Nancy.” He slid past her, taking the steps at the kitchen’s far side down into the cellar. The difference in temperature was remarkable and Rowen snugged his shirt tighter to him and adjusted his waistcoat and cravat. In the wine cellar the smells were as different as the temperature. A chill was ever-present, the moist smell of water on stone overtaking all other sensations. Rowen’s boots echoing on the stairs muted the noisy hum of the kitchen at his back.

Jonathan was in the far corner perusing dusty bottles when Rowen found him.

“I think this is the best choice tonight,” Jonathan said, holding a bottle out for Rowen’s inspection.

Rowen shrugged. “Anything will do.”

“Excellent well. I’ll fetch us some water.”

“Ha.” The single syllable fell from Rowen’s lips, clearly illustrating his lack of humor at the thought. “Anything but water.”

“That is what I feared, young sir,” Jonathan muttered, uncorking the bottle with a move that came from good training as a potential sommelier, and a long year of watching Rowen drink in order to make sure Rowen never drank too much.

“Stop with the
young sir,
Jonathan. We are friends and no one is here to judge, are they?”

“No,” Jonathan agreed. “There is certainly no one who will disturb us here and certainly not at this hour. I made quite certain your father’s nightcap was delivered in advance. The family is well tended.” Slowly he poured the drink.

Alcohol was common in the city. Although ale was the norm, many enjoyed wine as well. The other choices were coffee and tea, but the effects of Rowen having too much of either sometimes worried Jonathan more. Rowen on ale was a joking troublemaker, Rowen on wine was calm and sloppy. Rowen on coffee was Rowen as a jittery mess, and tea was not much different. And gathering what he had of Rowen’s earlier situation, Jonathan made the very conscious decision that tonight Rowen would be calm and sloppy.

Rowen raised his glass to Jonathan in salute. “You tend to us quite well, friend.” Without breathing, he downed the first glass and presented it for a refill.

Jonathan poured a refill and let Rowen talk. And Jonathan poured him another and let him worry and wonder aloud about Jordan’s situation—few other than Weather Workers knew what truly became of Weather Witches. By the time they had finished their second bottle (with Jonathan only having half of a single glass) Rowen was a blithering idiot. But he was a calm blithering idiot.

Jonathan helped him up from where he’d slid down against one of the household’s untapped casks, brushed him off, and looped his arm over Jonathan’s own shoulders to help him back the way he’d come, and then to his chambers. Jonathan opened the door, letting Rowen stumble to the bed where he pulled off his friend and master’s boots, hauled the latter third of him onto the bed to better match the arrangement of the already unconscious upper two-thirds, and left him there, pulling the door shut so that he might sleep it off.

*   *   *

It was more difficult sneaking back into the Astraea estate than sneaking out, Chloe realized, standing face-to-face with Lionel and a few additional members of the household staff.

Decidedly
larger
members.

“What are you doing out unescorted on an evening filled with so much family tragedy?” He cast a wicked shadow on the wall behind him, lit only by the candle he held between them.

“There are things that must yet be done that I did not wish to bother you with,” Chloe admitted, wringing her hands.

“I fear I see guilt in your actions.”

“No. I am guilty of nothing but perhaps caring too much.”

“I spoke to the kitcheneers about your previous household.”

Chloe stiffened.

“I have put the bits together. I now know the truth.”

“No one knows the truth of that,” she said, her voice falling away to nothing before she recovered. “This present darkness”—she waved at the thick black pooling around them—“does not compare.”

“I’d imagine not. At least not yet. And it is my intention to keep it that way. You will not do to the Astraeas what you did to the Kruses.”

Her jaw dropped at the accusation. “I did
nothing
to the Kruses!”

“Both parents and the remaining boy dead … only hours after the eldest was taken in for witchery.” He stepped forward. “That’s why you always wear your hair in such a peculiar fashion—with a cloth binding some of it back—to hide what he did to you in retaliation.” He tore the bandana off her head then, sweeping her hair back to reveal the place where a whole ear should have been and showing the stump left after a single sword slice had cut much of it away.

“There is the only proof I need,” he muttered, his tone mixing disappointment with disgust. He let her hair drop back down. “Take her.”

Rough hands clasped her arms and she panicked at their grip in the darkness, thrashing and flailing her arms.

One thought persisted as she swore her innocence time and again—she had to retrieve Lady Astraea’s soul—what good was reanimation if one was doomed to wander soulless? “No!” she screamed, fighting her captors. She pulled, she pushed, she stomped her feet on theirs until they cursed and tried to hold her while dancing away.

“Enough of this,” Lionel ordered. She pleaded with her eyes when her voice clawed her throat.

He shook his head, his mouth downturned, and he brought the heavy brass candlestick down on her head and she flopped, limp, into the men’s arms.

En Route to Holgate

The world outside Jordan’s window whipped past in a series of darkening blurs, drops of water rolling across the glass as air whistled around the carriage and they sped beyond the boundaries of the city’s streets. And beyond the city’s walls.

Without stormlight the only light came from the moon and a sprinkling of stars high above. No stormlights meant no houses, and no houses meant they were beyond civilization and, more importantly, it meant Jordan was alone with her captors. Hoping to spot some sort of home or farm she wiggled as close to the window as she could without being anywhere near the Warden seated between her and it. It was not easy to do.

The carriage’s clattering wheels threw water up in occasional arcing sprays, surprising those seated inside as much as the four Wraiths clinging to the carriage’s corners. Stalwart against both the wind and weather they relished, tails of their long coats snapping against the windows like specters knocking for entrance with barely existent fists, the Wraiths rode.

Jordan curled in on herself, her eyes wide, stomach troubled as she peered out the window. Never had she been so far from home or so out of sorts. Never had she wondered so fiercely what everyone in her household was doing.

Without her.

She screamed, jumping back when the veiled face of a Wraith appeared at the window, peering inside and rapping on the glass. It growled something to the men inside, long gloved fingers moving in a distinct pattern mimicked by the watching Wardens, and turned away, pointing.

The wind tore at the Wraith, its image little more than the silhouette of a filled frock coat and top hat until the wind blew its veil back and Jordan screamed anew. A distended head faced her through the glass, features dented and wrinkled. Wisps of patchy white hair flew wild over ridges above strangely rounded eyes set on either side of a nose with a bridge that was too narrow and a base too flat …

It grinned, teeth sharp and thin as a cat’s fangs peeking out from between nearly nonexistent lips. For a moment it struggled with the hat and veil, but giving up it rolled back up and out of her sight, leaving Jordan a sobbing mess.

“There, there,” the Tester said, eyebrows aloft as he examined his hands with great interest. “That particular deformity only happens to
some
magickers. Who knows what might happen to
you
?”

Philadelphia

“Time, it is a-wasting,” the Reanimator muttered, raising his gore-covered hands before looking at one of the dozen clocks hanging on his wall between narrow shelves lined with hundreds of tiny faceted crystals—each flanked by small labels. “What time did she kill herself? John, was that your name?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t entirely know, sir … I wasn’t there at that moment.”

“I’d expect not. She was a good lady, John? Kind?”

“Yes, sir.” John rubbed his head, rearranging the wrinkles that crossed his broad, dark brow. “I reckon it was nearly half past nine or ten, sir.”

The Reanimator nodded and dipped his hands in a basin of water, rubbing along his arms until the water swirled with the lady’s blood. He dried himself on a colorful strip of cloth and reached a hand toward one clock, his finger outstretched to tick off time. “Should your partner not have been back by now, John?”

John nodded slowly, worry etched in the space beneath his eyes. “Shoulda been, yes, sir.”

“Well, John, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is I still have a little time left to bring your lady back to her nearly normal living state and I’ve made some necessary repairs to her already.”

“And the bad news?”

“I have very little time left and without a soul she’ll be nothing but a flesh and blood automaton. Do you know what I mean, John? Have you seen the automatons—those things the government has recently created that look like giant metal and porcelain dolls?”

“I’ve heard tell of them, but never seen one with my own two eyes. Godless tailed things, folks say.”

“Exactly why I’m worried, John. You and I may face a dark decision very shortly. Can you make an important decision, John? Between life and death?”

“I hunt. Make those decisions often.”

“Excellent. The procedure takes half an hour; the window through which we can reconnect body and soul only stays open for a few hours before it begins to badly degrade. If your partner doesn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, John, we’ll either need to condemn Lady Astraea to the death she seemed set on, or you’ll need to choose a new soul for her.”

The larger man drew back at the idea, pulling into the cloak of the nearest shadow to hide. “Choose a new soul for her ladyship…”

“Yes, John, quite so. Well, not exactly a new soul … a new-to-her soul.”

“A new-to-her soul?” Terror crawled in John’s wavering tone.

“Yes.” The Reanimator motioned lazily to the multitude of shelves lined with sparkling crystals and strange dolls. “Any of those crystals, I daresay, will serve her well.”

“But…”

The man adjusted his mask and sighed. “Do not be tiresome, John. Ideally a candidate for reanimation has the soul that once belonged to him or her restored to them. But sometimes life itself is far more important than being exactly who a person was before death. Sometimes the sheer point of existence is of greatest importance. Sometimes
what
a person is is more important than
who
a person is.”

“But a person’s soul defines—”

The Reanimator stuck a hand in the air between them. “Do not be so simple, John. We are more than the sum of our parts. Yes. A soul makes a significant difference in a person’s behavior, but some live on for years without any soul. And, frankly, if you ask me, John”—he leaned forward and John leaned in as well—“some people are born without souls!” He laughed. “A soul is a mere detail in one’s life. Like spice in a recipe.”

John drew back, his arms across his chest, his stare hard.

“John. This is all very scientific. Her brain chemistry, humors, and cellular memory—”

“Cellular memory?”

He waved a hand impatiently. “Yes. Don’t worry about the specifics—as they say—the devil’s always in the details.”

John eyed the shelves suspiciously. “Seems you maintain a lot of details.”

“John, my friend, it’s nearly time to make a choice. Life or death.”

He blinked. “Miss Chloe believes Miss Jordan would be devastated if’n her mama ain’t home when she returns.”

“Returns? Weather Witches don’t—”

“Miss Jordan’s no Witch. Well, no Weather Witch at least.” He coughed. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

“I doubt your Miss Jordan would be offended. I doubt,” he whispered to the corpse on his table, “that Miss Jordan is worried about anything other than saving her own skin right now.” He straightened and put his hands behind his back. “Your decision, dear John.” He swayed on his feet, a little bob, but a merry movement.