Weather Witch (15 page)

Dust danced in flurrying designs across the warped floorboards as the girl led them to the second floor and Jordan wasn’t sure whether to be dismayed or delighted. Few visitors meant the place had less patrons of an ill-reputed variety, which Jordan hoped meant things were less worn.

Sersha paused before a door and pushed it open. A spider scrambled off a web the door broke, tumbling to the ground and scurrying away as Jordan bolted backward and bumped into a Wraith.

Its snarl jolted her forward and she stomped on the spider herself—the crunch of its exoskeleton audible beneath her shoe. She shuddered.

Seeing the door open and the girl light the shabby space with her lantern did nothing to alleviate Jordan’s trembling. Dust motes spiraled down in the musty-smelling room. “There’s no”—she looked over the small space quickly—“no window.”

“You do not need a window and we do not need to worry about your possible escape,” Councilman Stevenson said. He pointed. “Go. Sleep if you can. Wraiths will wait outside your door, so do not even imagine an escape.”

He pushed her forward and slammed the door, locking her in.

She heard them move down the hall, leaving her with the muffled sounds of Sersha explaining the rooms, the click of doors closing, and the scraping and settling noises of stools or chairs being positioned outside her door.

And occupied.

A few minutes passed before her stomach settled enough for her to realize she was hungry. She had
watched
Rowen eat at the party and now her stomach rumbled deep beneath the many layers of her clothing.

Seated on the edge of the bed, it groaned beneath even her weight, ropes stretching and rubbing beneath the lumpy thing that served as mattress. There was no pillow and the quilt left for her was moth-eaten. She rose and turned, for a long moment staring at the bed.

It took her a while to realize she was waiting for someone to appear and fix things: the bed, the room …

Her life …

No one did.

Resigned, Jordan pulled the quilt free and shook the thing out, coughing on the dust that tickled her nose and lodged in her throat.

At least the dust was no longer on the bed.

A soft sound escaped her throat—not quite a whimper, but not far from it either.

The paper star from her party made her arm itch and, reaching up to pull it free of her sleeve, her fingers encountered the gift Rowen had given her. She flushed at the memory of his kiss. Quite the distraction! Her fingertips explored the gift: it was cold. Made of metal. And …

She fumbled with the lace it was hidden in, trying to work it free enough that she could finally see it. There, pinned to her sleeve, was a domed and detailed brass heart.

She ran her finger over its shining surface and smiled despite everything. Bringing it as close to her face as her flexibility and fashion allowed, she examined it closely. Along the edge was an elegant engraving. A script of some sort. She squinted to bring it better into focus.

Be brave.

She eased onto the bed, hands clenched so tight her knuckles whitened in her lap. There was nothing to do but sleep and be hungry. And brave. Only she couldn’t imagine sleeping. It wasn’t so much the here as the
now
that kept exhaustion from taking her. Her nerves jangled from being stolen from her household and the journey in the carriage thus far had done nothing to quell them.

She glanced toward the door. The Wraiths waited just beyond it, wicked teeth and haunted features veiled beneath high hats …
That
could happen to Witches, and something similar made the Wardens?

She shuddered.

A knock at the door made her straighten and it opened. The girl, Sersha, entered holding a bowl of something and a dark chunk of bread resting on its top. The scent was unlike anything Jordan had smelled before—spicy and pungent. Although her mind urged caution, her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

The girl was nearly to her when she tripped, the bowl flying from her hands and falling with a clatter and a loud, wet
splot
onto the grimy floor. Sersha’s face drew into an expression of terror as she scrambled to right things, scooping up the ruined food with both bread and bowl. She muttered apologies and, kneeling, held the mess out to Jordan.

“I—I cannot…”

“Please, lady,” Sersha whispered. “I cannot ask for more…”

“I cannot eat that … It is…” Her lips puckered. “The reason for the one nearly clean spot on this floor.”

The girl bit her lower lip, but nodded. Rising, she backed up all the way to the door, knocked to be released, and disappeared down the hall.

Jordan’s stomach clenched, panicking with hunger, and she rubbed it. Bending awkwardly forward, she slowly unlaced the silk ribbons wrapped around her ankles and took off her shoes. They were pretty pointed little things made for those brief moments during a dance when a dress’s hem might lift ever so slightly and reveal footwear.

They were designed for fashion, not comfort.

Without a knock, the girl appeared again, surprising Jordan with a fresh bowl of food. The barkeep followed close behind. “Show me how you managed to dump an entire bowl,” he demanded, eyes different sizes in his head as he seethed.

Sersha walked toward Jordan, limbs stiff, eyes wide.

“There is no lump in the floor,” he muttered. “No board so swollen…”

Sersha was, once again, nearly to Jordan.

“No bloody reason to
trip
.” Reaching out he cuffed her across the cheek and she stumbled, ducking her head tight to her body, and handed over the bowl, arms trembling so hard the bowl shook in her hands.

Jordan grabbed it and glared at the man.

He pulled back his hand again.

Sersha’s arms flew up to protect her and Jordan shouted, “Stop!”

He blinked at her, stunned, his arm still raised, fingers curled in a fist as he pivoted toward Jordan. “Stop or
what
?”

She glanced at the bowl in her hands. She could threaten him with a bowl of—whatever it was …

“See, that’s how it always is. A demand and nothing to follow it up.” He whipped back around to the girl.

“No,” Jordan said, startled by her own voice. Be brave. She clambered to her feet, setting the bowl aside. “Dare not hit her again. She had an accident.” Challenge flared in her eyes.

“I will discipline my daughter as I see fit.”

”Do not.”

“Maybe I should discipline the both of you…”

Jordan’s voice rose. “If you raise a hand against either of us, I will
destroy
you.”

“
Destroy
me?”

“Everything that is yours, I will sweep away. From the first shingle of this tavern’s shambling rooftop to its last board and cornerstone. I will not rest until nothing of yours remains—I will scrub out even the
memory
of you,” she added, her voice fading into a soft tone all at once gentle and fierce. “Do not touch her.”

His eyes narrowed, weighing her resolve. His hand lowered, fingers unfurled, and he backed toward the door, seeing something in her.

He left, followed quickly by the girl, and Jordan’s knees had the good grace not to weaken until the door shut again. She sat down heavily on the bed, barely keeping the bowl upright.

When she recovered, she sat up and scooped a few mouthfuls of the stew onto her bread and tried to eat without thinking.

Without tasting.

The girl returned too soon, but Jordan relinquished the bowl and remainders to her.

“Next time,” the girl said, “do not help.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would never help
you,
Witch,” the girl snapped. She spun on her heel, striding out of the room with more attitude than Jordan usually mustered for a proper social outing.

Jordan flopped back onto the noisy bed and closed her eyes, fingertips wrapped round the heart as she let exhaustion claim her. All around her the night melted away into something less grim for a time.

Chapter Eight

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm …

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Philadelphia

In a room usually reserved for Council business, Chloe was fielding enough questions to wear down anyone ever accused of doing anything. She sat behind a small table, and a row of dour-looking men sat in opposition behind a long table. Watchmen and constables stood at the door and across the Hill she was fairly certain more watchmen searched her quarters and others’ for evidence. If they were searching thoroughly they might find the worst thing of all—the truth about Lady Astraea.

Her fingers tapped the little table’s surface. It was better this way. If they found her ladyship and ended it all—again—it would be better than letting her wander soulless.

“Explain to us the loss of your ear.”

Chloe sighed and focused on constructing an appropriate answer. “My previous lordship, Lord Kruse, found my service to be lacking and my ears to be too readily available to receive gossip. And so he removed one. With his saber. It was a memorable lesson.”

“And after the loss of your ear, what did you do?”

“I certainly didn’t listen at doors anymore. And I no longer desired pairs of earrings.”

“You make light of the obvious doubt cast upon your character?”

“No, sir, certainly not, sir. I am most grievously offended by the aspersions being cast. But I recognize my station and am quite aware of my innocence.”

“Three people—people from your previous household—one where you ran the kitchen—are dead.”

Chloe nodded. “And if I could identify their killer you would have a fierce fight keeping me from doing him harm.”

“Bold words from a woman who abandoned a fallen household and now finds herself in another household facing ruin.”

“The Council has ruined us already with the accusation of witchery and Harboring—with mere words. Such little things to bring down such a great family.”

“The Tester found a Weather Witch. There was nothing to be done but bring her in.”

“Bring her in and bring the rest of them down.”

“Show some respect,” one Councilman ordered.

“How can I when I am given none?”

“Respect must be earned.”

“I have earned it. For eight years I worked for the Kruse family. I baked for them, cooked for them, cleaned and straightened accounts for them. I was more than a kitchen girl or body servant—I was a nanny to the children, a friend to the lady. I was
family
. And when they came and proclaimed the boy a Weather Witch—I
wept
for them. I died inside—all for the love of him and my adopted family.”

“Then why did you kill them?”

“I did not kill them—I
loved
them!”

“The morning after Marion Alan Kruse was taken in for magicking, they were dead. And you were gone.”

“So was the rest of the staff. We were horrified—finding them like that … their bellies distended, tongues swollen and black…” Her eyes squeezed shut and she clenched the small table until her dark fingers whitened.

“It must have been dreadful to face the results of your actions.”

“How did my actions cause such a tragedy?”

“Through the leaves with which you flavored the biscuits.”

“What?” She straightened, her face going blank for a moment. “We used nothing toxic in the cooking.”

“Then how did they wind up in the biscuits? The biscuits you had none of?”

“I don’t … The staff seldom ate with family—and almost never the same food.”

“But they were like your
family,
you said. It seems unlikely your family would not allow you to sup with them.”

“It was well known. Ask anyone.”

“We would if there were anyone left to ask. But it seems you all ran as fast as cockroaches when a stormlight flares. So where did you obtain the leaves used in the biscuits?”

Then her jaw dropped.

He rounded on her. “Ah, so you
do
remember now, do you?”

“Harold. He wanted to help. We went into the garden to pick mint.
Mint
.” She looked at him, her eyes damp. “It was mint.”

“Mint doesn’t kill.”

“We didn’t kill them. It was
mint
.”

“Did you pick it yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. I let Harold…”

“You allowed a child of four years of age to gather herbs for your cooking?”

“Yes. He had gone with me several times before … It was mint.”

“It was negligence. What you and the child thought to be mint was a toxic plant—the same that killed your master and his family shortly after he sliced off your ear and the family fell to ruin. The timing is suspicious.”

“I would never…”

“Would you blame the child?”

“No,” she gasped. “Of course not.”

“Then accept the blame yourself.”

She deflated, slumping over the table, head cradled in her arms. She sobbed. Ever so softly.

*   *   *

Even from the sidewalk outside the Astraea estate John saw lights on in the rooms along the upper floor where Lady Astraea’s chambers were. Watchmen stood in stiff pairs flanking the main doors, men dressed in dark trousers and long, crisp gray coats with silver piping and fancy epaulets on their broad shoulders. These were Council watchmen.

Dangerous men searching for something.

John shifted the bundle in his arms, the wheelbarrow leaning in the shadow of the estate’s wall. He considered his options. Getting past the watchmen carrying the lady might not be impossible … but the odds were far from being in his favor.

He felt the faint beat of her heart and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. This was his household’s lady, as defenseless as ever a woman could be. He would not openly risk her. Especially not after they’d come so far.

He clung to the shadows lining the property’s tall wall, only the occasional glimmer of light bouncing off his high cheeks and wide forehead telling of his passing. He halted at the back of the main house and looked up, examining its back wall.