Witch Hunter (33 page)

‘Why do you care?’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘As long as

I find the tablet, what does it matter to you if I die? You said

I’d be better off dead. You said it’s what I deserved.’

‘I don’t – I didn’t mean that,’ she says. ‘Well, yes, I did.

But I don’t anymore. I don’t think you deserve that.’ She goes

silent for a moment. ‘I understand what it’s like, you know,’

she says, finally. ‘To have your life torn apart by magic.’

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I jerk my head up to look at her. ‘What?’

She sighs. ‘I started studying with Nicholas when I was

six. Everyone – well, everyone outside this house – thinks

it’s because I’m so exceptional. A prodigy. For him to take

on someone so young, I’d have to be, right?’ She looks

down, tapping her pale fingers against the tub. ‘Do you

want to know the real reason?’

I nod, but she doesn’t see me. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s because my mother gave me to him. She wasn’t a

witch herself, and she was scared of me. Of the things I

could do. My father had just died; she thought somehow

I killed him. I don’t know if I did. To this day, I still don’t.

All I know is she somehow found Nicholas, gave me away,

and never came back.’

I wince at the familiar tale of yet another broken family.

‘I’m sorry.’

Fifer shrugs. ‘What could I do? I cried, I screamed, I ran

away. But it didn’t bring her back. I hated being a witch. I

hated magic. Hated that it turned my family against me.

If Nicholas hadn’t taken me in, hadn’t raised me as his

own, things might have turned out very differently for me.

I might still hate magic, as you do.’

‘I don’t hate it,’ I say. ‘Not anymore. I’ve seen the worst

it can do, but I’ve seen the good it can do, too. What

Nicholas does, what John does—’ I stop. ‘I guess I don’t

know what to think anymore.’

Fifer nods. ‘Nicholas says that magic isn’t inherently

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good or bad; it’s what people do with it that makes it that

way. It took me a long time to understand that. Once I did,

I realised it isn’t magic that separates us from them, or you

from me. It’s misunderstanding.’

She holds up a finger, then plunges it into the tepid

water. At once it becomes deliciously hot.

‘Besides, magic does come in handy sometimes – I can’t

lie.’ She grins at me. ‘I guess the tree downstairs was right

about you after all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a tree of life. Didn’t John tell you?’

I shake my head.

‘Your making those leaves appear like that means…

well, it means a couple of things,’ Fifer says. ‘It’s mainly a

sign of strength and power. But it also signifies change. New

beginnings, I guess you could say.’

‘Oh.’ Maybe I should be pleased by this, by the chance to

start over – whatever that means. Instead, I’m left wondering

how much it even matters anymore. Then I remember

something else. ‘What did the bird mean?’

Fifer raises her eyebrows, the tiniest smile crossing her

face. ‘I think John should be the one to tell you about that.’

I shake my head, a sudden ache filling my chest. I don’t

think John is going to be telling me about anything anymore.

Fifer helps me out of the bath and into a clean nightgown.

I look at her and feel a twinge of guilt. She’s a mess, still

dressed in her clothes from the party, her hair matted and

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dirty, her eye a brilliant shade of purple. She’s so tired she’s

swaying on her feet.

‘You should go and sleep,’ I say.

‘Okay.’ She yawns and walks to the door. ‘You should,

too. You look terrible. You can’t expect to destroy the tablet

in this condition.’ She shuts the door behind her.

The tablet. It’s the last thing on my mind as I fall into a

fitful sleep, tossing and turning throughout the day and

night, and the first thing on my mind when I wake up.

I ease myself out of bed – the pain in my side considerably

less than it was yesterday – go to the window and throw

open the curtains. Outside, the ground is covered in a thick,

fog-like mist. Another cold winter day in Anglia. I consider

crawling back into bed when there’s a knock on the door.

‘It’s me,’ Fifer says. ‘Let me in.’

I open the door and let out a yelp. Fifer is standing in the

hallway holding a goblet, wearing a black glittery mask with

a plume of bright pink feathers shooting from the top.

‘What do you think? Do you like it?’ She pushes her way

inside and prances around, making ridiculous poses. Her

red hair clashes horribly with the pink feathers.

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.

‘I knew it!’ She tears the mask off and flings it onto the

bed. ‘It was George’s idea. He said he couldn’t stand looking

at my face without it. He’s such a baby.’

I see what he means. Even though the swelling around

her eye is gone, it’s still a bloody, mottled purple.

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‘Here.’ She pushes the goblet into my hand. ‘It’s

medicine. John made it. You’re to drink all of it, no

complaints, and I’m to report back that you did.’

I wince. There’s no telling how bad he’s made this

medicine taste. I take a tentative sip. But instead of

something sour or pungent, I taste strawberries. I think

back to the night when I first dined with Nicholas, when I

piled my plate high with strawberries and cake. John

must have noticed and remembered. I feel that ache in my

chest again.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you making that face?’

Fifer demands.

‘No reason,’ I say. Fifer raises her eyebrows. ‘Anyway,

where did you get this?’ I reach over and pick up the mask.

It’s pretty, black satin with tiny black jewels sewn all over it.

The feathers are overkill, but I’ve seen worse.

‘Humbert has a whole trunkful. That duchess friend of

his, you know. They’re left over from some masquerade

ball they went to. I can’t imagine how strange those parties

must be. I mean, what’s the point of getting all dressed up

if no one knows who you are?’ She tuts. ‘Have you ever

been to one?’

I nod. ‘Two, actually. Would have been three if I hadn’t

been arrested. Malcolm has them every Christmas. This

year’s must be coming up soon.’

It takes a moment for that to set in. Malcolm’s

masquerade ball is coming up. The one Caleb was going to

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invite Katherine to, the one I drunkenly invited George to.

I tear off my nightgown and fumble around on the floor

for some clothes.

Fifer watches me, her eyes wide. ‘What’s wrong?’

I tug on a pair of trousers and a shirt, shove my feet into

a pair of boots, and stagger out the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ll explain downstairs,’ I say, working my way down

the steps. ‘Where’s Humbert?’

‘Sitting room.’

Shuffling down the hall, I catch a glimpse of myself

in the mirror. My shirt is buttoned up wrong, my hair is

tangled. I look wild, unhinged.

I finally reach the sitting room, Fifer on my heels.

Humbert is at his desk, writing a letter. ‘Elizabeth! ’ he

crows. ‘It’s nice to see you up and—’

‘Humbert, what day is it today?’ I demand, cutting

him off.

‘I’m sorry, dear – what day?’

‘Yes. What day of the month?’

‘Well, it’s Wednesday, of course,’ he says. ‘The fourteenth

of December.’ He smiles. ‘Oh, you must be talking about

the weather. It does seem as if it came early this year,

doesn’t it?’

I ignore him, thinking. Today is the fourteenth.

Malcolm’s masque was to be held on the third Friday of the

month this year. What day is that?

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‘I need a calendar,’ I blurt.

‘Yes, well, fine.’ Humbert opens a drawer and pulls

out a ledger. ‘Here you go.’

I snatch it from his hands and flip the pages until I land

on December 1558.

‘Oh my God,’ I whisper.

‘What’s going on?’ George says, walking into the room.

‘I know how I’m going to get into Blackwell’s.’ I hold up

the calendar, point my finger to a date: Friday, December

16, 1558. Two days from now. ‘I’m going to be a guest at

Malcolm’s masquerade ball.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Fifer says.

‘Every year at Christmas, Malcolm has a masquerade

ball,’ I say. ‘He invites everyone. It’s a huge crowd. There’s a

performance, music. Food and dancing. People come from

all over Anglia.’ I turn to Humbert. ‘You go, don’t you?’

‘Not lately,’ he admits. ‘Difficult for me to dance, what

with my back. And my foot—’ He stops. ‘But, yes, I did

receive an invitation a while back. I tucked it away, didn’t

give it much thought.’ He pauses. ‘But Malcolm’s Christmas

masques are normally held at Ravenscourt, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, normally,’ I say. ‘But with all the rebellions, he

thought it would be safer to move it. Keep it secret until the

day before. Then all the guests would receive a second

invitation with the location.’

‘Then how do you know where it is?’ George asks.

‘I don’t.’

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‘I…’ I feel my cheeks burn. ‘The king told me.’

The three of them frown, confused. Of course, they

don’t understand how or why the king would tell me

something like that. And I’m not about to explain it to

them, at least not now.

‘Anyway,’ I continue. ‘I’ve got a lot to figure out in two

days. The biggest problem is how to get there. It’s too far to

ride, so I’ll have to take a boat. I can sneak aboard. I’ve done

it before; it’s not terribly difficult. Granted, it’ll take some

doing to persuade the captain to drop a stowaway at

Blackwell’s doorstep, but – what?’

Fifer, George, and Humbert are all staring at me as if I’m

as deranged as I look.

‘I don’t know, Elizabeth,’ Humbert says. ‘Walking into

Blackwell’s house, uninvited—’

‘I’m not uninvited,’ I say. ‘I’ll take your invitation.’

‘But poking about his grounds with all those people

around? I don’t know. It sounds potentially dangerous.’

‘It’s dangerous no matter what,’ I say. ‘But the masque

is by far my best opportunity to get inside. There will

be hundreds of people around. My face will be hidden.

Blackwell will be distracted. No one will notice one

wandering guest.’

I look at George and Fifer for support, but they avoid

my gaze.

Humbert gets up from his chair. ‘Elizabeth, the four of

us spoke at length about this last night, and we think you

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should consider waiting until Blackwell’s at court. He’s

scheduled to be there within the week, presumably after he

hosts the masque. Then, when his house is empty, you can

go in. Peter will go with you, and he’ll bring men with him.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s exactly what Blackwell will expect us

to do. He’ll expect us to come when he’s gone. Then he’ll set

a trap for us, and it’ll be over. He’ll never expect us to show

up at the masque.’

Behind me, someone clears his throat. I turn around and

see John standing in the doorway. He looks as he did the

night I first met him: face pale, eyes shadowed, clothes

wrinkled as if he slept in them. Or didn’t sleep at all. The

sight of him makes my stomach tumble wildly.

‘How are you feeling?’ he says to me.

‘I – I’m fine.’ I’m surprised he’d bother asking. ‘Thank

you.’

He nods and turns to Humbert. ‘Horace returned with

some news.’ He holds out a letter. ‘It’s not good.’

Humbert takes the letter and scans it briefly. Then he

sinks into a chair, his head bowed.

‘What is it?’ Fifer says. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Nicholas,’ John says. ‘He’s dying.’

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Immediately, Fifer bursts into tears.

‘What happened?’ I say.

‘He took a turn for the worse,’ John says. ‘The healers in

Harrow say he won’t make it through the week.’

‘We have to do something,’ Fifer wails. ‘We can’t let

him die!’

‘He’s not going to die,’ I say. ‘Because I’m going to the

masque to destroy the tablet.’

‘Elizabeth—’ Humbert starts again.

‘No,’ I say. ‘You have to do what I want, remember?

That’s how the prophecy works. Whatever I want to do, we

do. And I want to go to the masque.’

Humbert is quiet for a minute. Then he nods.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘I’ll need a dress, a mask, and your

invitation. And a horse to get to port.’ I turn to John.

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‘Where’s the nearest one?’

John thinks a moment. ‘There are a couple. Hackney