Witch Hunter (39 page)

feel as if they’re all looking at us.’

‘They’re not,’ John says. ‘It just feels like it because you’re

nervous. Try to calm down.’

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‘How can I calm down? Have you seen all these

tapestries?’ Fifer bites her nails. ‘I feel as if I might be sick.

Maybe if I get some air—’

‘You can’t,’ John replies. ‘We stick to the plan. And that

means staying put until the masque starts.’

‘Let’s find a place to sit,’ I say. ‘Somewhere close to an

exit so we can slip out unnoticed.’ I spot an open area by the

set of doors we came in through. You can’t see or hear

much from this far away, but that doesn’t matter.

We push through the crowd, and I feel people’s eyes on

me as we pass. Fifer is right – they are watching us. Then

one boy – man? Hard to tell through the mask – after

another steps up, sketches a quick bow, asks me to dance.

As politely as I can, I turn them down. But the attention is

starting to make me nervous.

‘What’s going on?’ George whispers.

‘I don’t know,’ I whisper back. ‘Maybe they think I’m

someone else? I’m not sure—’

‘It’s your dress,’ John says. ‘The bird on the front. It’s

that duchess’s symbol. Humbert’s friend. Remember?’

Of course. The silver bird embroidered on the front of

my dress, the symbol of the House of Rotherhithe. How

could I have forgotten? That’s who everyone thinks

I am: Cecily Mowbray, the Duchess of Rotherhithe’s

granddaughter. A lady-in-waiting to Queen Margaret, a

lady in her own right, Caleb’s friend. Blond and petite, just

like me.

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Another boy approaches me. But before he can finish his

bow, John grabs my hand and pulls me into the throng of

dancers. He places one hand on my back, takes my hand

with the other, and pulls me to him. Together we move

slowly, quietly, in time with the music.

I should be thinking about Malcolm, who is somewhere

in this crowd. I should be thinking about Blackwell, about

Caleb, who is here, too. I should be thinking about my plan,

the tomb, the tablet… Instead, all I’m thinking about is

John. The smell of lavender and spice, the faint trace of

lemons. The way he looks at me, the press of his body

against mine, so close I can feel the rapid beat of his heart.

It matches my own.

‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt.

‘What are you sorry for?’ he says softly.

I shake my head. I’m sorry for nothing, I’m sorry for

everything; I’m sorry for the impossible way I feel about

him, for the impossible hope he might feel the same. But I

know I can’t tell him that.

‘I know how hard it must be for you to help someone

you hate,’ I say instead.

He pulls back a little, tilts his head down, looks at me.

‘I don’t hate you,’ he whispers. ‘Maybe I should. But I

can’t. Because I know you now. And the you I know – brave

and strong, but still so frightened and vulnerable – isn’t

someone I can hate. That person, I can only—’ He breaks

off, unable to find the words.

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‘It’s okay,’ I whisper back. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’ He looks down at me. Slides his hand along

my cheek and lifts my face to meet his, so close our lips are

an inch apart. Less. He dips his head. I can feel his breath

on my skin.

Then he kisses me.

I forget about everything: my fear, my plan – I even

forget about the tablet. All that matters is the feel of his lips

on mine, his hands on my face and in my hair, the sense of

safety he gives me. I never want it to end.

At the sound of applause, we leap apart; I hadn’t realised

the music had stopped. John stares at me, eyes wide through

his mask, his lips parted, the shock on his face evident.

Shock at what? That he kissed me? Or shock that he felt

something, the same thing I felt? Still feel: thrill, desire,

hope, all tangled together in a breathless little knot.

He reaches for me; I step towards him. I feel a tapping

on my shoulder, but I ignore it, not wanting to turn away

from him. And when I feel it again, I turn around, a refusal

on my lips, thinking it’s another stranger confusing me with

someone else. But it’s not a stranger. Because the moment I

see his eyes, black as a snake’s even under his wolf-shaped

mask, I know who it is. I would recognise him anywhere.

Blackwell.

I feel the blood drain from my face, my arms, my legs. It

pools around my feet like cement, rooting them to the floor.

‘Miss Mowbray, I presume?’ Blackwell says. ‘I know it’s

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not the done thing to call you out before the unmasking.

But I simply couldn’t let a cherished guest go by without

offering a word of condolence.’

John sucks in a sharp, quick breath.

‘Thank you,’ I say. I keep my voice soft, hoping he won’t

recognise it.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother,’ he

continues. I nod, remembering Humbert mentioning the

duchess was ill. ‘Such a pity.’ I nod again, waiting for him to

excuse himself. But he doesn’t. John steps forward and takes

my arm, but Blackwell’s undeterred. ‘Might I persuade this

young man to allow me one dance?’

John pauses a beat too long. ‘Of course,’ he says, his

voice tight.

‘I’ll have her back soon,’ Blackwell adds carelessly.

He takes my arm and pulls me into the crowd. I look back

at the others, their masks unable to hide the horror on

their faces.

‘Enjoying your evening?’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, too horrified to speak. All I can wonder

is, does he really believe he’s dancing with one of the queen’s

ladies? Or does he know it’s me? Did he somehow figure it

out? I realise how stupid we were to think we could outsmart

him. Blackwell knows everything that happens in his home.

He knows everything that happens everywhere. I feel like a

fly, fluttering on the edge of a spider’s web. I could escape,

unharmed. But one false move and I’m dead.

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‘Good,’ he says, seemingly oblivious to my terror. We

dance along the hall, and I try my best to appear adept.

Or at least not trip over my feet. But he seems oblivious

to this as well. He barely seems to notice me. Instead,

he looks around the room, craning his neck as if he’s

searching for something. Finally, the music begins to wind

down. He leads me back to the doors, only on the opposite

side of the room from where the others stand waiting.

I can see their anxious faces bobbing through the crowd,

looking for me.

‘It was a pleasure,’ he says, releasing me. ‘Now if you’ll

excuse me, I’ve got some matters to attend to.’ I nod and

dip a curtsy, and Blackwell turns to leave. As I back away

from him, he turns around. ‘Oh, and Miss Mowbray?’

‘Y-yes?’ I stammer, too frightened to remember to

disguise my voice.

He pauses, and I see a flicker of something cross his eyes.

‘If you’re going outside for some air, do be careful. As

I understand it, we may have some unwanted guests

this evening. But don’t worry. My men are on it.’ Then

he’s gone.

For a moment, my mind goes blank with terror. Does he

know we’re here? Are we the unwanted guests? I don’t

know. But I know I need to get the others out of here. Now.

I don’t have time to wait until the masque starts, and I don’t

have time to wait for Peter. And if I’ve got any hope of

destroying the tablet, I’ve got to do that now, too.

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I look to where the others are standing and catch John

staring at me through the crowd. I’m sorry, I mouth. Then I

turn around. And I run.

I hurtle down the stairs, into the entrance hall. Lining

the walls is a series of arches, set about a foot or so into the

stone. They’re purely decorative, all except one. I go to the

third archway, place my hands against the flat stone surface,

and push. It slides open to reveal a wide stone tunnel

running the length of the great hall and beyond, all the way

to the other side of the palace.

I gather my dress and squeeze through, pulling the door

shut behind me.

‘Schuyler,’ I say. ‘Blackwell knows we’re here. Get the

others out and meet me in the woods in ten minutes.’

The tunnel ends in a simple wooden door. On the other

side is another staircase leading downstairs, into the

dormitory. I pause a moment, listening for voices. It’s just a

precaution; no one lives here anymore. But you never know.

I don’t hear anything, so I run down the stairs and into

my old room. It’s somewhat of a shock to see it again. Tiny,

windowless, dark. I never realised how much it looks like a

prison cell. I haven’t been here in nearly a year, though

you’d never know it. My bed is still unmade; one of my

uniforms lies crumpled on the floor. There are a few

weapons laid across the trunk at the end of the bed. It’s

almost as if I never left.

Quickly, I pull the Azoth from the scabbard under my

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skirt. Strip off my dress, yank the jewels from my ears and

the combs from my hair, grab my uniform off the floor. I

don’t really want to wear it, but I can’t destroy the tablet in

a dress. And the last thing I need is for someone else to

mistake me for Cecily Mowbray.

I pull on the tight black trousers, the wrinkled white

shirt, the knee-length black boots. Draw on the long tan

leather coat, fasten the leather straps across my chest.

After refastening the Azoth around my waist, I strap my

weapons belt over my shoulder and holster everything I can

find. A couple of large, serrated knives, a handful of daggers.

An ax and an awl. It’s not as much as I’d like, but it’s better

than nothing.

As I slip in the last dagger, my hand snags on something.

I look down and realise I’m still wearing Humbert’s sapphire

ring. I start to pull it off, and then remember what he told

me. It’s a lucky ring. I keep it on, just in case.

I climb the stairs and follow the tunnel to one of several

doors that lead outside. I can hear the bells in the courtyard

clock begin to chime.

Nine o’clock.

I move quietly across the shadowy grounds, past the

tennis court and the archery butts, the stables and the hedge

maze until I reach the edge of the grounds. It spreads out

before me, vast and dark. I remember all the things I’ve

faced out here and feel a tug of fear. There’s no telling who

or what is prowling around tonight.

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When I reach the forest, I take a sharp right, walking

along the tree line, heading in the direction of the river.

The last time I took this walk, I was on my way to my test.

I still remember hearing the echoes of ships as they

passed, the waves slapping against their hulls. The tomb is

somewhere near the water.

I hear the tiniest rustle of leaves, and I whirl around,

dagger drawn.

‘Easy, bijoux. It’s only me.’ Schuyler steps up beside me.

‘What happened? Did they get out?’

He nods. ‘On the dock as we speak.’

I huff a sigh of relief. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘The truth. Said Blackwell knew you were here, and you

were off to get the tablet.’

‘And?’

He shrugs. ‘And that’s it. They’re gone. Peter will be here

soon, and they’ll be safe. Just as you planned.’

It is what I planned. But what I didn’t plan was how their

being gone would make me feel. Empty. Hollow.

Alone.

I look up to find Schuyler watching me carefully. He

doesn’t say anything. He only nods.

We’re getting close to the tomb now; I can feel it. The air

is getting colder, my breath coming in little plumes, and the

woods are eerily silent. No crickets chirping, no owls

hooting, no mouse or rat rustling the odd branch or two.

There’s only silence.

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Then I see it. From the outside, it’s harmless. A simple

wooden door set into a patch of dying winter grass, partially

covered in a carpet of leaves. It’s so unremarkable that if

you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it.

‘Schuyler,’ I say. He had walked right past it.

He turns around, following my gaze. When his eyes

land on the door, he swears under his breath and exhales

loudly. I guess that’s just for emphasis. Revenants don’t

need to breathe.

I start to pull the Azoth from the scabbard. It’s halfway

out, the silver blade and the emerald hilt glinting in the