Witch Hunter (13 page)

we will be careful, as we always have. Elizabeth being

here doesn’t change anything. Blackwell will never stop

hunting us.’

‘That’s another thing,’ Gareth says. ‘It’s not Blackwell

after us now. He’s sent someone else. A new Inquisitor.

Someone called Caleb Pace.’

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I squeeze my glass so tightly that it shatters in my hand.

A lot of wine but very little blood splashes onto the

cream-coloured tablecloth, staining it a deep crimson. I let

out a gasp and shove my hand into my lap.

Caleb is the new Inquisitor?

The others – except for Gareth and Fifer – look at me

with alarm.

‘Elizabeth!’ Peter cries. ‘Are you all right?’

Am I all right? No. Definitely not. When did Caleb get

promoted to Inquisitor? Why? And if he’s the new

Inquisitor, what does that make Blackwell?

‘Let me take a look.’ John pulls a clean napkin off the

table and reaches for my hand. Another problem. If he sees

there’s no blood…

‘No.’ I yank my hand away. ‘Not here. It’s the blood.

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I may faint.’ I look down, trying to appear sick. It’s

not hard.

‘John, why don’t you take her upstairs?’ Nicholas says.

‘Hastings, can you bring him what he needs?’

As John rattles off a list of supplies, I feel a surge of heat

in my abdomen followed by a prickling sensation. The

wound is starting to heal. I tighten my fist around the

thick shards of glass, pressing them into my skin, wincing

as they cut deep, down to the bone. But it gets the blood

flowing again. John wraps his napkin gently around my

hand and helps me to stand.

‘Hold on,’ Fifer, so quiet throughout dinner, speaks up.

Her voice is raspy, almost gritty-sounding, a surprising

contrast to how young she looks. ‘This new Inquisitor. This

Caleb.’ She says his name as though it were anathema. ‘You

don’t know him, do you?’

I feel George’s eyes on me. Wondering if this is the same

Caleb I talked about in my sleep, the same Caleb I said was

my childhood friend. I spoke his name to Nicholas, too,

when I was inside Fleet.

I think about denying it. Then I remember what

Blackwell told us: if ever we got caught, tell the truth, as

much as doesn’t condemn you. The less you lie, the less

chance there is of confusing your own story. Not that it

mattered anyway. He also told us that if we ever got caught,

we were on our own.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know him.’

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The table around me goes still.

‘And?’

I take a breath. ‘And we were friends. Once.’

‘Friends,’ Gareth repeats. ‘You were friends with the

Inquisitor, and you didn’t think to tell anyone this?’

‘I didn’t know he was the Inquisitor,’ I say.

‘Don’t play games,’ Gareth snaps. His eyes fall to my

hand. ‘Is that why you broke the glass? Because you’re

friends with him still, in league with him? Because you plan

on escaping and leading him here? Is that why you stand

there, looking so shocked?’

I feel a hot blush climb up my cheeks. That was my plan,

of course, and now I feel caught. Cornered by the enemy

and exposed by my lies and I don’t know what to do.

‘I did tell someone about him,’ I say, finally. ‘I told

George. I told him Caleb and I grew up together, at the

palace. That we worked in the kitchen together.’

The others look at George for confirmation.

‘Aye. She did tell me that. Only…’ He clears his throat,

uncomfortable. ‘You didn’t tell me he was a witch hunter.’

I take another breath, force down the tide of panic rising

in my chest.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell you he was a witch hunter,

because I didn’t see any reason to.’

‘No reason—’ Gareth sputters.

Nicholas holds up a hand. ‘Let her speak.’

‘We were very young when we met,’ I say. ‘We both lost

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our parents. And for a long time, we only had each other.

Then we grew up. Caleb wanted to be a witch hunter;

I didn’t. So we drifted apart.’

‘You say you drifted apart,’ Nicholas says. ‘Yet you called

out for him, the day I came for you at Fleet. Why?’

I feel Nicholas’s eyes on me, and I turn to meet them

head on.

‘Because I was ill. Because I was in prison for a week and

no one came for me. Because I’ – my voice catches, and I

hate myself for it – ‘I was hoping that the first friend I ever

had would be the last person I ever saw. That’s all.’

No one says anything to this, so I continue.

‘I didn’t break the glass because I’m in league with him.

I broke the glass because I don’t like the idea of my

childhood friend coming after me to try to kill me.’

I look around the table. Nicholas and Peter watch me

closely, George, too; but they don’t look angry or suspicious.

John is still behind me, his arm still pressed against mine.

He hasn’t moved or shifted backwards. He’s done nothing

to make me think he’s angry or suspicious, either. Only

Gareth and Fifer look doubtful, but they looked that way

the moment I walked into the room.

‘I think she’s one of them,’ Gareth says. ‘A plant. A way

for them to try to infiltrate the enemy camp—’

‘Five people is hardly a camp,’ Peter remarks. ‘Six, if

we include you, and you’ve only just arrived.’

Gareth waves it away. ‘Then what do you make of

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her being friends with the Inquisitor?’

‘Elizabeth already explained that they’re not,’ Nicholas

replies. ‘The evidence of that is clear. Were they still friends,

he wouldn’t have left her to die in prison.’

The baldness of his words, the simplicity of them, hit me

like a slap to the face.

‘Nevertheless, she’s still acquainted with the enemy—’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Nicholas interrupts. His voice is

calm but final. ‘We can’t hold her accountable for what her

friend – former friend, rather – chose to become.’ He smiles.

‘Now, if you please, John, could you take Elizabeth upstairs?

Her hand is in dire need of attendance.’

I look down. The white napkin John used as a bandage is

now stained through with blood. The glass. I didn’t realise I

was still squeezing it.

John steers me out of the dining room, up the stairs,

down the hall, and past the endless expanse of paintings

and sconces. I don’t remember which door is mine, but he

does. We stop in front of one halfway to the end. John leans

around me to open it.

On the table beside the bed is a tray piled high: a bowl

of steaming water, bundles of herbs, an array of tiny

metal instruments, and a stack of clean white towels and

bandages. There’s even a pitcher of wine and a platter of

food. Yet for all that, there’s no place for us to sit. Well, no

place except the bed.

I glance at John, who surveys the scene with a slightly

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furrowed brow. After a beat, two, he clears his throat and

gestures towards it.

‘Do you, uh, is that all right…’ His gaze shifts around

the room as if he were wishing a set of chairs would

magically appear – or that he might disappear.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, and cross the room to the bed, made now

– the green coverlet pulled smooth and tight across

the mattress.

I perch on the edge, my feet firmly planted on the

floor as if this might somehow lessen the intimacy of sitting

on a bed with a boy I don’t know – or for that matter, one

I do know.

But my discomfort is nothing to the worry that

underneath the napkin my hand is beginning to heal, the

skin stitching itself together by the second.

John closes the door, pauses, then moves to sit beside

me, the mattress shifting under his weight and shifting me

along with it. We’re so close now our shoulders touch. He

looks at me, hesitates, then takes my hand.

‘Let’s have a look.’ He peels off the bloodstained napkin.

‘I thought it was magic,’ I blurt.

‘You thought what was magic?’

‘The platters. Downstairs. Before you told me about

Hastings, I thought it was magic.’

‘Oh. I guess it would look that way.’ He takes a pair of

tweezers from the tray. ‘Nicholas could do that, I suppose.

But he wouldn’t waste his energy, at least not now. Hold

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still.’ He pulls out the first shard of glass. I hold my breath,

willing the wound not to heal. At least not in front of his

very eyes.

‘Why not?’ I think of Nicholas’s face, grey and drawn.

Of the potions he’s always drinking, of the last spell he

performed on me inside Fleet, the one that faltered, then

failed. ‘Is it because he’s sick?’

John doesn’t reply. He just carries on working on

my hand.

But I keep going. ‘What’s wrong with him? Can’t you

heal him? I mean, if you can heal me, and I had jail fever,

then why not him? Jail fever is the worst thing out there.

Except maybe plague, but he doesn’t have that, I’d have

noticed. Is it sweating sickness? No, if it were that, he’d be

dead by now…’

I’m babbling, I know. Any second he’s going to notice

something’s not right. That my hand isn’t as cut up as it

should be. He’s going to put two and two together, and

when he does, I’m going to have to take him out. For some

reason, I don’t think I’ll enjoy it.

‘It’s not an illness, at least not in the way you’re thinking,’

John finally says. He drops the tweezers on the tray and

picks up the herbs, crumbling them carefully into the water.

I can’t believe it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.

‘It’s a curse.’

‘Nicholas is cursed?’ I’m surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t

be. Nicholas didn’t get to be the head of the Reformists

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without picking up a few enemies along the way.

‘Yes. That’s what’s making him sick. On the outside, it

looks like pneumonia. Which would be bad enough. But on

the inside, it’s much worse than that. It’s eating him up.

There are things I can do to make him feel better, but I can’t

make it go away.’ He takes my hand and gently places it

in the bowl. The water smells like mint and makes my skin

tingle pleasantly. ‘If we can’t find a way to stop it, eventually

it will kill him.’

If Nicholas died, the Reformist movement would

probably die along with him. The rebellions and protests

would end; things would go back to normal. Normal for

everyone except for Nicholas, the Reformists, and the

witches and wizards on the stake, I suppose.

And me.

I’m aware of John watching me, of my hand in the bowl

of warm, tingly water, of him still holding it, his long fingers

lightly wrapped around my smaller ones.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, because I can’t think of anything else to

say. ‘You seem very loyal to him. You all do. Your father—’

I’m cut off by John’s sudden grin. ‘What?’

‘Well, when sentences start with “your father”, they have

a tendency to not end well.’

I smile at that. I can’t help it.

‘Sorry,’ he continues. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘Nothing, really. Just that I’ve never heard of a Reformist

pirate before.’

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‘Ah.’ John pulls our hands from the water and dries

his with a flick of his wrist. ‘He’s the only one, at least

that I know of. Pirates aren’t generally known for being

political, are they?’

‘I guess not,’ I say. ‘When did he join? And why?’

He hesitates before replying.

‘It was about three years ago. Things were starting to get

bad, you know? Malcolm had just become king; Blackwell

had just become Inquisitor. The Thirteenth Tablet had just

been created. The burnings hadn’t started yet, but they

would soon enough.’

I swallow. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t brought it up.

‘Piracy isn’t exactly the safest profession anyway. He

travelled a lot, would be gone for weeks at a time. So he

quit. He didn’t think it was safe to leave us alone until

things got better.’

He stops, reaches for a bandage. Looks down, his eyes

resting on my hand, but they don’t really see it. They’re far

away, somewhere outside this room. I’m left wondering

who he meant when he said ‘us’.

‘Of course, things didn’t get better,’ he says, finally. ‘My

father wanted to help the Reformists fight back, but they

didn’t think he’d be useful. Or, if I’m being honest,