Witch Hunter (37 page)

want to think about it anymore. I open my eyes and look

at John. He’s sitting with his back against the railing, his

legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back,

watching the sky.

‘Is this really your ship?’ I say.

He lowers his head to look at me. ‘Yes.’

‘How?’ I say. ‘I mean, I thought you didn’t want to

be a pirate.’

‘I don’t.’ He shrugs. ‘But when my father joined the

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Reformists, he got rid of all his ships. All except this one.

It was his favourite. He gave it to me, I guess in hopes I’d

change my mind. I didn’t, but I still didn’t want to give it

up. So I hired someone to run it for me.’

‘Oh.’ I think a minute. ‘But if it’s your ship, why did you

have to pay the captain to come on board?’

A small smile crosses his face. ‘Because he’s still a pirate,’

he says. ‘He’s ruthless and crass, and he’s not known for

his charity. But I trust him, and I like him. In the end, that

is all that matters.’

I close my eyes again. Finally, with the soft rocking of

the ship, the strains of off-key music, and John’s steady

presence beside me, I fall asleep.

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I’m jolted awake, the sudden rocking of the ship rolling me

off my bag. I open my eyes and peer through the railing.

The skies are cloudy and grey, the waters choppy. Around

me, the others are just starting to stir. Fifer and Schuyler are

huddled together, talking in low voices. George is yawning,

buried underneath his blanket and shivering.

I sit up and pull my own blanket tighter around my

shoulders. A sharp, cold wind blows across the deck, lifting

my hair and whipping it across my face.

‘Where’s John?’

‘He went to get food,’ George replies. ‘And to find out

when we arrive. I hope it’s soon. If this boat doesn’t stop

rocking like this I’m liable to get sick.’

John appears then, the boat lurching as he walks up

the stairs. He winces and grabs the railing to steady himself.

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He sets the food down in front of us and hands me

a goblet.

‘Medicine,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not very good, but I didn’t

have a lot to work with. Might want to drink it while it’s still

hot. I can’t promise it’ll taste any better cold.’

‘Thank you.’ I take it from him. ‘What did you find out?’

‘We’re about four hours from Upminster. But there’s

a storm coming in, so it might take longer. Either way,

we should be there by sundown.’

John hands out the food – some bread and hard cheese

– and sits next to me.

‘I asked the captain to drop us off a mile downriver from

Blackwell’s,’ he says. ‘I know there will be other ships

around and we could probably blend in, but there’s no

sense in taking a chance.’ He looks at me. ‘I hope that’s all

right.’

I nod. ‘That’s good. Thank you.’ I tear off a piece of

bread but don’t eat it. I’m too nervous to have much of an

appetite. Judging by the way the others pick at their food, I

guess they’re not hungry, either.

‘It should be easy enough to get in,’ I say. ‘We only

have one invitation, but we can pass it back and forth.

Once we’re inside, we just need to blend in with everyone

else.’

Everyone else.

Malcolm, Blackwell, Caleb. Every witch hunter I’ve ever

known. Not to mention guards and servants and a hundred

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other people who might recognise me. I suppress a shiver

and keep going.

‘Once we’re inside, don’t try to hide. Blackwell is alert to

that sort of thing. Stay in the open, but try to avoid talking

to people as much as possible. The performance starts at

nine, and that’s when we’ll go down to the tomb.’

Schuyler puts an arm around Fifer. I don’t know what

she’s thinking, not the way he does. But by the way she

chews on her lip, I can guess.

‘Then you wait,’ I say. ‘You can’t do anything but. Stay

close by, but not too close. Act like guests and you’ll be fine.

No one will bother you. There are too many important

people at this masque for Blackwell to risk irritating

anyone. But if there’s any sign of trouble while I’m in there,

Schuyler, get them out.’

‘But what if something happens when you’re still inside?’

George says.

‘Then he’ll come back and get me.’ I look at Schuyler.

‘Right?’

Schuyler looks at me, his bright eyes darkening with

sudden understanding. ‘Whatever you want, bijoux.’

I turn to the others. ‘It’s not the best plan in the world,

but it’s good enough. As long as everyone sticks to it, we

should be fine.’

Except it’s all a lie.

Everything I’m telling them is a lie, and only Schuyler

knows the truth. He heard me thinking last night, listened

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to my thoughts, just as I wanted him to. He knows what

my real plan is. Knows that to keep the others safe, it’s the

only thing to do.

We sit in silence for a while. The ship continues to rock

back and forth, sails flapping furiously. A handful of men

run around the deck, roping down barrels and crates and

cannons to keep them from sliding overboard. Abruptly,

John jumps to his feet and walks away, striding quickly

across the deck and into the captain’s cabin. I look at

George, but he just shrugs.

I see the dark shape of land in the distance and know

we’ll be arriving soon.

‘We should probably get ready,’ I say. ‘Fifer, we’ll have to

change, but I don’t know where—’

‘You can use the captain’s cabin.’ I turn around to

see John standing above me, holding his bag. He looks

awful. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale. Even

his lips are pale. ‘But I need to check your stitches first.

We could do it here, but I thought you’d be more

comfortable inside.’

‘Okay.’ We walk across the deck, the boat still pitching

back and forth. I have to stop a few times to steady myself,

but John ploughs ahead. I follow him into the cabin.

Inside, it’s nothing but luxury. A carpet covers the

floor, velvet drapes surround the wide, square windows.

A wide oak table sits in the middle, surrounded by chairs.

At the far side of the cabin there’s a bed built into the

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wall, covered in plush bed coverings in different shades

of blue. Next to it, a small desk with a mirror mounted on

the wall above it.

‘Where do you want me?’ I say.

‘The table is fine.’

I climb on top of it and lie down, and John stands over

me. He looks at me a moment, then clears his throat.

‘I’ll, uh, I’ll need to see it.’

I pause, then pull up the hem of my tunic, exposing

my stomach. He’s seen me before. He’s a healer; he’s seen

a lot of people before. But this feels different. The cabin

feels warm, but maybe that’s the blush I can feel creeping

up my neck, into my cheeks. I turn towards the window

so he can’t see.

John leans over me and begins to unwrap the bandage,

his fingers brushing my skin like a caress. My heart is

pounding so furiously, it’s a wonder he can’t hear. Or

maybe he can.

‘This looks good,’ he says after a minute. ‘I expected

worse. Maybe your stigma helped after all. I don’t know.

But for someone with thirty-two stitches—’

‘Thirty-two?’ I turn to face him. ‘You gave me thirty-two

stitches?’

He nods. ‘It was bad. I thought you were going to die. If

that blade had gone half an inch deeper, you would have.

If you had, I—’ He stops, busying himself with bandaging

me up again.

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‘What?’

‘I don’t know. I just didn’t want you to die.’ He looks at

me. ‘I know what you are now, but that doesn’t change

anything. I still don’t want you to die.’

The ship gives an enormous lurch then, pitching forward

and rocking from side to side. I grip the edge of the table

to keep from rolling off. John places his hands firmly

on the surface, his head bowed. I can hear him breathing.

Deep, slow, even breaths, the way he did after he stitched

me up.

‘What is it?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’

He doesn’t answer. But there’s another lurch and he

slumps into a chair beside me.

‘Do you mind if I sit?’ he whispers. He reaches under

the table and slides out his bag and starts digging through

it. He pulls out a knife and – of all things – a lemon. He

quickly slices it in two, holding one half to his nose and

breathing deeply.

I watch him, my eyes wide. ‘What are you doing?’

He still doesn’t answer. He just sits there, breathing in

the lemon. The sharp, tangy scent fills the tiny cabin. Finally,

he speaks.

‘Remember when you asked why I wasn’t a pirate, like

my father?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s because I get seasick.’ He looks at me then, his face

as grey and colourless as the sky and sea outside. ‘Horribly,

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violently seasick. In fact, it’s all I can do not to throw up on

you right now.’

He sets the lemon on the table and smiles a little, so I

know he’s joking. But probably not much. He looks awful.

‘My father and I tried everything. Draughts, spices,

herbs. But nothing worked. The only thing that takes the

edge off is a lemon. When I was a kid, I used to squeeze the

juice all over my clothes. It helps a lot, but it stains them

terribly. It would make my mother crazy.’

I remember the drink Bram gave me at the party. The

one he said would taste like the one thing I wanted most

in the world. The one that tasted like lemons and spices,

the one I thought tasted like shandygaff. The one I thought

was meant to remind me of Caleb. But it wasn’t Caleb.

It was John.

I feel a sickness then, one that’s got nothing to do with

the sea. There’s a churning in my stomach and a terrible,

hollow ache in my chest. I need to say something to him,

but I don’t know what.

‘Whatever happens tonight, I just want to say thank

you,’ I finally manage. ‘For taking care of me. For saving my

life. I know that can’t make up for what I’ve done, but I

wish—’ I stop. There’s no point in saying what I wish.

‘Chime is very lucky,’ I blurt instead.

‘What?’ John jerks his head up. A stray lock of hair falls

into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to push it away. ‘What

did you say?’

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‘Chime,’ I say again. ‘I met her at the party. Fifer

introduced us. She said you were—’ I stop. A wave of pure

jealousy surges through me, so strong it makes me dizzy.

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘She’s not. We aren’t—’ He

breaks off.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

I don’t. I don’t know what’s happening. The only thing I

do know is that when I look at him, his face pale and drawn,

eyes shadowed and dark, he looks as miserable as I feel.

Without thinking, I reach my hand up to his face and brush

the hair off his forehead.

At my touch, his eyes widen in surprise. I freeze, feeling

foolish. What am I doing? I start to pull away, but before I

can, he catches my hand fast between both of his, wrapping

his fingers around mine and holding them tight.

We stay that way, just staring at each other, neither of us

speaking. I don’t feel that familiar sensation of fear or the

need to pull away. This time I feel something unfamiliar:

the need to hold on tighter.

Someone clears her throat. I look up and see Fifer

standing in the doorway, holding both of our bags. She

looks from John to me then nods, as if she’s come to some

kind of understanding.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she says. ‘But we need to start

getting ready.’

John drops my hand. He leans over his bag and hastily

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shoves everything inside: the lemon, the knife, the bandage.

Then, without a word, he gets up and leaves, pushing past

Fifer without a glance at either of us.

Fifer steps inside the cabin and shuts the door. She drops

our bags on the ground and begins pulling things out:

undergarments and gowns and slippers and jewellery.

I help her dress, lacing her into the same gown she

wore the first night at Humbert’s, the copper silk with the

green bodice. She moves to the mirror next to the bed and