Witch Hunter (38 page)

fixes her hair, pulling it away from her face, little ringlets

falling down around her freckled cheeks. Her bruise is still

evident, but she manages to hide most of it with powder.

She spins to face me. ‘Well?’

‘You look pretty,’ I say.

‘We’ve got some work to do on you, though.’ She eyes

me critically. ‘You’re pale and your hair is a fright.’ She

snatches my things off the floor: the blue dress with the bird

embroidered on the front, the matching hair combs, the

jewellery. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

After what seems like forever, Fifer finishes with me. I

look at my reflection in the mirror and, I have to say, I don’t

look too bad. By some miracle, she’s managed to tame my

hair. It’s smooth and shiny and falls over my shoulders in

soft waves. She pinned back the sides with the combs, just

the way Bridget did, even added a bit of colour to my cheeks

and lips to hide how pale I am.

‘Don’t forget these.’ She hands me the sapphire earrings

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and matching ring. The one Humbert asked me to wear. I

slip it on my finger. In the cabin’s dim light, I can just make

out the tiny heart etched underneath.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For someone marching to her

untimely demise, I don’t look half bad.’ I mean it as a joke,

but Fifer scowls.

‘We won’t leave you there,’ she says.

‘I might not make it out,’ I say.

‘But we won’t leave you there.’ She gestures at the door.

‘Come on. The others are waiting.’

Outside, dusk is approaching and the clouds are

beginning to part, revealing the bright moon behind them.

John, George, and Schuyler stand by the door.

Schuyler is dressed in his usual black, George in all blue.

Without all the feathers and brooches and bright-coloured

clothing, I almost don’t recognise him. John has on black

trousers and a white shirt under a black jacket trimmed in

red. But his hair is still tousled, the wind blowing curls

across his forehead and into his eyes. I realise I’m staring at

him, but then he’s staring right back at me.

Schuyler tips his head back and groans. ‘Not this again,’

he says. ‘I don’t know how much more of it I can take.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I turn to him.

‘You. Him. This.’ Schuyler waves his hand between John

and me. ‘All these feelings. Flapping about the ship like

frantic birds in a cage. Love! Hate! Lust! Fear! Ugh. I feel as

if I’m trapped inside an Aegean tragedy.’ He glances at

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George. ‘You’re not going to start singing, are you?’

George grins. But I look away, my face flaming.

‘Shut it, Schuyler,’ Fifer says softly. ‘Let’s just show them

and get on with it.’

Schuyler pulls several pieces of paper from his coat. A

piece of parchment, a wilted ticket, fragments of a map.

‘How many?’ Fifer says.

‘Four,’ Schuyler replies. Then he takes the parchment

and rips it in half. ‘Now five.’

‘Good.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheet of

thick, creamy paper. I recognise it immediately. The delicate

black script on the front, the bright red rose stamped on

the top: the invitation to Malcolm’s masque. She takes the

ragged pieces of paper from Schuyler’s hand and stacks

them on the deck, one on top of the other. Then she takes

the invitation and places it on top.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We need an invitation to get inside the masque,’ Fifer

says. ‘I know you said we could pass the one back and forth,

but I figured out a better way.’ She reaches into her bag

again and pulls out her witch’s ladder. ‘Two knots left.’ She

holds up the length of black silk cording. ‘One of which is

going to come in really handy right now.’

‘Ah,’ George says. ‘That is a good idea.’

‘I thought so, too.’ Fifer unties the knot and places her

hand on top of the stack of paper. ‘Alter.’

I watch as the map, the ticket, and the two torn pieces of

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parchment shift and grow, changing shape and colour until

they become exact copies of the original invitation. Fifer

starts passing them out.

‘What kind of spell is that?’ I say. ‘Is it like the one

you did on the road to Humbert’s, turning the grass into

a hedge?’

‘The principle is the same, yes.’ She hands me an

invitation. The paper is slightly warm to the touch. ‘The

idea of taking something and turning it into something else

that’s similar. It’s called transference. It’s actually a very

handy spell. It needs a great deal of magic behind it, though.

I couldn’t do it without Nicholas’s help.’ She holds up the

cord and gives it a little shake. ‘He can transfer almost

anything into anything else. It’s pretty amazing.’

Just then a man comes up behind us. He claps John on

the back, and they shake hands. This must be the captain.

‘We dock in about fifteen minutes,’ he says. ‘Best to get

your things and wait by the plank. It’ll be a quick stop. No

need to stay here any longer than we have to.’ John thanks

him, and then he’s gone, striding across the deck and

barking orders at his men.

We gather our bags and the Azoth – I’ve got it fastened

under my skirt; it’s so long the blade nearly grazes the floor

– and cross the deck to the railing, watching as Blackwell’s

house looms into view.

From the river, it looks like a fortress. Four massive

stone slabs, impossibly tall and straight, form the outside

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walls. On each corner is an even taller domed tower, topped

with tiny flags, each emblazoned with a bright red rose.

Blackwell’s standard. Surrounding the house is another

enormous stone wall. It lines the riverbank, stretching on

for what seems like miles before turning inward to enclose

the rest of the house.

Set in the middle of the wall is a single, small iron

gateway, leading from the river into the moat within. Most

of the time it’s closed. But this evening it’s open, like an

enormous, gaping iron-toothed jaw. I can almost feel it

waiting to devour me.

Normally Blackwell’s home stands empty. But tonight

it’s crowded with ships of all sizes and shapes, carrying

passengers from all over Anglia. Further upriver are

smaller barges, carrying people from their homes in

Upminster. As they grow closer, I can hear the oarsmen

beating time on their drums. Thump. Thump. Thump. It

sounds like a heartbeat.

We slide into port. Two men rush over and quickly

lower the gangplank, and it lands with a muffled thud on

the dock below.

‘Quickly, please,’ one of the men says, waving us on.

‘This is it,’ George whispers. ‘Masks on.’ He slips his over

his head: a plain black one. That took some convincing. The

mask he wanted to wear was turquoise and covered in

peacock plumes. ‘If you wear that, it’ll take anyone five

seconds to realise it’s you,’ John had pointed out.

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I pull my mask out of my bag, the black one with the

pink feathers, and tie it on.

The five of us walk down the bridge. The second we step

foot on the dock, the gangplank is whisked back up and the

boat glides away, disappearing down the river, back to sea.

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‘Invitations?’ A dark-uniformed guard extends a white-

gloved hand to us.

We’re standing at the top of a wide set of stone stairs

that lead from the dock to the entrance of Blackwell’s home.

The walls loom over us, damp and black with mould.

John hands over our magically altered invitations. I feel

a squeeze of fear – What if he can tell somehow? – but he

only nods.

‘Enjoy your evening.’

‘Thank you,’ John says. He takes my arm then, steering

me down the path in front of us.

I look around, impressed despite myself. Before tonight,

this landing was never anything special. Just an expanse of

dirt and scattered rocks, a nothing space that led from the

water gate to the second gate of the inner ward. But now it’s

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covered in grass and a freshly laid gravel path, lined with

enormous potted trees and lit with a thousand candles.

Musicians are stationed in the centre of the clearing,

strumming lutes and playing the pipes. The light, cheerful

music seems completely out of place here.

John looks around, his eyes wide through his mask. His

is plain black, too, just like George’s. Humbert was able to

round up only two like that. The rest were covered with

feathers or jewels or fur. George got the first plain mask;

John and Schuyler threw dice for the second. Schuyler lost.

Somewhere behind me walks an annoyed revenant sporting

a hideous, furry, cat-shaped mask.

For a moment I feel relief that we made it safely inside. I

half expected Blackwell’s guards to be on us by now,

slapping us in irons and hauling us away, into the dungeon

or God knows where else, never to be seen again. But that’s

not his way. If he knows we’re here, he’ll wait. Wait until

we’re cornered and helpless and then – only then – will he

strike. Hard and fast to knock us to our knees, to make us

beg, make us wish we were already dead.

That is his way.

We pass through the second gate, into the rose garden.

This garden is Blackwell’s most treasured possession. There

are over a hundred species of roses here, carefully cultivated

to bloom year-round, even in wintertime. Normally, they’re

kept under blankets in the cold months to keep away the

chill. But tonight they’re uncovered, beautiful and bright in

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shades of red, pink, yellow, and orange.

Guests stroll along the gravel paths that wind through

the bushes, pointing and gasping at the array of topiaries

that spring from the ground. Enormous shrubs carefully

trimmed into towering pyramids, perfect circles, boxy

squares, sometimes all three, one shape stacked on top

of another. Others are pruned into animal shapes: owls,

bears, even elephants, and their enormous green eyes

stare unblinkingly as we pass. The hedge maze generates a

lot of excitement, too. But after training, I rather lost my

taste for them.

Soon the servants appear and begin ushering us inside.

We follow them from the garden down a long stone

walkway and through an enormous stone archway, into

the main entrance hall. We trudge up the long staircase,

through one of the many sets of doors that open into the

great hall.

The great hall is just that: great. Three hundred feet long,

a hundred feet wide. I can’t begin to guess how tall the

ceilings are. The walls are covered in rich tapestries: scenes

of hunters on horseback, carrying spears and bows and

arrows. But instead of the usual quarry – deer, boar, or wolf

– they’re hunting people. Specifically, witches and wizards.

There’s even one that features witch hunters roasting their

kill on a spit.

I wish I could spare John the sight of that.

We push through the room. An energetic tune fills the

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air, but it’s nearly drowned out by the sound of hundreds of

guests milling about, gossiping, dancing, or huddled in

groups along the window seats.

There are masks of every shape and type. Some are plain

or lightly decorated, like George’s and John’s. Others

resemble the heads of bears, wolves, and tigers, their mouths

opened wide in toothy snarls. Some masks are covered in

feathers of every colour imaginable, others adorned with

precious stones: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and even

diamonds. I even see a few full-face masks, their fixed

expressions grotesque, almost sinister. Especially since you

don’t know who might be underneath them.

I glance at the ornate clock mounted above the stage.

Eight fifteen. In thirty minutes, I’ll put my plan into place.

That’s when I’ll excuse myself, tell the others I’m going to

the privy. In reality, I’ll be going to the tomb. At nine, just

as the masque starts, Schuyler will tell the others I’ve called

for them. He’ll lead them outside, only instead of finding

me, they’ll find Peter, waiting with a ship outside the

gate. Then Schuyler will have slipped away to meet me, and

he and I will destroy the tablet. Afterwards, if I’m alive,

Schuyler and I will catch up to them.

But I don’t count on being alive.

‘I don’t like this.’ Fifer looks around. ‘All these people, I