The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(2)

John, it says. Shirts don’t launder themselves, do they? Then she would ruffle my hair before picking it up and handing it to me. As if on cue, I’m gasping for air again.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for four.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. Writing it down won’t help. There’s no sense in it. I don’t need to tell myself how I’m coming apart; I already know it. Melancholia, the healers call it. An episode, Fifer calls it. But whatever you call it, the meaning is the same.

I’m losing my goddamned mind.

I walk to my bed, crawl on top of the covers. Think about my breathing, only about my breathing. I lie there I don’t know how long before finally, I start to relax. I never got dressed. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t know what matters anymore.





2



He pounds on the door, the noise sending me to my feet.

“God’s nails,” I mutter. “I’m coming.” I fling open the door. Father stands on the threshold, fully dressed, the air of tobacco and brandy hanging over him like a cloud. The collar on his white linen shirt is fraying; there’s a button missing, a stain on the lapel. I make a note to myself to wash and mend it for him.

“What’s with all the racket?” I say. “You could have just walked in, you know.”

Father raises his dark brows. “If I recall, the last time I did that you asked me ever so politely to knock from now on.”

I wince a little at the admonishment. The last time he came in without knocking I threw a book at him.

“Ugh,” I groan, and rub my face.

“Rough night?” He looks me over. At my missing shirt, my wrinkled trousers. I don’t need a mirror to know my hair is standing on end. I can’t remember the last time I cut it. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“I’m fine.” I shrug. “Just up late. Studying.” I wave my hand at the pile of books on the desk.

It’s quick, but I catch it anyway: Father’s furrowed brow, the one that says he’s grown tired of asking me if I’m fine because I always say yes, tired of asking me if I want to talk because I always say no. I don’t know when I stopped wanting to talk to him, but it’s no doubt the same reason I don’t want to write in that journal. I’m afraid of what I might say.

“Ah.” He’s smiling now, pretending as I do. “Ever the scholar. Well, if you can’t remember to sleep, perhaps you’ll remember to eat? You look a bit peaked.” He looks me over again and frowns.

I nod.

“There’s food downstairs. Might want to clean up. We’re leaving soon.”

“Leaving?” I rub my face again. I couldn’t sleep when I needed to, and now that I want to I can’t. “Where are we going?”

“To see Nicholas Perevil.”

Nicholas Perevil. The most powerful wizard in Anglia and the leader of the Reformists, what they—we—who support magic call ourselves. Father joined them two years ago and since then, he’s constantly doing things for Nicholas: running errands, attending meetings, carrying messages. But he always does it alone, never brings me along. I’m about to ask why it’s different this time when he says, “Actually, you’re the one going to see Nicholas Perevil.”

“Me?” I say. “Why?”

“He’s looking for a healer.”

“A healer?” I echo. “Is he ill?”

Father looks at the ceiling then. He blinks once, twice, and even before he says a word I know he’s lying. “He’s got some health issues.”

“Health issues,” I echo again. “But why me? I mean, there’s any number of healers in Harrow who can help him, healers far more experienced than me. Galen Bray—”

“—is a pompous ass and you know it.”

“Fine.” I feel my mouth tilt up in a smirk. “What about Servetus? He’s not an ass.”

“No. But John, he’s nearly seventy. The man can’t see more than two feet in front of him. The last time he saw Nicholas he mixed up his potions, gave him something meant for a woman going through her change of life. His voice went up an octave overnight.”

My smirk threatens to give way to a smile. “All right. Not Servetus. But there are others—”

“And he’s seen them all,” Father interrupts. “Nicholas wants you. He says you have a gift.”

“A gift?” My near smile turns into a frown. “I haven’t given anyone a reason to say that.”

“You’ve done plenty, and don’t ever think otherwise. What you did for Gareth’s son, for one.”

“Gareth’s son died.”

Father smiles then. A genuine smile, one that makes wrinkles form around his dark eyes, making him look older than he really is. Or as old as he actually is, a reminder that he, too, will die; maybe sooner, maybe later. Then I really will be alone, with everyone in my family dead but me.

“You did more than anyone else could,” Father continues. “Gareth went through twelve healers before coming to you.”

There are only twelve other healers in Harrow.

“You never told me I was his last resort,” I say.