The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(19)

George stands up and stretches.

“Where are you going?”

“To get Nicholas.”

“What? No. Why?”

George gives me a look I can’t quite read. “He just wants to talk to you. Asked me to get him as soon as you woke.” He crosses the room and reaches his hand down for me. I stare at it a moment, then let him pull me to my feet. “He’ll explain everything. I’ll be right back.” The door closes behind him with a quiet thump.

I pace the room, trying to control my nerves. I’m in the home of the most dangerous criminal in Anglia, and all he wants to do is talk? Right.

If George had said Nicholas wants to tie me to a chair and beat me until my eyeballs roll, that I could believe. Drench me in water and put me outside until I freeze to death? Sure. Pour molten lead on my skin. Split my knees, crush my fingers in a thumbscrew, saw off my limbs. Really, the possibilities are endless. Talking is the least likely one of all.

Worse still: What if he performs some kind of spell on me? I think about his coming to me here, the way he came to me in my cell. Multiplying, surrounding, overpowering. I’ve never seen magic like that before. Never known it was possible. I give a little shiver. Because as much as I hate to admit it, it frightens me.

He frightens me.

I sit back down on the bed then. Look around. There’s a fireplace behind the chair where George was sleeping, the fire low but warm. A soft carpet covers the wood floor. The bed is big and soft, the bedcovers lavender-scented and clean. Then I realize, so am I. My filthy dress is gone, replaced by a simple linen shift. It dawns on me that however long I’ve been here, whatever Nicholas Perevil wants from me, I haven’t been ill-treated.

Yet.

I don’t know what to do. I can’t run, can’t hide. My first instinct is to fight, but I can’t do that, either. Not without giving myself away. I don’t know what they know about me; I don’t even know what they want with me. But if I want to get out of here, I’d better find out both.

There’s a soft rapping on the door, and before I can respond, Nicholas walks into the room, George close behind.

He’s rumpled from sleep and looks even older than I remember. He’s got a dark blue dressing gown on, pulled tightly at the waist. He looks me over, then gives me a quick nod. He’s so thin I can see the cords in his neck, the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I say. It’s true. Maybe a little weak, and my chest hurts when I breathe. I’m pretty thirsty. Okay, I could eat. But other than that, I really am fine.

Nicholas smiles, as if he’s reading my thoughts.

“We have John to thank for that,” he says. “He has a gift.” With a little groan, he sits in the chair where George had been sleeping. George hovers behind him, looking protective. “And so, Elizabeth, you want to know why you’re here.”

It’s a statement, not a question. I nod.

Nicholas starts to speak when there’s a soft tapping on the door. George goes to open it. In walks a young man carrying two pewter goblets. They’re steaming slightly, sending tiny puffs of white smoke into the air. He hands one to Nicholas, who grasps it gratefully. Then he walks over to me with the other.

“Elizabeth, this is John Raleigh, our healer,” Nicholas says.

Healer? I frown. I can’t help it. For the most part, healer is just another word for wizard. He holds out the goblet to me. I don’t take it.

“It’s angelica and burdock,” he tells me.

I shrug. If it’s not an herb that can poison or kill, I don’t know it.

“It’s just a blood purifier. Plus something to help your stomach. That’s all.” A pause. “Well, I added in a little cucumber for your fever, some burnet and elm for your cough. A bit of oat for your rash. Mugwort, too, because you have fleas. And a couple of drops of poppy, just to help you relax. But that really is it. I swear.”

He smiles then. It’s a nice smile, warm and friendly. Not the smile of someone who wants to fill me with poison and watch me drop to the carpet and foam at the mouth and twitch out a slow, agonizing death in front of him. Still, when he offers the goblet again, I don’t take it.

Maybe he knows what I’m thinking, because he says, “If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have given you anything at all. You’ve been drinking it since you got here.”

I look at George. I don’t know why, but I feel that if I were about to drink a fat batch of poison, he would tell me. Or at least make a joke about it beforehand.

He nods.

I snatch the goblet from the healer’s hand and drink the whole thing in one swallow. It tastes like celery.

John laughs a little, as if I’ve done something funny. He doesn’t look like a typical healer, at least the ones I’ve seen. Most of them are old, gray, and toothless. Not to mention female. But he’s young, my age. Maybe a bit older. Longish dark curly hair, hazel eyes. Tall. A little scruffy, as if he needs a shave. But maybe that’s because it’s the middle of the night. When I hand him back the goblet, I notice his shirt is buttoned up wrong.

He takes it and goes to check on Nicholas, who doesn’t need an explanation of what’s in his cup. But I wonder what is. He places his hand on Nicholas’s forehead, then around his wrist. He frowns.

“Not too long, all right?” John looks at me. “That goes for you, too.”