The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(21)

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, innocent girl voice. “This is a lot to take in. I think I’m still sick. Perhaps if I had a bit more rest…”

“Of course,” Nicholas says, moving to stand. George helps him to his feet. “I understand this has been very trying for you. We can talk in the morning.”

“I think I’ll feel much better by then,” I say. When I’m halfway to Upminster, that is.

George walks Nicholas to the door. “Good night, Elizabeth,” he says quietly. “Sleep well.” Then he’s gone.

I look down to hide my smile. No wonder these Reformists haven’t been able to take over. They’re far too trusting.

When I look up, George is watching me intently.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, closing the door. From the inside.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d stay. You know. Since you’re so upset and all.” He settles back in the chair, propping his feet on the stool and pulling the blanket over him. Then he closes his eyes. I swear I see him smirk.

Not too trusting at all, then.





I COULD KILL HIM, OF course; Blackwell has no rule against killing fools. Especially when the fool isn’t a fool at all but a Reformist and a spy. I could do it here. I could do it now.

But George won’t go down without a fight. He’ll call for help and there’s no telling who will answer. Wizards, undoubtedly. Reformists, naturally. Spies, witches, healers, God only knows who else is in this house. No matter what, there are more of them than there are of me. I’m not strong enough to fight all of them at once, then make it back to Upminster. Not the way I am now. I have no clothes, no coat, no weapons. I don’t even have shoes. It’s one thing to escape under these conditions. To fight in them, another thing entirely.

All I can do now is watch and wait. Watch my surroundings, watch my back. Wait to get stronger, wait for an opportunity to present itself. It always does.

Satisfied with my plan, I slip under the warm covers. Within moments, I’m asleep.

When I wake next, it’s daytime. George is standing in front of the fireplace, poking at a log with his toe. He’s fully dressed, wearing green trousers, a red-and-white-striped shirt, and some sort of vest.

“Good afternoon,” he says without turning around.

I roll my eyes. “Am I ever going to get rid of you?”

“Is that any way to greet your new best friend?” He turns around and gives me a grin. The front of his vest is brightly embroidered in red, green, and blue, and he’s wearing a gold brooch with an enormous red feather sticking out of it.

“You look like a Yule tree. You know that, right?”

“Wait ’til you see my hat,” he says. “Now get up. I’m starving and tired of waiting around for you.”

“What time is it?”

George sniffs the air hopefully. “Smells like supper. You hungry?”

“Not really,” I say.

Oddly, I’m not as hungry as I should be, given that I haven’t eaten in… I have no idea how long.

He nods. “John’s been adding things to your potions—infusions and whatnot—so you wouldn’t starve. I guess you’re still full from breakfast.”

I feel my eyes go wide. “Breakfast? He came in this morning?”

“Aye, he said he would. Remember?”

“I remember him saying he would. I don’t remember him actually doing it.” I frown. “How can you people come in and make me drink things without me knowing? Or remembering? That’s not right.”

George looks at me solemnly. “Maybe not. But the day you got here, we thought you were dead. You looked it; you were damn near to it. John stayed with you, made sure you didn’t die. He didn’t sleep for nearly three days.”

Three days? My stomach twists with an uncomfortable mix of gratitude, guilt, and something else I can’t name. I don’t know what to say.

“Anyway, when he couldn’t stay awake any longer, I stepped in,” George continues. “He wanted someone with you, in case you had a relapse.”

“It still doesn’t explain why I don’t remember any of this.”

“Ah.” George’s mouth twitches into a smile. “As I say, you looked pretty bad when you got here, so John brewed something up. He held you, tried to get you to drink it. As soon as the cup touched your lips, you went completely mental.”

“I did?”

“Aye. Started thrashing, screaming, cursing. You have a mouth like a pirate, you know that? It’s not very ladylike.”

In the most unladylike way possible, I tell him what he can do with his opinion.

He cracks a laugh. “Poor John. You kicked him in the stomach, drenched him with his own medicine, then banged him on the head with your cup. He brewed you more but this time added something to calm you down.” He smirks. “Knocked you out a bit, but it worked.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh yes. No more privy-mouth Lizzie. Got real sweet after you drank it, all smiles and sugar. We decided that version of you was easier to manage, so we kept giving it to you. Do you know you talk in your sleep?”

“I do not,” I say, horrified.