The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(22)

He nods. “I’ve been with you every night and getting an earful. Swoony little maid, you are, going on about running off with some boy. Caleb, is it?”

Damnation.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly.

“It’s the stuff of romance books. Who needs knights in shining armor or handsome princes when you have Ca-leb?” He draws out his name in a singsong voice.

“It’s not like that.” I feel my face go hot again. “He’s a friend.”

Then I stop. If George bothers to ask around, he’ll realize exactly who Caleb is. And if he knows I’m friends with a witch hunter, it won’t be long before he knows that’s what I am, too. I can’t exactly lie and say I don’t know him, not after I talked about him in my sleep. The only thing I can do is put as much distance between us as possible.

“But I haven’t seen him in years,” I add quickly. “We grew up together. Worked in the kitchens together. I liked it; he didn’t. So we went our separate ways.” It’s not too far from the truth, anyway. “I guess I just miss him sometimes. You said yourself it looked as if I could use a friend.” This isn’t too far from the truth, either.

George walks over and sits down next to me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. But not to worry. You’ll make plenty of friends here. Charming girl like you, who can resist?”

“According to you, I kicked John and cursed out everyone in the room,” I say. “I would hardly call that charming.”

“It was.” He laughs. “The cursing was the best part. It’s funny to hear something so salty coming from someone who looks so sweet.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

George pulls me to my feet. “Come on. Get dressed so we can eat. There are clothes in the wardrobe. When you see John, be sure to tell him you’re sorry. That kick you gave him knocked him clear across the room.” Then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I cross the room, open the wardrobe. It’s empty inside, save for a single stack of clothing. A pale green silk tunic; tan close-fitting trousers. A wide brown belt and a pair of sturdy brown boots, both a size too big. A hairpin. Bronze and delicate, one end tipped with glittering green jewels, the other tapered into a sharp, deadly point. I twist my hair up into a knot and work it in. Then I step back and examine myself in the mirror fastened to the back of the wardrobe door.

I don’t like what I see.

The remnants of my illness are everywhere. In my skin, so pale I can see a network of bluish veins under the surface. In my eyes, the way the color seems to have faded, once bright but now a pale, watery blue. In my body, so thin I can see the ridges in my sternum, exposed by the deep V of the tunic. Even my hair seems muted: a weak, tired blond.

There’s no hint of the strength I worked so hard to build. No hint of the training I went through to get it. Nothing at all to show that, for a time, I was one of the best witch hunters in Anglia. Instead, I look fragile. Sickly. If I look better now than when I arrived, it’s no wonder they thought I was going to die. I think again of the healer and feel another pang of gratitude, guilt, and the feeling I couldn’t place before that now has a name: doubt.

John used magic to heal me. If he hadn’t, I’d be lying stiff and blue in that bed, the way that witch lay stiff and blue in my cell. Magic is wrong—I know this. Blackwell drilled into us, over and over, the danger of it. I spent two years fighting it, seven years recovering from it. I’m still not recovered. But if Caleb had been the one to pull me out of Fleet, if he’d seen how sick I was, would he have done whatever it took—even if it meant using magic—to keep me alive? Or would he simply have let me die?

I slam the wardrobe door harder than necessary and meet George in the hallway. It occurs to me that I have no idea how long I’ve been here.

“Two weeks, give or take,” George says as we walk to the stairs.

Two weeks. Of course, Caleb knows I’ve escaped. Is he pleased? Worried? I don’t know why he didn’t come back to get me, but something must have happened. For the first time, it occurs to me he might be in danger. What if Blackwell thinks he had a hand in my escape? What if he’s been arrested? What if he’s being tortured?

The thought distresses me so much that I careen into the wall, smacking into a heavy, gold-framed painting.

“Easy.” George reaches behind me to straighten it. “You all right?”

“Fine,” I say. “I guess I’m just nervous. You know?”

The words come out without thinking, but I realize they’re true. I am nervous. Facing all these people, dining with them. The wizard who rescued me, the boy who healed me, the girl who bathed me, the fool who befriended me. I’m indebted to each of them in some way, yet they are my enemies. They’ve shown me kindness, yet I’m prepared to kill them. The whole thing is so confusing that it curls my stomach into a hard, tight knot.

“Aye.” He turns to me with a sympathetic smile. “If it gets to be too much, just excuse yourself. Say you aren’t feeling well. Everyone will understand.”

“I’ll be fine.”

George stares at me a moment.

“Take a look around,” he says, spreading his arms. “I know you’re used to the king’s palace, but this is quite a fine home, too. Take this rug, for example.” He gestures to the rug that runs the length of the hall. It’s beautiful, woven in shades of dark blue, yellow, and green. “It was woven by a blind woman with a missing arm. Amazing, isn’t it? It’s over five hundred years old. Of course, it took her that long to finish it…”