The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(23)

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes,” he says solemnly. “See, the key to investing in fine objects for your home is to find artisans with as many disadvantages as possible. Greatly increases the value.”

I roll my eyes, but he keeps going.

“See this portrait here?” He points to the one I nearly knocked off the wall, of a sour-faced woman. “It was painted by a dwarf. Had to stand on a ladder just to reach the easel. You know, paintings done by dwarves are triple the value of paintings done by regular-sized men.”

I feel a tiny smile creep across my lips.

“And these—” George gestures to the brass candlesticks fitted along the dark wood-paneled wall. They’re each shaped like a fleur-de-lis. “The blacksmith had no arms, no legs. Can you imagine? He used nothing but his teeth and tongue to forge those. That’s extraordinary. You can’t put a price on that.”

I laugh then. I can’t help it. George places his hand on my arm and we start back down the hall. He’s halfway through a story about a deaf lute maker when I realize we’re downstairs already, standing in the middle of an enormous entrance hall.

Directly in front of me is a set of wooden doors. They’re flanked by large mullioned windows, each inset with a symbol in stained glass. A small sun surrounded by a square, then a triangle, then another circle that is actually a snake with its tail in its mouth.

The symbol of the Reformists.

It’s an alchemical glyph; a series of symbols, each with its own meaning. The sun for illumination: a dawn of a new existence. A square representing the physical world. The triangle a symbol for fire: a catalyst for change. The snake—an Ouroboros—for unity.

Combined, the shapes form the symbol for the creation of the philosopher’s stone: the substance for turning ordinary metal into gold. That’s not what the Reformists are trying to achieve—that’s for alchemists—but the end goal is the same: change. They’re trying to create change in Anglia. Change in policy, change in mind-set, a change in the way magic is viewed.

And much like the idea of changing ordinary metal into gold, it’s impossible.

“He can’t hear the lute, so you’ll never guess how he tunes it,” George continues. “He takes the neck and sticks it in his—what?”

I look over his shoulder and see them sitting around an enormous dining table. I don’t see who or what they are, or how many. I barely register them. Because what’s happening in there, in that room, the magic, no.

I take a step backward, then another. My heart picks up speed and my stomach tightens, the way it does before a hunt. Only there’s no one to hunt, not without giving myself away. I can’t even run, though I want to. I want to get as far away from this as I can.

Where there should be a ceiling, there isn’t. Just a vast expanse of sky, the entire universe spinning in the darkness above me.





I STARE AT IT.

At the sky, black and dark and empty as the moonless night I was arrested on. At the stars that spin against it: some white and bright, some small and glowing pale. At the planets that bob among them like colorful marbles, revolving in wide, lazy circles around a bright orange sun.

Then at Nicholas, who sits beneath it all: arms stretched upward, a benevolent God—or perhaps not—flicking his hand this way and back; a conductor, the planets and stars dancing to his tune.

I watch in horrified fascination as a line appears across the sky, a series of tiny numbers and glyphs appearing beside it. Nicholas turns to the man beside him. He’s dressed in all black like a clerk, a fat leather book in one hand, a pen poised in the other.

“Transiting orb, two degrees, Neptune in trine with natal Jupiter,” Nicholas murmurs. He pauses to allow the clerk time to write it down. “Tell him he’d be better off waiting. The fourteenth of next month, though no later. Whatever trifles he’s got, they can wait. He might consider a few days of restful silence as well. His wife, I know, will be glad of the break.”

Everyone around the table laughs.

It’s astrology; I know that much from training. Many wizards consult astrology tables, looking to divine answers in the planets and stars. They’re common enough; I’ve come across dozens in houses of wizards I’ve captured. But never, not once, have I seen a wizard create a full-scale replica of the sky like this. And, like the way he multiplied himself in front of me at Fleet, I don’t know how he’s doing it. I don’t know how it’s possible.

I back up another step. Then, just as if the stars directed him to, Nicholas looks up. His eyes meet mine across the table. He holds up a hand; the clerk stops writing. Silence falls. I don’t need to look, because I can feel them, the eyes of everyone in the room on me.

“Elizabeth!”

The sound of my name, shouted across the universe, snaps me from my daze. At once, the sky disappears, the stars disappear, the planets and the sun disappear. Into nothing, winking out as if they never were. It’s just an ordinary ceiling now, open to the rafters, a half dozen small chandeliers hanging at intervals over the table.

I look down to see a man striding toward me. I know him. Curly black hair, short black beard. Even without that dog’s head pipe in his mouth, I know him.

“You!” I gasp. It’s Peter. What on earth is a pirate doing here?

“Me.” He laughs. He clasps my shoulders, then plants a loud smacking kiss on each of my cheeks. I can feel myself blushing. “Pleased to see me, love?”