The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(24)
I don’t know. Am I? He seems harmless enough, kind even. But how harmless can a Reformist pirate really be? Before I can answer, Peter drapes his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the dining room. Stone walls, stone floors. A row of stained glass windows on one side of the long, polished wooden table, a heavy cabinet on the other, piled high with food.
I stumble after him, uncomfortably aware of the stares still leveled in my direction, of the flush still on my face, of my heart still knocking against my rib cage.
“Looking so lovely, too,” Peter continues. “Far better than when I saw you last. But then, it’s hard to look good when your eyeballs are floating in absinthe, eh?” He thrusts me into the chair next to John.
“Father,” John groans.
I forget my discomfort for a moment and turn to him, incredulous.
“He’s your father?”
John nods. I notice he’s blushing a little, too.
“Naturally!” Peter booms, walking around the table and throwing himself into the chair opposite mine. “Where else do you think the boy got his good looks?” He waves his hand in John’s direction. “A specimen that fine can only come from the loins of a pirate!”
John groans again and buries his head in his hands.
“Dear God, please don’t let him use the word loins ever again,” George whispers, sitting down next to me.
“Why don’t we move on to introductions?” Peter continues. “Now, there’s Nicholas, of course. Him you know already.”
Nicholas smiles at me. In the ordinary candlelight, he looks less godlike, more man, and an ill man at that. His face is drawn and haggard, his skin translucent and gray. He’s clutching another steaming mug of something I’m guessing John made for him.
“Welcome, Elizabeth.” His voice is warm. “I’m so pleased to see you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you,” I say. My voice comes out weak and timid. I don’t like it. I clear my throat and try again. “I am feeling better.”
“I do hope I didn’t startle you with my little display.” He holds his arms wide again. “I take it you’ve not seen much magic before?”
It’s a loaded question. If I say I have seen magic, he’ll want to know where and who performed it. He might assume there are other witches—if that’s what he thinks I am—living in the king’s household. He might start asking questions. One question will lead to another, and…
“No,” I lie at once. “That was only my second time. The first was at Fleet.”
Nicholas nods. “I assure you that everything practiced in my home is harmless, if not beneficial. I know I said this before, but perhaps it bears repeating. I promise that no harm will come to you here.”
His words, they’re kind. But I don’t believe them for a moment.
Peter claps his hands, moving on. “John and George you also already know, but this”—he gestures to the girl to Nicholas’s right—“is Fifer Birch. She’s a student of Nicholas’s, been working with him for years. She’s his star pupil!”
Pupil. I take this to mean witch. She’s my age, maybe younger. Thin, with dark red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles. She looks me over, her eyes drifting from my face to my hair to my shirt—which I now realize is her shirt—then back to my face. Her eyebrows are raised, her lips pursed. Skeptical. Finally, she turns away from me and whispers something to Nicholas.
“Lastly, this is Gareth Fish.” Peter points to the man still hovering beside Nicholas, his book still open, pen still poised. Tall, thin, cadaverous. He wears thin-framed spectacles and a thin-lipped pout, clearly irritated at the interruption. “He’s a member of our council and serves as a liaison between Nicholas and, well, everyone. Mainly the citizens of Harrow, of course, but anyone anywhere, really. Anyone who needs his help.”
Harrow. Short for Harrow-On-The-Hill, a village full of Reformists, of witches, of magic. It’s hidden away somewhere in Anglia, only its inhabitants know where. It became a refuge once the Inquisition started, and if you had any magical power or Reformist leanings at all—and didn’t go into exile or prison—you went there. It’s the nexus of the Reformist movement, and Blackwell would give just about anything to find it.
Gareth gives me a curt nod before turning back to his book. Apparently, I’m not interesting or impressive enough for more than that. I’m glad he thinks so.
Peter turns to me. “Now that you’re here, we can eat. I hope you’re hungry.” He gestures to the platters of food piled on the cabinet against the wall.
There’s the standard fare: chicken, bread, a simple stew. But there’s more exotic food here, too, the kind I used to make at court: roast peacock, redressed in its feathers; a platter of quail in what looks like fig sauce; a stargazer pie, the tiny fish heads poking out from under the crust. A platter of fruit, cakes, even an assortment of marchpane: roses, shamrocks, and thistles, all fashioned out of sugar.
I feel my eyes go wide.
“I thought you might be.” Peter laughs. “Shall we?” he says to Nicholas.
Nicholas nods and gives his hand a little wave. At once, the platters rise and begin floating in the air. One by one they land gracefully on the table. Once again, I’m shocked. That level of magic is beyond anything I’ve seen before.