The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(26)

“What other things?” I look around the room. Gareth, suddenly interested in me; George, suddenly interested in the ceiling; John, turning his fork over and over in his hand; Fifer, looking somewhat gleeful.

Finally, Nicholas speaks.

“Your arrest, your escape. Your story, unfortunately, is all over Upminster. More unfortunate is what that story has turned into. That you’re not just a kitchen maid, but a spy and a witch. A secret Reformist in league with me, spying on the king and queen while feeding us information. Conjuring spells against them, using herbs in an attempt to poison them. You’re now the most wanted person in Anglia.”

I gasp at this litany of accusation.

“They say this?”

Nicholas nods. “It’s quite a scandal. The queen is said to be distraught, completely inconsolable.” He smiles then: hard, ironic. “They’re generating a lot of sympathy for it. Even to a public who is angry with their monarch, it’s too much. They’re calling for blood. Only this time, it’s not the king’s, the queen’s, or even Blackwell’s. It’s yours.”

I drop my head into my hands, stunned. That Blackwell accused me of this, that Malcolm believes it. That it went this far, this fast. And I know, with dreadful certainty, that whatever hope I had about regaining Blackwell’s favor is gone. Maybe I should have known better; maybe I did. But it was the only thing I had to hope for. It wasn’t the job I loved so much; it was never that. It’s that it was the only home I had. Now there’s no going home for me.

Ever.

“We know it’s a lie,” John says. I lift my head to find him watching me closely, his eyes dark but sympathetic. “They just needed something to divert the public’s attention from the burnings. A scapegoat. You’re safe with us. We’ll protect you.”

“But who will protect us?” Gareth says. Everyone’s attention shifts to him. “She’s exposing us to a great deal of danger when we don’t know what she can do.” He gestures at me with a long white hand. “Whatever it is, it better be worth it, considering the price on her head.”

“How much?” I blurt.

“A thousand sovereigns.”

George lets out a soundless whistle, then leans over to pour me a glass of wine. The most Blackwell was ever prepared to pay for Nicholas was five hundred. I reach for my glass.

“Yes, she’s very valuable,” Gareth continues. “But she’d better deliver on it. Otherwise, what’s to stop us from sending George to turn her in and collect that reward? We could fund a nice army with that.”

John drops his fork to the table with a thud.

“We’re not going to turn her in,” Nicholas replies, a sharp edge sliding into his voice. “There’s no need to make threats.”

“The charts—” Gareth begins.

“Are inconclusive,” Nicholas finishes. “Veda will tell us what we need to know.”

“The witch hunters—” Gareth tries again.

“Will come,” Nicholas says. “As they always have. And we will be careful, as we always have. Elizabeth being here doesn’t change anything. Blackwell will never stop hunting us.”

“That’s another thing,” Gareth says. “It’s not Blackwell after us now. He’s sent someone else. A new Inquisitor. Someone called Caleb Pace.”





I SQUEEZE MY GLASS SO tightly that it shatters in my hand. A lot of wine but very little blood splashes onto the cream-colored tablecloth, staining it a deep crimson. I let out a gasp and shove my hand into my lap.

Caleb is the new Inquisitor?

The others—except for Gareth and Fifer—look at me with alarm.

“Elizabeth!” Peter cries. “Are you all right?”

Am I all right? No. Definitely not. When did Caleb get promoted to Inquisitor? Why? And if he’s the new Inquisitor, what does that make Blackwell?

“Let me take a look.” John pulls a clean napkin off the table and reaches for my hand. Another problem. If he sees there’s no blood…

“No.” I yank my hand away. “Not here. It’s the blood. I may faint.” I look down, trying to appear sick. It’s not hard.

“John, why don’t you take her upstairs,” Nicholas says. “Hastings, can you bring him what he needs?”

As John rattles off a list of supplies, I feel a surge of heat in my abdomen followed by a prickling sensation. The wound is starting to heal. I tighten my fist around the thick shards of glass, pressing them into my skin, wincing as they cut deep, down to the bone. But it gets the blood flowing again. John wraps his napkin gently around my hand and helps me to stand.

“Hold on.” Fifer, so quiet throughout dinner, speaks up. Her voice is raspy, almost gritty-sounding, a surprising contrast to how young she looks. “This new Inquisitor. This Caleb.” She says his name as though it were anathema. “You don’t know him, do you?”

I feel George’s eyes on me. Wondering if this is the same Caleb I talked about in my sleep, the same Caleb I said was my childhood friend. I spoke his name to Nicholas, too, when I was inside Fleet.

I think about denying it. Then I remember what Blackwell told us: If ever we got caught, tell the truth, as much as doesn’t condemn you. The less you lie, the less chance there is of confusing your own story. Not that it mattered anyway. He also told us that if we ever got caught, we were on our own.