The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(28)

“Let’s have a look.” He peels off the bloodstained napkin.

“I thought it was magic,” I blurt.

“You thought what was magic?”

“The platters. Downstairs. Before you told me about Hastings, I thought it was magic.”

“Oh. I guess it would look that way.” He takes a pair of tweezers from the tray. “Nicholas could do that, I suppose. But he wouldn’t waste his energy, at least not now. Hold still.” He pulls out the first shard of glass. I hold my breath, willing the wound not to heal. At least not in front of his very eyes.

“Why not?” I think of Nicholas’s face, gray and drawn. Of the potions he’s always drinking, of the last spell he performed on me inside Fleet, the one that faltered, then failed. “Is it because he’s sick?”

John doesn’t reply. He just keeps working on my hand.

But I keep going. “What’s wrong with him? Can’t you heal him? I mean, if you can heal me, and I had jail fever, then why not him? Jail fever is the worst thing out there. Except maybe plague, but he doesn’t have that, I’d have noticed. Is it sweating sickness? No, if it were that, he’d be dead by now.…”

I’m babbling, I know. Any second he’s going to notice something’s not right. That my hand isn’t as cut up as it should be. He’s going to put two and two together, and when he does, I’m going to have to take him out. For some reason, I don’t think I’ll enjoy it.

“It’s not an illness, at least not in the way you’re thinking,” John finally says. He drops the tweezers on the tray and picks up the herbs, crumbling them carefully into the water. I can’t believe it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing. “It’s a curse.”

“Nicholas is cursed?” I’m surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t be. Nicholas didn’t get to be the head of the Reformists without picking up a few enemies along the way.

“Yes. That’s what’s making him sick. On the outside, it looks like pneumonia. Which would be bad enough. But on the inside, it’s much worse than that. It’s eating him up. There are things I can do to make him feel better, but I can’t make it go away.” He takes my hand and gently places it in the bowl. The water smells like mint and makes my skin tingle pleasantly. “If we can’t find a way to stop it, eventually it will kill him.”

If Nicholas died, the Reformist movement would probably die along with him. The rebellions and protests would end; things would go back to normal. Normal for everyone except for Nicholas, the Reformists, and the witches and wizards on the stake, I suppose.

And me.

I’m aware of John watching me, of my hand in the bowl of warm, tingly water, of him still holding it, his long fingers lightly wrapped around my smaller ones.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say. “You seem very loyal to him. You all do. Your father—” I’m cut off by John’s sudden grin. “What?”

“Well, when sentences start with ‘your father,’ they have a tendency to not end well.”

I smile at that. I can’t help it.

“Sorry,” he continues. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing, really. Just that I’ve never heard of a Reformist pirate before.”

“Ah.” John pulls our hands from the water and dries his with a flick of his wrist. “He’s the only one, at least that I know of. Pirates aren’t generally known for being political, are they?”

“I guess not,” I say. “When did he join? And why?”

He hesitates before replying.

“It was about three years ago. Things were starting to get bad, you know? Malcolm had just become king; Blackwell had just become Inquisitor. The Thirteenth Tablet had just been created. The burnings hadn’t started yet, but they would soon enough.”

I swallow. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t brought it up.

“Piracy isn’t exactly the safest profession anyway. He traveled a lot, would be gone for weeks at a time. So he quit. He didn’t think it was safe to leave us alone until things got better.”

He stops, reaches for a bandage. Looks down, his eyes resting on my hand, but they don’t really see it. They’re far away, somewhere outside this room. I’m left wondering who he meant when he said “us.”

“Of course, things didn’t get better,” he says, finally. “My father wanted to help the Reformists fight back, but they didn’t think he’d be useful. Or, if I’m being honest, they didn’t think he was trustworthy. He’s a good man, my father. A little different, I grant you. But a good man nonetheless. Nicholas saw that even if the others didn’t.”

“And now he’s a Reformist.”

John nods. “Committed. Nicholas has that effect, you know. He wants to change things. To help people. To bring the country back where it used to be, finish what Malcolm’s father started. People believe he’s the one to do it. They believe it so much they’re willing to risk their lives to see him succeed.”

“Or is it the other way around?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks, his quiet voice turning sharp.