The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(31)

I dress quickly and quietly, putting on the same clothes I wore yesterday. It would be nice if I had something warmer or more practical. But they’ll have to do. I snatch George’s blanket from the floor and hastily tie it into a makeshift bag.

I glance at George. He doesn’t look as though he’ll be up for a while. I consider tying him up before I leave, just in case. But that might wake him, and then I’d have to hurt him. I don’t want to do that. He’s grown on me a little. So I let him be.

I open the door slowly, quietly. Tiptoe out, then down the hallway to the head of the stairs, and listen carefully. It’s silent: no voices, no sound of footsteps or dishes at the table. Nothing. I hurry down the stairs into the entrance hall.

First stop, dining room. Pewter plates, silverware, I’ll even take those ugly snake glasses if I have to. I rush to the cabinet where all the food was laid out last night and rip open the drawers, one after the other. They’re all empty. Damnation.

I cross to the room on the other side of the entrance hall. It’s a sitting room, very grand. Tall stained glass windows line the room, each pane in a different shade of blue. A large fireplace takes up one wall, a tapestry of a pleasant woodland scene covers another. A table sits underneath it, surrounded by chairs covered in blue brocade.

I race around the room, searching. Under the rug for a loose floorboard. Behind the tapestry for a secret alcove. The underside of the table for hidden drawers. The seams along the walls for a concealed door. Nothing. Where the hell are all the weapons? I’m in the home of the biggest traitor in Anglia—sorry, make that second-biggest—and there’s not a single sharp, strung, or incendiary device in the whole place? It’s not possible. Nicholas hasn’t gotten this far by leading a rebellion with his bare hands.

The only place I haven’t looked is the kitchen. It’s risky. That’s Hastings’s territory. And servant or no, he’s still a ghost. I don’t know how Nicholas managed to tame his destructive side, but it’s there. With ghosts, it always is. Witch hunters are sometimes requested for hauntings, but it’s pointless. We can’t do anything except stand back and watch the chaos. The last haunting Caleb and I were called to, the ghost ripped a barn from the ground and sheared the entire flock of sheep inside. Scattered the wool for miles. Such a mess, it looked as if it were snowing in July. Caleb and I sat on a hill and watched, giggling like children.

I swallow hard and push him out of my head. I can’t think about Caleb right now.

Next to the dining room is a doorway that opens into a narrow, dark hall. I can’t be sure, but my guess is it leads to the kitchen. I step inside, pause, and listen. Silence. If Hastings is around, surely I’ll hear him? The hall is cold, dank, and drafty. That could be because it’s made entirely of stone, but it could also be Hastings. Ghosts make everything cold. I shiver a little and keep going.

Finally, the hall opens into the kitchen. I stop in the doorway and look around. It looks like a smaller version of the kitchen at Ravenscourt. To my left is the oven. It’s huge. The opening is tall enough for a man of Nicholas’s height to walk inside without having to duck. There’s a fire burning inside, and something turning on the roasting rack. It looks like deer.

In front of me is a trestle table. On top are baskets heaped with fruit, vegetables, flour, spices. Underneath are more baskets filled with everything from firewood to onions to eggs. In one corner are caskets of wine, ale, and salted fish. In another, hanging by their feet from a rack, are dozens of dead birds: chicken and duck and quail and pheasant. And everywhere lie kettles and cauldrons, skillets and pans. It’s a properly stocked kitchen. Which means somewhere there are knives, cleavers, meat forks, scissors. At this point I’d even take a cheese grater.

I watch the room for a few minutes. There’s no movement. Nothing floating in the air, nothing stirring of its own accord. And didn’t John say Hastings usually wears a white hat? I don’t see that, either. Satisfied he’s not around, I rush to the table and start digging through everything. Sift through the flour, pick through a pile of apples. Nothing inside but a spoon and a tiny three-pronged fork. I pocket them anyway. Crawl under the table and rummage through the other baskets. Nothing, nothing, and, damnation, now I’ve gone and broken a bunch of eggs. I wipe my hands on my trousers and get to my feet, looking around. Then I see the ladder leading below the kitchen. The larder.

Larders are used to store meat, cheese, butter, freshly caught fish. Things you need to keep cold so they won’t spoil. They’re tiny rooms, dark, freezing. Usually on the north side of a house, where they get the least amount of sun. Usually underground. Always terrifying. I hate small, dark spaces. But a larder is the perfect place to cure meat. And where there’s meat, there are knives. I grab my bag and start down the ladder. My heart speeds up the second I’m plunged into the darkness. I breathe deeply, hum a little. Imagine the cache of beautiful, pointy weapons I’ll find down here. It helps.

When I reach the bottom of the ladder, I realize my eyes are closed, so I open them. It takes a moment to adjust to the lack of light—there’s only a sliver of it coming through the vent in the wall. When they do, I feel them grow round. There, hanging neatly along the wall, is the most gorgeous array of carving tools I’ve ever seen. Blunt cleavers. Curved skinning knives. Short boning knives. There’s even a bone ax. I nearly squeal with glee.