The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(48)

“She doesn’t like me, does she?”

George shrugs. “Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t like anyone except John. He’s the only one who can put up with her anyway. He’s got the patience of a saint.”

I turn my attention to John then, watch as he walks through the trees up ahead.

He’s so tall that he’s having a hard time avoiding all but the highest branches. They brush against his face, the leaves and twigs getting caught up in his dark hair. When he stops to disentangle a cluster of leaves, he sees me watching him. He gives me a little wave, then yanks the leaves out and throws them to the ground, a grin lighting up his face. Suddenly, my stomach feels as if someone tied a knot in it. Without thinking, I smile back.

George elbows me. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Smiling. You can’t go around smiling at people like that. It’s…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Distracting.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Look, there’s something you need to know.” He glances at John, making sure he’s not paying attention. He’s not; he and Fifer are back to whispering again. “John’s mother and sister were captured by witch hunters and burned at the stake for witchcraft. They were healers.”

“What?” The knot in my stomach grows tighter. “When?”

George sighs. “Last year. One morning Anne and Jane—they’re his mother and sister—left Harrow, presumably to see a patient. John and Peter didn’t even know they’d gone. Anyway, they never returned. I guess you know what that means.”

I shake my head. But, of course, I know.

“Peter and John knew, too. They both went to Upminster, did everything they could. But Anne and Jane went to the stakes anyway. At one point, John tried to get to them, in the fire.…” George’s voice breaks. “I don’t know what he was thinking. He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, too; I don’t know why he wasn’t. The guards got ahold of him, beat him senseless. He lay there in the dirt, beaten and bloody, and watched his mother and sister die right in front of him.”

I stop walking. Remember what John told me back at Nicholas’s about the burnings. I hadn’t realized he was talking about his own mother and sister. Never imagined he had to see that. I feel sweaty, queasy. I wonder vaguely if I might throw up.

“I didn’t do it,” I whisper. “Capture them, I mean. I remember everyone I’ve ever arrested. It wasn’t me.”

“Even so,” George says. “He can’t know. He wouldn’t kill you, but that’s not really what I’m worried about. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“On we go, then.”

We keep walking. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me, on the snow-dusted leaves and twigs that snap underfoot like breaking bones. I can feel George’s eyes on me, watching me carefully. I ignore him.

But I can’t ignore the feeling that’s crept into my chest, that uncomfortable twist of guilt, like a vine curling its way inside, threatening to choke me. I may not have captured John’s mother and sister, but I’ve captured others like them. I’ve been responsible for their deaths, for ruining families the way John’s was ruined, and for what? I thought I was doing what was best for the country, to keep it safe.

It was all a lie.

After several hours the woods eventually break, giving way to pastures. Rolling green hills, wide swaths of browning, early winter grass framed by low stone walls and dotted with sheep, fluffy in their thick white winter coats. The land stretches ahead of us for miles, a narrow dirt road our only passage through. The snow has now switched to rain, accompanied by a low rumbling of thunder. After being ensconced in the relative safety of the woods, I feel vulnerable being out in the open like this.

“We split up, I think,” John says. “I’ll go ahead. George, you follow behind. If there’s anything unexpected, Horace will let us know. So if you see him, run. Hide. I’ll come find you when I think it’s safe.”

The falcon has spent most of the journey circling the sky over our heads, but he is now resting on John’s outstretched arm. We agree, and he releases Horace and takes off in a slow run, down the road and over the first hill until he’s out of sight.

George hangs back, letting Fifer and me walk ahead. She makes a show of ignoring me, so we’re quiet for the next few miles, concentrating on the path in front of us. The rain is still coming down, turning the road into a river of mud. It’s slow going, trudging through the ankle-deep sludge.

Fifer is shivering under her wet cloak, her lips nearly blue with cold. When she steps into a pothole and trips, I grab her arm to keep her from falling. She looks grateful, for a second. Then she yanks away from me and storms off, muttering under her breath.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

She whirls around, a look of disgust on her face.

“What are you doing here?”

I smirk. I can’t help it. “Theologists have long believed that our time here on earth is—”

“Not that, you idiot,” she flares. “What I mean is, can you do anything? Nicholas said you’re a witch, so I’m asking you if you can do any magic.”