The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(52)
Humbert smiles and snaps his fingers. Instantly a maid arrives. She takes one look at our dirty faces and mud-covered clothes and sends us upstairs to bathe and be ready for dinner in an hour.
Moments later I’m standing in an upstairs bedroom, waiting as a servant prepares me a bath. I look around, impressed. Beautifully appointed rooms. Rich drapes. Carpets so plush they’re ankle-deep. Tester beds, fat with goose down mattresses, layers of linen sheets, and soft fur-lined blankets. This house is as fine as any of Malcolm’s palaces, finer than Blackwell’s, even. If he knew Humbert was a Reformist, he’d take all of it, along with his head.
As I undress and slip into the bath, Humbert’s maid—an older woman named Bridget—comes in with a stack of clothing.
“I thought you’d prefer a dress for dining.” She holds it up.
I don’t, but I guess I can’t complain. It’s a pretty thing: dark blue velvet, the skirt overlaid with rich gold panels, the bodice embroidered with some kind of bird woven in silver thread. She lays it out, along with a pair of slippers and earrings, gold and sapphire to go with the dress. There’s even a matching ring. I stare at them, wide-eyed. I’ve never worn anything this nice in my life. I never had any reason to.
After the bath, Bridget helps me dress. She tuts over the condition of my hair and insists on styling it: drying it with a bath sheet, pulling out all the knots, then patiently coaxing my unruly waves into loose curls before pinning up the sides with a pair of blue-jeweled clips.
“There you are, poppet.” She thrusts me in front of the mirror. “Don’t you look lovely.”
I look at my reflection and my eyes go wide. The color is back in my face, my eyes, even my hair. The bodice of the gown is low and tight, and I expected to see nothing there, just skin and bones. I’m shocked by what’s replaced it: curves.
I never had them before. Curves were soft and vulnerable, and that meant death to me, so they were trained out of me. Instead, I became thin and wiry and strong. My illness tore me down, but I’ve been built back up, not by force this time but by care: by soft beds and sweet potions and gentle hands and magic.
I don’t know what to think anymore. About any of it. Magic killed my parents; Blackwell tried to kill magic. Blackwell is magic; Blackwell tried to kill me. John saved me with magic; now I’m trying to kill magic to save Nicholas. It goes against everything I’ve ever known, a betrayal of everything I’ve ever been taught.
But who betrayed who first?
Bridget leads me downstairs, into the dining room. I’m the last to arrive. Everyone else is seated around the table, pitchers of wine and goblets scattered across the surface. John gets to his feet as I walk in, but Humbert fairly leaps from his chair and rushes toward me.
“Elizabeth!” he roars. “Do come in!”
He hauls me across the room and thrusts me into the seat next to his. The table is huge; it could seat at least twenty people. But he had to put me next to him. I’ll be as deaf as he is before the night is through.
Next to me is Fifer. She’s in a dress, too, copper-colored silk with an embroidered green bodice. But the way she’s scowling you’d think it was made from metal, lined with nails. Even still, I have to admit she looks pretty.
Across from me are George and John, both clean and dressed for dinner. As usual, George looks horrifying. Yellow shirt, purple vest, orange harlequin jacket. Beside him, John looks practically funereal. White shirt, dark green coat. Both already wrinkled, of course. And his hair. It’s still damp from bathing but already running out of control. I’m seized with a wild urge to run my hands through it. Make sense of those curls, push them out of his eyes at least. I wonder what it would look like if it were cut. Although, I rather like it long. Besides, if it were any shorter, it might get even wilder, and—
He grins at me and I realize I’ve been staring at him too long. I flush and turn to Humbert.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It was worth it, I see,” he booms. “I’m pleased you decided to wear the gown sent up.”
Well, it’s not as if he left me much choice.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Isn’t it? It belongs to the Duchess of Rotherhithe, a dear friend of mine. She and her family came for a stay one summer, brought ten trunks full of gowns. Left that and several others behind. I doubt she even noticed them missing.”
I shift uncomfortably. I know the duchess. She and her daughter are close friends of Queen Margaret. I served them dinner once, and they were both awful. Worse still, her granddaughter is Cecily Mowbray, one of Caleb’s new friends. I don’t like the idea of wearing her clothes, no matter how pretty they are.
“You see that bird on the bodice there?” Humbert continues. “It’s the symbol of the House of Rotherhithe, embroidered using thread made from real silver. I shudder to think of the cost. But the duchess, she’s not very economical—”
The mention of the bird jars my memory. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir…” I realize I don’t know how to address him.
“Call me Humbert.”
“Of course, Humbert. But I just remembered something. John”—I turn to get his attention but find I’ve already got it—“did you send Horace back to your father? Let him know you’re okay? I don’t want him to worry.”