The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(53)

George and Fifer exchange a glance.

“I did, yes,” John replies. “Thank you for remembering.” He rakes his hand through his hair then, and I notice how green his eyes look tonight. Usually they’re more brown than green, gray around the edges with a little bit of gold in the middle, and—

“Elizabeth,” Humbert trumpets, jerking me to my senses. “I do hope you’ll like what I’ve had prepared this evening. I understand you’re quite an expert on court cuisine.”

A pair of servants walks in then, carrying several platters between them. Manchet bread, salted beef, fruit tarts, cheese, and, of all things, a cockatrice—a dish made by combining one half of an animal with another before roasting and redressing it.

They were common enough at court; Malcolm in particular loved them. His cooks tried to outdo one another with increasingly outrageous combinations: body of a chicken, tail of a beaver. Head of a deer, rear of a boar. This one is half-peacock, half-swan: snow white and long-necked in the front, bright turquoise and plumed in the back.

“Well, then?” Humbert asks. “What do you think of this little one?”

I lean over and examine it carefully.

“It’s very good,” I tell him. The white feathers of the swan blend in seamlessly with the peacock’s, no sign of the careful stitching underneath. That’s the hardest part of presenting a cockatrice, getting the feathers or fur right. It’s the difference between wanting to eat it or run from it.

By the time the servants reappear to clear away the plates, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. I’m tired from the walk, full from wine and cockatrice, and I’ve got an awful headache from Humbert’s screaming in my ear all night long. I’m thinking about excusing myself when he starts in again.

“The Thirteenth Tablet,” Humbert shouts. “What a thing to be cursed by! And what a thing to find.” He shakes his head, pours his fifth glass of brandy. I swear, he drinks more than George, and that’s saying a lot. “You really have no idea where it might be?”

“No,” I say. “I really don’t.”

He looks at me expectantly. “Then I suppose the next question is, what do you want to do about it?”

The room goes quiet. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. There’s a collective intake of breath, as if they’re waiting for me to make a sudden proclamation, like some sort of damned prophet on the mount.

“I don’t know,” I say.

The disappointment is palpable.

“I could go out tomorrow,” I continue because I can’t bear the silence any longer. “You know, walk around a bit? I don’t know the area, so I’d need a map, but what can it hurt? Unless you think it’s better for me to stay put, I guess—”

“No!” Humbert howls. “That won’t do at all! This is a prophecy, Elizabeth. There can be no guessing. No hemming, no hawing. No shilly-shally!” He pounds the table with his fist. “You must be decisive! Whatever happens, you must really feel your decisions, my dear. Know them. In here.” He thumps his fist against his chest.

“Besides,” George says, rolling his eyes at Humbert. “You can’t just go wandering about, not with those guards looking for you.”

“Then what are we supposed to do until Peter gets here?” I ask.

“Sleep?” Fifer mutters.

“For now, I thought I could show you all my cathedral,” Humbert says.

Fifer gets up abruptly and starts stretching. John gives her a disapproving look, which she ignores. I’d rather go upstairs and sleep, too, instead of being dragged on some god-awful nocturnal pilgrimage. But I really can’t resist.

“That sounds lovely,” I say. Fifer gives me a filthy look. Humbert beams.

“I didn’t know you had a cathedral,” George says.

“Oh, well. It’s not really a cathedral,” Humbert says. “That’s just what I call it.”

“What is it, then?” George asks, politely stifling a yawn. “It wouldn’t happen to be a privy, would it? Or a wine cellar? Either one would go down a treat right about now—”

“Certainly not, dear boy. The cathedral is where I keep all my artifacts.”

“Artifacts?” George’s yawn grows wider.

“Oh yes. It’s quite a collection! Naturally, I’ve kept it quite secret. I’ve got spellbooks, grimoires, alchemy tools, and other bits and bobs, even an alembic once owned by Artephius himself! An athame made from whalebone and some other rare weapons. I’m a bit of an expert, I’ll have you know. I’ve got spears and staffs and swords and knives—”

“Swords?” Fifer whirls around. “Knives?”

Humbert looks surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in weaponry, my dear.”

“Of course I am,” Fifer says.

John raises his eyebrows. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Fifer shrugs. “You never know when you may have to defend yourself.” She gives me a nasty look. “As Nicholas always says: There are enemies everywhere.”





HUMBERT LEADS US OUT OF the dining room, back into the checkered entrance hall. He walks straight to the largest of the portraits, the one of Venus and Cupid I admired on the way in. At the bottom of the painting is a pair of masks, their empty, hollow eyes staring blankly in the distance. He reaches out and pokes his finger inside the eyehole, and I gasp—Is there really a hole in the canvas of this priceless painting?—then hear a tiny click. On the other side of the hall, a door swings open, just a crack. I’m impressed. The door is tiny, narrow; the seams so well disguised by the intricately carved walls as to be nearly invisible. That, or I’m losing my touch.