The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(54)

Humbert crosses the hall and pushes the door open, silent on its well-oiled hinges.

“Come on, then.” He motions for us to enter. Fifer slips through the door first, followed by George. I go next. But what I see on the other side makes me stop. A narrow stairway leading down, into darkness. John slides through the door, glances at the staircase, then at me.

“Humbert, maybe Elizabeth and I will wait up here—”

“No, it’s okay,” I tell him.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. I’m a little curious to see Humbert’s collection. And more than a little curious to see what Fifer’s up to. My guess is she’s going to try to steal one of Humbert’s weapons. She can’t hurt me, of course, but I worry about her getting her hands on something anyway. The last thing I need is for her to hurt John, or George, or even herself in some foolish attempt to protect them against me.

I look at John. “Walk with me?”

He nods, and together we start down the tiny staircase. Humbert squeezes through the door then, bolting it shut behind him. Immediately, my hands start sweating.

“Feel free to start singing any time you like,” John whispers. I attempt a laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a groan.

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I immediately see why Humbert calls it the cathedral. It’s a large, circular room with arched, vaulted ceilings taller than the room is wide. One curve of the wall is made entirely from stained glass; another curve holds a large cabinet. The remaining wall space is lined with shelves, crammed with objects, all alive with movement. Jars that bubble and hiss. Clocks that tick and hum. Globes that whirl and spin. Books stacked upon one another; some leather-bound, others loose-leaf and tied together with string. The tools he mentioned are scattered everywhere: bowls, mortars and pestles, scales, bags of herbs, and jars of various animal parts floating in solution like grotesque fish in a bowl. In the center of it all is a brick furnace, a tiny blue fire dancing inside.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Humbert says. “Have a look around.”

George walks off to examine the spinning globes, while Fifer and Humbert head straight for the cabinet. That must be where the weapons are. I start to follow, but John guides me toward the furnace instead. There are several glass flasks set on stands over the fire, brightly colored liquids bubbling inside.

“What is that?” I ask.

John examines the largest flask, dark red liquid boiling within.

“Aqua vitae, by the looks of it.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Humbert’s an alchemist?”

He smiles. “Well, he’s not trying to turn lead into gold or anything. He’s just making wine. Rather, he’s making wine stronger. This flask over here”—he points to a smaller one filled with orange liquid—“is brandy. It’ll be strong enough to melt paint off walls when he’s done with it.” He watches the liquid boil, then reaches over and lowers the flame. “No sense in his melting his insides, though.”

I laugh, then remember the book he was reading the night he fell asleep in my room.

“You’re an alchemist, too?”

“Not quite,” he says. “I thought about studying it at university next year, though.”

“Where?” Alchemy is far too close to magic for that to be allowed in Anglia.

“Probably Iberia. Or maybe Umbria. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“So, no pirate apprenticeship for you, then?”

He laughs. “No, though my father would love that. He’s been trying to talk me into it since before I could walk.”

“No good?”

“No. I mean, it’s fine. I just prefer healing.”

“Better wenching in the pirate trade,” I point out.

He snorts. “Yes. Because I am all about the wenching.” I laugh again. John motions to the shelf holding all the animal parts. “Want to take a look?”

I nod, and we both rush over and start pulling jars off the shelves.

I read the label on a jar that holds what look like tiny gray raisins. “Mouse brains!”

“Oh, that’s good.” He peers at it closely, then holds out a jar for me to see. “Look at this one.”

“Frog eyes,” I say. “Look at them all. Staring at us. They’re so…”

“Judgmental?”

I start giggling. He puts it back and reaches for a bigger jar, this one filled with something yellow and soft.

“Cow pancreas.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Ugh, it looks like cheese.”

“Trust me, you do not want that melted on top of anything,” I say. And then we’re both laughing, and he looks at me and I look at him, and suddenly the space between us seems very small and I feel a little thrill… until I remember what George told me. About his mother, his sister. Then that thrill turns into something else entirely and I take a step back.

John doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps pulling jars off shelves and examining them, completely engrossed. I should probably leave. Go see what Fifer is up to. I glance at her, standing with Humbert at the weapons cabinet—Look at all those weapons!—deep in conversation. George is still over by the globes, carefully not watching me, which only tells me he is. I should definitely leave.