The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(57)

I pull away from him. Take one step back, two. John doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop me. But he doesn’t take his eyes from mine, either. He holds them, steady; and after a long moment he simply nods. He knows about the herbs I was arrested with, knows what I used them for. It occurs to me that maybe he’s figured out a lot more than that.

The library doors slam open then, echoing through the silent room like a shot. Fifer stomps toward us in a whirl of red hair and indignation.

“Here comes danger now,” John murmurs.

“Oh ho! Exactly what is going on here?” She plants her hands on her hips and taps her foot. “Hiding in dark, shadowy nooks, are we?”

John rolls his eyes. “We’re not hiding.”

“And it’s not dark. Or shadowy,” I add. Except it’s both. Fifer glares at me; John ducks his head and laughs under his breath. A stray lock of hair falls over his forehead, and I feel that urge again to brush it away.

“Is there something I can do for you?” John glances up at Fifer. “You look rather upset.”

“Upset?” Fifer shrieks. There’s a sharp rustle of leaves overhead and the tiny songbird lets out a loud, indignant chirp. “Is that a bird?” Fifer points at it as if it were a dragon. “What is that doing here? And why is this tree full of leaves?”

“I don’t know anything about the leaves,” I say, a bit too loudly. “We just came in here to look at the lights.” I point at the shower of green sparks, shining through the oculus overhead.

John winces.

“Yes. The lights.” Fifer turns to him. “We need to talk about that.”

“No, we don’t,” he replies, sounding weary all of a sudden.

“Yes, we do. You know what it means. The prophecy—”

“That’s not what it means.”

“What about the prophecy?” I say.

“Says you,” Fifer continues, ignoring me. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” John fires back. “You’re just not thinking clearly—”

“Oh, please! You’re the one with your head in the clouds, ever since—” She stops at the warning look on John’s face. “Fine. But why else are we here if not for that? It’s not to walk around aimlessly, or to poke around Humbert’s cathedral, and it’s certainly not to go hiding in libraries under trees with girls, making birds—”

“That’s enough, Fifer.”

They glare at each other.

“Fine. But you have to come with me now, anyway,” Fifer says. “Humbert needs you. Something about a tonic for that lute-playing crypt keeper of his.”

“You really are as sweet as poison, you know that?”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

We follow Fifer back into the sitting room. The lute player is lying on the settee, hands folded in his lap, breathing heavily. George sits beside him, his lips pressed together as if he’s sealing off a laugh.

John blinks. “What happened?”

“He’s had a bit of a spell, that’s all,” Humbert crows. “Transported by the beauty of his own artistic expression.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitch. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m going to bed now,” Fifer announces. She stalks out of the room, nearly colliding with Bridget, who walks in carrying a tray of tea. She sets it on the table and begins pouring.

Fifer stops in the doorway. Turns around. Glances at the tea, at John, then back at the tea again.

“Will you be needing your bag, John?” Fifer asks. Her voice is kind, helpful… and utterly unlike her. John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy attending to the lute player.

“Uh, yes. Thank you.”

Fifer ducks into the hall and comes back a few minutes later, carrying his bag. She sets it in front of him and smiles.

“Maybe I will have some tea, after all.” She walks to the table. Hovers over the tray. Reaches for a cup but doesn’t pick it up. Does it again. What is going on with her? She’s acting strange, even for Fifer. “On second thought, I don’t think I will, after all. See you in the morning.” She darts up the stairs, her red hair flying.

“Such a sweet girl,” Humbert roars.

No, she’s not. And I’m suspicious. I’ve seen girls in the maids’ chamber behave like this before. Usually because they’ve got a boy stashed in their room and are afraid of getting caught. That’s not happening here, of course, but whatever Fifer’s up to, it’s guaranteed to be a lot worse than a boy hiding under her mattress.

I get to my feet. “I’m going to bed, too.”

John looks up at me. Lucky, he mouths.

I grin and head for the stairs, straight to Fifer’s room. I stop in front of her door, my hand on the door latch. Then I pause. Maybe I don’t want to know what she’s doing. Maybe it’ll make things worse between us if I try to find out. And things are bad enough as it is.

The second I step away from the door, it flies open and Fifer yanks me into her room. She slams the door and pushes me against it, a weapon from Humbert’s cabinet clutched in her hand: a spring-loaded triple dagger, by the looks of it. She holds it to my throat.

“Do you even know how to use that?” I say.