The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(72)

“You’re not going to die,” Fifer says quietly. She’s kneeling next to the bathtub, her hands gripping the edges. Watching me. “I know that’s what you think. But you aren’t. I’ve read the prophecy a thousand times. It sounds bad—I know that. But you aren’t going to die.”

“Why do you care?” I say, my voice cracking. “As long as I find the tablet, what does it matter to you if I die? You said I’d be better off dead. You said it’s what I deserved.”

“I don’t—I didn’t mean that,” she says. “Well, yes, I did. But I don’t anymore. I don’t think you deserve that.” She goes silent for a moment. “I understand what it’s like, you know,” she says, finally. “To have your life torn apart by magic.”

I jerk my head up to look at her. “What?”

She sighs. “I started studying with Nicholas when I was six. Everyone—well, everyone outside this house—thinks it’s because I’m so exceptional. A prodigy. For him to take on someone so young, I’d have to be, right?” She looks down, tapping her pale fingers against the tub. “Do you want to know the real reason?”

I nod, but she doesn’t see me. “Yes.”

“It’s because my mother gave me to him. She wasn’t a witch herself, and she was scared of me. Of the things I could do. My father had just died; she thought somehow I killed him. I don’t know if I did. To this day, I still don’t. All I know is she somehow found Nicholas, gave me away, and never came back.”

I wince at the familiar tale of yet another broken family. “I’m sorry.”

Fifer shrugs. “What could I do? I cried, I screamed, I ran away. But it didn’t bring her back. I hated being a witch. I hated magic. Hated that it turned my family against me. If Nicholas hadn’t taken me in, hadn’t raised me as his own, things might have turned out very differently for me. I might still hate magic, as you do.”

“I don’t hate it,” I say. “Not anymore. I’ve seen the worst it can do, but I’ve seen the good it can do, too. What Nicholas does, what John does—” I stop. “I guess I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Fifer nods. “Nicholas says that magic isn’t inherently good or bad; it’s what people do with it that makes it that way. It took me a long time to understand that. Once I did, I realized it isn’t magic that separates us from them, or you from me. It’s misunderstanding.”

She holds up a finger, then plunges it into the tepid water. At once it becomes deliciously hot.

“Besides, magic does come in handy sometimes—I can’t lie.” She grins at me. “I guess the tree downstairs was right about you after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a tree of life. Didn’t John tell you?”

I shake my head.

“Your making those leaves appear like that means… well, it means a couple of things,” Fifer says. “It’s mainly a sign of strength and power. But it also signifies change. New beginnings, I guess you could say.”

“Oh.” Maybe I should be pleased by this, by the chance to start over—whatever that means. Instead, I’m left wondering how much it even matters anymore. Then I remember something else. “What did the bird mean?”

Fifer raises her eyebrows, the tiniest smile crossing her face. “I think John should be the one to tell you about that.”

I shake my head, a sudden ache filling my chest. I don’t think John is going to be telling me about anything anymore.

Fifer helps me out of the bath and into a clean nightgown. I look at her and feel a twinge of guilt. She’s a mess, still dressed in her clothes from the party, her hair matted and dirty, her eye a brilliant shade of purple. She’s so tired she’s swaying on her feet.

“You should go sleep,” I say.

“Okay.” She yawns and walks to the door. “You should, too. You look terrible. You can’t expect to destroy the tablet in this condition.” She shuts the door behind her.

The tablet. It’s the last thing on my mind as I fall into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning throughout the day and night, and the first thing on my mind when I wake up.

I ease myself out of bed—the pain in my side considerably less than it was yesterday—go to the window and throw open the curtains. Outside, the ground is covered in a thick, fog-like mist. Another cold winter day in Anglia. I consider crawling back into bed when there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s me,” Fifer says. “Let me in.”

I open the door and let out a yelp. Fifer is standing in the hallway holding a goblet, wearing a black glittery mask with a plume of bright pink feathers shooting from the top.

“What do you think? Do you like it?” She pushes her way inside and prances around, making ridiculous poses. Her red hair clashes horribly with the pink feathers.

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.

“I knew it!” She tears the mask off and flings it onto the bed. “It was George’s idea. He said he couldn’t stand looking at my face without it. He’s such a baby.”

I see what he means. Even though the swelling around her eye is gone, it’s still a bloody, mottled purple.

“Here.” She pushes the goblet into my hand. “It’s medicine. John made it. You’re to drink all of it, no complaints, and I’m to report back that you did.”