The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(73)

I wince. There’s no telling how bad he’s made this medicine taste. I take a tentative sip. But instead of something sour or pungent, I taste strawberries. I think back to the night when I first dined with Nicholas, when I piled my plate high with strawberries and cake. John must have noticed and remembered. I feel that ache in my chest again.

“What’s wrong? Why are you making that face?” Fifer demands.

“No reason,” I say. Fifer raises her eyebrows. “Anyway, where did you get this?” I reach over and pick up the mask. It’s pretty, black satin with tiny black jewels sewn all over it. The feathers are overkill, but I’ve seen worse.

“Humbert has a whole trunkful. That duchess friend of his, you know. They’re left over from some masquerade ball they went to. I can’t imagine how strange those parties must be. I mean, what’s the point of getting all dressed up if no one knows who you are?” She tuts. “Have you ever been to one?”

I nod. “Two, actually. Would have been three if I hadn’t been arrested. Malcolm has them every Christmas. This year’s must be coming up soon.”

It takes a moment for that to set in. Malcolm’s masquerade ball is coming up. The one Caleb was going to invite Katherine to, the one I drunkenly invited George to.

I tear off my nightgown and fumble around on the floor for some clothes.

Fifer watches me, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

I tug on a pair of trousers and a shirt, shove my feet into a pair of boots, and stagger out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll explain downstairs,” I say, working my way down the steps. “Where’s Humbert?”

“Sitting room.”

Shuffling down the hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My shirt is buttoned up wrong, my hair is tangled. I look wild, unhinged.

I finally reach the sitting room, Fifer on my heels. Humbert is at his desk, writing a letter. “Elizabeth!” he crows. “It’s nice to see you up and—”

“Humbert, what day is it today?” I demand, cutting him off.

“I’m sorry, dear—what day?”

“Yes. What day of the month?”

“Well, it’s Wednesday, of course,” he says. “The fourteenth of December.” He smiles. “Oh, you must be talking about the weather. It does seem as if it came early this year, doesn’t it?”

I ignore him, thinking. Today is the fourteenth. Malcolm’s masque was to be held on the third Friday of the month this year. What day is that?

“I need a calendar,” I blurt.

“Yes, well, fine.” Humbert opens a drawer and pulls out a ledger. “Here you go.”

I snatch it from his hands and flip the pages until I land on December 1558.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What’s going on?” George says, walking into the room.

“I know how I’m going to get into Blackwell’s.” I hold up the calendar, point my finger to a date: Friday, December 16, 1558. Two days from now. “I’m going to be a guest at Malcolm’s masquerade ball.”

“What are you talking about?” Fifer says.

“Every year at Christmas, Malcolm has a masquerade ball,” I say. “He invites everyone. It’s a huge crowd. There’s a performance, music. Food and dancing. People come from all over Anglia.” I turn to Humbert. “You go, don’t you?”

“Not lately,” he admits. “Difficult for me to dance, what with my back. And my foot—” He stops. “But, yes, I did receive an invitation a while back. I tucked it away, didn’t give it much thought.” He pauses. “But Malcolm’s Christmas masques are normally held at Ravenscourt, aren’t they?”

“Yes, normally,” I say. “But with all the rebellions, he thought it would be safer to move it. Keep it secret until the day before. Then all the guests would receive a second invitation with the location.”

“Then how do you know where it is?” George asks. “I don’t.”

“I—” I feel my cheeks burn. “The king told me.”

The three of them frown, confused. Of course, they don’t understand how or why the king would tell me something like that. And I’m not about to explain it to them, at least not now.

“Anyway,” I continue. “I’ve got a lot to figure out in two days. The biggest problem is how to get there. It’s too far to ride, so I’ll have to take a boat. I can sneak aboard. I’ve done it before; it’s not terribly difficult. Granted, it’ll take some doing to persuade the captain to drop a stowaway at Blackwell’s doorstep, but—what?”

Fifer, George, and Humbert are all staring at me as if I’m as deranged as I look.

“I don’t know, Elizabeth,” Humbert says. “Walking into Blackwell’s house, uninvited—”

“I’m not uninvited,” I say. “I’ll take your invitation.”

“But poking about his grounds with all those people around? I don’t know. It sounds potentially dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous no matter what,” I say. “But the masque is by far my best opportunity to get inside. There will be hundreds of people around. My face will be hidden. Blackwell will be distracted. No one will notice one wandering guest.”