The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(82)

“Medicine,” he tells me. “It’s not very good, but I didn’t have a lot to work with. Might want to drink it while it’s still hot. I can’t promise it’ll taste any better cold.”

“Thank you.” I take it from him. “What did you find out?”

“We’re about four hours from Upminster. But there’s a storm coming in, so it might take longer. Either way, we should be there by sundown.”

John hands out the food—some bread and hard cheese—and sits next to me.

“I asked the captain to drop us off a mile downriver from Blackwell’s,” he says. “I know there will be other ships around and we could probably blend in, but there’s no sense in taking a chance.” He looks at me. “I hope that’s all right.”

I nod. “That’s good. Thank you.” I tear off a piece of bread but don’t eat it. I’m too nervous to have much of an appetite. Judging by the way the others pick at their food, I guess they’re not hungry, either.

“It should be easy enough to get in,” I say. “We only have one invitation, but we can pass it back and forth. Once we’re inside, we just need to blend in with everyone else.”

Everyone else.

Malcolm, Blackwell, Caleb. Every witch hunter I’ve ever known. Not to mention guards and servants and a hundred other people who might recognize me. I suppress a shiver and keep going.

“Once we’re inside, don’t try to hide. Blackwell is alert to that sort of thing. Stay in the open, but try to avoid talking to people as much as possible. The performance starts at nine, and that’s when we’ll go down to the tomb.”

Schuyler puts an arm around Fifer. I don’t know what she’s thinking, not the way he does. But by the way she chews on her lip, I can guess.

“Then you wait,” I say. “You can’t do anything but. Stay close by, but not too close. Act like guests and you’ll be fine. No one will bother you. There are too many important people at this masque for Blackwell to risk irritating anyone. But if there’s any sign of trouble while I’m in there, Schuyler, get them out.”

“But what if something happens when you’re still inside?” George says.

“Then he’ll come back and get me.” I look at Schuyler. “Right?”

Schuyler looks at me, his bright eyes darkening with sudden understanding. “Whatever you want, bijoux.”

I turn to the others. “It’s not the best plan in the world, but it’s good enough. As long as everyone sticks to it, we should be fine.”

Except it’s all a lie.

Everything I’m telling them is a lie, and only Schuyler knows the truth. He heard me thinking last night, listened to my thoughts, just as I wanted him to. He knows what my real plan is. Knows that to keep the others safe, it’s the only thing to do.

We sit in silence for a while. The ship continues to rock back and forth, sails flapping furiously. A handful of men run around the deck, roping down barrels and crates and cannons to keep them from sliding overboard. Abruptly, John jumps to his feet and walks away, striding quickly across the deck and into the captain’s cabin. I look at George, but he just shrugs.

Soon I see the dark shape of land in the distance and know we’ll be arriving soon.

“We should probably get ready,” I say. “Fifer, we’ll have to change, but I don’t know where—”

“You can use the captain’s cabin.” I turn around to see John standing above me, holding his bag. He looks awful. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale. Even his lips are pale. “But I need to check your stitches first. We could do it here, but I thought you’d be more comfortable inside.”

“Okay.” We walk across the deck, the boat still pitching back and forth. I have to stop a few times to steady myself, but John plows ahead. I follow him into the cabin.

Inside, it’s nothing but luxury. A carpet covers the floor, velvet drapes surround the wide, square windows. A wide oak table sits in the middle, surrounded by chairs. At the far side of the cabin there’s a bed built into the wall, covered in plush bed coverings in different shades of blue, and next to it, a small desk with a mirror mounted on the wall above it.

“Where do you want me?” I say.

“The table is fine.”

I climb on top of it and lie down, and John stands over me. He looks at me a moment, then clears his throat.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll need to see it.”

I pause, then pull up the hem of my tunic, exposing my stomach. He’s seen me before. He’s a healer; he’s seen a lot of people before. But this feels different. The cabin feels warm, but maybe that’s the blush I can feel creeping up my neck, into my cheeks. I turn toward the window so he can’t see.

John leans over me and begins to unwrap the bandage, his fingers brushing my skin like a caress. My heart is pounding so furiously, it’s a wonder he can’t hear. Or maybe he can.

“This looks good,” he says after a minute. “I expected worse. Maybe your stigma helped after all. I don’t know. But for someone with thirty-two stitches—”

“Thirty-two? ” I turn to face him. “You gave me thirty-two stitches?”

He nods. “It was bad. I thought you were going to die. If that blade had gone half an inch deeper, you would have. If you had, I—” He stops, busying himself with bandaging me up again.