The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(84)

“Don’t forget these.” She hands me the sapphire earrings and matching ring. The one Humbert asked me to wear. I slip it on my finger. In the cabin’s dim light, I can just make out the tiny heart etched underneath.

“Thank you,” I say. “For someone marching to her untimely demise, I don’t look half bad.” I mean it as a joke, but Fifer scowls.

“We won’t leave you there,” she says.

“I might not make it out,” I say.

“But we won’t leave you there.” She gestures at the door. “Come on. The others are waiting.”

Outside, dusk is approaching and the clouds are beginning to part, revealing the bright moon behind them. John, George, and Schuyler stand by the door.

Schuyler is dressed in his usual black, George in all blue. Without all the feathers and brooches and bright-colored clothing, I almost don’t recognize him. John has on black trousers and a white shirt under a black jacket trimmed in red. But his hair is still tousled, the wind blowing curls across his forehead and into his eyes. I realize I’m staring at him, but then he’s staring right back at me.

Schuyler tips his head back and groans. “Not this again,” he says. “I don’t know how much more of it I can take.”

“What are you talking about?” I turn to him.

“You. Him. This.” Schuyler waves his hand between John and me. “All these feelings. Flapping about the ship like frantic birds in a cage. Love! Hate! Lust! Fear! Ugh. I feel as if I’m trapped inside an Aegean tragedy.” He glances at George. “You’re not going to start singing, are you?”

George grins. But I look away, my face flaming.

“Shut it, Schuyler,” Fifer says softly. “Let’s just show them and get on with it.”

Schuyler pulls several pieces of paper from his coat. A piece of parchment, a wilted ticket, fragments of a map.

“How many?” Fifer says.

“Four,” Schuyler replies. Then he takes the parchment and rips it in half. “Now five.”

“Good.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheet of thick, creamy paper. I recognize it immediately. The delicate black script on the front, the bright red rose stamped on the top: the invitation to Malcolm’s masque. She takes the ragged pieces of paper from Schuyler’s hand and stacks them on the deck, one on top of the other. Then she takes the invitation and places it on top.

“What are you doing?”

“We need an invitation to get inside the masque,” Fifer says. “I know you said we could pass the one back and forth, but I figured out a better way.” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out her witch’s ladder. “Two knots left.” She holds up the length of black silk cording. “One of which is going to come in really handy right now.”

“Ah,” George says. “That is a good idea.”

“I thought so, too.” Fifer unties the knot and places her hand on top of the stack of paper. “Alter.”

I watch as the map fragments, the ticket, and the two torn pieces of parchment shift and grow, changing shape and color until they become exact copies of the original invitation. Fifer starts passing them out.

“What kind of spell is that?” I say. “Is it like the one you did on the road to Humbert’s, turning the grass into a hedge?”

“The principle is the same, yes.” She hands me an invitation. The paper is slightly warm to the touch. “The idea of taking something and turning it into something else that’s similar. It’s called transference. It’s actually a very handy spell. It needs a great deal of magic behind it, though. I couldn’t do it without Nicholas’s help.” She holds up the cord and gives it a little shake. “He can transfer almost anything into anything else. It’s pretty amazing.”

Just then a man comes up behind us. He claps John on the back, and they shake hands. This must be the captain.

“We dock in about fifteen minutes,” he says. “Best to get your things and wait by the plank. It’ll be a quick stop. No need to stay here any longer than we need to.” John thanks him, and then he’s gone, striding across the deck and barking orders at his men.

We gather our bags and the Azoth—I’ve got it fastened under my skirt; it’s so long the blade nearly grazes the floor—and cross the deck to the railing, watching as Blackwell’s house looms into view.

From the river, it looks like a fortress. Four massive stone slabs, impossibly tall and straight, form the outside walls. On each corner is an even taller domed tower, topped with tiny flags, each emblazoned with a bright red rose. Blackwell’s standard. Surrounding the house is another enormous stone wall. It lines the riverbank, stretching on for what seems like miles before turning inward to enclose the rest of the house.

Set in the middle of the wall is a single, small iron gateway, leading from the river into the moat within. Most of the time it’s closed. But this evening it’s open, like an enormous, gaping iron-toothed jaw. I can almost feel it waiting to devour me.

Normally Blackwell’s home stands empty. But tonight it’s crowded with ships of all sizes and shapes, carrying passengers from all over Anglia. Farther upriver are smaller barges, carrying people from their homes in Upminster. As they grow closer, I can hear the oarsmen beating time on their drums. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounds like a heartbeat.