The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(86)

But I don’t count on being alive.

“I don’t like this.” Fifer looks around. “All these people, I feel as if they’re all looking at us.”

“They’re not,” John says. “It just feels like it because you’re nervous. Try to calm down.”

“How can I calm down? Have you seen all these tapestries?” Fifer bites her nails. “I feel as if I might be sick. Maybe if I get some air—”

“You can’t,” John replies. “We stick to the plan. And that means staying put until the masque starts.”

“Let’s find a place to sit,” I say. “Somewhere close to an exit so we can slip out unnoticed.” I spot an open area by the set of doors we came in through. You can’t see or hear much from this far away, but that doesn’t matter.

We push through the crowd, and I feel people’s eyes on me as we pass. Fifer is right—they are watching us. Then one boy—man? Hard to tell through the mask—after another steps up, sketches a quick bow, asks me to dance. As politely as I can, I turn them down. But the attention is starting to make me nervous.

“What’s going on?” George whispers.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “Maybe they think I’m someone else? I’m not sure—”

“It’s your dress,” John says. “The bird on the front. It’s that duchess’s symbol. Humbert’s friend. Remember?”

Of course. The silver bird embroidered on the front of my dress, the symbol of the House of Rotherhithe. How could I have forgotten? That’s who everyone thinks I am: Cecily Mowbray, the Duchess of Rotherhithe’s granddaughter. A lady-in-waiting to Queen Margaret, a lady in her own right, Caleb’s friend. Blond and petite, just like me.

Another boy approaches me. But before he can finish his bow, John grabs my hand and pulls me into the throng of dancers. He places one hand on my back, takes my hand with the other, and pulls me to him. Together we move slowly, quietly, in time with the music.

I should be thinking about Malcolm, who is somewhere in this crowd. I should be thinking about Blackwell, about Caleb, who is here, too. I should be thinking about my plan, the tomb, the tablet.… Instead, all I’m thinking about is John. The smell of lavender and spice, the faint trace of lemons. The way he looks at me, the press of his body against mine, so close I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. It matches my own.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt.

“What are you sorry for?” he says softly.

I shake my head. I’m sorry for nothing, I’m sorry for everything; I’m sorry for the impossible way I feel about him, for the impossible hope he might feel the same. But I know I can’t tell him that.

“I know how hard it must be for you to help someone you hate,” I say instead.

He pulls back a little, tilts his head down, looks at me.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispers. “Maybe I should. But I can’t. Because I know you now. And the you I know—brave and strong, but still so frightened and vulnerable—isn’t someone I can hate. That person, I can only—” He breaks off, unable to find the words.

“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “I understand.”

“Do you?” He looks down at me. Slides his hand along my cheek and lifts my face to meet his, so close our lips are an inch apart. Less. He dips his head. I can feel his breath on my skin.

Then he kisses me.

I forget about everything: my fear, my plan—I even forget about the tablet. All that matters is the feel of his lips on mine, his hands on my face and in my hair, the sense of safety he gives me. I never want it to end.

At the sound of applause, we leap apart; I hadn’t realized the music had stopped. John stares at me, eyes wide through his mask, his lips parted, the shock on his face evident. Shock at what? That he kissed me? Or shock that he felt something, the same thing I felt? Still feel: thrill, desire, hope, all tangled together in a breathless little knot.

He reaches for me; I step toward him. I feel a tapping on my shoulder, but I ignore it, not wanting to turn away from him. And when I feel it again, I turn around, a refusal on my lips, thinking it’s another stranger confusing me with someone else. But it’s not a stranger. Because the moment I see his eyes, black as a snake’s even under his wolf-shaped mask, I know who it is. I would recognize him anywhere.

Blackwell.

I feel the blood drain from my face, my arms, my legs. It pools around my feet like cement, rooting them to the floor.

“Miss Mowbray, I presume?” Blackwell says. “I know it’s not the done thing to call you out before the unmasking. But I simply couldn’t let a cherished guest go by without offering a word of condolence.”

John sucks in a sharp, quick breath.

“Thank you,” I say. I keep my voice soft, hoping he won’t recognize it.

“I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother,” he continues. I nod, remembering Humbert mentioning the duchess was ill. “Such a pity.” I nod again, waiting for him to excuse himself. But he doesn’t. John steps forward and takes my arm, but Blackwell’s undeterred. “Might I persuade this young man to allow me one dance?”

John pauses a beat too long. “Of course,” he says, his voice tight.

“I’ll have her back soon,” Blackwell adds carelessly. He takes my arm and pulls me into the crowd. I look back at the others, their masks unable to hide the horror on their faces.