Warrior Witch: Book Two, page 7
Jack cleared his throat, gritted his teeth, and, with great effort, thought about lice. “What does the spirit Arseno favor most?” he drilled the witchling.
“Music, art, laughter, and memories,” Allison chanted in her singsong voice.
“When the watchmen are near,” Kye added, “where do we keep our eyes?”
“I don’t like that one!” Allison cried. “I don’t like the red-stolers!”
Jack tugged her hair, just enough to get her attention. “Answer the question, little witch. This is important.”
She heaved a great sigh. “When I see their red stoles, my eyes go to the ground. Even if I don’t want to look at the ugly ground, and I mustn’t put my hands in my pockets. Always keep them visible.”
“Lest they think you’re trying to curse them,” Jack said.
To cheer up the witchling, Kye told them the story of the witch, Calliope, and her adventures in the mountains. “She was saint-blessed. It’s said that one lesser saint lived in each of her fingers. They helped her control the weather, or so the story goes. She retired to the docks in her old age. Thanks to her, boats always made it home safely when the weather would take unexpected turns.”
“Is she still there, on the docks?” Allison asked.
“That was a long, long time ago . . .” Kye’s lips pressed into a firm line. If Jack’s memory served him, Calliope had been martyred by fire following a rebellion of witches who refused to be indentured into servitude.
“Kye.” Allison’s voice lost some of its chipper tones.
“Yes, little dove?”
“When will I get big like you?”
Kye guffawed. “Slowly over time, and trust me, I’m not all that big. Some people are much, much . . .” Her eyes roved over Jack’s height and breadth, and unless it was his imagination, her pupils dilated as they lingered on him. She cleared her throat. “Someday soon you’ll be taller than me. Most grown people are.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, dove. I promise.”
“Because I’ve had many, many birthdays and haven’t grown a smidge . . . Rabbit says I won’t while she’s living under my skin.”
Jack’s hands stilled in Allison’s hair. Kye met his gaze, hers reflecting his own stress back at him. He’d assumed the girl to be 4 or 5 and intelligent for her age. Now, he reflected on her moments of maturity with concern.
“How old are you, little dove?” Kye asked, not taking her eyes off Jack.
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of horse hooves dragging wet ground and splashing in deep puddles, heralding Juliet’s arrival. She sat astride a bay mount with a walnut coat, its mane almost as dark as her own curling hair. Her heavyset footman accompanied her on a massive shire horse.
Juliet hadn’t been kidding when she promised to surround herself with the biggest brutes she could find. Her footman had hands as big as dinner plates. An Achean, he was bald with skin like cocoa, and he had a name that sounded like “Gruff.” Jack couldn’t be certain exactly what his name was since he growled his words and spoke rarely.
Allison seemed to like him, though. She squealed at the sight of Gruff, and in return, something akin to a smile played across his broad, hardened face, making him seem slightly less menacing.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Juliet asked as she drew near, settling her horse.
Kye entered the cottage, reappearing a moment later with another stool and a comb of her own. “Your ward has lice. You should sit.” She patted the seat.
“But I don’t have lice!” Juliet vigorously scratched her head, her nose wrinkling. She glanced back at her footman. He rubbed the top of his bald head and shrugged.
Kye’s amusement was palpable. “Sit. Trust me. She’s of an age where they are always sharing lice. I imagine you’ve allowed her to have playmates. Loads of opportunity to share the loathsome critters then.”
“Of course. Socialization is important for a lady. I want her to have plenty of good friends at school.” Juliet examined her fingers, then scratched her head some more. “Ugh. That Pembery girl did seem a bit itchy when we had her at the townhouse last. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this . . .”
She slid down from her horse, dropping into the mud and sloshing through it. Reluctantly, she climbed the stool in front of Kye. “Can’t you magic them away?”
“Yes, and all of your hair with it,” Jack said. “Pay a visit to LaFontaine Manor. Marnie makes an alchemical cream for Cook’s children that kills the eggs and stops them from coming back. They keep it in the kitchens.” His lips curled. He couldn’t help adding, “It smells terrible, but it works every time. The smell doesn’t wane easily, though.”
“Smells? For how long?”
“You’re going to stink like a toilet for a couple of days at least.”
Kye barked a laugh. Allison was humming again. Juliet covered her face with her hands.
Chapter 6 (Marnie)
Marnie returned to LaFontaine Manor by motorcar in the early evening. She had just finished a lengthy tutoring session with master alchemist Shar Zerba at the palace. Shar and Marnie had developed the start of what would soon be one of the most impressive alchemical laboratories in all of Loreley, more advanced than what the academy or the hospitals had to offer. She tucked the golden pen—her royal summons which allowed her to come and go as she pleased from the palace—into her pocket.
Her chocolate hair tumbled down her neck, wild from humidity and her fingers, which habitually tugged at it when she was lost in thought. Chalk dusted her light blue blouse and brown trousers, and ink stained her fingers. She tried rubbing the marks out as the motorcar pulled through the manor’s gate.
She recognized the steam carriage parked in the drive. The banner of the naked tree symbol branded its doors, declaring it a vehicle of the Cloth. It had been a week since she and Bran visited the parsonage. Her breath caught in her throat. She had not yet had the chance—or the courage—to set things right.
The coward in her wished she’d let Bran do it for her.
Through the ivory-paneled front windows, she could just make out her mother’s profile. She shared tea with a tall male guest who had the sandy hair of the people of Stejin and a priest’s stole.
Bishop Ren.
They appeared to be getting along, chatting peaceably, which surprised her. Marnie wondered if they had noticed her arrival. Could she turn the motorcar around without either of them catching on? She slid down in her seat, the urge to flee speeding her heartrate.
Her mother rose from the sofa then and waved from the windows. Marnie left the motorcar and skulked inside, her boots quiet on the stone path. She cracked open the front doors, slipped through, and listened in the foyer for a moment.
“Finally! That’s her now,” Lady Annette Becker said. “She’ll be so glad to have your company, Bishop. The two of you will make such a handsome pair!”
Marnie’s brow furrowed. Handsome pair?
“Nothing would please me more,” Bishop Ren said, “if that is her wish.”
“I’ll see what’s taking her so long,” Annette said.
Marnie heard footsteps and tried to make a run for it in the direction of the kitchens. She got as far as the servants’ spiral staircase before her surprisingly quick mother found her.
“Marnie,” she hissed. She was a rosy beauty, tall and slender like her daughter. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here!” Marnie whispered back, her foot on the first step. Hurriedly, she kissed her thumb and pressed it to her forehead, a traditional gesture meant to humble oneself before walking up stairs and rising closer to God.
“Why on earth are you dressed like that?” Annette clucked at her. “You have a guest—would you look at your hair!” She hurried to her with long, elegant strides. Her hands fisted in her daughter’s hair, dragging her back from the stairwell. She tutted over her trousers and the ink stains on her fingers, ignoring her groans of pain.
“I didn’t know he’d be here, and if I had, I’d have dressed worse!” Marnie winced in her mother’s brutal grasp.
“I told you this morning at breakfast you would have a guest! You are very late, and you’re an absolute mess!”
Marnie vaguely remembered her mother chirping at her while she drank her morning coffee, puzzling over an alchemical equation she’d had to leave unsolved the night before in favor of sleep. She hadn’t heard a word her mother had said.
“I don’t want to encourage him!” Marnie tried to twist free, but her mother’s grip tightened.
“Hold still, dear,” she chided, pulling jeweled pins from her auburn hair to use in Marnie’s.
“What are you doing in there with him, being all encouraging and kind? I thought you’d eat him alive—ouch!” Her gray eyes watered. “What would Bran think?”
“Sorry, dear, but I must be quick.” With quick deft fingers, she added a braid that wrapped Marnie’s crown to tame the flyaway waves, yanking at the knots ruthlessly. “You know I love Lord Bran like he’s one of my own, but he has had more than enough time to do right by you. You are my daughter, and you deserve better.”
“You’re being absurd!”
“What’s absurd is all those horrible things I have to read in the tabloids! The lewd suggestions about how the emperor spends his nights!”
“Then stop reading that filth! Bran is not the problem here! Loreley is!”
She spun her daughter round and straightened the apprentice badge on her chest, undoing the button at her collar for a flair of femininity. “Maybe a little competition is just what Lord Bran needs to help him make the right decision. When he catches wind of the bishop’s intentions, he’ll be struck with eagerness and propose in a hurry.” She licked her finger and straightened her daughter’s brows, then pinched her cheeks.
Marnie pushed her hands away. “He has proposed loads of times,” she said through her teeth.
Annette’s eyes popped wide. “And you haven’t said yes?” She grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and shook her ungently.
“I haven’t said no, either. I just can’t . . . shush!” Marnie slid out of her grasp, listening over her shoulder a moment, certain she’d heard something or someone in the hall. Then she lowered her voice. “It wouldn’t be safe. No one wants to see a witch in power. Our engagement would cause unrest, accusations. Witches go missing for less in Loreley . . .”
Lady Becker rubbed her freckled forehead like it pained her. “He is the Lord of Loreley, Emperor of Kings, my dear. He could call down armies, order his enemies thrown from the roof of the palace if he so chose. If he still hasn’t convinced you he can keep you safe, then he must not be trying hard enough. If he’d come to me first, like a proper gentleman, I would have helped him make it legal and binding without this nonsense anxiety! No one could keep you safer!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Marnie glared daggers. “You’re being impossible!”
“And you’re being rude! I raised you better. Go!” She pushed her away from the stairs, ushering her into the hall, just outside the drawing room.
Annette remained in the corridor, out of sight, but her presence was felt. Marnie stomped through the archway, into the room, suddenly nervous. Sweat on her palms smeared ink around her fingers. Their new butler, Paul Marris, delivered a telegram to the bishop in a hurry, then left as Marnie entered with a polite nod in her direction.
The bishop’s eyes did not leave the telegram in his hand, face lined with concern. He sat on the sofa, positioned in front of a mechanized caddy with trays of fresh fruit and cheeses, his legs crossed. His blonde hair was neatly oiled with pomatum, like he’d taken extra care with his appearance that evening. Marnie wished he hadn’t. He was already a handsome man, and his interest made her feel flustered enough as it was.
“What a pleasant surprise, Ren.” Nerves had her voice squeaking. Marnie wiped her hands on her thighs, leaving trails of ink on her trousers.
He looked up at her, his handsome green eyes clouded with distant thoughts. “Marnie, so good to see you.” His hand wound in the ends of his silver stole as his attention shifted back to the wire he held.
She scanned the sofas and the matching floral armchairs, unable to decide where to sit. “Is everything all right . . . ?” She wrung the fingers of her natural hand with the automated ones.
“Oh, nothing too serious,” he said, tapping an anxious rhythm out on the arm of his seat with the edge of the telegram. “I hoped to continue my visit here, but I’m needed at the parsonage, apparently . . . Actually, Marnie, I could use your help with this. It would be worth an armband for your apprenticeship if you’d assist.”
“What’s the matter?” A problem needed solving. She enjoyed puzzles. The notion calmed her somewhat.
“It seems our newest novice has been practicing wards in his chambers—they’re not supposed to dabble with rites without supervision at such an early stage in their education. Now he’s trapped himself inside, and he can’t bring the ward down alone. It’s strong enough they can’t penetrate it without damaging the building.” His laugh was bitter. “He’s deterred a number of expert priests. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so irritated.” Then he looked up at her, and his smile was slow and deliberate. “I had different plans for our evening.”
“That’s nothing a little natural magic riding couldn’t solve. I’m happy to help you, Ren.”
Worry ebbed from him. “You’ve been studying hard,” he said, climbing to his feet.
Marnie swiped at the chalk dust on her blouse. “I’m working on a new healing balm that will be especially useful to miners. If we’re successful, Magus District will be able to trade out some of their more costly mixtures in favor of the one we’ve concocted, made of simpler elements.”
“Sounds fascinating.” He tucked the wire into his pocket and offered his arm.
Marnie hooked her mechanically braced hand around his elbow, noting again his lack of a magical scent. He patted the automated fingers with interest and something like admiration but made no comment.
On the way to the parsonage, in the Cloth’s steam carriage, she explained exactly how fascinating her newest experiments were, pleased when he seemed to follow along well with the more technical terms of the craft. She spotted her reflection in the glass. Her hair was stunning, braided with a touch of tamed wildness that made her features more compelling. It was hard to remain irritated with her mother when she worked little wonders like that. She’d forgive her for threatening to compel her into marriage. Besides, Annette would never do such a thing. The comment had been made in the heat of the moment.
There was nothing to be worried about . . . probably . . .
Brother Doyle greeted them in the brightly lit foyer of the parsonage. The aged priest spread his arms wide, and Marnie abandoned the bishop to embrace her stout friend. A growing bald spot marred his silver hair. It gave Marnie an idea for a new alchemical balm.
“Lovely as always to see you, Sophia, my dear. Lovely as always.” He squeezed her wrists. “You’ve come to help our new novice, I take it?” He straightened the round glasses balanced on the end of his nose.
She nodded at him, careful not to return the squeeze too hard with her automated fingers. It could do some damage; she’d learned the hard way. Poor Jack.
“Doyle is better with wards than I, the best in Loreley I’d wager. I’ll leave you in his more capable hands,” Ren said, before heading for the sitting room.
“Lead the way then, Brother,” Marnie said. “I’ll transport you inside, then you can help your student lift the ward.”
Doyle guided her through a pale corridor, beyond cramped office spaces, an impressive library, and the toilet room with a copper tub. The bedchamber in question radiated magic. Marnie could hear its hum in her ears. It smelled like citrus.
She knocked on the door. “Hello in there?”
“Mister Bechtold,” Doyle offered.
“Hello, Mr. Bechtold,” she said. “Are you all right in there?”
Shuffling and the sound of padding feet on hardwood floors came from inside the room. A shadow appeared through the gap at the bottom of the doorframe.
“Hello?” The young man’s voice cracked. “Who’s there?”
“I’m an apprenticing councilor and a friend of Brother Doyle here. I’ve come to help you.”
“How?” he asked in an incredulous tenor. “Not sure I’ll ever get out of here. The ward won’t even allow water through the crack in the door. I’m hungry and thirsty, and I’ve been pissing in the trash bin!”
Doyle’s cheeks turned purple. “You’re speaking to a Sophia, Bechtold! Mind your words!”
Marnie waved him away. “He’s hungry and scared, and I’ve said worse myself just today. I don’t mind. Come on, like old times.”
Brother Doyle extended his hands. She ignored them, hugging him instead. He chuckled tensely as her arms secured around his middle. Marnie laid her head on his barrel chest and focused. The golden bands of her magic flexed around her and the priest. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they stood together inside the novice’s private chambers.
The gas lamps were low. It smelled like urine and fear. Open books about rites and wards covered the floors. He had carved a variety of runes into the plaster above his fireplace trying to break his rite: a star, a fox, the harp, crossed hammers, the songbird . . . The constant star’s proportions were incorrect. The fox’s tail curled the wrong way.
Bechtold was the same novice who had greeted her during her first meeting with the bishop a week ago: her age of nineteen, black curling hair, prominent nose. Recognition shone in his brown eyes. He hugged a charcoal house robe around him anxiously.
“Show me where you’ve cast it,” Doyle said.
Marnie pointed at the empty fireplace. “I can smell it there.” She smiled encouragingly at the novice. “It smells strong. You should be proud.”
“I’m in loads of trouble,” Bechtold groaned.
