Whisper the Dead

  “It’s high time you experienced some of the beauty of the witching world. You’ve experienced too much of its danger already. There is a debt owing to you, love.”

  She liked the way he called her “love.” Liked it enough that she nearly missed the rest of his sentence. She forced herself to concentrate.

  “I’m taking you to Vauxhall.”

  “The pleasure gardens?” she asked, confused. She’d been once before to watch a balloon ascent. There’d been champagne and strawberries afterward, and a stroll through the picture gallery. “But that’s nothing to do with witches.”

  “On a full moon, I think you’ll find you’re very much mistaken.”

  There was a warm flutter in her belly at the promise in his voice. In the close confines of the carriage, his knee pressed against her. She cleared her throat. “What about Virgil?” she asked, hating to break the moment. “Won’t he see us together?”

  Cormac smirked. “Virgil will follow this carriage to your aunt’s house, where Penelope has constructed herself a set of papier-mâché antlers and plans to parade in front of the window for the rest of the evening.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. She could well imagine Penelope doing just that.

  When they reached the Chadwick townhouse, a second carriage pulled down the lane behind them. The family crest had been taken off the door, but the dark wood and the brass fittings gleamed. This was no hired hack with the smell of gin and onions upon the cushions. The door opened and Cormac slipped out, keeping his body between the two carriages so as not to be seen from the road. Emma followed suit.

  The carriage pulled away and the front door opened. Light spilled over the front step. Penelope waved from behind the butler, the shadow of her costume antlers crowning her head.

  Cormac drew the curtains closed again as they pulled out into the street. “There he is,” he said softly. Emma followed his gaze and caught the briefest glimpse of Virgil leaning against the garden wall of the house across the street. He looked bored.

  “He doesn’t have an umbrella,” Emma murmured. “That’s not very practical. Doesn’t he know how often it rains in London?” Thunder purred overhead, like a lazy jungle cat.

  “As much as I’d like to see him as the drowned rat he is, best save your magic for the Fith-Fath glamour so no one at Vauxhall recognizes you.” He lifted a mask from the folds of the velvet cloak. “And you can wear this as well.”

  It was made of supple leather, painted white and decorated with silver beads and spangles. The edges curled into spirals at the corner of each eye, with a fringe of glass beads falling from the bottom to further conceal her features. Cormac leaned forward to hold it against her cheekbones while she tied the ribbon tightly.

  “You haven’t been sleeping,” he said softly, so near that his lips nearly brushed hers. Her breath went warm in her chest.

  “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want to tell him about the nightmares, not now. Not after he’d gone through so much trouble to give them an evening without warlocks and curses and secret witching societies. He didn’t need to know that she’d offered the Toad Mother a secret in exchange for a spell to allow her to open a portal. The spell required something personal that belonged to Ewan, which was up to Emma to supply, and a silver bough the Toad Mother promised to procure. According to the old stories, an apple branch wrapped in silver bells guaranteed the bearer safe passage to and from the Underworld. The apple tree had to grow on a hilltop, watered with rain gathered in thunderstorms and cut down under the light of an eclipsed blood moon. They were, understandably, not easy to come by.

  “You’re miles away,” Cormac murmured.

  She forced her attention back to the present. Cormac leaned back against the cushions with a kind of lazy confidence, like nothing could surprise him. The other boys tried to emulate him, but they always looked bored and peevish, whereas Cormac looked like he was harboring a delicious secret.

  When they reached Vauxhall, he paid the entrance fee at the gate and stepped into the sprawling acreage of London’s most famous pleasure garden. Groves of trees were divided by gravel paths, waterfalls, grottos, and marble statues. An orchestra played in the main rotunda where visitors danced or else retired to lavishly decorated supper boxes to eat delicate slices of ham and strawberries.

  Cormac led her past the crowds, into the groves where nightingales sang and thousands of glass lamps were strung in the trees. They were set up to flicker into life all at once on musical cues. Emma would have suspected magic, if she didn’t know better.

  They passed a tightrope dancer wearing spangles and crossing over a courtyard fountain on a rope bridge strung between a temple and a pavilion. Cormac held Emma’s hand, and she let herself be carried away with the bright, cheerful chaos of the garden. Fatigue fell off as they made their way deeper and deeper into the woods, where, judging by the furtive shadows, other couples were also seeking privacy.

  “There are glamours and illusion charms to keep the others from stumbling upon us,” Cormac explained, stepping around a clump of stinking mayweed. “That evil plant keeps all but the most curious out anyway.”

  Emma’s eyes watered. “I can see how.”

  There was more foliage and fewer lamps, but other than the unfortunate smell, there was nothing else to differentiate this grove from any other grove in the park.

  Until Cormac walked between two oak trees and vanished completely.

  Emma’s mouth dropped open when the space between the trees rippled and gleamed like old-fashioned green glass. It mirrored nothing, did not show her stunned reflection, only the sway of branches beyond, like any windowpane. There was a faint glitter though, like diamond dust clinging to the leaves and branches and the very air itself.

  “Cormac?” she whispered. The witch knot on her palm began to feel warm.

  Cormac did not reappear, but his arm extended to beckon her from behind the glittering wall of glass. Taking a deep breath, she took his hand and let herself be pulled forward. There was a brief moment of dizziness, a flash of light behind her eyelids, and then she was standing at his side while a swarm of miniature dragonfly maidens flew by.

  It rivaled even the splendor of the goblin markets; as the secret garden under the full moon was clearly meant to be a place for celebration. There was no dread of the Order or the Rovers; it was simply witches in their best finery dancing under the stars without fear of discovery. Tables were piled with gingerbread, bottles of strawberry cordial, apple-petal cake, and crescent-shaped biscuits rolled in fine sugar that Cormac called moon cakes. Wind chimes shivered the air, not just with sound but with musical notes, like miniature harps being played up in the trees. Cormac brought her to a cobblestone maze surrounding a fountain where the stone mermaid had been animated to wash her hair with water being poured from a shell.

  “It’s perfect here.” Emma smiled at him. “Like something out of a poem.”

  “Nearly perfect,” he said. The tips of his ears were red when he pulled a silver chain from a pocket inside his cutaway coat. A small star dangled and spun, the moonlight and lamplight glinting off tiny inset diamonds.

  “It’s beautiful,” Emma breathed, touched.

  “This way you always have your stars, even on a cloudy night,” he said gruffly.

  He understood her. He saw her when so many others had only ever seen the quiet girl at the fringes of the ballroom. She beamed, fastening the clasp around her neck. And when she rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him, he closed his arms around her, lifting her up against his chest. She could have stayed there forever, his lips on hers and nothing else to think on.

  When Godric came home a few hours later, Gretchen found him in the parlor, listlessly poking at the dwindling fire. “You have lovely rooms far from parental smothering,” she pointed out lightly. “And you’re wasting them. It’s shameful, really.”

  “It’s merely trading one set of rules for another,” he returned. “Not to mention that it’s rather crowded with
Keepers and their dead ancestors at the moment. Most of them are currently jammed into the parlor, trying to outmatch one another. It was giving me a headache.”

  Gretchen straightened. “Is that so?”

  He turned his head sharply, recognizing her tone. “Lord, no.”

  “I haven’t said anything yet.”

  He snorted. “I don’t need to be your twin to know there’s a very bad idea hatching inside that daft head of yours.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” she grumbled.

  “Because we know you.”

  She wouldn’t be gainsaid. Her eyes were shining. “I think it’s time you had a visit from your dear old cousin Geoffrey Cove, don’t you?” It had been too long since she’d donned a set of Godric’s old clothes and ran about town with him with all the freedom being dressed as a boy could offer.

  “Most emphatically not.” He dropped his head in his hands, knowing the battle was already lost whatever he might have to say about it. Gretchen was bouncing on her toes, like a child about to enter a sweetshop. “Wouldn’t you rather sneak into a tavern, like we used to?”

  She would actually, but this was more practical. “Not this time. I want to know what the Keepers are saying.”

  “I could tell you.” He already knew it wouldn’t be good enough, before she shot him a telling look.

  “You’re hardly ever there,” she added with a snort. “And I want to hear it for myself.”

  “You want to rub their noses in it later, you mean.”

  She grinned, unrepentant. “That too.”

  She took the polished oak stairs two at a time, a habit her mother had been trying to break her of for years. She pulled off her gown impatiently, ripping the seams when she tugged too hard. She couldn’t ring for her lady’s maid to help her. Marie would never be able to keep such a secret from her mother’s gimlet glare. Gretchen pulled on trousers, a linen shirt, and a waistcoat to hide her curves, then buttoned a coat on top of it all. She already felt more like herself.

  Godric was still in the parlor, guzzling port while he waited. She grabbed the bottle. “You can’t be three sheets to the wind if this is going to work.”

  “Too late. Let’s stay home.”

  She dragged him down the hall as he muttered about sisters and the ghost of the cat hiding behind the umbrella stand.

  They hired a hack out on the street, which took them to his apartments. The building was reserved for the sons of the Order, but on the outside it looked like any other building on the block. This late at night, candles burned at the windows and lit torches flanked the path.

  “Are you sure about this?” Godric asked. “It will only make you more cross.”

  Gretchen knew that for him, it was just another building full of spirits and complications. He was perfectly happy being an earl’s son and lad-about-town. He didn’t particularly want to be a Keeper, while she might have seriously considered it, had it ever been a possibility. And that was the point. It was never going to be presented as a viable option.

  “For God’s sake, Gretel, don’t swing your hips like that when you walk,” Godric hissed under his breath. “It’s a dead giveaway.”

  He was a good brother. He might have preferred his ordinary life, but because she didn’t, he would stand at her side. He never tried to mold her to his own expectations, not like their parents. And if she wasn’t happy, he couldn’t be truly happy either. She felt the same way. She kissed his cheek. He frowned. “Have you been dipping into the port too?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was displaying sisterly affection.”

  “Yes, and you usually do that with your fists.”

  “Just come on.”

  The main parlor could have belonged inside any of the gentleman’s clubs on St. James. It was stuffed with wealthy, titled young men, card games, food, and bottles of wine.

  “Godric, who’s your friend?” someone called out.

  “My cousin, Mr. Cove. He’s likely to join up when he moves to London.”

  Gretchen gave a theatrical bow, enjoying herself immensely already. After that, no one paid them much mind, as long as Gretchen kept her hat on and tilted so the brim shadowed her features. She leaned against the wall with the studied ennui she’d watched her brother and his friends affect for years.

  “Try not to look so happy,” Godric teased her as she surveyed the loud and jovial gathering.

  The sideboard was well stocked with cheeses, meats, and olives. Rowan berries strung on white thread were wound around the curtain rods, and bowls of salt were scattered around like candy dishes. Someone had cast a white horse, and it cantered around the perimeter of the already crowded room, sparks of light flinging off its tail. It was meant to carry off the spirits of angry warlocks like the Sisters, should they come calling.

  “You could cast a white horse too,” Gretchen suggested to Godric. “When there are too many ghosts about.”

  “I considered it,” he said, grimacing. “But it seemed rude.”

  She shook her head. “Truly?”

  “Well, that and apparently it’s only really effective against spirits who have been banished, not those who plain old died and haven’t the common courtesy to stay that way.”

  “I’m going to circulate,” she said quietly.

  “Don’t get caught.”

  “Have I ever?” She sauntered slowly, enjoying the subterfuge the way Penelope enjoyed Shakespeare. She watched Oliver Blake lose two hundred pounds on a roll of dice. It would have felt like any other party, if it weren’t for the magic sizzling just under the surface.

  Until Tobias arrived, of course.

  His magical ability must be to sense when she was having fun so he could run right out and put a stop to it.

  She circled back to Godric. “Killingsworth is here,” she hissed. He choked on his wine. “Very subtle. I can’t imagine why the Ministry hasn’t encouraged you to become a spy in the war.”

  “He’s looking this way,” he muttered.

  “Blast.” She rubbed her palm on her trousers, her witch knot suddenly feeling sweaty. Godric refilled his glass. “What are you doing? That’s not helpful right now.”

  “I’m creating a distraction,” he replied. “Get to the carriage and wait for me.”

  He raised his glass high, stepping forward into the room. His body conveniently blocked the view of the side door. “A toast!” he announced as Gretchen slipped out into the hall. She hurried toward the back door as her brother toasted some woman’s left foot.

  It occurred to her that she was in a house full of Keepers. And Keeper secrets.

  If they could spy on her, surely turnabout was fair play. Especially as they were all so very thoughtfully gathered in the drawing room. Really, who could resist?

  She waited until the butler disappeared into the parlor with a new tray of wine bottles before she darted up the main staircase. She was so busy rolling her eyes at the very buxom mermaid newel post that she was nearly caught out by someone’s owl familiar. It sat on top of a potted tree, hooting softly. She stayed close to the wall, hidden by the leaves, and then went through the nearest door.

  The room was barely lit by the embers of a coal fire in the grate. There was the usual assortment of tables and chairs and a writing desk. She made a hasty search of the papers and books but couldn’t find anything of interest. She left the room disappointed. But at the top of the staircase she noticed Lucius and Ian on the landing, drinking brandy.

  “You’re watching Lady Penelope, aren’t you?” Lucius asked.

  Gretchen froze.

  “Aye,” Ian said. “Why?”

  “She’s a beauty,” Lucius replied. Gretchen grinned. Penelope was going to swoon when she found out two very handsome men had been discussing her. “Would you be amenable to letting me take your place? I’d like an excuse to get to know her better.”

  Ian grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. His brandy sloshed over the lip of his glass. “Sorry, mate, doesn’t work that w
ay. The First Legate assigns the posts.”

  She didn’t notice the glowing fox until it slinked right by her, his phosphorescent tail flicking her leg. “Someone’s up there,” Ian said suddenly.

  Botheration; she wasn’t any better at this spying thing than her brother. Gretchen turned on her heel and took off toward the servant stairs. With any luck they would assume she’d been a footman or a servant passing by and Ian wouldn’t bother sending his fox after her. She crossed a stone terrace, her breath coming short. Adrenaline tingled through her.

  So much better than being at a ball.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She knew those icy cultured tones. She didn’t turn around. And she certainly made no comment; he’d know her instantly if she spoke. She didn’t bother with the stone steps beside her; instead, she wrapped her hands around the rail and vaulted over it, onto the lawn below. She landed in a crouch in the long shadows cast by torches and the candlelit house.

  But by the time she’d straightened up with a smug smile, Tobias was there.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She took off her hat, bowing.

  She rather enjoyed the look of complete shock on his face.

  “Gretchen?”

  As usual, her plan had turned to chaos.

  But wasn’t it more fun that way?

  “What the blazes are you doing, lurking about?” he demanded. The adrenaline was still singing through her as it must be through him, considering he must have thought he was apprehending a warlock in the shrubbery. His eyes glinted with it, turning nearly silver. Gretchen’s mouth went dry, and she wasn’t entirely certain why.

  “I’m giving you lot a taste of your own bloody medicine,” she replied cheekily. “Poorly,” she was forced to admit. “But it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Be serious. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be playing games right now?”

  “What makes you think I’m not serious?”

  He leaned closer. She could see the flecks of pale gray in his blue irises. “The Order doesn’t take kindly to spies.”