She was sure it said nothing particularly complimentary about her character that she found herself thinking about him at all. And to think, he’d been a witch all this time. And Daphne! She couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to be involved in witchery. Daphne acted as though she didn’t have a thought in her silly little head beyond the next soiree and the state of her silk slippers. And here she was carrying an immense secret her entire life.
Emma fiddled with her mother’s patch box. She’d tried hairpins, brooch pins, and the tip of a sharp knife, but the last compartment simply would not yield. She was determined to try again and decided on the letter opener from the writing desk. She tried delicate maneuvers, finally giving up and jamming the tip in and wrenching it back and forth. Her finger slipped and slid along the edge of the blade. The force of her grip sliced her skin open, blood welling to the surface.
She sucked at the cut instinctively, glaring at the box, then her small wound. It wasn’t deep, merely insult added to injury. The copper taste of blood on her tongue made her think of Aunt Bethany explaining that witchery was in the blood. Feeling foolish but with her heart thundering in her ears, Emma squeezed the cut until a drop of blood fell onto the lock.
When she tried lifting the lid this time, it opened easily.
Inside was a small piece of antler lying on a bed of salt and rowan berries. She lifted it gently, the antler soft as velvet. It was wrapped in black thread and struck through with an iron nail. The tip of the nail was bent double around a strip of leather on which were knotted two rings, one silver, one gold. The antler was small and light and didn’t seem to particularly warrant as much fuss as the locked box suggested.
Until her blood smeared against it.
Warmth tingled through her, starting at her heels and traveling up her legs, spreading through her stomach and chest and up her arms, gathering at the crown of her head. It felt as though her head had suddenly caught fire.
She felt her eyes roll back as the darkness claimed her.
Chapter 24
1796
Theodora wore her red cloak because her father hated it so much.
She paused for effect in the doorway to the breakfast room.
“Theodora Ophelia.”
She doubled back and poked her head into the room to flash a grin at her father’s disapproving face. “Yes, Papa?”
Her sister Bethany smiled into the jam pot. Her other sister Cora just sighed.
“You know I don’t like you wearing that cloak,” her father said.
Theodora fluttered her eyelashes innocently. “You don’t?”
“It’s common,” Cora sniffed.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re just pouting because whenever you try to wear this color it makes you look like a boiled potato.”
“Theo, it’s not safe to draw attention,” her father insisted.
She leaned against the doorjamb impatiently. “It’s just a cloak. And I’m only going to the woods,” Theodora huffed. “Honestly, why must you be so dramatic?”
“The Greymalkin are out there still. Do you want them to find you?”
Superstition held that the Greymalkin were drawn to bright color and bold people. Theodora couldn’t figure out why they’d care if her clothes were drab or if she dressed like a peacock—so long as her magic was strong enough to feed them. But she knew better than to ask her father. He still woke screaming, remembering the deaths he’d seen at their hands when he was a boy. She’d only meant to tease him with the cloak, to prove she was too old to be told what to wear.
“Oh, Papa,” she said. “The Greymalkin haven’t been seen for years. They were banished by the Order. And anyway, everyone wears bright colors now. You’ve seen Lord Babbington’s frock coat. I defy you to find a brighter rainbow.”
“It’s hideous,” Cora agreed.
“Lord Babbington isn’t a Lovegrove. None of them are. And anyway, he’s proving to the Families that he’s not afraid.”
“Well, I’m not afraid either.”
“But we’re an ancient family, Theo. Far older than the Babbing-tons. That requires certain sacrifices and precautions. You know this.” He pushed his half-eaten breakfast plate away. Her mother passed him a cup of fresh tea. “The Sisters killed seven people that one night alone.”
“In Windsor Forest?” she asked gently.
“Well, no.”
“There, you see? And everyone knows Greymalkins prefer town to nature. There’s nothing to worry about.” She pressed a loud kiss on the top of his head. “I’m only going for a little while. It’s been raining for days and days and I can’t bear to be cooped up a minute longer.”
She bolted from the house before he could order her to change or stay behind altogether. She wouldn’t obey, of course. She couldn’t set that kind of precedence, not now that there were murmurs of a marriage contract being brokered for her with either the boy next door, Alphonse Day, or one of the sons of the Order. The son of Lord Babbington, to be exact. He wanted the prestige and power of the Lovegrove witches and the Hightowers, knowing nothing about witchery, wanted the Lovegrove country estate.
She had absolutely no intention of being known as Lady Babbington for the rest of her life. Alphonse wasn’t much better though. He had the advantage of not being a witch and so hadn’t been raised on a steady diet of fear and secrecy like the Keepers’ children. But he had all the warmth of a Greek marble statue.
Besides, she was nearly seventeen years old—she fully intended to have a proper coming-out ball and her own Season in London to dance and flirt before she was sold off. Cora was visiting, having just returned from her honeymoon and she was only eighteen; but she’d at least had half a Season. And she seemed happy enough, blushing and asking Bethany to paint a miniature of her husband.
Theodora couldn’t imagine ever asking anyone to paint a portrait of Alphonse Hightower. Or anyone by the name of Babbington.
And just as if he’d read her thoughts and wanted to curtail her fun already, there he was. Alphonse rode a beautiful horse and sat with the proper, rigid posture usually reserved for soldiers and spinsters.
“Blast,” she muttered, diving behind one of the two giant gargoyles flanking the front door. She waited until he was occupied with swinging out of the saddle, the stableboy holding the reins and blocking his view somewhat. She darted to the yew hedge, which was accented with trees trimmed into pyramids and perfect circles. She hopped from tree to tree, tucking her bright red cloak close to her body. Her magic worked best when it had a focus. It was especially good at augmenting spells. It was absolutely no use at all in hiding from unwanted suitors.
She ran full tilt across the lawns and through the fields to the forest. Birds squawked, erupting out of the long grass. Her familiar fluttered in her chest, before winging free to follow. She ran until her lungs burned and she was laughing for no reason at all. It felt glorious to be in the cool shadows of the forest, without any expectations made of her either as a girl or a witch.
She walked for a long time in the dappled light, under oaks and pines and ash trees with lightning scars. The spring rains had given way to more flowers than there were stars in the sky. She walked for a long time, twilight-colored blossoms pressing against her ankles. They caught on her cloak and the hem of her dress. She lay down in the bluebells for a rest, pretending she was floating in a pond.
By the time she was ready to return home, she was utterly lost.
She usually rode her horse through the woods, sticking to the well-worn path. She’d never realized how easy it was to get turned around inside the forest where all the trees looked the same. The bluebells mocked her, covering her footprints and confounding her further. She stumbled between the trees, tying knots in the soft green branches to mark her way. It took her another quarter of an hour to stop walking in circles.
Finally she saw a narrow trail, barely used, and seriously considered kissing it. It wasn’t the Great Walk or even the path she was used to, but surely it would l
ead her to one of them. The sun slanted lower through the trees. At least Alphonse would be long gone.
She followed the trail as it curved to accommodate a meandering river. She stopped to have a drink and it tasted like the wild mint growing on the banks. She was feeling cheerful again when a man dropped out of a tree right in front of her.
Before she could even react she was flat on her back with a hand clamped hard over her mouth. He was only a few years older than she was but he was wind-worn. His eyes burned green as sunlight through the leaves. His brown hair was long enough to fall past his collar and was caught back with a strip of leather away from his temples to keep it out of his face. His body touched hers from throat to toes.
Her father was right. She was going to come to a bad end because she’d defied him and worn a red cloak.
She pushed as much magic as she could, until she felt hollow. Her captor’s magic pushed back and where they collided, there was a spark of pale blue fireworks between them. Her familiar possessed the nearest crow and dove down at his head, cawing and pecking ferociously.
He jerked back just enough for her to bring her knee up viciously. She missed her target but at least jabbed him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him.
“You’re a witch!” they accused each other at the same time.
He crouched warily, only rising when she scrambled to her feet. He was handsome in a way that none of the boys she knew would ever be. He was rugged from living outdoors, while they were soft and pampered. His hair was unpowdered and had obviously never been shorn to accommodate a wig. He wore a brown leather coat over a linen shirt with no cravat, embroidery, or ornamentation of any kind. She couldn’t help but think of Lord Babbington’s multicolored coat. There was a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and at least a dozen knives scattered over his person. She looked for his witch knot but he wore leather archers’ bracers and the left one covered his palm.
Energy thrummed through her, making her pulse race and her fingertips tingle. It wasn’t fear, exactly.
“That’s no way to treat a lady,” she said frostily, to hide the fact that she was still gasping nervously.
“Ladies don’t walk here alone,” he pointed out. She noticed one of his daggers was actually a piece of sharpened deer antler, the blunt end wrapped in leather. “Don’t you know what happens to girls in red cloaks who get lost in the woods?” He moved as if hunting her. He was quiet and predatory, sure of his every movement.
She stumbled back and hit a willow. She froze. “I’m not lost.”
He didn’t smile, just kept crowding her against the tree. The long, feathery leaves shivered in the wind. The familiar-possessed crow landed on a branch, watching them with a suspicious yellow eye.
“And you’re not the wolf,” she added. The crow cackled.
“You have no idea what I am.”
“I think—”
“Quiet.” He cut her off grimly. Instead of saying anything else, he grabbed her arm and hauled her through the ferns. “You do exactly as I say, do you understand?”
He dragged her to an oak tree by the side of the river, even as she was trying to decide if she should struggle or cry out for help. His hands closed around her waist and he tossed her up onto a thick branch. “Climb,” he said.
“Why should I trust you?”
“If you want to wait around and meet the real wolves, that’s your choice. If you don’t, then climb, Princess.” He turned to peer through the undergrowth as if her decision made no difference to him. She couldn’t hear anything but her own ragged breaths. She stood carefully, climbing from branch to branch until she found a safe spot to perch.
He looked so grim and fierce, she couldn’t help but think of the stories of Herne, the huntsman who haunted Windsor Forest. Surely ghosts didn’t have such interesting arm muscles. He shifted to reach into a bush and pulled out a bow. He nocked an arrow and hid behind the oak tree, waiting. Brown leather blended into trunk, green eyes into leaves. If she hadn’t known he was there she would have walked right past him.
It was another long, tense moment before she heard anything to warrant his caution. A tree branch snapped, someone cursed. There was a laugh and the splash of a body falling into the river. “Oi!” The man in the river slipped as he struggled to get to his feet. He went under again and resurfaced sputtering. He lifted the jug of cider. “Look what I found. Must be Ewan’s.”
“Might be his father’s. Best not cross him so give it here,” one of his companions said.
“Not likely,” he shot back, tipping the jug back for a long drink. Theodora could only see parts of them, an arm, an ax, the jug as the sun hit it. She assumed they were poachers by the collection of horns, feathers, and foxtails on their belts.
“What’s this?” She saw movement as one of the poachers bent to pick something out of the grass. “Looks like a pearl button.”
A poacher stepped closer and she could see blackened teeth and bristle on his cheeks. He sniffed the air again. “And I smell perfume, lads.” He grinned. Theodora froze, pressing back against the oak. “Perfume and a pearl button. Looks like we’ll be poaching more than deer today.”
Below her, her huntsman cursed under his breath before putting his arrow away and sauntering toward the river. “I didn’t think your lot came this far south.”
“Ewan,” the poacher said, not exactly pleased. “What are you doing here?”
“Supplying you with cider, it seems,” he replied.
“Know anything about this?” The pearl shone prettily against his muddy fingers.
Ewan shrugged. “It’s a button.”
The poacher narrowed his eyes. “It’s too fancy for the girls we know.”
He shrugged again, looking bored. The poacher flipped the button in his hand like a coin. He snatched it out of the air and paused. “What’s that?” He squinted at the oak tree. “Bit of red velvet, I reckon.”
Theodora swore and wondered if she should climb higher or leap out. She didn’t fancy being treed like a cat. She climbed down a few branches and hesitated.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” the poacher said. His companions jostled closer, peering up into the leaves. “I knew you were a good huntsman, Ewan, despite your father, but I had no idea how good.” He leered. “She’ll fetch us a pretty price. I bet someone’s missing you, love.”
Ewan reached out and pulled her out of the oak. She landed hard, stumbling against him. There was no use in pretending she wasn’t a lord’s daughter. She’d mocked the boys she knew for being soft but she was no better than they were, in her gold-thread dress and velvet cloak. She was worse actually, since they were still safely at home being brought pots of chocolate and coffee.
Ewan’s grip was like iron. He tugged her roughly but she noticed he was actually shielding her from the others with his body. Between them, she’d take her chances with her silent huntsman.
“She’s mine,” he said.
“O-ho, lads,” the main poacher laughed. “Is it true love, Ewan?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied calmly. “I found her, I’m keeping her.” His antler dagger was in his hand. She felt the strength and magic coiled inside of him.
“We’ll see, won’t we, mate?”
Fear made Theodora’s breath rattle in her throat like bones. She’d pushed too much of her magic at Ewan earlier and now there was only a little left, like the dregs at the bottom of a wine bottle. Her bird-familiar kept hold of the crow’s body and circled overhead, cawing furiously.
Violence simmered in the quiet grove, by the pretty river. Theodora did the only thing she could think to do. She pulled out her gold earrings and removed the garnet beads from her neck. “Here.” She thrust it all at the poachers. “Take them.”
“Lovely,” the poacher said, sucking his rotted teeth, big fingers reaching for the jewelry. “But not enough, I’m thinking. Not nearly enough.”
He crushed her fingers, grinding them together until she squeaked. Ewan didn’
t yell a warning of any kind and his expression didn’t change. He brought the end of his antler dagger down on the poacher’s arm with enough force to snap it like a rusty hinge. Theodora yanked herself free even as he spun, and she dove into the safety of the ferns. Ewan smashed his bent elbow into the poacher’s face, breaking his nose. The garnet beads fell into the grass, slick with blood. The others closed in, armed with ax and club. Ewan was light and quick on his feet for someone so obviously muscled. He dodged a blow aimed at his ear and leaped over the swinging arc of the club.
The wounded poacher was on his knees now, grunting in pain and using his uninjured hand to stuff the necklace and earrings into his vest. He pulled out a long, pitted knife from his belt and stabbed at Ewan’s feet.
Ewan was a good fighter, strong and sure, but he had honor where his opponents did not. Theodora didn’t have the luxury of the rules of duels and battles. She’d fight dirty because it was all she had.
The crow shrieked and dove down, pecking at the poachers. They tried to cover their faces, fingers coming away with blood. The crow attacked again, yanking out tufts of hair and slicing through skin. Since she didn’t have any other weapons, she slid down the bank into the river to claim the discarded jug. It was made of thick clay and it was heavy even though drained of its contents.
“Run!” Ewan shouted at her when he realized she was doubling back. He looked as stunned as she felt.
She ran through the shallow water, coming up behind the lead poacher. As he stabbed at Ewan again and sliced through the top of his boot and along his shin, Theodora smashed the jug down on the back of his head. He made a strange sound and teetered for a moment before toppling over, covered in shards of crockery and the sticky residue of cider. The crow laughed like an old woman after too much whiskey.
The other two poachers howled and doubled their efforts. The club grazed Ewan’s side and he twisted away. The arrows in his quiver snapped under the impact of the blow. He leaned into the momentum of his twist and turned all the way around, coming up on his attacker’s opposite side. The handle of his antler dagger caught the other man in the sternum and again on the back of the neck when he doubled over in pain. Ewan drove his fist into the third poacher’s throat, leaving him gagging and staggering into the river.