A Breath of Frost

  “They probably didn’t want to worry you, seeing as the first victim was a debutante.”

  “Daphne didn’t seem too worried when she dared us to come out here,” Gretchen pointed out.

  Cormac shook his head. “Are students still daring each other to come here? I was egged on to scale the gate when I was fifteen.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked.

  “Virgil Clarkson broke my True Sight charm as I was climbing it. I couldn’t see the gate anymore and I got disoriented and fell and cracked my head. He probably saved my life, in the end. Witches have died trying to break the wards.” He ran a hand over his face. “You were bloody lucky all you got was a shove.”

  Penelope was still staring at the house. “I still don’t understand how we never saw it before.”

  “It’s cloaked and shielded under several layers of strong magic. Both inside and outside,” Cormac replied. “Regular people only see a patch of weedy lawn or a house they don’t care to approach. I’d forgotten you’d have been like them all this time.” He cast the house a wary glance, searching for danger. “No one can get any closer than those gates.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to get any closer.”

  “And the Greymalkin just live here in the open?” Emma asked, stunned. “And no one’s done anything about it?”

  “Of course they have. The house was abandoned some years back when the last known Greymalkin lived in London. The Order tried everything they could to get inside, or at least bring it down. Fires won’t catch. Someone tried a cannon once but that only took out two carriages on the road. The house wards are too strong, even now.”

  “Wouldn’t the Sisters use the house?”

  “There are Keepers on watch, of course, but they haven’t been spotted here.” He shrugged. “Regardless, we’ve been at a standstill for decades. The wards prevent Keepers from getting in to dismantle the place, but because of the Order’s own wards, the Sisters can’t either. It’s mostly just left to rot now.”

  The sky broke in half with a clap of thunder. Emma paused. “That wasn’t me.”

  “No, it’s fireworks,” Gretchen said, looking down the street. The sky over the Callendish house was full of colors. Vibrant purples and reds and a silvery white streaked across the stars. The fog parted, going pink at the edges.

  “I’ve never seen fireworks like those,” Penelope breathed, as the sparks formed into the shape of two doves, chasing each other over the rooftops. “Even after the victory at Trafalgar.”

  Red bursts of light turned into hearts, shooting arrows off in every direction.

  “Magic,” Cormac said as strange-smelling smoke wafted toward them, like fennel and burning salt. He turned deliberately away from the miserable house. His arm brushed Emma’s. Gargoyles stared down from corners and towers. “Let me escort you back.”

  Once they’d left the oppressive atmosphere of the Greymalkin House, the tension left his shoulders and his gaze stopped snapping onto every shadow. “Shouldn’t you at least be clutching me out of fear?”

  She turned to look at him. “Why?”

  “It’s terribly dark, even with the fireworks.”

  She tilted her head. “I’m not afraid of the dark, Cormac.”

  He sighed theatrically. “But girls clutch at me out of fear all the time. Apparently I am a great defender against bees, spiders, moths, and suspicious-looking scones.”

  “They just want you to kiss them,” she pointed out practically.

  “Don’t you want me to kiss you?” he asked, too softly for the others to hear.

  Her cheeks burned. She hoped the glamour hid them as well as her antlers. “You’ve already kissed me,” she said.

  “Yes.” He slanted her a sidelong glance, some of the teasing flirtation fading. The fireworks flashed above them, gilding his beautiful and inscrutable face. “I have, haven’t I?”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Instead, she hurried ahead to walk with her cousins. The pale columns and tall lampposts of Mayfair loomed around them, and music and candlelight poured out into the street.

  “He likes you,” Penelope remarked softly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Emma scoffed though the idea warmed her belly in a way she’d never admit out loud. She remembered Jane pointing at her. She bit down on the inside of her cheek hard to curtail her wild and inappropriate thoughts. Jane had pointed at a lot of other girls as well. “My own father doesn’t care for me, Penny,” she added quietly. “So why should Cormac?”

  “Because your father is an ass,” Gretchen put in firmly.

  “And because I can tell that he does,” Penelope said.

  “You don’t have any more experience with boys than I do, a few stolen kisses notwithstanding,” Emma pointed out.

  “I read books,” Penelope said, matter-of-factly. There was no better argument in her mind. “So I can tell.” She nodded to where Daphne was scowling at them from the garden as they turned down the Callendishes’ lane. “And she can too.”

  Chapter 34

  Later that night, Emma found herself in the library again.

  She wandered along the shelves and the upper balcony, searching out mentions of her mother and the elusive Ewan. Whoever the man in Windsor Forest had been, he was important to her mother. He had to have been for her to store her memory of him inside a charm. Perhaps he had been her first love. Emma thought of Cormac because she couldn’t help herself. She simply had to stop wondering if he felt the same tingling awareness of her as she did with him.

  He’d kissed her.

  He’d also run away through the dark garden cursing under his breath.

  But the kiss had been worth it.

  She really had to concentrate on something other than the way he smiled at her when no one else was looking. She frowned. Maybe he was ashamed of her. After all, she did have antlers in her hair instead of diamond pins.

  She was doing it again. Thinking about Cormac was not helpful.

  Mind you, sorting through volumes and volumes on the history of witching families, divination, and old spells involving beetle parts wasn’t particularly helpful either.

  Still, Emma read until she was yawning wide enough to make her eyes water.

  And until she heard a soft sound, a combination between a hiss and a draft of frigid air. She drew her feet up and peeked under the table for a wandering snake-familiar. There was nothing. She uncrossed her legs. If she was tired enough to be hearing noises then she was too tired to be making any sense of the books in front of her. Best to put them away and try again tomorrow.

  It wasn’t until she’d blown out the lamp that she heard it again.

  Shivering, she stood slowly, trying to see into the shadows. She could smell the smoke off the lamp’s extinguished wick. It would take too long to light it again. Her neck prickled, feeling vulnerable. Rain and mist pressed at the nearest window.

  And the Keeper’s face.

  His cheek pushed painfully against the glass, his eye rolling with panic. His fingers scrabbled at the pane, leaving streaks in the fog. Emma shoved open the windows and rushed to drag him inside. He fell over the sill, sprawling on the carpet. There was sand on his cracked, sunburned lips and in his eyelashes, but his clothes were wet with rain.

  “Ghoul,” he croaked. “Get help.”

  She hovered indecisively. “I can’t just leave you alone.”

  “It won’t want me anymore,” he wheezed. His iron-wheel pendant was burned black. “It’ll want you now.”

  The ghoul slipped in through the open window. He was gray as old ashes. Sand scattered from the hem of his black robes. His hands were coated in grave dirt and when he smiled at Emma, his teeth were dark with congealed blood. Severed fingers were tied on a string around his neck.

  “Bollocks to that,” she squeaked, leaping over one of the tables. She crashed into a chair, sending it falling against another chair. They both clattered loudly to the ground as she leaped into the dark hall.
The ghoul drifted through them, licking his rotted lips. Mrs. Sparrow’s cat wandered off the servant stairs, saw the ghoul and hissed, every hair on end like needles. It vanished instantly.

  Emma skidded on her bare feet as she bolted down the hall toward the ballroom. It was full of weapons and she needed something sharp and pointy. Anything sharp and pointy. She stumbled toward the broken targets and grabbed the first thing she found. An arrow, a handful of evil-eye rings, and a jar of salt on the floor. She threw the jar, scattering salt and broken glass. The ghoul’s lips lifted off his teeth in a snarl. The smell of burning ghoul was no more pleasant than the smell of wet ghoul.

  And from the bloodcurdling scream upstairs, she guessed he wasn’t alone.

  But Emma was.

  He closed in, eyes crusted with dirt. A maggot crawled out of his ear. Emma gagged. She waved the arrow, feeling foolish. She’d need something considerably more impressive to scare him off. Especially when three more ghouls joined him, coming in from the window, their eyes a sickly, jaundiced yellow. A sudden wind whipped through the room, shaking the mirrors and the weapons in the racks. Hail pelted off Emma, stinging her bare arms. Lightning seared the sky, flashing off ghoul eyes and teeth.

  Emma harnessed the fear curdling inside her, and pushed it out, turning it into rain, hail, snow, more wind. She focused until the storm shook the chandeliers, pulled sconces from their fastenings, and scattered the assorted debris of magical charms. She forced it to spin, pointing her finger and twirling it. She visualized the whirlwind with such certainty there was no room for failure.

  Lightning hit the house so violently Emma was tossed into the wall. She slumped to the ground, breathless.

  The ghouls continued to advance even though the storm tossed every available object at them. First salt, then the iron wall sconces, rowan berries, daggers, and then an entire tea cart full of china cups. The weapons clanked together uselessly, one of the bows on the wall snapping. An arrow finally found a target, piercing one in the eye. The other ghouls hissed and snarled, desert heat blasting off them. Their teeth were sharp and rust-colored, stained with old blood.

  Emma was growing tired. The hail had long since stopped. She tried for snow and it made them hiss louder but she couldn’t sustain it. Keeping her back to the wall, Emma tried to run for the nearest window. She knew she couldn’t reach the door.

  Just as she was beginning to think she wouldn’t make it, Mrs. Sparrow rushed into the ballroom, looking like a proper storybook witch with her white-streaked black hair loose and wild, and waving an iron poker like a spear. There was blood on her nightdress. She narrowed her eyes and the ghouls shrieked, grabbing at each other. They stumbled together drunkenly and then fell together in a heap, asleep. There was the snap of a leg bone.

  The winds died so abruptly, it rained sand, iron nails, and daggers. Emma’s harsh gasps echoed loudly.

  “Were you bitten?” Mrs. Sparrow asked sharply.

  “No.” Emma blinked rapidly. “Is that what they do? That’s vile.”

  “They’re cannibals,” Mrs. Sparrow said, brisk headmistress again. “Fascinating, really. Though I prefer to study them far from my school. One of the open gates must have been near a graveyard. They don’t usually stray too far.” She looked at them with distaste. “We haven’t much time. Ghouls don’t sleep naturally so my magic won’t hold them for very long.” One of them was already twitching, thick fingernails tapping the floor. The sound sent shivers down Emma’s spine.

  “I thought this school had protective wards.”

  “It does,” Mrs. Sparrow replied grimly. Emma decided that she would not like to be on the receiving end of whatever punishment her headmistress was devising. The glint in her eye alone was enough to draw blood.

  A Keeper marched into the ballroom, followed by a student from the Ironstone school. His knuckles were white around the handle of the sword he held. “We’ll take it from here, Mrs. Sparrow,” the Keeper announced.

  “You will not,” she said mildly but implacably.

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Fat lot of good you were tonight,” she said. “One of my girls was bitten.”

  “We’ll have her restrained.” He paled. “There’s no cure.”

  “I am aware. We’ll take care of her. As we’ll take care of this.” She speared the young man with a look that had him gulping. Emma had no doubt he was remembering every scolding he’d ever received from governesses, grandmothers, and nursemaids. “You’ll stay and watch. You might learn something.” She turned to Emma. “You’ll destroy the ghouls.”

  “What?” If that crazy old woman thought she was going to hack and stab at three twitching ghouls, she was dead wrong. She’d never seen or smelled anything more disgusting.

  “Ghouls can only be killed with fire,” Mrs. Sparrow said. She could have been lecturing a class for all the anxiety in her tone and posture.

  “I don’t have matchsticks,” Emma replied.

  “I can set a fire,” the young man said helpfully.

  “You’ll stay where you are,” Mrs. Sparrow told him. The Keeper grabbed his arm, shaking his head. “Do you think I want you burning the whole place down?” She pointed to Emma. “You have lightning.”

  She stared. “Only sometimes.”

  “And this is one of those times. Go on.”

  “Can’t we just cut off their heads?” she asked, reevaluating her earlier opinions on the matter.

  “Certainly not. Think of the mess.”

  Emma rubbed her suddenly damp palms on her nightdress. She had a feeling she was about to disappoint her headmistress horribly and embarrass herself in the process. Having a Keeper watching her did not help matters. It was hard to forget the feeling of that cage pressing down on her.

  “Focus and breathe,” Mrs. Sparrow advised, as she had with the Fith-Fath spell; which was an easier spell to cast and Emma still hadn’t managed reliable results. “This is using your natural magic. There’s nothing to do but be at one with yourself.”

  Which would have been remarkably easier before she’d learned about witchery.

  And grown antlers.

  The ghouls stirred, sand falling out of their mouths. The Keeper reached for his sword. Emma went to the window and lifted the glass to look up at the sky. She couldn’t focus with monsters at her feet.

  The clouds raced across the moon. She couldn’t see any stars, but there was faint lightning in the belly of the darkest cloud. She stared at it, willing it to brighten and flash. Thunder rumbled.

  “Now, Emma.”

  The lightning seared the clouds but stayed in the sky. Emma tried again, smelling the ozone and remembering the way it had hit the school earlier, shaking the walls. She’d managed it then, she could do it again. She took a deep breath.

  A ghoul hissed behind her.

  “Now, Emma!”

  Lightning streaked, cracking tree limbs and setting leaves to smoldering. She leaped out of the way just as it flashed through the open window. It struck the ghouls and they hissed and twitched, robes and hair on fire. The smoke was oily and noxious. The lightning shattered the rest of the windows and burned their eyes. When their vision cleared, all that was left of the ghouls was a pile of sand turned to twisted glass and a proud headmistress.

  “There are four more ghouls secured upstairs,” she said to the Keeper. “You can bring them out into the garden. No sense in striking the house again if we can help it.”

  “Did that girl have horns?” Emma heard the student whisper as they rushed out.

  “You did well,” Mrs. Sparrow approved. “You didn’t faint. And you’re not hysterical. All in all, I’m rather impressed, even before you called the lightning.” She nodded as they left the smoky ballroom for the gardens. “You might be as good as Daphne someday.”

  “I can’t wait,” Emma muttered.

  Chapter 35

  “The witching families of England have been holding the reins of power for centuries, though few know it, of c
ourse. Each family will have their own boasts, some of which must remain unsubstantiated and even more of which contradict each other. For instance, William Wallace’s defeat of the English at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297 was claimed by an ancient witching family of the Highlands. Conversely, Wallace’s consequent capture and execution in 1305 was claimed by a family here in London. So you see …”

  Mrs. Fergus was a very dull teacher, despite her rather eccentric appearance. She wore only green from the emeralds in her necklace to the ribbons on her shoes. Her morning dress was a dark forest green over a pale underdress in a more minty shade. She claimed to have had a dream on the night of her thirteenth birthday instructing her to wear only green for good luck and she had followed it to the letter these past thirty-two years. It did not signify that green did not flatter her in the least.

  She droned on for another half an hour, until the door to the drawing room opened. The housekeeper poked her head in. “Mrs. Sparrow would like the girls who are attending the dancing lesson to know the carriages are ready.”

  The younger girls looked in awe as Emma, Gretchen, and Penelope gathered their belongings and left. Four carriages rolled away from the school, crowded with chattering students. The Duchess of Watford was hosting a morning dance lesson to give the girls a chance to practice before the annual Watford ball.

  “Oh, blast,” Gretchen muttered, spotting her mother in the ballroom, wearing an impressive day dress trimmed with French lace. Lady Wyndham’s advice on etiquette was eagerly sought out by hostesses. Even Daphne looked impressed that she was present. Not for the first time, Gretchen wondered if she’d been accidentally switched at birth.

  Lady Wyndham descended on them immediately, crossing the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor. The other students stayed together, staring at the footmen and maidservants working on the decorations. Baskets of greenery and pots of orchids waited to be distributed and the giant chandelier in the center of the ceiling had been lowered to replace the old candles. A dancing master stood at the very end of the enormous room, waving his hands at the man sitting at the pianoforte.