Witch Hunter (26 page)

window again.

The musician plucks away, hitting more wrong notes

than right. I glance at John, sitting in the chair across from

me. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, a look of intense

pain on his face. Finally, he looks down and sees me

watching him.

Help, he mouths.

I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a laugh. He grins

and points at the door. I nod. He uncrosses his long legs,

rises from the chair, and slips from the room. I wait as long

as I can stand, thirty seconds, maybe, then do the same. He

waits for me down the checkered hall, in front of a set of

wide double doors inset with stained glass panels. The

library. It’s the only room we couldn’t visit this morning,

closed for cleaning and reshelving.

‘Well, that was completely awful.’ He points to the door.

‘Want to go in?’

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‘Won’t we get in trouble?’

‘I think it’ll be all right,’ he says. ‘Besides, what’s the

worst that could happen? I don’t think Humbert will

arrest us.’

‘I didn’t realise you were such a troublemaker,’ I say,

but I’m smiling.

‘You have no idea.’ He smiles back. ‘Come on. There’s

something I want to show you.’ He presses his hand

against the door and, with a heavy creak, pushes it open.

‘After you.’

Inside is a vast, cavernous room, with vaulted stone walls

as tall as the room is wide, inset with oak shelves and filled

entirely with books. The floor is laid with bright green and

blue tile, arranged in a complicated geometric pattern. The

ceiling is a glass dome, open to the starry sky like an oculus.

But it’s the enormous tree in the centre of the room

that commands the most attention. It sprouts from the

floor, a massive thing, the trunk at least five feet in diameter,

its many leafless branches extending like arms into the

night sky.

‘Is this what you wanted to show me?’

John nods. He’s watching me closely.

‘How did you know it was here?’

‘My father told me about it,’ he says. ‘But I thought

he was exaggerating.’

We make our way towards the tree, our footsteps echoing

off the hard tile floor. I don’t make it more than a few steps

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before the dark room bursts into light, the candles in the

many sconces fitted along the wall flickering into flame.

I flinch a little.

‘It’s just an enchantment,’ John says. ‘The lights come on

when the room is safe. If it senses danger, they go off – or

don’t come on at all. It’s security, I guess you could say.’

‘It’s a library,’ I point out. ‘Why does it need security?’

‘Because it’s a library with a very magical tree inside,’

John replies.

‘The tree is magical?’ We’re standing in front of it now.

Up close it’s a curious grey colour, entirely stripped of bark.

It almost looks like bone.

He nods. ‘If Humbert were to get visitors – say that

duchess friend of his – and they happened to stumble

inside…’ He shrugs. ‘That’s probably why the library was

closed this morning, so Bridget could top up the spell. She’s

a witch, you know.’

I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be.

‘What does it do?’ I say, finally. ‘The tree, I mean.’

‘Oh.’ John runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure,

exactly.’ But something in his expression tells me he does.

Suddenly, I want to touch it. It’s bold; stupid, even, to

want anything to do with magic, especially in front of John.

But I want to see what it does. And since those enchanted

lights seem to think I’m safe, maybe I am.

I reach out, tentatively, touch the withered grey trunk.

Feel the smoothness of the wood beneath my hand. The tree

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shudders slightly under my palm, and with a sound like

striking matches, it flares to life. Leaves bud, sprout, then

unfurl, thousands of them – more – in shades of green so

bright and vibrant they don’t seem real.

I let out a surprised gasp, then start to laugh. The

leaves continue to come furiously, spreading through the

branches until the once-dead tree now looks as alive as a

summer day. I turn to John.

‘Why did it do that?’ I say. ‘What does it mean?’

John swipes his hand through his hair. ‘They—I don’t

know.’ Again, something in his expression tells me he does.

‘What would happen if you touched it?’

He looks away from me and doesn’t reply. I could swear

he’s blushing.

But I don’t let it go. ‘Go on, then.’

He shoots me a look: half-annoyed, half-amused. After

a moment he lifts his hand and presses it against the

trunk. Nothing happens at first. But then, with a sudden

pop and a soft rustle of leaves, a tiny bird appears on one of

the topmost branches. It opens its beak and lets out an

unnaturally loud chirp. He shuts his eyes, looking relieved

and flustered all at once.

I start to giggle then. I can’t help it.

‘Now you have to tell me,’ I say. ‘Surely you know.

I know you—’

The bird goes still then, stops chirping. And without

warning, the candles in the sconces flare out, plunging the

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room into near darkness. Without thinking, I grab John’s

arm, spin him around, and pull us both behind the tree.

‘Don’t move,’ I whisper.

‘All right,’ he says back. ‘But…what are you doing?’

His back is pressed roughly against the trunk, and I’m

pressed roughly against him, my fingers digging into the

front of his shirt. He’s so close I can smell him: clean and

warm, lavender and spice.

‘I – you said the lights go out if it’s not safe,’ I say, and

I’m the one blushing now.

‘Ah.’ His lips twitch into a smile and I wait for him to

tease me, to get back at me for making him touch that tree.

But he doesn’t. His smile disappears and he just looks at

me. His gaze travels from my eyes to my lips, lingers there,

then moves back to my eyes again. I look at him right back,

and for a moment I think he means to kiss me. I feel a fierce

rush of warmth at the thought of it – which gives way to a

cold snap of fear.

I pull away from him. Take one step back, two. John

doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop me. But he doesn’t take his

eyes from mine, either. He holds them, steady; and after a

long moment he simply nods. He knows about the herbs I

was arrested with, knows what I used them for. It occurs to

me that maybe he’s figured out a lot more than that.

The library doors slam open then, echoing through the

silent room like a shot. Fifer stomps towards us in a whirl of

red hair and indignation.

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‘Here comes danger now,’ John murmurs.

‘Oh ho! Exactly what is going on here?’ She plants her

hands on her hips and taps her foot. ‘Hiding in dark,

shadowy nooks, are we?’

John rolls his eyes. ‘We’re not hiding.’

‘And it’s not dark. Or shadowy,’ I add. Except it’s both.

Fifer glares at me; John ducks his head and laughs under

his breath. A stray lock of hair falls over his forehead, and

I feel that urge again to brush it away.

‘Is there something I can do for you?’ John glances up at

Fifer. ‘You look rather upset.’

‘Upset?’ Fifer shrieks. There’s a sharp rustle of

leaves overhead and the tiny songbird lets out a loud,

indignant chirp. ‘Is that a bird?’ Fifer points at it as if it were

a dragon. ‘What is that doing here? And why is this tree

full of leaves?’

‘I don’t know anything about the leaves,’ I say, a bit

too loudly. ‘We just came in here to look at the lights.’

I point at the shower of green sparks, shining through the

oculus overhead.

John winces.

‘Yes. The lights.’ Fifer turns to him. ‘We need to talk

about that.’

‘No, we don’t,’ he replies, sounding weary all of a sudden.

‘Yes, we do. You know what it means. The prophecy—’

‘That’s not what it means.’

‘What about the prophecy?’ I say.

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‘Says you,’ Fifer continues, ignoring me. ‘But what if

you’re wrong?’

‘I’m not wrong,’ John fires back. ‘You’re just not thinking

clearly—’

‘Oh, please! You’re the one with your head in the clouds,

ever since…’ She stops at the warning look on John’s face.

‘Fine. But why else are we here if not for that? It’s not to

walk around aimlessly, or to poke around Humbert’s

cathedral, and it’s certainly not to go hiding in libraries

under trees with girls, making birds—’

‘That’s enough, Fifer.’

They glare at each other.

‘Fine. But you have to come with me now, anyway,’ Fifer

says. ‘Humbert needs you. Something about a tonic for that

lute-playing crypt keeper of his.’

‘You really are as sweet as poison, you know that?’

She sticks her tongue out at him.

We follow Fifer back into the sitting room. The lute

player is lying on the settee, hands folded in his lap,

breathing heavily. George sits beside him, his lips pressed

together as if he’s sealing off a laugh.

John blinks. ‘What happened?’

‘He’s had a bit of a spell, that’s all,’ Humbert crows.

‘Transported by the beauty of his own artistic expression.’

The corners of John’s mouth twitch. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘I’m going to bed now,’ Fifer announces. She stalks

out of the room, nearly colliding with Bridget, who walks

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in carrying a tray of tea. She sets it on the table and

begins pouring.

Fifer stops in the doorway. Turns around. Glances at the

tea, at John, then back at the tea again.

‘Will you be needing your bag, John?’ Fifer asks. Her

voice is kind, helpful…and utterly unlike her. John doesn’t

seem to notice. He’s too busy attending to the lute player.

‘Uh, yes. Thank you.’

Fifer ducks into the hall and comes back a few minutes

later, carrying his bag. She sets it in front of him and smiles.

‘Maybe I will have some tea, after all.’ She walks to the

table. Hovers over the tray. Reaches for a cup but doesn’t

pick it up. Does it again. What is going on with her? She’s

acting strange, even for Fifer. ‘On second thought, I don’t

think I will, after all. See you in the morning.’ She darts up

the stairs, her red hair flying.

‘Such a sweet girl,’ Humbert roars.

No, she’s not. And I’m suspicious. I’ve seen girls in the

maids’ chamber behave like this before. Usually because

they’ve got a boy stashed in their room and are afraid of

getting caught. That’s not happening here, of course, but

whatever Fifer’s up to, it’s guaranteed to be a lot worse than

a boy hiding under her mattress.

I get to my feet. ‘I’m going to bed, too.’

John looks up at me. Lucky, he mouths.

I grin and head for the stairs, straight to Fifer’s room.

I stop in front of her door, my hand on the door latch. Then

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I pause. Maybe I don’t want to know what she’s doing.

Maybe it’ll make things worse between us if I try to find out.

And things are bad enough as it is.

The second I step away from the door, it flies open and

Fifer yanks me into her room. She slams the door and

pushes me against it, a weapon from Humbert’s cabinet

clutched in her hand: a spring-loaded triple dagger, by the

looks of it. She holds it to my throat.

‘Do you even know how to use that?’ I say.

‘Shut it. Why were you lurking outside my door?’

‘I thought you were up to something. I wanted to see

what it was.’

Fifer pokes my neck with the blade again. ‘You don’t get

to suspect me of anything.’

‘But something’s going on, isn’t it? Outside, with the

spook lights. And the tea downstairs. What is it?’

She pushes away from me and starts pacing the

room, muttering to herself. ‘Should I tell her? No. But

the prophecy…and I can’t exactly show up with a

bloodthirsty maniac—’

‘I’m not a bloodthirsty maniac.’

‘Shut it.’

‘Show up where?’

‘I said, shut it.’

She walks from the door to the window, back and forth,

chewing her fingernail. Finally, she turns to me. ‘I don’t

like you.’

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‘I realise that.’

‘And I don’t trust you. But the prophecy seems to think

I should.’

‘What does that mean?’

Fifer marches to her bed, pulls a piece of parchment

out of her bag, and thrusts it into my hand. I recognise it

immediately: Veda’s prophecy.

‘Read the third line.’