Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (14 page)

“He’s been climbing onto the rooftops and leaving red roses everywhere.”

Gretchen blinked. “Pardon?”

“It’s like a bleeding hothouse up there now. He’s going to get himself killed, if he’s not careful.”

Before Gretchen could reply, a bank of clouds appeared out of nowhere, chilling them. One shaped like a stag ate the sun. “Emma,” she said to Penelope just before the ospreys exploded off the rail in a panic.

They wheeled around the cottage, squawking violently. They flew so hard at the invisible wards that white feathers fell as thick as snow. Magic seared the air. More of the white birds filled the sky, until they created a storm cloud of feathers. They dove down at the cottage, using their beaks as weapons, but they were flung aside again and again.

Propelled by the same magic, great slithering knots of serpents came down the alleyway, slipping out of rainspouts and tumbling from cracks in the walls. They moved as one toward the cottage, jewel-toned tails and tongues flicking.

Moths descended on every available surface, from brick to
glass windowpane and crouching gargoyle. They settled in Penelope’s hair and over Gretchen’s shoulders and covered the cobblestones so that to move was to crush papery wings underfoot.

The clouds raced away, chasing each other into the distance. Rain fell in a single sheet of cold silver needles, then dissipated. Frost crept over the cobblestones. There was a pulse of power, like a storm breaking, and the birds and moths and snakes were all tossed away from the cottage. They went over the railings, fell into the Thames, and flew frantically away from the bridge. The resulting silence was sudden and disconcerting. Feathers and torn moth wings slowly drifted down to the ground.

The door opened and Emma stepped out, blinking owlishly at the bright light. She moved carefully, as if she wasn’t certain of her balance. Her hair was a tangle, knotted with dried leaves and seedpods around her antlers. She didn’t look hurt or wounded, but Gretchen didn’t feel particularly comforted by that. There was something in her cousin’s eyes she’d never seen before.

“Did she hurt you?” Penelope asked when Emma just stepped silently onto the cobblestones.

“No,” Emma replied. “Not exactly. But it’s done. Let’s go home.”

Moira looked at her from under the brim of her gentleman’s hat. “Toad Mother magic packs a punch. You all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Moira snorted in disbelief. “Suit yourself,” she said before climbing back up to the rooftop and vanishing over the shingles.

“Whisperer.” The Toad Mother didn’t need to raise her voice; it carried easily, rasping like thunder.

Gretchen turned slowly around, goose bumps raising involuntarily on the back of her neck. “Yes?”

“I’ve a message for you.”

Gretchen frowned. “From who?”

“The spirits, the Ancient Ones, the Other Side. Who can really tell?”

“ ’Cause that’s illuminating,” Gretchen muttered, approaching warily. She paused on the edge of the toad-lined path. The Toad Mother smiled. It wasn’t reassuring. There was something too hungry, too fierce about her. Her eyes might be the pale green of pretty glass perfume bottles, but it was the kind of glass that cut deeply before you’d even realized it was broken.

She tilted her head and Gretchen couldn’t help but feel like a fly about to be swallowed.

“There’s spirits speaking to you, girl,” she said. “Learn to listen before it’s too late,” she repeated. Her expression turned even more forbidding, and worse, fear lurked under the warning. “For all of our sakes. Because soon, London will freeze.”

“Is that their message?” Gretchen asked.

“Can’t say, it’s for you to learn to listen.” And then she slammed the door shut and refused to come out again, no matter how much Gretchen rang the rusty bell.

“That was singularly unhelpful,” she muttered. She couldn’t supress the shiver that chased up her spine as they made their way back to the portal.

Passage through the dark cellar was disorienting; she was
briefly surprised it wasn’t already nighttime when they emerged in Aunt Bethany’s stillroom. The sun’s bright daggers pierced the dust of the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling. It was still morning. The garden was free of snakes and moths and giant white birds. They should have felt relieved. Instead, everything felt more ominous.

The three young Ironstone students loitering outside the house didn’t help.

Gretchen marched up to the carriage even as the curtain twitched hastily shut. She didn’t bother knocking, only flung the door open and climbed inside. “So you found me, did you?” The boy stared at her. She sighed. She almost missed Tobias. At least he felt like a proper opponent. This boy looked like he might cry if she said a cross word. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen, sir. Um, miss. My lady.”

She flopped back against the cushions. “Just take me to the academy before I’m late for class.”

Gretchen was trapped
in a long, tedious class in a stuffy room with a row of small windows curtained against the sunlight, which might freckle the skin. It would be hours before they were liberated for tea. She longed to be in the ballroom with its scorch marks and gouges in the wall from archery practice. That was what witchery should be about.

“It is imperative that you learn to use your magic with the grace and elegance of a true lady,” Miss Hopewell lectured. “Just as you would never let yourself be seen eating too much cheese or scratching your nose, you must ever be circumspect about your gifts,” she continued. She wore so much pink today, she bore a strong resemblance to strawberry marzipan.

“Why?” Gretchen asked.

Miss Hopewell blinked. “Because it isn’t polite to show off. Not to mention that you might put the secrecy of our world in danger.”

“Or worse,” Clarissa giggled. The plumes she’d tucked into her hair wavered. They were meant to be worn at fancy balls, but Clarissa loved them so much she wore them everywhere. “You might scare off your suitors.” She paused, wrinkling her nose at Gretchen. “Not that you have any, of course.”

Gretchen rose from her chair with every intention of slapping Clarissa with her own feathers.

“Sit down, Gretchen,” Miss Hopewell said, stepping between them. “This kind of unladylike behavior is exactly what we are trying to avoid.”

“But making rude comments is considered genteel?” Penelope pointed out archly.

“And I wasn’t trying to be quarrelsome before,” Gretchen added, sitting back down. “I just happen to like cheese.”

Miss Hopewell pinched the bridge of her nose. “Girls should be flowers, not thorns. You mustn’t flaunt your power or your cleverness. It only draws attention. And right now, attention is not what we are seeking.” Her expression was somber. “The more discreet you are, the safer you are.”

“Shouldn’t we be learning to defend ourselves then?” Gretchen knew by the flush of red creeping up Miss Hopewell’s neck that she’d said the wrong thing again.

“The Order will protect us. The best thing we can do is carry on to show the Keepers that we have faith in them.”

It was the same argument Gretchen’s mother used about the war with France. Apparently the more Gretchen danced and curtsied, the more patriotic she was. The soldiers would sense it and know they were appreciated. She dropped her chin on her
hand. Taking it for acquiescence, Miss Hopewell continued with her lesson.

“Observe.” She smiled and curtsied, dropping her eyes demurely. The floor trembled once, as though the earth were splitting open. The girls clutched at their desks, gasping. Miss Hopewell rose out of her curtsy and the ground was still once more. “There, you see? I was polite and modest and no one would suspect me.”

Gretchen could have cared less about being modest, but she rather seriously envied their teacher’s talent for psychokinesis.

Miss Hopewell sank onto a chair and reached for her teacup. Above her head, the chandelier rattled. “The trick is to give them something else to observe,” she explained. “Something like a flawless curtsy or a simple movement of your hand. It has to be both memorable in the moment and utterly forgettable. You must never forget that you are ladies first and witches second.”

Miss Hopewell motioned Daphne to the front of the class. The students whispered to one another, “Lilybeth” and “murder” being mentioned more than once. Daphne used to be famous for being the talented daughter of the First Legate; now she was famous for finding the body of her best friend. It was not improving her disposition.

“Girls!” Miss Hopewell clapped her hands. The desks, chairs, and inkwells trembled warningly. An abrupt silence fell. “You may begin, Daphne.”

Daphne lifted her chin haughtily. The delicate cameo she
wore around the neck hung on a gold chain and was carved from abalone shell. It wasn’t a rose or a Greek nymph but rather a scowling gargoyle such as the ones crouching on the roof of the academy. The rest of her was as polished as a celebrated debutante could possibly be. Her morning dress was trimmed with lace and printed with mint-green leaves. She lifted her fan, the ivory bones studded with pearls. It was painted with bluebells and the silhouettes of unicorns. No one else seemed to notice the flower fairies pinned under their hooves. Gretchen’s respect for Daphne reluctantly increased.

“Duck,” Penelope whispered, remembering the last time they’d seen a demonstration of Daphne’s magic. Her magic was such that any spell she cast unerringly found its target. She’d flung boiled beets at their heads. With remarkable precision.

“You are not required to speak, Penelope,” Miss Hopewell said sternly.

“Clearly she’s never had to wash beets out of her ears,” Penelope muttered. She held up a thick leather-bound book as a makeshift shield.

Daphne curtsied gracefully, her mouth hidden behind the fan. Properly hidden, she recited a simple spell, then she lowered the fan with a twist of her wrist. It pointed at Clarissa, who had whispered the loudest about Lilybeth. She was determined to fill Daphne’s role in the student hierarchy, now that Daphne had lost her best friends to murder and madness.

The inkwell on Clarissa’s desk tipped over. She squealed and jumped to her feet. The ink spread and dripped over the edge of the desk, but instead of landing on the carpet, it emerged
in black spots on Clarissa’s dress. She shrieked as if she’d been stabbed.

“Very well done, Daphne,” Miss Hopewell said. “You may resume your seat.” She frowned at Clarissa. “That is enough, Clarissa. You know better than to attend spell class without your apron.” She surveyed the class slowly. Hands lifted eagerly while others shrank back shyly. “Gretchen,” she said eventually. “This is an exercise you could benefit from.”

Gretchen stood up reluctantly. Miss Hopewell motioned for her to stand at the front of the room. “I will cast three spells, each slightly incorrect. You will act as though you have not noticed anything untoward, and then you will tell me what is wrong with each spell.”

Gretchen braced herself.

“Begin.”

She curtsied, feeling like an idiot. Miss Hopewell used salt to create a symbol on the floor. She couldn’t tell what was off about the spell, or what it was meant to do, only that it must be something minor. The sound in her head was like waves on the shore, or bird wings, constant but not unpleasant. She strained to hear words, but there was only that murmur. She teetered slightly on her back foot and nearly lost her balance. Daphne and Clarissa exchanged haughty glances, back on the same side. Gretchen gritted her teeth.

“Again,” Miss Hopewell said. “This time you will take a turn about the room.”

Gretchen circled the room, casting a longing glance at the door as she passed by it.

Miss Hopewell sighed. “I haven’t even begun yet, Gretchen, and that is all wrong. You are meant to glide, not march. This is not the militia.”

Gretchen contemplated inventing a new spell that would turn Miss Hopewell’s hair into snakes.

Instead, she walked, she glided, she positively floated. And she still felt like an idiot.

An idiot with needles piercing her brain.

The buzzing was sudden and painful. The waves were gone, replaced with the grinding of a blade on a whetstone, the screeching of gulls, the relentless grating of rusty hinges. She was instantly queasy.

“Keep gliding,” Miss Hopewell ordered, but her voice was very far away. There were too many other voices all talking at once. Sorting through them was like unraveling a knotted carpet. She tried to focus on just one word, one tone, the way Mrs. Sparrow had told her to. It was like trying to hold on to water.

“Unring the bell.”

There. A thread. She followed it, her eyes scrunched tight. She’d stopped trying to walk. She almost had it. Pain ricocheted inside her skull. But she wouldn’t let go. Neither would they, it seemed.

“We are still here.”

“Stop it!” That was Penelope, trying to hold her up. “Can’t you see her ears are bleeding?”

Miss Hopewell rushed forward. The other students squeaked with alarm. It was just one more layer of voices.

Gretchen threw up into a potted plant.

“Well, that’s not very ladylike,” Daphne remarked.

Moira went to visit One-Eyed Joe to make sure the magic leaking through the Dials neighborhood hadn’t affected him. His flat was on Pillory Street, tucked into a building that looked ready to fall over. But inside, his room was tidy and sparse, with none of the clutter of his stall in the goblin markets. He smiled at her when she popped her head in. “Well, here’s herself,” he said.

She shrugged out of her coat as quickly as she could, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. Though it was warm outside, he had a fire burning in a cauldron and a warm brick wrapped in flannel at his feet. The air was humid and smoky. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Of course I am,” he scoffed, as always. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s hot as Hades in here, old man.”

He cackled. “I’ve always wanted to visit exotic islands where the sun beats like a fiery heart.”

“And a poet today, besides.” She shook her head at him, grinning. “Have you been into the gin again?”