Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) (2 page)

‘There you go.’ Phoebe gave the fire a vicious poke and then walked to the door. ‘You heard her. I’m going up to change. You can sort your own tea out.’

There was a silence after she’d gone. Rosa moved to huddle in the corner of the settle with her knees up, wrapping her skirts around her legs like a child. Luke stood, facing the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece and looking bitterly down into the flames. He was angry at them both – Phoebe for cheating Rosa out of her locket, Rosa for letting her. Most of all he was angry at himself for being the unwitting cause.

‘Luke.’ Rosa’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he managed. He turned back to face her. She looked very small and pale sitting in the corner of the settle, her magic just a thin wisp of red-gold in the darkness. The firelight caught her hair and the ruby on her hand, sending back echoes of the flames. ‘We’ve got to get away. So we need horses. Or
a
horse at the least. And money.’

Where could they find either? William had money – Luke thought of the iron box beneath the floorboard of his uncle’s room – but his heart failed at the thought of creeping in there while William was asleep and stealing his savings. And William had no horse. Could Rosa magick them up some money?

No: he pushed the thought away. He refused to ask. It felt like stealing, and he would not ask a woman to do his dirty work for him.

‘We could sell this.’ Rosa held out her hand, the ring glinting up at them. ‘If only I could get it off.’

‘That’s not a bad idea . . .’ Luke said slowly. ‘It’s too conspicuous as it is. I could get it off at the forge. William has all the tools I’d need. But we’d have to be quick. He was out drinking last night so with luck he’ll be sleeping in today, but not for long.’

The kettle gave an ear-splitting shriek and they both jumped. Luke moved to the grate, pulled off the kettle, spooned leaves into two cups and poured on the water. He passed a cup to Rosa and then drained his own.

‘I’m sorry about the locket,’ he said gruffly, as he set his cup on the edge of the mantelpiece. The lees had made a strange flickery swirl in the bottom of the cup. They reminded him of flames.

‘It’s all right,’ Rosa said. She put her hand to her pocket of her dress, feeling for something. ‘I’ve still got the portrait, that’s the main thing. The locket didn’t really matter. It was the memories.’

‘Portrait?’

She pulled it out, a little dirty scrap of paper, slightly sooty, cut oval to fit the shape of the locket. He took it in the palm of his hand, cradling it carefully as he turned it to the light of the fire, trying to see what it was. It was a child’s drawing of a man with large dark eyes and a full beard, the perspective a little skewed and the proportions wrong. But she had caught something in the expression, something kindly and perhaps a little sad.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, but he knew, or thought he did, even before she answered.

‘My papa. It doesn’t look much like him really. In fact, Alexis—’ She stopped.

‘What?’

‘Alexis said . . .’ She gave a short laugh, a little bitter. ‘He said that it reminded him of Charles Dickens crossed with a potato. But Papa liked it.’

Luke said nothing as he looked down at the scrap. He had no portrait of his own father and mother, not even any memories, save that one earliest blur: of himself, a small boy crouched beneath the settle as their blood ran red down the walls and a hand crept towards him, feeling for the snake’s-head cane that had rolled across the floor through their pooling blood. The cane that he had last seen in Sebastian Knyvet’s hand as he leapt from the factory window to freedom . . .

He could have followed. He could have followed and found out the truth about his parents and why they’d had to die. But instead he had turned back, for Rosa. He had chosen friendship over vengeance. And now it was too late.

He handed the scrap back to Rosa and she took it and tucked it into her pocket.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Ready,’ she said, and stood, looking as if she were steeling herself for something.

‘Ready for what?’ Phoebe stood in the doorway. She had put fresh paint on her face and the locket hung defiantly between her breasts, above her knotted woollen shawl.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ Rosa said. ‘We have to leave.’

‘Ain’t you gonna tell me what all this is about?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Luke took her hand. ‘I can’t explain. But thank you, Phoebes. You don’t know what you did for us. You might’ve saved our lives.’

‘What
is
all this about, Luke?’ For the first time she looked alarmed. ‘You’re not joking, are you? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

‘Yes. Bad trouble. Phoebe, if anyone comes asking for us – doesn’t matter if it’s Leadingham, even my uncle – you never saw us, right?’

‘All right.’ She looked at him for a moment, her eyes worried, and then she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek, softly. ‘I dunno what you’ve got yourself mixed up in, but you take care of yourself, Luke.’

‘Goodbye, Phoebes.’

At the door she watched them go, biting her lip. They were halfway down the street when she called out, ‘Wait!’

Luke turned as she came running down the alleyway towards them.

‘What is it?’

‘Here.’ She pulled at the shawl, yanking it off over her head, and pushed it towards Rosa. ‘Take this. Part-exchange for the locket, yeah?’

For a minute Luke thought Rosa was going to refuse. Then she nodded and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders.

‘All right. Thank you, Phoebe.’

‘G’bye.’

She watched them go, until the shadows closed around them all.

L
uke probably didn’t mean to walk so fast, but his legs were longer than Rosa’s and he wasn’t hampered by skirts and petticoats. She found herself half running to keep up, a painful stitch in her side where her corsets pinched. She told herself she could keep up, that she wouldn’t beg, but at last, as he turned yet another corner in the dark and narrow maze of streets, she burst out, ‘For God’s sake, slow down!’

He turned to look at her, his mouth open in surprise.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ He stopped, looking around. The quarter wasn’t yet busy, but there were people about. ‘I just . . .’

He swallowed and then said almost under his breath. ‘The Malleus. The Brothers work these markets. We can’t afford to meet ’em. Any of them.’

‘Will they recognize me?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ He looked at her appraisingly, as if trying to see her with a stranger’s eyes. Rosa hung her head. She could guess what she looked like, walking through the streets at dawn, with her head bare and her hair loose and her gown ripped and filthy.

‘I must look like a tramp,’ she said bitterly. To her surprise, Luke’s worried face broke into a reluctant smile.

‘You ain’t seen many then. Or not many East End ones. No, you don’t look like a tramp. But you don’t look quite like a lady either. No, no, that’s good,’ he added hastily at the sight of her expression. ‘They’ll be looking for a lady, for Sebastian Knyvet’s fiancée. Hang on a minute.’ He pulled her into a quiet doorway, away from passers-by, and then took hold of the shawl, pulling it up around her face, covering her bright hair. ‘Your gown’s ripped and sooty from the fire, but the cut’s too good, and these flounces are too fancy. We can’t do much about the cut but . . .’ Rosa felt a tug, there was a ripping sound and Luke let some torn silk and lace flutter to the ground. ‘If only we could do something about that bloody ring. Phoebe’s right. If anyone sees it and thinks it’s real . . .’

‘I’ll hold the shawl like this.’ Rosa twined her left hand in the wool, hiding her fingers. ‘Is that better?’

‘It’ll have to do. Just don’t let the shawl slip.’ He turned up the collar of his coat and huddled into his muffler. ‘Listen, is it all right . . . ?’ He stopped.

‘What?’

He stepped towards her. It was hard to see his expression above the scarf, but she could have sworn there was a flush on his cheek.

‘It’d look better if . . . if we looked like . . . sweethearts. Like a married couple off somewhere.’ He was definitely blushing now; even in the thin winter dawn she could see his cheeks were scarlet. ‘I don’t want to be familiar, but . . . can I take your arm?’

She wanted to laugh, it was so preposterous that he was worrying about such things at a time like this.

‘Luke! Stop being ridiculous.’

He flinched as if she’d slapped him and began to walk away, his head down. He was muttering something under his breath.

‘. . . presumptuous . . . my place . . . servant . . .’

‘Luke!’ She ran to catch up. ‘Luke! I meant of course you must take my arm. For heaven’s sake, staying alive is the only thing that matters. I don’t give a damn about presumption or anything else.’

‘Really?’ He turned to face her, his expression doubtful above his tight-wound muffler.

‘Really.’ She held out her arm and he took it, tucking her hand beneath his arm. He didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain as he crushed her burnt skin.

He let go instantly.

‘My God, your arm, Rosa. I forgot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, through gritted teeth. Then her racing heart slowed and she was able to smile through the stab of pain. ‘It’s all right. I’ll be able to heal it soon – when I’ve had some rest. Put your arm around my shoulders instead. It’ll look more natural.’

For a moment he hesitated, and she was not certain if it was because he was unsure of himself, or of her. Then he did it, letting his arm rest stiffly across the nape of her neck, as if he was afraid to touch her.

They began to walk, and slowly she felt his muscles relax, the weight of his arm began to rest on her shoulder, and he drew her into his side, as if they were a real couple.

How easy to pretend
, Rosa thought.
To just go on, pretending that this is the truth, just two people walking home, and all the rest, Sebastian, and the Malleus, and the factory – if only all of that were the crazy impossible fantasy
.

‘What are we going to do?’ she asked again, as she had at the pub, but this time it was without curiosity, with a bleak hopelessness that didn’t expect an answer. ‘Sebastian will never let me go, I know that, Luke. He told me before he left, he would rather kill me than lose me.’

‘He thinks you’re dead.’ Luke’s voice was low and steady, close to her ear. She felt his breath on her hair, through the shawl. ‘Remember that. He has no reason to think we survived the fire at the factory. There’ll be bodies enough to keep him puzzled for a while; I didn’t get everyone out. It’ll be a long time before anyone comes looking for us.’

She didn’t believe him. An outwith might have been fooled – but not Sebastian. But she didn’t argue. Instead she felt Luke squeeze her shoulders, a rough, comforting gesture that made tears spring to her eyes.

‘It’ll be all right, Rosa. We’ll get the ring off at the forge, and then we’ll sell it, and use the money to get a horse from somewhere. It’ll be all right, I promise.’

His promise comforted her, not because she believed him, but because she knew he lied for her sake.

The forge was still in darkness. There were no sparks coming from the chimney as they walked quietly up the lane. Luke lifted his arm from Rosa’s shoulders and put his finger to his lips as he lifted the latch of the gate and pulled it ajar, holding its weight so that the hinges wouldn’t squeal out and wake William.

Rosa slipped through the gap into the cobbled yard, and Luke pulled the gate shut behind her, latching it so that no one would see the open gate and think the forge open. The snow was still falling and the cobbles were slick with ice as they crossed them carefully. Luke glanced up at his uncle’s window as they passed, but it was still dark. He had no watch, but it must be gone seven, and even when he was sleeping off a hangover William rarely slept past eight.

Inside the forge he pulled the door shut against the cold and began to search through William’s tools. He laid the likeliest out on the bench – a narrow rasp, nippers, the smallest hacksaw . . . He and Rosa stood looking at them, and he could see the fear in Rosa’s face. He felt it himself, looking from the huge heavy tools down at her small hand, bloodied and dusted with soot.

‘It’s not going to work,’ he said at last. ‘William’s got nothing small enough. We need a goldsmith’s tools, not these.’

‘Try,’ she said. ‘At least try.’

With a sick heart he picked up the nippers and tried to angle them to pinch just the gold band of the ring, keeping clear of the skin of her finger, but it was nearly impossible. They were too large and too heavy, and the ring dug so tightly into Rosa’s finger that he couldn’t get a purchase on the metal without pinching her flesh. At last he thought he had it, and began to tighten, gently, and then harder.

‘Stop!’ she screamed, and he let the nippers clatter to the floor. There was sweat on her forehead, sticking the red-gold hair to her face. She closed her eyes. Blood was running down her finger. ‘No, take no notice of me,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Try again.’

‘No.’ Sickness rose in Luke’s throat, the sight of her blood turning his stomach. ‘No, I won’t.’