Shadow of Night (38 page)
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Phoebe, even if we did do it standing up. This time.” Marcus paused, smiled his charming smile. “You don’t mind my calling you Phoebe?”
Phoebe
did
mind. She rubbed at her neck in exasperation, pushing aside her black, collar-length hair. Marcus’s eyes lingered on the curve of her shoulders. When she made no reply, he closed the box, tucked the miniatures under his arm, and backed away.
“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said mildly, seemingly unaware of Phoebe’s clear signals of uninterest. “We can celebrate the Taverners’ good fortune, as well as the sizable commission that you will be splitting with Sylvia.”
Sylvia? Split a commission? Phoebe’s mouth gaped in disbelief. The chances that her boss might do such a thing were less than nil. Marcus’s expression darkened.
“It was a condition of the deal. My grandmother wouldn’t have it any other way.” His voice was gruff. “Dinner?”
“I don’t go out with strange men after dark.”
“Then I’ll ask you out to dinner tomorrow, after we’ve had lunch. Once you’ve spent two hours in my company, I won’t be ‘strange’ any longer.”
“Oh, you’ll still be strange,” Phoebe muttered, “and I don’t take lunch. I eat at my desk.” She looked away in confusion. Had she said the first part aloud?
“I’ll pick you up at one,” said Marcus, his smile widening. Phoebe’s heart sank. She
had
said it aloud. “And don’t worry, we won’t go far.”
“Why not?” Did he think she was afraid of him or couldn’t keep up with his strides? God, she hated being short.
“I just wanted you to know that you could wear those shoes again without fearing you’d break your neck,” Marcus said innocently. His eyes traveled slowly from her toes over her black leather pumps, lingered on her ankles, and then crawled up the curve of her calf. “I like them.”
Break her neck? Who did this man think he was? He was behaving like an eighteenth-century rake. Phoebe took decisive steps toward the door, her heels making satisfyingly sharp clicks. She pushed the button to release the lock and held the door open. Marcus made an appreciative sound as he strolled toward her.
“I shouldn’t be so forward. My grandmother disapproves of that almost as much as she disapproves of being cut out of a business deal. But here’s the thing, Phoebe.” Whitmore lowered his mouth until it was inches from her ear and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Unlike the men who have taken you out to dinner and perhaps gone back to your flat for something afterward, your propriety and fine manners don’t frighten me off. Quite the contrary. And I can’t help imagining what you’re like when that icy control melts.”
Phoebe gasped.
Marcus took her hand. His lips pressed against her flesh as he stared into her eyes “Until tomorrow. And make sure the door locks behind me. You’re in enough trouble.” Dr. Whitmore walked backward out of the room, gave her another bright smile, turned, and whistled his way out of sight.
Phoebe’s hand was trembling. That man—that strange man with no grasp of proper etiquette and startling blue eyes—had kissed her. At her place of work. Without her permission.
And she hadn’t slapped him, which is what well-bred daughters of diplomats were taught to do as a last resort against unwanted advances at home and abroad.
She was indeed in trouble.
"W
as I right to call you, Goody Alsop?” Susanna twisted her hands in her apron and looked at me anxiously. “I nearly sent her home,” she said weakly. “If I had . . .”
“But you didn’t, Susanna.” Goody Alsop was so old and thin that her skin clung to the bones of her hands and wrists. The witch’s voice was strangely hearty for someone so frail, however, and intelligence snapped in her eyes. The woman might be an octogenarian, but no one would dare call her infirm.
Now that Goody Alsop had arrived, the main room in the Norman apartments was full to bursting. With some reluctance Susanna allowed Matthew and Pierre to stand just inside the door, provided they didn’t touch anything. Jeffrey and John divided their attention between the vampires and the chick, now safely nestled inside John’s cap by the fire. Its feathers were beginning to fluff in the warm air, and it had, mercifully, stopped peeping. I sat on a stool by the fire next to Goody Alsop, who occupied the room’s only chair.
“Let me have a look at you, Diana.” When Goody Alsop reached her fingers toward my face, just as Widow Beaton and Champier had, I flinched. The witch stopped and frowned. “What is it, child?”
“A witch in France tried to read my skin. It felt like knives,” I explained in a whisper.
“It will not be entirely comfortable—what examination is?—but it should not hurt.” Her fingers explored my features. Her hands were cool and dry, the veins standing out against mottled skin and crawling over bent joints. I felt a slight digging sensation, but it was nothing like the pain I’d experienced at Champier’s hands.
“Ah,” she breathed when she reached the smooth skin of my forehead. My witch’s eye, which had lapsed into its typical frustrating inactivity the moment Susanna and Annie found me with the chick, opened fully. Goody Alsop was a witch worth knowing.
Looking into Goody Alsop’s third eye, I was plunged into a world of color. Try as I might, the brightly woven threads refused to resolve into something recognizable, though I felt once more the tantalizing prospect that they could be put to some use. Goody Alsop’s touch tingled as she probed my body and mind with her second sight, energy pulsing around her in a purple-tinged orange. In my limited experience, no one had ever manifested that particular combination of colors. She tutted here and there, made an approving sound or two.
“She’s a strange one, isn’t she?” Jeffrey whispered, peering over Goody Alsop’s shoulder.
“Jeffrey!” Susanna gasped, embarrassed at her son’s behavior. “Mistress Roydon, if you please.”
“Very well. Mistress Roydon’s a strange one,” said Jeffrey, unrepentant. He shifted his hands to his knees and bent closer.
“What do you see, young Jeffrey?” Goody Alsop asked.
“She—Mistress Roydon—is all the colors of a rainbow. Her witch’s eye is blue, even though the rest of her is green and silver, like the goddess. And why is there a rim of red and black there?” Jeffrey pointed to my forehead.
“That’s a
wearh
’s mark,” Goody Alsop said, smoothing it with her fingers. “It tells us she belongs to Master Roydon’s family. Whenever you see this, Jeffrey—and it is quite rare—you must heed it as a warning. The
wearh
who made it will not take it kindly if you meddle with the warmblood he has claimed.”
“Does it hurt?” the child wondered.
“Jeffrey!” Susanna cried again. “You know better than to pester Goody Alsop with questions.”
“We face a dark future if children stop asking questions, Susanna,” Goody Alsop remarked.
“A
wearh
’s blood can heal, but it doesn’t harm,” I told the boy before Goody Alsop could answer. There was no need for another witch to grow up fearing what he didn’t understand. My eyes shifted to Matthew, whose claim on me went far deeper than his father’s blood oath. Matthew was willing to let Goody Alsop’s examination continue—for now—but his eyes never left the woman. I mustered a smile, and his mouth tightened a fraction in response.
“Oh.” Jeffrey sounded mildly interested at this piece of intelligence. “Can you make the
glaem
again, Mistress Roydon?” To their chagrin, the boys had missed that manifestation of magical energy.
Goody Alsop rested a gnarled finger in the indentation over Jeffrey’s lip, effectively silencing the boy. “I need to talk to Annie now. After we’re through, Master Roydon’s man is going to take all three of you to the river. When you get back, you can ask me whatever you’d like.”
Matthew inclined his head toward the door, and Pierre rounded up his two young charges and, after a wary look at the old woman, took them downstairs to wait. Like Jeffrey, Pierre needed to overcome his fear of other creatures.
“Where is the girl?” Goody Alsop asked, turning her head.
Annie crept forward. “Here, Goody.”
“Tell us true, Annie,” Goody Alsop said in a firm tone. “What have you promised Andrew Hubbard?”
“N-nothing,” Annie stammered, her eyes shifting to mine.
“Don’t lie, Annie. ’Tis a sin,” Goody Alsop chided. “Out with it.”
“I’m to send word if Master Roydon plans to leave London again. And Father Hubbard sends one of his men when the mistress and master are still abed to question me about what goes on in the house.” Annie’s words tumbled out. When through, she clapped her hands over her mouth as though she couldn’t believe she’d revealed so much.
“We must abide by the letter of Annie’s agreement with Hubbard, if not its spirit.” Goody Alsop thought for a moment. “If Mistress Roydon leaves the city for any reason, Annie will send word to me first. Wait an hour before you let Hubbard know, Annie. And if you speak a word to anyone of what happens here, I’ll clap a binding spell on your tongue that thirteen witches won’t be able to break.” Annie looked justifiably terrified at the prospect. “Go and join the boys, but open all the doors and windows before you leave. I will send for you when it is time to return.”
Annie’s expression while she opened the shutters and doors was full of apology and dread, and I gave her an encouraging nod. The poor child was in no position to stand up to Hubbard and had done what she had to in order to survive. With one more frightened look at Matthew, whose attitude toward her was distinctly chilly, she left.
At last, the house quiet and drafts swirling around my ankles and shoulders, Matthew spoke. He was still propped up against the door, his black clothes absorbing what little light there was in the room.
“Can you help us, Goody Alsop?” His courteous tone bore no resemblance to his high-handed treatment of Widow Beaton.
“I believe so, Master Roydon,” Goody Alsop replied.
“Please take your ease,” Susanna said, gesturing Matthew toward a nearby stool. There was, alas, little chance of a man of Matthew’s size being comfortable on a small three-legged stool, but he straddled it without complaint. “My husband is sleeping in the next room. He mustn’t overhear the
wearh,
or our conversation.”
Goody Alsop plucked at the gray wool and pearly linen that covered her neck and drew her fingers away, pulling something insubstantial with them. The witch stretched out her hand and flicked her wrist, releasing a shadowy figure into the room. Her exact replica walked off into Susanna’s bedchamber.
“What was that?” I asked, hardly daring to breathe.
“My fetch. She will watch over Master Norman and make sure we are not disturbed.” Goody Alsop’s lips moved, and the drafts stopped. “Now that the doors and windows are sealed, we will not be overheard either. You can rest easy on that score, Susanna.”
Here were two spells that might prove useful in a spy’s household. I opened my mouth to ask Goody Alsop how she’d managed them, but before I could utter a word, she held up her hand and chuckled.
“You are very curious for a grown woman. I fear you’ll try Susanna’s patience even more than Jeffrey does.” She sat back and regarded me with a pleased expression. “I have waited a long time for you, Diana.”
“Me?” I said doubtfully.
“Without question. It has been many years since the first auguries foretold your arrival, and with the passing of time some among us gave up hope. But when our sisters told us of the portents in the north, I knew to expect you.” Goody Alsop was referring to Berwick and the strange occurrences in Scotland. I sat forward, ready to question her further, but Matthew shook his head slightly. He still wasn’t sure the witch could be trusted. Goody Alsop saw my husband’s silent request and chuckled again.
“So I was right, then,” Susanna said, relieved.
“Yes, child. Diana is indeed a weaver.” Goody Alsop’s words reverberated in the room, potent as any spell.
“What’s that?” I whispered.
“There is much we don’t understand about our present situation, Goody Alsop.” Matthew took my hand. “Perhaps you should treat us both like Jeffrey and explain it as you would to a child.”
“Diana is a maker of spells,” Goody Alsop said. “We weavers are rare creatures. That is why the goddess sent you to me.”
“No, Goody Alsop. You’re mistaken,” I protested with a shake of my head. “I’m terrible with spells. My Aunt Sarah has great skill, but not even she has been able to teach me the craft of the witch.”
“Of course you cannot perform the spells of other witches. You must devise your own.” Goody Alsop’s pronouncement went against everything I’d been taught. I looked at her in amazement.
“Witches learn spells. We don’t invent them.” Spells were passed from generation to generation, within families and among coven members. We jealously guarded that knowledge, recording words and procedures in grimoires along with the names of the witches who mastered their accompanying magic. More experienced witches trained the younger members of the coven to follow in their footsteps, mindful of the nuances of each spell and every witch’s past experience with it.