Shannon Delany - Weather Witch

“You summoned a storm. A large one.”

“No. I did not! I have never summoned a storm—I cannot. I am Grounded. Besides, that was not even a large storm considering our weeklies. Magicking a storm is simply not within my capabilities nor my bloodline.”

“Your bloodline is corrupt. Your mother no better than a filthy whore.”

“Take that back,” she hissed, her manicured fingers curling into claws as her lips twisted in a snarl. “No one speaks of my mother that way. Lady Cynthia Astraea is one of the most noble women to walk this Earth…”

“Slut,” the Councilman said, lacing his fingers together and peering over them at her with cool detachment in his eyes. “Whore. Two-bit Molly.”

A growl grew in Jordan’s throat and she leaned across the aisle, eyes bright and sharp. “You stop now or I swear…”

The man grabbed a metal bar on the carriage’s curving wall, fingers wrapping tight around it as he watched Jordan, a wicked grin on his lips. “You swear you’ll do what, Miss Astraea? Or shall we give you some other name since Astraea should not belong to a bitch whose mother was nothing but a common coney?”

Shrieking, Jordan lunged across the aisle but the Wardens flanking her simply held tighter. For a moment she hung in the middle of the aisle, her mouth moving soundlessly as she fought for words to hurl at the Councilman and the cold-eyed Tester at his side. No words came and finally she flopped back into her seat, shaking with sobs as fresh tears seeped free of her eyes.

The folded paper star pressed into her sleeve was a bitter reminder of how far she’d already fallen.

Across the aisle the Tester cocked his head, cooing a single word, his eyes on her hands the whole time. “Interesting.”

Jordan sniffled and turned her head to the carriage’s barred window, watching her world slip away, lights and familiar sights streaking and blurring to nothing as the last beads of rain raced across the window’s glass.

Philadelphia

Rowen wandered down the stairs, his fingertips trailing along the low banister as his nose sucked in the familiar scents of the kitchen. Freshly baked bread, sweet biscuits, and stew … It was hardly appropriate that he should spend so much time fraternizing with the staff—they were all at least two ranks below him, but Rowen had never cared much for societal norms when it came to friendships. He had grown up with brothers who couldn’t be bothered with him and parents who only wanted him to fit a mold. Most of the time he did.

And most of those times willingly.

But there were times as a boy Rowen broke free—disappeared—and had to be hauled back to the house, streaked in mud and laughing like some wild child, clothing torn and hair full of “unmentionable natural objects,” as his mother would say. Jonathan was his most frequent accomplice and remained a friend (though that word could never be used around Rowen’s mother—it was unseemly having a manservant as a friend). So it was only natural that Rowen headed to a place he knew Jonathan would find him.

A place his harpy of a mother would dare not visit.

He stepped through the kitchen’s doorway, his mouth watering and his eyes tearing at the mix of scents. The butter churn sat empty in the corner, the day’s butter made so early in the day Rowen preferred to think of that time as night. Between the spices, the meat sizzling as it turned on the spit over the always-smoky fire, and the pungent scent of the small turn dog working the wheel to keep the spit moving, the kitchen featured the richest atmosphere in the entire house.

The cook raised a hand in greeting and returned to chopping vegetables for the next day’s meals. The serving girls all smiled in Rowen’s direction, a few curtsying. They were all keenly aware that Rowen was untouchable and had become like sisters to him as a result, some older, some younger, all undeniably fond of him and perhaps a bit too protective.

Nancy spun about to greet him, her hair held in a tight bun at the back of her head and yellow as cooked corn, fists on her generous hips, apron covered in flour and grease. “Well if it isn’t the hero home again,” she joked, her cheeks plumping as she smiled. “Did you show Miss Jordan the trick you’ve been practicing?”

For a moment the serious set of his face softened. “Yes. I did. I surprised her. Twice.”

“Twice was it?” she teased, picking up her rolling pin to jab him in the stomach. “Twice is a respectable number of times to do a thing.”

He let out a little oof, his expression going boyish and goofy.

“She wanted an encore, did she?” She winked at him, her eyes sparkling.

She needed one, he thought, remembering slipping the pin to her in a sly fashion. His face fell into a more somber expression. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“In the wine cellar.”

His smile returned for a moment. “Thank you, Nancy.” He slid past her, taking the steps at the kitchen’s far side down into the cellar. The difference in temperature was remarkable and Rowen snugged his shirt tighter to him and adjusted his waistcoat and cravat. In the wine cellar the smells were as different as the temperature. A chill was ever-present, the moist smell of water on stone overtaking all other sensations. Rowen’s boots echoing on the stairs muted the noisy hum of the kitchen at his back.

Jonathan was in the far corner perusing dusty bottles when Rowen found him.

“I think this is the best choice tonight,” Jonathan said, holding a bottle out for Rowen’s inspection.

Rowen shrugged. “Anything will do.”

“Excellent well. I’ll fetch us some water.”

“Ha.” The single syllable fell from Rowen’s lips, clearly illustrating his lack of humor at the thought. “Anything but water.”

“That is what I feared, young sir,” Jonathan muttered, uncorking the bottle with a move that came from good training as a potential sommelier, and a long year of watching Rowen drink in order to make sure Rowen never drank too much.

“Stop with the young sir, Jonathan. We are friends and no one is here to judge, are they?”

“No,” Jonathan agreed. “There is certainly no one who will disturb us here and certainly not at this hour. I made quite certain your father’s nightcap was delivered in advance. The family is well tended.” Slowly he poured the drink.

Alcohol was common in the city. Although ale was the norm, many enjoyed wine as well. The other choices were coffee and tea, but the effects of Rowen having too much of either sometimes worried Jonathan more. Rowen on ale was a joking troublemaker, Rowen on wine was calm and sloppy. Rowen on coffee was Rowen as a jittery mess, and tea was not much different. And gathering what he had of Rowen’s earlier situation, Jonathan made the very conscious decision that tonight Rowen would be calm and sloppy.

Rowen raised his glass to Jonathan in salute. “You tend to us quite well, friend.” Without breathing, he downed the first glass and presented it for a refill.

Jonathan poured a refill and let Rowen talk. And Jonathan poured him another and let him worry and wonder aloud about Jordan’s situation—few other than Weather Workers knew what truly became of Weather Witches. By the time they had finished their second bottle (with Jonathan only having half of a single glass) Rowen was a blithering idiot. But he was a calm blithering idiot.

Jonathan helped him up from where he’d slid down against one of the household’s untapped casks, brushed him off, and looped his arm over Jonathan’s own shoulders to help him back the way he’d come, and then to his chambers. Jonathan opened the door, letting Rowen stumble to the bed where he pulled off his friend and master’s boots, hauled the latter third of him onto the bed to better match the arrangement of the already unconscious upper two-thirds, and left him there, pulling the door shut so that he might sleep it off.

It was more difficult sneaking back into the Astraea estate than sneaking out, Chloe realized, standing face-to-face with Lionel and a few additional members of the household staff.

Decidedly larger members.

“What are you doing out unescorted on an evening filled with so much family tragedy?” He cast a wicked shadow on the wall behind him, lit only by the candle he held between them.

“There are things that must yet be done that I did not wish to bother you with,” Chloe admitted, wringing her hands.

“I fear I see guilt in your actions.”

“No. I am guilty of nothing but perhaps caring too much.”

“I spoke to the kitcheneers about your previous household.”

Chloe stiffened.

“I have put the bits together. I now know the truth.”

“No one knows the truth of that,” she said, her voice falling away to nothing before she recovered. “This present darkness”—she waved at the thick black pooling around them—“does not compare.”

“I’d imagine not. At least not yet. And it is my intention to keep it that way. You will not do to the Astraeas what you did to the Kruses.”

Her jaw dropped at the accusation. “I did nothing to the Kruses!”

“Both parents and the remaining boy dead … only hours after the eldest was taken in for witchery.” He stepped forward. “That’s why you always wear your hair in such a peculiar fashion—with a cloth binding some of it back—to hide what he did to you in retaliation.” He tore the bandana off her head then, sweeping her hair back to reveal the place where a whole ear should have been and showing the stump left after a single sword slice had cut much of it away.