Shannon Delany - Weather Witch

When she recovered, she sat up and scooped a few mouthfuls of the stew onto her bread and tried to eat without thinking.

Without tasting.

The girl returned too soon, but Jordan relinquished the bowl and remainders to her.

“Next time,” the girl said, “do not help.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would never help you, Witch,” the girl snapped. She spun on her heel, striding out of the room with more attitude than Jordan usually mustered for a proper social outing.

Jordan flopped back onto the noisy bed and closed her eyes, fingertips wrapped round the heart as she let exhaustion claim her. All around her the night melted away into something less grim for a time.

Philadelphia

In a room usually reserved for Council business, Chloe was fielding enough questions to wear down anyone ever accused of doing anything. She sat behind a small table, and a row of dour-looking men sat in opposition behind a long table. Watchmen and constables stood at the door and across the Hill she was fairly certain more watchmen searched her quarters and others’ for evidence. If they were searching thoroughly they might find the worst thing of all—the truth about Lady Astraea.

Her fingers tapped the little table’s surface. It was better this way. If they found her ladyship and ended it all—again—it would be better than letting her wander soulless.

“Explain to us the loss of your ear.”

Chloe sighed and focused on constructing an appropriate answer. “My previous lordship, Lord Kruse, found my service to be lacking and my ears to be too readily available to receive gossip. And so he removed one. With his saber. It was a memorable lesson.”

“And after the loss of your ear, what did you do?”

“I certainly didn’t listen at doors anymore. And I no longer desired pairs of earrings.”

“You make light of the obvious doubt cast upon your character?”

“No, sir, certainly not, sir. I am most grievously offended by the aspersions being cast. But I recognize my station and am quite aware of my innocence.”

“Three people—people from your previous household—one where you ran the kitchen—are dead.”

Chloe nodded. “And if I could identify their killer you would have a fierce fight keeping me from doing him harm.”

“Bold words from a woman who abandoned a fallen household and now finds herself in another household facing ruin.”

“The Council has ruined us already with the accusation of witchery and Harboring—with mere words. Such little things to bring down such a great family.”

“The Tester found a Weather Witch. There was nothing to be done but bring her in.”

“Bring her in and bring the rest of them down.”

“Show some respect,” one Councilman ordered.

“How can I when I am given none?”

“Respect must be earned.”

“I have earned it. For eight years I worked for the Kruse family. I baked for them, cooked for them, cleaned and straightened accounts for them. I was more than a kitchen girl or body servant—I was a nanny to the children, a friend to the lady. I was family. And when they came and proclaimed the boy a Weather Witch—I wept for them. I died inside—all for the love of him and my adopted family.”

“Then why did you kill them?”

“I did not kill them—I loved them!”

“The morning after Marion Alan Kruse was taken in for magicking, they were dead. And you were gone.”

“So was the rest of the staff. We were horrified—finding them like that … their bellies distended, tongues swollen and black…” Her eyes squeezed shut and she clenched the small table until her dark fingers whitened.

“It must have been dreadful to face the results of your actions.”

“How did my actions cause such a tragedy?”

“Through the leaves with which you flavored the biscuits.”

“What?” She straightened, her face going blank for a moment. “We used nothing toxic in the cooking.”

“Then how did they wind up in the biscuits? The biscuits you had none of?”

“I don’t … The staff seldom ate with family—and almost never the same food.”

“But they were like your family, you said. It seems unlikely your family would not allow you to sup with them.”

“It was well known. Ask anyone.”

“We would if there were anyone left to ask. But it seems you all ran as fast as cockroaches when a stormlight flares. So where did you obtain the leaves used in the biscuits?”

Then her jaw dropped.

He rounded on her. “Ah, so you do remember now, do you?”

“Harold. He wanted to help. We went into the garden to pick mint. Mint.” She looked at him, her eyes damp. “It was mint.”

“Mint doesn’t kill.”

“We didn’t kill them. It was mint.”

“Did you pick it yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. I let Harold…”

“You allowed a child of four years of age to gather herbs for your cooking?”

“Yes. He had gone with me several times before … It was mint.”

“It was negligence. What you and the child thought to be mint was a toxic plant—the same that killed your master and his family shortly after he sliced off your ear and the family fell to ruin. The timing is suspicious.”

“I would never…”

“Would you blame the child?”

“No,” she gasped. “Of course not.”

“Then accept the blame yourself.”

She deflated, slumping over the table, head cradled in her arms. She sobbed. Ever so softly.

* * *

Even from the sidewalk outside the Astraea estate John saw lights on in the rooms along the upper floor where Lady Astraea’s chambers were. Watchmen stood in stiff pairs flanking the main doors, men dressed in dark trousers and long, crisp gray coats with silver piping and fancy epaulets on their broad shoulders. These were Council watchmen.

Dangerous men searching for something.

John shifted the bundle in his arms, the wheelbarrow leaning in the shadow of the estate’s wall. He considered his options. Getting past the watchmen carrying the lady might not be impossible … but the odds were far from being in his favor.

He felt the faint beat of her heart and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. This was his household’s lady, as defenseless as ever a woman could be. He would not openly risk her. Especially not after they’d come so far.

He clung to the shadows lining the property’s tall wall, only the occasional glimmer of light bouncing off his high cheeks and wide forehead telling of his passing. He halted at the back of the main house and looked up, examining its back wall.

A trellis ran along most of the wall, old rose canes and ivy warring to reach the rooftop first. Stepping forward, he grabbed the wooden trellis. He shook it, testing its strength.

“Apologies, milady,” he muttered. He adjusted Lady Astraea’s body so she hung across his chest, shoulder, and back like a sack of grain, and, his hands ignoring the prick of the rose thorns, he began the arduous task of hauling them both toward the open shutters marking her windows.

He was puffing out breath by the time he reached her windows. He crossed one last section of trellis and placed his hands on the edge of the nearest windowsill. Slowly he angled over so his head was just above the window ledge and he could glimpse the room’s interior.

Her bed lay freshly made, the wood floor before it shining in the moonlight seeping in. A few candles still burned—brightly—fresh, considering the amount of time that had passed. So someone had been inside.

Cynda or Laura?

Or Chloe?

John wondered only briefly, knowing it made little difference. He would slip her ladyship into her bed, make his way outside the room, and find one or all of the girls.

With a final glance to assure himself no one watched, he braced his feet, bent his knees to squeeze them into the spaces between the trellis’s narrow wooden slats, and lifted her ladyship off his shoulder, resting her on the window’s broad ledge, one steadying hand on her waist.

Another slide and a step and he was directly before the window, climbing up to rest one knee on the cold stone sill. With a grunt, he got his hands onto the thick wood and iron shutters and hoisted the rest of his bulk up, struggling to not be indecently near her ladyship’s prone form. It was difficult, maintaining appropriate decorum during a rescue.

He slid past her and dropped his feet to the floor before scooping her up. Crossing the floor to her bed, he laid her down and freed her from the quilts and blankets.

She was nearly as quiet as the statues gracing the cemeteries near the middle of the Hill—where the elegant people were buried, if they couldn’t afford a proper tomb or a Bone Shrining. He shivered at the thought of being Bone Shrined—to have the flesh stripped from your bones so your bony bits could be strung up as chandeliers or stacked as walls or doors in your chosen church, where you could forever watch your fellow parishioners and descendants …

His thoughts straying, he stepped away, backing to the door and opening it. He slid into the blessedly dark hall and locked the door before making his way to find either Cynda or Laura.

Or best yet, Chloe.

* * *

John found both Laura and Cynda seated outside on a stone bench in the gardens, huddled together over the remnants of one of his lordship’s cigarettes. He should have asked how they came by it, he knew he should, but the way they hung so close together, wary eyes on the house, words soft and sad, he no longer cared.