Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (33 page)

“Bollocks to that,” Gretchen said, reaching down to unhook the dagger tied to her ankle. She threw it at one of the hay-bale targets.

“Now that, I want to learn,” Daphne said, when she’d retrieved it, even as Miss Hopewell glared her displeasure.

Gretchen tested the dagger’s tip on her forefinger with a grin. “It’s not like needlepoint.”

“I should hope not. Pass it here.”

“Never mind Sophie,” Penelope whispered to Emma. “Those two getting along so well is what’s really scary.”

Dancing the waltz
at a May Ball seemed even more ridiculous than usual.

The first of May was a Threshold day, as powerful as All Hallow’s Eve and the summer and winter solstices. Everyone was certain that Sophie would make her move, having gathered enough magic to cast any spell of her choosing.

Which made dancing an odd choice, to Gretchen’s mind.

But witching society believed there was safety in numbers, and several Keepers had been dispatched to the event. Gretchen would attend, like everyone else, because it was expected. But better to put on a silk gown and topaz earrings and gloves that refused to stay up around her elbows than feel helpless. She tucked salt into her slippers and the wolfwater vial into her corset just in case.

She went by the academy first, determined to make yet
another attempt at listening in on Sophie’s spell. Perhaps being inside her room again would help. Most of the students who boarded had already left or were in a frenzy of last-minute hairdressing. Emma was already gone and Penelope was being escorted by Lucius.

Before Tobias had kissed her, Gretchen would have found it odd to be escorted by a Keeper. Truthfully, she did still find it a trifle odd, but mostly she just wondered if Tobias would be there. He hadn’t followed her to the school ever since the Order had pulled the Keepers off surveillance of the cousins. Finding and stopping Sophie had become the only goal.

Gretchen marched into Sophie’s old chambers with a determined step. This time she would get it right. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She breathed slowly and deeply until her heart wasn’t hammering in her ears. She listened but could only hear the same words again and again.

“Only a warlock’s spell.”

“I need more,” she said.

“Only a warlock’s spell.”

“Yes, I got that bit, actually.”

“Only a warlock’s spell.”

“Honestly, you could try being helpful,” she snapped peevishly. “
Which
spell—”

“What are you doing?” Daphne demanded, closing the door behind her. Her magical talent for targeting spells exactly where they needed to be brushed over Gretchen. The resulting chorus of dead witches snapped her head back.

“Alas no witch’s rhyme.”

Gretchen clamped her hands over her temples and tried not to be ill. “Alas no witch’s rhyme,” she repeated, her voice tinny and distant.

Daphne froze. “What did you say?”

“To turn back time.”

There was more, but they were talking over each other, like singing a round.

“To turn back time?” Daphne guessed, interrupting the psychical litany. “I know that spell.”

And just like that the chanting ceased. Gretchen blinked at her. “You do?”

“Well, it’s a rhyme, really,” she said. “Everyone knows it.”

Gretchen raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t a witch until very recently, Daphne. I wasn’t raised in this world.”

“Oh, right. Anyway, it goes like this:
‘Alas, no witch’s rhyme to turn back time; only a warlock’s spell unrings the bell. To rise up those that fell, court thee the Seven Sisters well.’
” She paused as it sank in. Gretchen still didn’t think the rhyme in its entirety made that much sense. Daphne began to pace, wide-eyed. “Sophie means to raise the dead.”

Gretchen stood slowly. “She can do that?”

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “But it requires sacrificing a witch so that the spirit of the dead person she is summoning has a place to dwell. Among other things.”

“Like the bones of a murdered witch?” Gretchen hazarded a guess.

“Yes. And the Seven Sisters,” she added. “The Greymalkin Sisters were at their most powerful when seven of them roamed
together. She must have originally summoned the three who were easiest to control or anticipate.”

“I think it was convenience, actually. When Emma opened the gates, they happened to be there to take advantage of it.”

She shivered. “There haven’t been Seven Greymalkin Sisters together since the Great Fire of 1666. They say there was blood in the streets.” Daphne drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. “She needs to summon all Seven Sisters in order to work the spell.”

“Can she do it?”

“Yes,” she said tightly. “I’m very much afraid to say I think she can.”

“But she won’t,” Gretchen said, steel in her voice. “Because we’re going to stop her.”

Daphne met her gaze and nodded. “You’re bloody right we are. My father’s at the ball; we’ll warn him about the spell.”

“I don’t even know why they’re bothering with this ball,” Gretchen muttered as they rushed down the hall.

“Because the Threshold day will amplify our magic just as it amplifies Sophie’s.” Daphne lifted her chin haughtily, which was an impressive feat seeing as she was half running. “And because we do not bend to villains.”

Carriages were dispatched to and from Grace House, to take the students to the ball. Gretchen shouldered aside a clump of giggling younger girls about to step up into a carriage pulling up the lane. “Sorry, urgent business,” she said.

The girl fought back. “That’s our carriage!”

Daphne just glared at her until she gave in, sulking. Daphne
climbed inside and Gretchen was lifting her skirts to follow when a streak of silvery mist leaped between her and the steps. She stumbled back.

Her brother’s wolfhound.

Again.

He was even more agitated than the last time he’d found her, leading her to Godric drunk on London Bridge while Sophie sent Rovers to steal the bones of a murdered Madcap that were about to be burned. She cringed to think of what trouble Godric was in now.

“Bollocks,” she said. “Daphne, my brother’s in trouble. I’ll catch up when I can.”

Daphne just shut the door, shouting for the coachman to drive on. Gretchen was going to find her brother and rescue him.

And then she was going to hit him over the head with his flask of whiskey.

When a bird with strange toad-green eyes landed on her windowsill and dropped an apple seed from its beak, Emma knew it was time to visit the Toad Mother.

She packed a satchel with the whittled deer, the poppet of Sophie, and various traveling supplies. The bridge was quiet, with most witches preparing for their May Day festivities. Clouds scuttled across the sky and the pomegranate lanterns swayed under a steady wind. Salt and rowan berries clogged the gutters on either side of the road. Wind chimes made
from knives and scissors dangled from shop posts, catching the light and clinking together like cutlery at a dinner party.

Nerves danced in her belly as she counted three alleys down and turned right, then left and right again onto Bonesong Alley. The Toad Mother’s hut looked the same, if less lively. There was no pink smoke coming from the chimney today. The last time she’d been here every aspect of the hut buzzed with magic. You could cut yourself on the grass, choke on the pink smoke, lose yourself in the army of acid-green toads. But now there was only one single toad hopping across the path as Emma crossed the stones to the front door. And the legion of gargoyles who watched clients approaching to ring the bell were gone. The ground was littered with bits of shingles.

Something was wrong.

“Hello?” she called out hesitantly, pushing the front door open. Anxiety sang through her. “I received your message.” The only reply was the squeak of rusty hinges.

A small hole in the wall served as the hearth, with most of the smoke belching back out to hang in the rafters. Smoke wasn’t the only thing bumping against the ceiling. Dozens of small gargoyles hovered overhead, jolting together, scraping the walls and leaving dents. They buzzed toward her, and she dropped the glamour hiding her antlers. The less magic they could smell on her, the less likely they were to attack. They drifted away, confused. One turned to stone before he made it up to the wooden beam and fell with a
thunk
.

Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling. The jars of herbs, dried flowers, sea salt, graveyard dirt, eye beds, iron nails, bones, and braids of hair that usually stood in orderly rows were opened, upended, and broken over the floor. There was a table, a tipped-over bench, and a cot in one corner.

And the Toad Mother.

She was on the ground, her long hair fanned out over the hearthstone, behind a spinning wheel. The toad bones stitched into the fringe of her shawl had been crushed under a boot tread. They left a fine powder that glowed faintly yellow, like fireflies. When Emma reached her side, the Toad Mother opened her eyes. They flared green.

“Emma,” she croaked. Her silver toad pendant floated in the blood collecting in the hollow of her collarbone. Luminescent toad-familiars crouched around her, gleaming wetly.

“What happened?” Emma asked. She didn’t know how to help her. There was so much blood and her skin was already waxy and clammy. The hilt of the knife protruding from her rib cage was made of jet. “What do I do?”

When she went to pull it out, the Toad Mother shook her head. “Don’t. It’s too late.”

“It’s not. I’ll fetch a doctor.”

“Too late,” she insisted. “Couldn’t take my magic,” she coughed, smiling smugly even through the pain. “Not the first to try. I cursed myself back when I was your age when my lover tried it for himself. I decided anyone else who tried would just end up with a dead witch.”

“But who did this to you?”

“I didn’t recognize him. Just his wheel pendant.”

“A Keeper?” Emma sat back on her heels. “Not a debutante? Sophie Truwell?”

“Don’t let the Greybeards find you here,” she said, grimacing as she pressed at her wound.

“What was he looking for?” Emma asked, surveying the spell ingredients scattered in the dust. The Toad Mother’s eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep them open. Emma wasn’t even sure if the other woman could still see her.

“He wanted the silver bough I promised you,” she wheezed, blood bubbling on her lips. “But I hid it. You need to use it tonight. It’s a Threshold day. I hid it—”

Her eyes rolled back in her head. The phosphorescent toads glowed red and then fell apart.

She was dead before she could finish her sentence.

Godric’s wolfhound took Gretchen to a cluster of shops at the edge of Mayfair. She glanced around for a tavern, or a gentleman in an ignominious heap on the ground, reeking of gin. She found him sprawled under the shadow of a gargoyle.

“Damn it, Godric,” she muttered, hurrying to his side. He was lying at an odd angle and she had to crouch down to turn him over. “When are you going to stop drin—”

He was covered in blood.

“Oh, God, Godric, can you hear me?” He didn’t have bruises on his face to suggest he’d been in a fight. She patted him down frantically, looking for wounds. His pockets were still full of
coins, and his gold watch was tucked into his waistcoat. He hadn’t been robbed or stabbed.

Then why was there so much blood?

“Godric, wake up. You have to wake up.”

It was then that she noticed the strange angle to his neck and the bulge under his knee where his leg was broken. She looked up, trying to see through her tears. He must have fallen off the roof.

His wolfhound faded away. “No!” she cried out, grabbing for it even though she knew magic couldn’t be caught that way. The familiar’s silhouette glittered red for a moment before there was nothing left of it at all. Godric’s witch knot flared as red as crushed berries.

He hadn’t fallen. He’d been pushed.

Godric wasn’t just dead.

He’d been murdered.

A shadow fell over her. Someone was speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Nothing was real, not the pavement under her knees, not the darkness of the alley or the warmth of her brother’s blood on her hands.

Even she wasn’t real without Godric, not really. She was a paper doll, dust, ashes, nothing.

He had kept her from breaking under the crushing weight of fine society and their mother’s expectations, and she had kept him tethered when he threatened to float too far from reality into daydreams.

In the end he hadn’t floated.

He’d fallen.

Her brother.

He’d always stood up for her, defended her against accusations of improper wild behavior. He’d loaned her his toy weapons, his clothes, even his name when she got herself into trouble. He understood her like no one else. He was the only person in the world who truly, truly understood her.

And he was gone.

Emma pushed to her feet, hands shaking. The Toad Mother’s blood was soaking into the ground, staining the dried flowers and the dusty hearthstone. She looked around, feeling even more helpless. The Toad Mother had died protecting the silver bough, and Emma had no idea where it might be hidden. She sifted through some of the broken crockery and bottles filled with strange thick ointments before deciding that if the thief hadn’t found it in the hut, it likely wasn’t here.

Which left all of the goblin markets.

And the entire city of London.

She searched the garden before the futility of the situation set in. She pulled the clouds down until they tattered into mists, which she wrapped around herself. She used a stick to poke into all of the potted herbs and under the flagstones of the path to the door.

Nothing.

The last toad in the garden croaked at her.

She paused, staring down at him. He wasn’t made of magic the way a familiar was, but he’d been steeped in magic in this particular garden for so long he shimmered. His eyes were the
same pale green of the Toad Mother’s—hungry, bright, and deadly. He hopped away into an elderberry bush pressed against the window.