He hooked the bucket onto the heavy faucet’s head and, grabbing the pump’s handle, filled it in one long stroke. He was back inside and up the stairs nearly as fast as he’d come down, the burden of the water secondary to the fact that a dead Witch would mar his record.
Nearly as much as the escape of a previous Witch had.
The Witches were all he had. For better or worse they were his only go at immortality. His was one of the most important jobs in all of the Americas. His might be a name to continue on along with those of other great men. Like that of presidents or generals, or like his father.
Or he could be forgotten, leaving nothing of note behind.
He could fail.
“Here,” he said, scooping the water and pressing the ladle against her thin, pale lips. Water poured across her cheeks and chin, spilling down her throat to soak into the linen shift she wore.
She shivered and choked, but she swallowed. She drank. So he scooped more and poured more and she sputtered, her already large eyes going wider. He slowed the flow of liquid, letting her catch up with a few eager swallows before she shook her head and mumbled something.
“What?”
Her eyes, now slightly brighter, remained unfocused and her lips fluttered before she had air enough behind her thoughts to form words. She blinked at him, coughed, and tried once more.
Her voice strained and small, she said, “They come. And there is naught to be done for it.”
She gasped and the stormcell in his lantern blazed so bright blue he fell backward, blinded. The lantern flew from his hands, glass splintering as the thing burst into pieces, the glaring soul stone tumbling free and into the thick and dusty hay.
By the time it returned to its normal intensity and most of his vision was back, Sybil was the cold of death, the very same cold as wildly running water.
“The stone,” Bran hissed, sifting through the wet straw and grime, his fingers blackening with filth as he hunted for the elusive sparkle of a soul stone. “Aaah!” he exclaimed, pulling his hand up to his face, glass sticking out of it like porcupine quills. “Damnnn…” Bleeding and cursing, he pulled the splinters free, and stood to sweep the floor with his booted foot instead, fingers plunged into his mouth and filling it with the taste of iron and dirt.
His stomach dropped when he heard the distinct sound of something scraping across the last bit of a grate before clinking its way into the darkness of the room’s single and filthy drain.
The soul stone was as good as gone.
Chapter Two
For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather …
—CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSETTI
In the generously appointed rooms that Jordan Astraea called her own, there was a flurry of activity in preparation for her natal day celebration.
“No. No!” a young woman in a fine gown snapped, swatting away a servant’s hands as they tried to fix her friend’s hair just so. “Laura, leave it be,” Catrina demanded.
The seated girl spoke, her voice soft, nearly shy. “Chloe…”
Another servant, this one older than the first by a dozen years and larger by at least the same number of pounds, stepped forward, her hands flying up to adjust the calico bandana always knotted crisply atop her head. “Yes, Miss Jordan, milady?” She curtsied, spreading her heavy broadcloth skirts with hands the color and scent of exotic spices and more tropical climes.
“Please do go see to my good lady mother.”
Chloe nodded. “But your hair…” she said in echo to Laura’s earlier protestation. “You have not all your ribbons in place.”
Jordan groaned, leaning back on her damask-padded bench as far as her dress’s snug bodice allowed. “Leave it be,” she requested.
“Indeed,” Catrina added. “Leave it be. Surely we can handle such a mundane task.”
Chloe blinked. “If miladies so desire.”
Drawing each word out with a separate breath Catrina Hollindale, ranked Fourth of the Nine, said, “We
Chloe again nodded. “Far be it from me to argue with her ladyship, but it is precisely due to your superior rank and status that we merrily dress your hair for you.”
“Chloe.” Catrina’s tone was thick with warning. “Go now before I become quite cross and throw something at you.”
Both the servants and Jordan glanced at the walls, papered with boldly alternating stripes and vines and covered in numerous equally bold nicks and dings from the girls’ frequent tantrums.
Jordan’s gaze slid back to Catrina.
“I will do it,” Catrina’s pitch rose, her tone going shrill as her hand stretched out to the silver-plated brush on the mahogany dressing table before her, her eyes narrow and fixed on the servants.
Laura raised her hands and scurried for the door, Chloe close behind, but her eyes never left Lady Hollindale’s twitching fingers. The door slammed shut, and, for good measure, Catrina hefted the brush and whipped it, a wicked grin twisting her full lips when it popped against the door and the servants gasped on the other side.
Jordan watched her best friend—a girl more like a sister to her than her own two sisters by blood, young ladies who would most likely not even bother being in attendance at the evening’s festivities—warily.
Clearing her throat, Catrina brushed her hands down her skirts, rearranging them so the pleats lay perfectly.
Jordan stood. “One day someone will pick up whatever you hurl and throw it back at you,” she warned, briefly crouching to snatch up the discarded brush. She set it down on the tabletop and tugged the last strands of hair free from the brush’s bristles, pressing the hair into the hole atop the small sterling box on her vanity.
“If someone
Jordan returned the brush to the silver tray holding her tortoiseshell comb and sat again, turning on the bench to better examine her face in the newest of two freestanding mirrors.
Catrina had once remarked that a beautiful lady could never have too many mirrors.
So Jordan had asked for a second mirror.
And a third.
Catrina had quickly pointed out she herself had seven—imported from Germany, no less!—arranged about her room so she might examine herself from every viewable angle before going out. Such things were necessary when one was of Hollindale rank.
But Jordan need not worry about examining herself so fiercely, not when she had a friend like Catrina. “And where are your fine parents on the night of my seventeenth birthday?” Jordan asked. “Still abroad on diplomatic assignment?”
“Still, yet, and always,” Catrina said. “I would miss them sorely except most days I barely even remember what they look like.”
“Is your uncle at least in attendance?”
“As much in attendance as a drunken letch can be…” Catrina stifled a sigh and picked a ribbon off the tray.
