She studied him; he was definitely serious now. “You want to know if I want to go back.”
“We can find a flat for you. Even hire a housekeeper.” He scratched the back of his neck. “You missed out on a life here. You have no obligation to be involved in what’s to come.”
“Can I take Fyfe?”
“Absolutely not. He’s too useful.”
“Can we share him?”
Gedeon considered. “You can have him on Sundays.” His brow crinkled. “Is that a yes, then? You would like to go back?”
Ilsa chewed her cheek. Gedeon seemed hopeful that she was only playing around and, for the most part, she was. She had found everything she had been looking for her whole life in the Witherward, and she had lost everything she had cared for in the Otherworld.
But she still didn’t know who to believe about this broken, violent city; Eliot, who said London was a battleground and a graveyard, or Fowler, who saw the city for what it could be. If she went back to the Otherworld, perhaps she could start a new life there, and never have to kill another person, and never get shot again or mauled by a big cat. But she could visit. She could still have a family.
And she could find Eliot.
A movement in the house caught her eye. Hester watched them from the window. Gedeon said she had no obligations here, but she did. She had made one when she woke that morning on the couch in Hester’s sitting room and decided she would not tell anyone what her cousin had done. She would keep her secret, and Eliot’s, and Elijah Quillon’s. Gedeon had learned of Alitz’s betrayal, and that was enough. Besides, with Eliot gone, Ilsa didn’t believe that Hester had any means or incentive to do anything more to hurt the Zoo. And if she was wrong about that…
“If I ain’t mistaken,” she said, “you’re down two lieutenants.”
Gedeon grinned unrestrainedly and slapped his forehead. “Stars! How could I forget?”
“So you should probably stop promising to let me out of here when it’s so obvious you need me.”
“You are already proving yourself indispensable.” Gedeon stood and offered her his hand. “Ilsa, I retract my offer. I can’t possibly let you leave.”
And Ilsa couldn’t possibly go. Somebody needed to keep an eye on their cousin. For Hester’s own sake. For Gedeon.
For Camden.
Because Ilsa belonged here.
Her brother made his way over to Fyfe and the others, and Ilsa watched him crack a joke, watched Aelius chuckle and retort, as if nothing had happened and no time had passed at all. The boy was an enigma – audacious, selfish maybe, blustering through his life and those around him like a tornado – but Ilsa needed a new challenge; a new mystery to solve.
He called her over. The heavens were opening. Aelius, Fyfe, and Cogna were retreating to the conservatory. Ilsa dashed from the garden just as the first raindrops landed on the enchanted roses.
By June, their petals would be laced with frost.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My first and most heartfelt thanks are to my agent, Zoë Plant, for loving this book as much as I do and being the champion Witherward needed, and to everyone else at the Bent Agency for their work and support. Thank you to my editor, Cat Camacho, for adding new shades and surprising turns, but mainly for the note “needs more Captain Fowler”; we all know it was the right thing to do. Thanks also to everyone at Titan, particularly David Lancett, and Julia Lloyd for her beautiful cover design, and to Louise Pearce who copy-edited the book.
To the friends and writers who read early drafts of Witherward and helped me believe I was on to a winner: Emma Fraser, Kellen Playford, Troy Balmayer, Sara Crawford, James Lovegrove, and my little sister Ellie (thank you for wrestling with the chaotic energy of your own notes every time we talked about it).
Thank you to my parents. I was unemployed while drafting Witherward, and you gave me a place to live and work. It’s not a stretch to say this couldn’t have happened otherwise. To my brother Sam – people should pay you to cheer them on (I don’t mean me) – and the friends and family who let me talk at them about my book. I love you all, but I still don’t care that you don’t care! Thank you, Jack, for always believing I am doing my best, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Becoming a published author has been a fourteen-year exercise in how to fail; a skill I have no doubt I will continue to hone. The lesson is tedious and repetitive. On the best days it’s uncomfortable; on the worst it’s an existential crisis. But most of all it is lonely, and yet it is impossible to accomplish alone. So thank you to every friend, colleague, and passing acquaintance who believed me when I told them this would happen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debut author Hannah Mathewson has had short stories published by The Molotov Cocktail and The Fiction Desk, who presented her with the Writer’s Award for her contribution to their anthology, Separations. She is based in Reading. Witherward is her first novel. She tweets @HannahOClock.
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