Weather Witch

the lumpy thing that served as mattress. There was no pillow and the quilt left for her was moth-eaten. She rose and turned, for a long moment staring at the bed.

It took her a while to realize she was waiting for someone to appear and fix things: the bed, the room …

Her life …

No one did.

Resigned, Jordan pulled the quilt free and shook the thing out, coughing on the dust that tickled her nose and lodged in her throat.

At least the dust was no longer on the bed.

A soft sound escaped her throat—not quite a whimper, but not far from it either.

The paper star from her party made her arm itch and, reaching up to pull it free of her sleeve, her fingers encountered the gift Rowen had given her. She flushed at the memory of his kiss. Quite the distraction! Her fingertips explored the gift: it was cold. Made of metal. And …

She fumbled with the lace it was hidden in, trying to work it free enough that she could finally see it. There, pinned to her sleeve, was a domed and detailed brass heart.

She ran her finger over its shining surface and smiled despite everything. Bringing it as close to her face as her flexibility and fashion allowed, she examined it closely. Along the edge was an elegant engraving. A script of some sort. She squinted to bring it better into focus.

Be brave.

She eased onto the bed, hands clenched so tight her knuckles whitened in her lap. There was nothing to do but sleep and be hungry. And brave. Only she couldn’t imagine sleeping. It wasn’t so much the here as the now that kept exhaustion from taking her. Her nerves jangled from being stolen from her household and the journey in the carriage thus far had done nothing to quell them.

She glanced toward the door. The Wraiths waited just beyond it, wicked teeth and haunted features veiled beneath high hats … That could happen to Witches, and something similar made the Wardens?

She shuddered.

A knock at the door made her straighten and it opened. The girl, Sersha, entered holding a bowl of something and a dark chunk of bread resting on its top. The scent was unlike anything Jordan had smelled before—spicy and pungent. Although her mind urged caution, her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

The girl was nearly to her when she tripped, the bowl flying from her hands and falling with a clatter and a loud, wet splot onto the grimy floor. Sersha’s face drew into an expression of terror as she scrambled to right things, scooping up the ruined food with both bread and bowl. She muttered apologies and, kneeling, held the mess out to Jordan.

“I—I cannot…”

“Please, lady,” Sersha whispered. “I cannot ask for more…”

“I cannot eat that … It is…” Her lips puckered. “The reason for the one nearly clean spot on this floor.”

The girl bit her lower lip, but nodded. Rising, she backed up all the way to the door, knocked to be released, and disappeared down the hall.

Jordan’s stomach clenched, panicking with hunger, and she rubbed it. Bending awkwardly forward, she slowly unlaced the silk ribbons wrapped around her ankles and took off her shoes. They were pretty pointed little things made for those brief moments during a dance when a dress’s hem might lift ever so slightly and reveal footwear.

They were designed for fashion, not comfort.

Without a knock, the girl appeared again, surprising Jordan with a fresh bowl of food. The barkeep followed close behind. “Show me how you managed to dump an entire bowl,” he demanded, eyes different sizes in his head as he seethed.

Sersha walked toward Jordan, limbs stiff, eyes wide.

“There is no lump in the floor,” he muttered. “No board so swollen…”

Sersha was, once again, nearly to Jordan.

“No bloody reason to trip.” Reaching out he cuffed her across the cheek and she stumbled, ducking her head tight to her body, and handed over the bowl, arms trembling so hard the bowl shook in her hands.

Jordan grabbed it and glared at the man.

He pulled back his hand again.

Sersha’s arms flew up to protect her and Jordan shouted, “Stop!”

He blinked at her, stunned, his arm still raised, fingers curled in a fist as he pivoted toward Jordan. “Stop or what?”

She glanced at the bowl in her hands. She could threaten him with a bowl of—whatever it was …

“See, that’s how it always is. A demand and nothing to follow it up.” He whipped back around to the girl.

“No,” Jordan said, startled by her own voice. Be brave. She clambered to her feet, setting the bowl aside. “Dare not hit her again. She had an accident.” Challenge flared in her eyes.

“I will discipline my daughter as I see fit.”

”Do not.”

“Maybe I should discipline the both of you…”

Jordan’s voice rose. “If you raise a hand against either of us, I will destroy you.”

“Destroy me?”

“Everything that is yours, I will sweep away. From the first shingle of this tavern’s shambling rooftop to its last board and cornerstone. I will not rest until nothing of yours remains—I will scrub out even the memory of you,” she added, her voice fading into a soft tone all at once gentle and fierce. “Do not touch her.”

His eyes narrowed, weighing her resolve. His hand lowered, fingers unfurled, and he backed toward the door, seeing something in her.

He left, followed quickly by the girl, and Jordan’s knees had the good grace not to weaken until the door shut again. She sat down heavily on the bed, barely keeping the bowl upright.

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.

Chapter Eight

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm …

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Philadelphia