Escape to Witch City Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by E. Latimer

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Jo Rioux

  Tundra Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, a division of Penguin Random House of Canada Limited

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Escape to Witch City / E. Latimer.

  Names: Latimer, E. (Erin), 1987- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200370804 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200370820 | ISBN 9781101919316 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781101919323 (EPUB)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS8623.A783 E83 2021 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by Tundra Books of Northern New York, an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, a division of Penguin Random House of Canada Limited

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020948788

  Edited by Lynne Missen

  Book design John Martz

  Cover design by John Martz and Lisa Jager

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  a_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0

  For the Word Nerds

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Acknowledgments

  EMMALINE DORATHEA BLACK.”

  The shrieking voice echoed down the wide hallway leading up to the kitchen doors. It startled the kitchen’s cat, a gnarled old tom who’d been investigating an interesting stain on the floor mat at the entrance, and it made Emmaline Black jump and fumble the tea tray from which she’d been stealing strawberry tarts.

  There was a sharp crack as the tray hit the dessert cart, and one of the tarts she’d been squirreling away into her sash hit the carpet with a sad little splat.

  There was no time to mourn the loss of the pastry though, because another harpy scream came shortly after the first, considerably closer this time.

  Emma whirled around, abandoning the desserts, and ran full tilt down the wide hallway that led to the East Wing.

  Her mother hated the East Wing for the same reason Emma loved it. It had been built after the rest of the castle by her uncle, Queen Alexandria’s husband, now dead several years. The king may have been a little mad, Emma privately thought, but in the best possible way, because he had constructed a sort of warren, with a vast network of strange, crooked hallways and wildly looping staircases.

  Most exciting of all, at the very top of the East Tower was the palace’s largest library. There were so many places to hide from her mother, and more books than one could possibly read. The best sort of combination.

  “Emmaline Black! I know you’re here somewhere!”

  The note of hysteria in her mother’s voice gave Emma a tremendous burst of speed, and she took a reckless left at the next fork in the hallway, her flat shoes sliding on the tiles.

  She knew exactly why her mother was trying to find her, and she wasn’t the least bit interested in being found. Isolde Black had been trying to pin her down for ages in order to talk about the sentencings. Tonight, every member of the royal family would be in court.

  Emma dreaded court sentencings, not just because the queen would be handing out punishments for witchcraft—though she found these increasingly unnerving, since it seemed anyone could be accused of magic—but because her mother seemed determined to wrestle her into a series of increasingly absurd outfits each time.

  She had two outfits for this week, one for court and an even fancier one for Testing Day.

  The thought made her feel a little nauseated. She’d seen tonight’s dress, and it was bad, so she could only imagine The Testing Day ensemble. The high, starchy collar, the ridiculous puffed sleeves, the ruffled…well, everything.

  No doubt another fight would ensue, with screaming and tears, and maybe someone would smash something this time. But there was no sense in having that fight until she absolutely had to.

  Another left. A right. Two more lefts.

  She was breathing hard now, but her mother’s horrible shrieking did seem to be growing fainter. After another few seconds she let herself slow to a walk, which was necessary, because the hallway was becoming steeper and steeper. Eventually it turned into a staircase, but it was bizarrely constructed, as if the person building it had only remembered it was supposed to be a staircase at the last second.

  At the top, the stairs smoothed out into another hallway. This one was even wider than the last, furnished with pale green wallpaper and glossy marble floors. The rest of the palace was decorated almost entirely in rich purples and golds, so this felt rather like a breath of fresh air.

  The corridors here were just as laden with thistle as the rest of the palace—she could see the purple flowers lining the tops of all the wall sconces—but the East Wing was mostly ignored, and the plants had dried and crumbled. Queen Alexandria seemed content to simply pretend her husband, and by extension, the wing, had never existed.

  If Emma stood on her toes and peered at the top of the nearest cabinet, she could see one sad bunch of flowers shriveled nearly to dust.

  When she’d first discovered the newer wing several years ago, she’d noticed how different it felt. Here, the air seemed fresher. Within minutes, her head had felt clearer than it ever had, her limbs lighter. She’d wanted to skip down the halls singing at the top of her lungs. She’d felt somehow vibrant, positively bursting
with energy.

  Over the years she’d put two and two together: even being in the same room with thistle seemed to drain her. The fresher the plant, the worse it seemed.

  Thistle was meant to affect witches. To drain their magic, to weaken them.

  Of course, it was technically toxic to anyone if consumed in great quantities, so it could be that Emma was just sensitive. Allergic even.

  At least that’s what she told herself.

  And now, if she could just find a spot to hide, she could sit and eat her pilfered jam tarts in safety. A nice distraction from everything.

  From her mother’s howling, from the court session tonight, and, most of all, from the fact that tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday.

  Her birthday.

  Inevitable. Dreadful. And worse than ever this year.

  She’d always hated the parties her mother threw for her—huge and extravagant, filled with children she barely knew.

  This year, there would be no party. No grand tea party. No mini masquerade. No ponies. Her mother wouldn’t be able to turn this into some kind of show-off circus.

  This year, Emma’s birthday was the same day as The Testing.

  She continued down the hallway, more slowly this time, fishing a jam tart out of her pocket. There were lanterns hanging from chains along the ceiling, and cabinets full of china plates and silver forks. Narrow windows were hung with dark green tasseled curtains. Decorative antique chairs sat along the hall at regular intervals, in case one became overcome with walking the full length and had to stop and rest.

  Halfway down the hall, there came a dull, echoing thump. Emma froze.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she whirled around, sure she felt someone’s eyes on her.

  There was no one there, only one of the many royal posters fastened to the wall behind her—a black-and-white photograph of a young, solemn-looking Queen Alexandria.

  Emma made a face at it, and then said, through a mouthful of tart, “What?”

  Another thump. Closer this time.

  Footsteps, heading her way fast.

  She jerked around, heart beating hard. There was a set of long green curtains along the far wall, and Emma hurried over and slipped behind one. Pressing her back to the windowsill, she pushed the curtain forward, covering both of her shoes.

  The footsteps grew louder, heavy and stomping, and Emma frowned, cocking her head to one side. The way the noise rang out on the wooden floor, the crashing and shuffling accompanying it…

  That wasn’t servants. The queen would never abide them stomping about that way.

  Sure enough, a voice echoed from somewhere nearby.

  “Couldn’t we have met in the barracks? This place gives me the creeps.”

  “The captain said here. Something about privileged information. Don’t think he cares about your creeps, McConnel.”

  There was a rough bout of laughter, which cut off abruptly as a voice, deep and stern, said, “At attention, men.”

  A beat of silence followed, and then the same voice said, “When we go in, keep your staffs at the ready. We don’t know if she’s with them, but if she is, don’t underestimate her. Never forget that she’s very dangerous.”

  For one ridiculous moment, Emma thought that her mother had finally snapped and sent the guards after her, but the phrase “very dangerous” cut that theory off at the knees fairly sharply.

  Emma was hardly dangerous, save perhaps to her mother’s blood pressure, and to the occasional jam tart.

  The noises drew closer to her curtain, a shuffling of boots and a clearing of throats, and what sounded like someone rifling through papers.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” a deep voice said, “but who is she?”

  “You can see the name on the poster, soldier.”

  Emma was positively burning with curiosity. She leaned sideways the tiniest bit, peering around the edge of the curtain.

  A troop of palace guards was standing in the middle of the hall. To her shock, they were not wearing the usual simple red-and-black uniform she was accustomed to seeing all guards in. Instead, these men were dressed entirely in black. They wore identical wide-brimmed black hats, and at each throat was a heavy-looking iron cross on a beaded rosary chain.

  Witch hunters.

  She gripped the curtain, biting at the inside of her cheek. If pressed to come up with something nearly as scary as a witch, that something would be a witch hunter. She hadn’t seen them this close up in years—had hoped never to again—let alone this many.

  They’d been out in full force for Testing Day last year, of course. They’d ridden through the crowd on their huge black horses, with the jingle of tack and the metallic clatter of their warding beads and iron. Each had brandished a thick thistle-wood staff.

  At the time, she’d asked why they were there. “Just in case,” Isolde had said darkly, and then refused to say anything more.

  Emma bit the inside of her cheek again, harder this time. Usually there was only one reason witch hunters gathered in these numbers. And that was The Testing.

  Tomorrow.

  As soon as she tried not to think about it, that was all she could do. Last year had been bad enough, even just watching. Since they were royals, she and her mother had been allowed behind the fence to see the private Testing Pavilions for the court children.

  There hadn’t been many who’d turned thirteen last year, but it had nevertheless been horrible to watch. Emma had had nightmares about it for weeks.

  Children filing into the white medical tents, being ushered out the other side by white-clad nurses. Passed off to palace guards who either waved them off or shunted them into closed carriages. One girl, the daughter of a noble, had to be pushed into a carriage screaming and thrashing. A year later, Emma still couldn’t forget the look on the girl’s face. The anger and terror in her expression.

  The memory made her feel sick, and she pushed it hastily down, trying to concentrate on the witch hunters instead.

  They couldn’t be here for The Testing—not this far in advance—so why were there so many of them?

  One or two usually lurked around the edges at court, keeping an eye on the crowd in case anyone were to show any sudden signs of witchery. And she often saw them in the streets when her mother dragged her out to the shops. They were always patrolling, monitoring the queen’s subjects for signs of magic.

  But this was a small army.

  Watching them made all her muscles feel strangely tight, as if her body was unconsciously bracing itself for a blow.

  The captain, a man with pale, sculpted features and very blond hair, was passing out slips of thick, cream-colored paper.

  Official decree posters.

  “Study that face, lads. You’ve got to know her on sight. We catch the rest of the coven, of course, but if she’s there, she’s the prize.”

  This caught Emma’s attention, and she stood up a little straighter beneath her curtain. A coven, here in London? The idea seemed wildly improbable. Her history lessons said the last coven in London had been rooted out in 1807. They were the first to go in the witch hunts, as soon as the Black family came back into power.

  Emma had been given a very child-friendly version of this story during her classes, but later she’d snuck into the East Wing library and read every bit of witch-hunt history she could find, fascinated and horrified all at once.

  Between the shuffle of boots and the low murmur of the men came a faint, papery shhhk across the floor just beyond Emma’s curtain. Glancing down, she saw that one of the men had dropped a poster. It lay a tantalizing few feet from her curtain, facedown on the floorboards so that she couldn’t see anything but the faint black shadow of an illustration.

  A wanted poster.

  Suddenly there was nothing as important as getting her hands on that paper. Somethin
g in her needed to see it. To find out who exactly they were going after.

  Emma had never seen a real witch before.

  Her curiosity flared, so intense that her insides fairly itched with it.

  She clenched her jaw, keeping her eyes fixed on the backs of the witch hunters. Only the captain was facing her, and he was too busy handing out the remaining posters to be looking at her curtain.

  “…don’t get overconfident—especially you, Laurence. I won’t have you barging in before the rest of us…”

  Slowly, Emma inched her foot forward, toe pointed and homed in on the paper like a hunting dog after a duck. She held her breath, feeling the cold clamminess of her palms as she clung to the edge of the window frame. She had to move with the grace and precision of one of the court’s ballet performers, and grace was hardly her strong suit, at least according to her mother.

  Her leg shook slightly as she stretched out further. Her foot and ankle were now completely exposed, poking out beneath the curtain. Beads of sweat collected on her neck, and she froze as the captain shifted, clearing his throat. But he was only leveling his stern look at the man next to Laurence.

  “The same goes for you. Stick together. No one moves without my say-so. Is that clear?”

  The man said it was, and Emma relaxed a little, easing her foot out another inch. Another.

  Finally, her toe touched down on the poster. Triumph!

  Carefully, she began to drag it back, wincing at the quiet scrape of the paper on the wooden floor. But no one seemed to notice as the witch poster inched slowly under the edge of the curtain.

  When she peeked around the side, the witch hunters were all facing away for the moment. The captain seemed engrossed in his lecture, which gave her time to lean sideways and dart a hand out to grasp the poster.

  Emma’s heart thumped painfully against her ribs as she ducked back behind the curtain and clutched the paper to her, trying to hold it as quietly as possible. Does paper usually crinkle this loudly?

  “Alright, let’s move.”

  She almost sagged onto the windowsill with relief as the sound of shuffling and thumping began again. The witch hunters were moving down the hall.