Escape to Witch City Page 2

  It took entirely too long, but at last, the sound of boots against the wooden floor receded enough that she felt she could turn the poster over and look at it properly.

  She had to uncrumple it, smoothing out the wrinkles against the wall, but the picture was clear enough.

  Her breath caught in her throat. The shock that hit her felt a little like someone had dumped a cupful of freezing water over her head.

  For one wild, terrifying moment, she was sure the face staring up at her from the page was her own.

  The brows, thick and black over dark eyes and long lashes; the face, short and heart-shaped with a pointed chin. Even the long, dark hair was similar, though when Emma stared a moment longer, she saw that hers was not nearly as wavy. Another moment went by, and her pulse began to slow a little as she realized quite a few of the woman’s features did not match her own. This was not meant to be a drawing of her at all, but a much older woman. Someone nearly her mother’s age, she would guess.

  It was eerie though, and the longer she stared at it, the more she thought how much this woman looked like her mother.

  Isolde Black was different in many ways, of course. She wore her hair pinned back in the fashion of the day, and she always powdered her face very white, so that even her dark brows were barely visible. And, of course, the illustration of the witch possessed the trademark wild black eyes and tangled hair, but…there was no denying that this picture looked very much like her mother, and Isolde’s sister too.

  Queen Alexandria was even closer in appearance, actually, and Emma frowned down at the picture, wondering if Alexandria’s hair would be curly like that if she wore it down.

  Her pulse was thundering in her ears all over again, because now that the shock of the picture was wearing off, a realization had set in.

  She’d always known her mother was one of three sisters. There had been Isolde and Alexandria and another—the youngest—who had died when the witches took the throne. They didn’t talk about this sister for some reason; it seemed to make her mother too emotional. In fact, she’d forbidden all discussion on the matter.

  Emma didn’t even know what her name had been.

  Three sisters.

  She traced her finger over the lettering at the bottom of the poster, the witch hunter’s question ringing in her ears: “Beg your pardon, sir, but who is she?”

  The looping script below spelled out LENORE, and Emma could add the rest. She was almost sure of it.

  Lenore Black. Her aunt.

  In the moments that followed, Emma was seized by a sudden certainty that her mother would appear from around the corner and ruin any attempt she might make to get to the bottom of this.

  She ran, full tilt, straight for the library at the far end of the East Wing, skidding around corners, nearly barreling into china stands and ornamental vases. Twice, she almost fell down a staircase, and once she came very close to falling up one that seemed to have been built in a rather haphazard way.

  It took forever to get there, and her journey was not made any faster by the fact that she had to pause before she rounded each corner, peering out to make sure the coast was clear. The witch hunters had gone, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  At last, she arrived at the top of the wonky staircase and found the large, oak doors that led to the library. The archway above and around the entrance was hand-carved and decorated with dragons and lions and boats full of men fighting one another, images that seemed to have slipped right out of the pages of books.

  Emma tugged on the heavy iron circlet set into the oak, and the door opened with a wheezy protest. She slipped inside and let it slam shut behind her, the noise echoing in the vast space beyond.

  She’d found the library on her second day of exploring the East Wing. When she’d first walked through the impressive oak doors, she’d spent a full three minutes standing stock still, her mouth agape, staring at what seemed to be a kind of coliseum filled entirely with books. Shelves that took up three stories and featured an extended, wraparound balcony.

  The king’s old library was the perfect hiding place. Since the man hadn’t had any actual royal blood, he’d been encouraged to “keep busy” in ways that kept him clear of any major decisions. Judging by its size, at least, the library seemed to have been his favorite project. It was absolutely massive. The main part of the library was a curious shape, like a cross between an octagon and a star. Each wall, jutting out at its own angle, was home to a well-organized section of books, and each section contained hundreds of subsections. Emma didn’t think it would be possible to read every book in this library, even if one lived to a very old age.

  The first time she’d visited, she’d wandered between the shelves, forging deeper and deeper, until she was completely lost.

  It had delighted her. She’d pictured herself living there, constructing a makeshift shelter out of the thickest tomes, curling up on a mattress of old magazines and papers, and building fires with the queen’s posters to stay warm at night. During the day she would wander among the shelves, surviving on scraps of stolen food and stories. She would become completely wild over the years, but have the finest of vocabularies.

  And she’d never have to see her mother again, or go to the queen’s court, or be tested for witchcraft…

  She had no time for such fantasies now.

  Emma made a beeline across the library, toward a section marked with hanging signs in the shape of a pointing finger. The first said LAW in boastful golden script, and the next, HISTORY.

  The latter was the section she was heading for, and she put on a burst of speed, shoes clacking on the dusty floorboards. Once she was there, however, and staring up at the shelves—which stretched all the way up to the ceiling nearly eight feet above—she felt rather foolish. There must be hundreds, no, thousands of books here. Where exactly was she supposed to start looking for information about one woman?

  Emma pushed the section’s rolling ladder to one side in order to trail her fingers across the spines of the books. Since this was the royal library, the history section was only really concerned with England’s history, which she normally would have found short-sighted and irritating. In this particular instance, however, it made her quest a little easier.

  Still, there were too many titles to shift through properly, and she began to scan them as fast as possible, finger hovering over the shelves. Battles Waged and Won; England’s Triumphant History; A History of the Blackest of Magics; How the Great Battle Was Won; The Warrior Queen: London’s Liberation.

  Emma paused for a moment on the book about magic, shivering slightly but still intrigued. She glanced over her shoulder. The feeling of being watched wasn’t as bad in the library as elsewhere in the palace, probably because the royal posters weren’t quite so enthusiastically plastered to every wall here.

  Still, this volume was not typically the sort of thing she’d be allowed to read, and it certainly wouldn’t be found in the main library in the Central Wing. But like everything else in the East Wing, this library was neglected—including in its adherence to the kingdom-wide purging of banned books. Over the past year, Emma had found and read many of these titles. Some were nothing more than romances deemed unsuitable for the castle, but others were closer to heresy.

  Reluctantly, she dismissed the book and moved on. If she had just been hiding from her mother, she would have snatched it up in a heartbeat and tucked herself away in the darkest corner to read, but she was trying to find specific information.

  A third Black sister. A royal witch.

  She paused on a fat tome in the center of the bottom shelf—The Royals: A Complete History—and then drew it out. It slid from the shelf easily, and Emma nearly overbalanced with a startled grunt. She caught it with both hands and moved it carefully over to one of the long oak tables lining the center of the history section. The oil lamps were very rusty, and besides that, Emma
had no flint to strike. Thankfully, there was a bar of sunlight sliding in from one of the narrow windows above the shelves, and if she tilted the book up on one of the bookstands, she was able to read.

  She scanned as quickly as she could. A lot was familiar from her history lessons. The ruthless uprising of the witches; the cruel and merciless way they’d wiped out the Black family; Isolde and Alexandria smuggled out of the castle by their older cousin before they could be found…Emma had heard it all a thousand times. This was precisely why she never bothered with the history section. The blasted story had been drilled into her head so thoroughly she could recite it in her sleep.

  Increasingly irritated, she kept flipping through. There was nothing here she didn’t know already. Another page and another, and then she stopped, hand hovering over the open book, at a darkly drawn illustration. It was a pen-and-ink depiction of a woman sitting on the throne. She had wild curls of black hair and a thin, angular face half-covered by a smooth white mask. Pinned to one shoulder was a large black badge with a stark W slashed across the front in red ink.

  The Witch Queen.

  Emma’s eyes went wide, and she leaned closer. She had learned only briefly about the rebel witches, since talking about them at all was generally discouraged. They were responsible for everything, a society of witches who believed non-magical humans should be slaves. They were the ones who had revolted, who had overthrown Emma’s grandmother when Emma’s mother was just a child. They’d pulled the queen and king from their thrones and slain them both. They’d found the youngest sister and murdered her as well, and then gone looking for Isolde and Alexandria.

  Or at least that’s what Emma had been taught.

  It was becoming very clear that her lessons had been full of lies.

  Shivering, she slammed the book shut with a loud thump that echoed off the history section’s walls. As she picked it up to take it back to the shelf, she realized something odd. The cover felt strange. Initially, she’d been too distracted to notice, on account of the book’s weight, but now…She tipped the volume over, examining the edges of the closed pages, and lifted her brows. Well now. That was something different.

  The width of the binding and the number of pages didn’t seem to match up properly. And if that wasn’t strange enough, there were odd gaps between the edges, as if there’d once been more pages.

  Of course, it was feasible that some of them had fallen out over time, but this many?

  She frowned, returning the book to the table. Letting it fall open to the first space that seemed too empty, she bent to examine it in the faint light and found she could make out the tiniest edge of yellowed paper. At least two pages, maybe three, had been cut from this section.

  It was the same every few pages.

  Someone had spent a very long time carefully cutting out certain pages from this book.

  Pulse pounding in her ears, Emma pulled another book from the history section, and then another. She went through five, and then ten, tearing them from the shelf, slamming them down on the table, pawing through the pages without caring if they tore.

  They were all the same.

  “Why would someone do this?” Her voice was a breathy whisper in the silence.

  She had several teetering stacks of books surrounding her, and it was because of this accidental book fortress that she didn’t see the impending trouble until it was too late.

  There came a sudden vicious “Ah hah!” and then the waspish, painted face of Isolde Black appeared over the top of Great Wars of Northern England.

  Emma gave a startled squeak and jumped, nearly falling off her seat. She clutched the book she was holding to her chest without thinking, and immediately Isolde shot one pale, skinny arm out and ripped it from her hands.

  “What’s this?” she snapped, turning the book over to scowl at the cover. “What are you reading, holed up in this miserable place? A Brief History of the Upper Class.” Her upper lip curled, and she stomped around the table, slamming the book down in front of Emma.

  “I’ve been trying to find you for simply ages. We’ve got the hearings tonight and The Testing tomorrow. We simply must have your dresses fitted today, and instead you’re here!” She reached out and grasped Emma’s arm, yanking her up out of the chair none too gently. “Care to explain why you’re snooping around these old history books?”

  Emma tore herself away, glaring up at her mother. “No. Why don’t you tell me why half the pages in these books have been cut out?”

  Isolde only blinked at her. Her eyes looked very wide and dark against the white paint of her face, and her lips, decorated blood-red, were very thin.

  She looked from Emma to the books, and then back again. She cleared her throat and shook her head, pale brows drawing down. “Why on earth would I know, Emmaline? The king was half mad by the time he died. I expect he was paranoid or something.”

  Emma stared at her, eyes narrowed. She hadn’t missed the look that had crossed her mother’s face. Isolde Black was hiding something.

  “I saw the witch hunters go out just now. They were looking for her.” Emma thrust the poster toward her mother. It was even more crumpled after being shoved in Emma’s pocket, and at first Isolde only frowned at it, until Emma sighed and grasped the other side of the poster, pulling it tight to reveal the illustration.

  Isolde stumbled back, hands flying to her mouth.

  She looked as though Emma had struck her. Despite the caked-on powder, two spots of color showed through high on her cheeks, and her eyes had gone wide and a little wild.

  “I don’t…put that away!” Isolde lunged for the poster, but Emma snatched it back.

  “She didn’t die in the Great War at all, did she? She’s a witch.”

  It made a strange kind of sense. Emma’s mother had always been incredibly closed off about her family. She didn’t discuss the events of childhood—not the witches, and not the uprising that saw the Black family take back the throne. It was all taught so matter-of-factly in Emma’s lessons, but if she mentioned any of it at home, Isolde would inevitably react badly.

  Isolde said nothing, only stared at Emma with wide, dark eyes. It was hard to tell with all the makeup, but Emma thought her mother had gone pale now, because she swayed slightly on her feet, bracing herself on the table with one hand.

  Was she going to pass out? Isolde had done it before, but never without anyone nearby to catch her.

  “Mother?” Emma took a step forward, hesitant, and then squeaked with alarm when Isolde lunged forward and tore the poster out of her hands. Face twisted in rage, Isolde ripped the poster in half, and then proceeded to tear both halves to shreds so vigorously that Emma was hit by bits of flying paper.

  When she was finished, Isolde bent to eye level and seized Emma’s shoulders tightly, bringing her face inches away from Emma’s own. “Don’t you dare say anything about this to anyone. My worst fear in life is that you’ll become like her. You’re already close in so many ways. Stubborn, impossible. Dangerously reckless. I can only pray you don’t have witch blood too.”

  Her voice was low and deadly, and Emma just stood there frozen. It was so out of character, so unlike her mother’s normal, irritating banshee shriek. A chill dropped down her spine.

  “Your father and uncle both died in the hunts when you were still in the womb. I won’t have you dishonor them by speaking her name.” Isolde straightened up abruptly, smoothing both hands down the front of her dress. She smiled stiffly and cleared her throat, glancing around the empty library. Her voice was full of forced lightness now.

  “I’ll expect you in our quarters in an hour for your fitting. Now please put those books away.”

  Isolde spun on her heel and left, her back ramrod straight, her skirts rustling noisily over the floors. It was so abrupt that Emma watched her go for a full moment, mouth hanging open. Then she moved slowly to the table, giving her
self time to think as she picked up the books and reshelved them one at a time.

  Her mother’s reaction hadn’t been her usual irritation; it had been something else. Isolde Black had looked afraid.

  Emma swallowed hard as she slid the last book onto the shelf, sandwiching it between a thick blue book on the history of European artillery, and a smaller spine that seemed to be a volume about shipping and trading abroad.

  This done, she turned to look at the scraps of paper littering the floor. Her mother had been thorough. No one would be able to piece the poster together, or tell what it had once been.

  Still, she spent a few minutes picking up the pieces, stuffing them into the pocket of her dress before turning for the wide oak doors at the front of the library.

  Emma would, she resolved, turn up to her dress fitting. She would even cooperate, for the most part, and wear whatever hideous thing her mother wanted her to. But as she made her way back down the crooked staircase, heading out of the winding labyrinth of the East Wing, she put her hand into her pocket and felt the rough edges of the torn poster.

  She couldn’t let this go. She needed to know more.

  Her family was keeping secrets about Lenore Black, and Emma was going to find out what they were.

  “For heaven’s sake, Emmaline, stand up straight or you’ll get stabbed.”

  Emmaline pulled a face at her mother, but she obeyed, standing up straighter on the seamstress’s box. Even that seemed like an effort. Her body always felt heavy and lethargic once she re-entered the rest of the castle. It was like the East Wing buoyed her up and she had to come back to earth once she left it.

  The seamstress, a stout little woman with a waist-length braid of thick yellow hair, was hovering over by her left knee, pinning up one side of the cream-colored monstrosity. The woman had several pins shoved into her mouth, and she kept glancing down at the newspaper on the stool next to her, which boasted the blocky black headline “New Report: Witch Blood Down by 20 Percent. Are We Only Years Away from Total Purification? ”