Escape to Witch City Page 7

  But the Witch Express was hard to miss. The giant black steam engine sat alongside the platform, its engine rumbling and ticking, steam hissing from underneath. It seemed to crouch on the tracks, and the heavy chug, chug, chug of the engine reminded her of a pulse—the heart of some huge, ancient monster.

  It filled her with the same dread the Noise did.

  For one wild moment, she pictured running. Her chest swelled with the thought, sending a buzz of hot adrenaline through her body. She could see herself turning around, making a desperate dash toward the edge of the platform.

  And then what? Jump aboard the carriage and push the driver off? Run away into the city?

  Before she could move, McCraw stepped forward, rapping sharply on the narrow door of the first compartment, which creaked open a moment later. He moved back and nodded to her, face solemn, and Emma just stared at him, frozen.

  He was taller than she was, if it came down to speed. He also had a very heavy-looking staff she’d rather not get on the wrong end of.

  After a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and stepped onto the stairs, moving through the doorway into the Witch Express.

  Inside the train, the carriage stretched out in a double row of wooden benches. The thin red carpet muffled the sound of her boots as she stepped forward. She tilted her head back to look at the luggage racks above the seats. The carriage ended in a red-paneled door, presumably leading into another compartment.

  The door she’d walked through slammed shut behind her, and she jumped. There was the metallic rasp of a bolt sliding home, and Emma turned, noticing that even the narrow window in the door had a thick iron bar across it. She turned away, her mouth dry.

  The other trains she’d been on had always been lavish. As royals, she and her mother had traveled first class. There’d been dining cars with fine china and crystal, and carriages with plush couches and ornate rugs.

  But this was a prison on wheels.

  Emma glanced around, dread sinking into her belly. There would be no way to get out. She was sure of that.

  She wandered farther down the aisle. The carriage was dim and empty, but still…she felt the back of her neck prickle and then caught the reflection of a pair of burning eyes in the window before her.

  Emma whirled around, heart in her throat.

  It was nothing—just a scrap of paper attached to the carriage wall behind her. It looked like it had once been a poster of Queen Alexandria, but someone had torn both the top and bottom off so that only a sliver of the queen’s face was left—her dark eyes and arched black brows. Emma froze, staring at the torn poster. It wasn’t just the glimpse of the queen’s eyes, dark and watchful, peering out of the wall at her, it was the fact that someone on this train had dared to rip down a poster.

  She turned for the nearest wooden seat, palms sweating. She was about to attempt to squish herself into the corner as far as she could go, perhaps even hide underneath the bench, when she spotted the letter. It was posted beside the door she’d just come through. The stationery was cream-colored and very thick, and the royal seal was visible on the bottom. It was handwritten in tight cursive letters, and Emma took a step forward, squinting at it.

  Welcome to the W Express.

  If you are here, you have failed your Test. Remain calm. You will be taken to your new home in the countryside of Scotland.

  Please note: If you have any information on the location of the rumored “Witch City,” please report this to the conductor. Reports yielding results will be handsomely rewarded.

  Signed by Her Royal Highness, in the year of our Lord 1822

  —Queen Alexandria

  Underneath was a swooping black signature, and Emma stared at it with growing suspicion. If none of the rumors about Witch City were true, then why was the queen hanging signs inquiring after it? Why had McCraw been asking her questions about it?

  The steady chug, chug, chug of the train’s engine filled the compartment. For a moment, Emma lost herself in its rhythm—until the door between the compartments slid open with a loud thwack, startling her out of her thoughts.

  There was a familiar figure in the doorway. He stood with both hands clutching the sides of the frame, his face slightly green. His silk shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his black hair stood on end, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. There was a smudge of ink on his nose and he was clutching a worn leather book.

  His eyes were wild as he stared at Emma.

  “You,” he said.

  She blinked at Edgar, and then finally managed to stammer out, “Y-you’re a witch?”

  His expression went dark. “You’re a witch.”

  She gaped at him, trying to wrap her mind around this new development. Her cousin—His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of England, Earl of Chesterton, Duke of Cornwall, and Baron of Renfrew—was a witch.

  Edgar drew himself up, glaring at her imperiously. “This is all your fault.”

  Anger flooded through her almost immediately. She took a step toward him, fists clenched. “Excuse me?”

  Edgar didn’t flinch, just puffed his chest out, his face growing red. “You did something to me in court. I felt it.”

  The Noise. Some of Emma’s anger drained away—just a little bit. Because in a way he was right. She had done something to him, though she wasn’t sure what.

  Still, his accusation was ridiculous. “I didn’t make you a witch, idiot. How would I even do that?”

  Prince Edgar drew himself up even further. He looked as if he might be about to burst; his face had reached an alarmingly dark shade of cherry. “I don’t know! You’re a witch, aren’t you? You did something that made The Test say I was magic!” He threw his shoulders back, thrusting out his chest another inch. “Y-you hexed me or something!”

  Emma could feel the anger burning in her stomach now. Hexed him. It was their childhood run-in all over again. He was going to accuse her of cursing him not once but twice.

  “You are unbelievable. You’re just as fanatical as your mother.” It sort of burst out, and Emma clapped a hand to her mouth, darting a nervous look around the carriage. What on earth had possessed her to say that?

  Edgar looked furious. “I am not!” he shouted. He too seemed to realize what he’d said, because he went silent, lips pinched together, and tilted his head back as if someone might be sitting on the roof listening to them.

  Several seconds went by. Nothing happened.

  Some of the color began to return to Edgar’s face, and he darted another look around before stepping closer and hissing at Emma. “I order you to take your hex back!”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  He really did think she’d cast a spell on him. In spite of the fact that he’d tested positive, he was going to blame her for it.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t do anything to you. We have witchcraft in our blood. Don’t you know about Lenore?”

  When Edgar only stared at her blankly, she rolled her eyes. She shouldn’t have expected him to know about anything like that. He was always floating around like he was sleepwalking, or writing furiously in his little book.

  “Take it back,” he repeated. He took another step toward her, dark brows drawn down, and his tone only seemed to get more demanding. It irked her, and if she could have genuinely cast a hex on him in that moment, she absolutely would have.

  “No.”

  Prince Edgar sputtered. “How dare you! Do you have any idea what my mother—”

  “Oh, move, will you?”

  The voice, very high and annoyed sounding, came from behind Edgar, who whirled around and stumbled backward, falling over onto one of the benches.

  There was a girl standing in the doorway where he’d been a moment ago, looking back over her shoulder as she said, “There’s two more.”

  When she turne
d and spotted Emma she paused, eyeing her warily. “Did you really put a hex on him?”

  Emma stared at her, mouth wide open as she took in the girl’s black curls, her soot-stained face, and the blackened bottom of her dress.

  It was her—the witch who’d been on fire.

  Emma and Edgar both took a step back, and Emma eyed the girl’s burnt dress nervously, wondering if she was likely to burst into flames a second time.

  There was a beat of silence in the carriage, filled only with the rumble and chug of the train’s engine, and then Emma said, just loudly enough to be heard over the noise, “No.”

  Edgar gripped the back of the seat beside him. “You can’t—I mean, they’ve put you on the wrong train! You can’t be here. This is for nobles only!” He faltered when the girl looked over at him, her expression cool.

  Up close the girl was very tall and skinny, with dark skin and tight curls that framed her face. Her clothing seemed to fit her rather awkwardly. Her sleeves stopped several inches above her skinny wrists, and the fabric of her dress bagged out around her waist.

  “You’re the prince,” she said, and her voice was unmistakably accusatory. “I recognize you from the papers.” She folded her arms in front of her chest. “Go on then, what were you saying? You were going to call your mother on us? Tell her we’re witches?”

  Edgar, who was at least smart enough not to answer, had edged behind one of the wooden benches. He continued to stare at the girl with wide eyes.

  “Cat’s out of the bag on that one, don’t you think, Your Highness?”

  When Edgar didn’t answer, the girl turned to look at Emma, gaze dropping down to her clothing, brows raised.

  Emma felt herself blushing and she glanced down at her black-and-purple lace dress. She did look very obviously royal, didn’t she? Even down to the colors.

  A second girl appeared behind the first, moving down the length of the carriage, a little unsteady on her feet as the train surged forward.

  As the girl got closer, Emma’s mouth dropped open. It was Maddie.

  Her butterscotch curls were very messy, and she looked pale, her freckles standing out in sharp contrast.

  “How are you here? I saw you get away.”

  Maddie rolled her eyes. “One of the soldiers stopped me to ask my percentage and lying didn’t work. It only does about half the time.”

  “You just need training.” The curly-haired girl shrugged when they all gaped at her. “What? It’s true. I’m Eliza, by the way.”

  “Emma. And this is my cousin…uh, Edgar.” She stopped herself from launching into his titles. She’d been about to go into a full introduction—the proper court etiquette her tutor had taught her. She could only imagine the other girls’ reactions.

  Emma bit her lip, forcing herself not to stare at them or back up into the corner like Edgar was doing. Everything she’d learned about witches was screaming at her to get as far away from them as possible. She could suddenly remember everything she’d ever read, all the ways they could torture you, all the horrible things they’d done to the people of London.

  She stayed where she was though, because yes, these girls were witches, but so was she.

  Edgar hissed at her from where he’d crammed himself into the farthest seat against the wall. He was holding the leather book in front of him, like it was going to ward the girls off somehow.

  “Emma, get away from them!”

  Eliza ignored him. “We’re not going to Scotland, you know. The queen’s a liar.”

  Emma’s heart seemed to momentarily freeze in her chest, and behind her, she heard Edgar gasp. But Eliza only stood there, arms crossed over her chest, frowning around at all of them.

  It was as if she didn’t even realize what she’d said.

  “You can’t…” Edgar gasped out. He was now slumped over, leaning against the bench in front of him. He looked completely overcome. “You can’t say things like that. She knows. She always knows.”

  “And what’s she going to do about it?” Eliza asked. “Accuse me of witchcraft?”

  Emma opened her mouth and then shut it again. Eliza was right. They were already in the worst possible predicament. It really didn’t matter what they said. In fact, if she wanted to, she could probably jump up on one of the benches and scream to the world that Queen Alexandria was ugly and wore funny dresses, and nothing would happen to her.

  Even the thought was enough to break her out in a cold sweat.

  “You can’t just say we’re not going to Scotland,” Edgar said. For a moment some of the haughtiness came back into his voice, and he straightened his shoulders, glowering at Eliza. “Everyone knows that’s where witches go.”

  “It’s not true,” Eliza shot back. “Like I said, your mother is a liar, along with a bloodthirsty monster. The entire Black family is.”

  “Excuse me?” Edgar shot up off the seat. “I ought to have you arrested!”

  He turned to Emma, as if expecting her to back him up, but Emma only flapped a hand at him. Excitement made it hard to get the words out. “What do you know about the Black family? Tell us everything.”

  Eliza frowned. “You’ve all been fed the same rubbish in your history lessons. You should know by now. She’s called the Thistle Queen for a reason. Before she used thistle to test us, she used it to hang us. They’d make ropes out of it because it drains our power.”

  Emma frowned at her, exasperated. “Everyone knows that bit. She discovered thistle would stop them. She killed the witches and took back the country.”

  Saying it now, she found that the words rang a little hollow, like something she’d recited too many times. The cut-out parts of the history books kept swimming up in the back of her mind.

  Maddie was nodding. “The Queen hanged the bad witches, but we’re not bad.”

  Eliza made a rude noise. “Brainwashed, the lot of you. But we know better. We always have. And you’d better get used to it. She wants you dead now too.” She glanced over at Edgar, her face hard. “Even you.”

  This seemed like a terribly dangerous conversation to be having, and Emma narrowed her eyes, darting a glance around the cabin. “How do you know all of this?”

  Eliza shook her head, her expression scornful. “She’s fooled so many of you.”

  Things were finally clicking into place. The other girl’s confidence about the subject, the way she used “you” and “we” to set them apart. We know better. Her charred skirts, the soot on her face. The cottage they’d driven past on the way to the square. The queen’s complaint about only catching one…

  Emma took a step backward, eyeing Eliza nervously. “Those witches they couldn’t catch. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  Eliza was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

  Emma sucked in a sharp breath, and beside her, Edgar paled slightly and leaned back in his seat. Maddie, by contrast, brightened considerably.

  “Brilliant! I’ve always wanted to meet a real live witch.”

  Eliza rolled her eyes. “You are one.”

  “Oh yes. I’d forgotten.”

  “Y-you’re part of a coven. You’re one of the rebel witches.” Edgar looked as though he were about to crawl under the seat, but Eliza was shaking her head.

  “Of course not, idiot. There are none left anymore. None of the witches would take them in while they were being hunted, not after what they did.” When Edgar gave her a sideways look, she folded her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes at him. “They were a fringe group. Fanatics. Most witches wanted nothing to do with them and their horrible policies.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Emma worked up the courage to ask, “What happened? Why didn’t you go with your coven when they escaped?”

  Emma knew she shouldn’t be talking to her. If she were smart, she’d run to the other side of the train and stay t
here. Eliza was a witch, and witches were bad. They had magic; they’d nearly destroyed London.

  But again, she reminded herself…she, Emma, was technically a witch too.

  “I was supposed to.” Eliza hesitated. “But one of my coven was meant to stay and keep them in the house. Our leader, my gran. She’s got the gift of visions.”

  When they stared at her blankly, Eliza explained: “She can make you see anything she wants. She made the witch hunters go inside the house and meant to keep them there. But they’d called the soldiers too. They were on their way.” She bit her lip. “I told her to go, that I’d set the cottage on fire and trap them, and I’d catch up with them.”

  “But you didn’t,” Emma said softly. Again, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. The queen’s words rang in her head: It’s a miracle you didn’t burn.

  “They didn’t burn because you didn’t let them, did you?”

  Eliza sat down heavily on a bench and sighed. “It was stupid. The witch hunters would hang me as soon as look at me. But yes, I couldn’t let them burn. I stayed to keep the fire away until the soldiers got the captain out. Then I ran.” There was bitterness in her voice as she added, “But not fast enough.”

  Emma frowned at her, puzzled. This didn’t track with what she knew about witches. From the stories in the history books, witches seemed to enjoy burning people, or making them drown in their own saliva, or tricking them into believing there were bugs all over their skin until they went insane. Witches didn’t save people. None of this made sense.

  It was Edgar who broke the silence. “H-how do you know we’re not going to Scotland? Have you been there?” He sprang up suddenly, startling them, and began to pace the aisle. “That can’t be right. Everyone knows that witches are sent—”

  “It’s a lie.” Eliza stuck an arm into his path, blocking him from storming past. “Think about it, Your Highness.” She practically spat his title at him, and Edgar flinched. “Why would Scotland allow that? Where would all these witches go, and why isn’t Scotland overflowing with them?”