Page 25 of The Witch and His Crow

‘I can dofriend.’

The corner of my lip turned upwards, out of my control. ‘You’re going to have to forgive me, Romy, but I’ve not had much practice.’

Pity flashed across her eyes—only for a moment, but I don’t miss it. ‘Friends first. Then, when you’re ready, you can agree to coven-up with me.’

‘Coven-up?’ I repeated, my smile stretching the corners of my mouth.

‘Oh, you get it.’ Romy took a step back, drinking me in from head to toe. ‘Right, plan time. Tonight is the welcome feast. I think, considering half this castle clearly has it out for you, we should face them head on. No point hiding up here until the bell tolls and the true fun begins, right?’

‘Right,’ I said, although the idea of staying up here was enticing, dust and spiders aside. But I had to focus. There was a Witch Hunter here, in the castle, someone who could blend in with the rest of us. I had to find them before they found me.

‘And, before you come up with an excuse, tonight poses the perfect opportunity for securing more alliances. The bigger the coven, the longer we survive.’

‘No,’ I said too quickly.

‘Hector,’ Romy said, hand squeezing my shoulder. ‘It really wasn’t up for discussion. Iknowthis is the right way to do it.’

‘I have my work cut out with you,’ I moaned, already regretting this alliance.

Romy winked. ‘Oh, you have no idea.’

I stoodin the corner of what had to be a Great Hall, wishing the shadows would swallow me whole. If Caym were here, he could do it. But alas, I was alone with nothing but the glass of sparkling wine in my hand for company.

Romy, to her credit, had stayed with me for the majority of the evening, but had left my side to get us each a plate of food. Although, from the glimpse I got of her through the crowd, I could see she’d found someone—a woman with short flame-red hair, who kept looking my way—and was deep in conversation with her.

Already she was playing into her plan of finding more witches to build an alliance with. Whereas I just stood, back to the wall, face plastered with a ‘don’t fucking talk to me’expression.

If I needed a reminder to keep my wits about me, Romy’s secret conversation was certainly a wake-up call. Clearly, both women knew each other. It could have been for a number of different reasons, but my suspicious mind refused tocontemplate any but the idea they were both working for Jonathan.

A sea of witches stretched out as far as I could see. Down the middle of the enormous room was a table completely covered in food. From among the roasted meats, potatoes, vegetables, and other unnamed delicacies, it was the desserts which snatched my attention.

What interested me most, though, was the large chalkboard hung in the centre of the main wall. Scrawled across it were so many names that they were minuscule and squashed together with little space between. It was the record of the witches partaking in the Witch Trials. In time, the board would change—there was already a small blank space, signalling the missing name of a witch. The one I had killed.

If you died during the contest, your name was removed.

If you withdrew, your name was cut out with a line.

And if you won, it would be the last readable name on the chalkboard.

I took another sip of the sparkling wine, delighting in the very real bubbles that popped across my tongue. The wine was very much exactly like that on the physical plane, and from the constant buzz of my magic, clearly not poisoned with thistlebane.

A hearth blazed next to me, casting the side of my body in the embrace of its warmth. Much like the magical appearance of the food, the fire burned without wood or coal. Burgundy flames danced across the stone, conjured by someone or something. Clearly the magic lacing the very walls of this castle was ancient, nearly forgotten. Even as I leaned against the wall, I imagined the old spell woven into the stone.

There was only one person with the knowledge of such power, the kind that no longer existed in our world. The GrandHigh—my mother. If I allowed myself to think about it for too long, I started to feel closer to her than I had in a long time.

I imagined her during the welcome feast of her Trials, likely traipsing the room, searching for alliances amongst the witches. Her story was written into the threads of this magic, and I only wished I could get a clearer picture of what it had been like for her.

But I didn’t get a chance to continue contemplating how my mother would have felt at her own welcome feast, because there was one witch who didn’t heed my resting bitch face. I caught him amongst the crowd, watching me. He probably had been for a while—the way my attention had been wandering meant I’d clearly had too much to drink, and I regretted the sparkling wine.

I could only see half of his face, but there was something so familiar about him. The witch had perfectly swept back hair, white at the roots until it turned brown halfway down his head. Of course, I looked at the colour of his eyes, searching for the bright shade of blue, wondering if this man was the one who’d slunk into the shadows after killing my assailant. But they were green, a pale green like sea glass. And he was smiling at me, tipping his glass up in salute.

Then the huddle of witches standing before him moved and I got a view of the other side of his face. I sucked in a breath. A violent, puckered scar sliced down his forehead, through his eye and ending at the corner of his lip.

The damage was horrific.

Before I could hide my shock, he was walking over to me. There was nothing threatening about his expression, but still I found myself flexing my gift, keeping it close.

‘Hector Briar,’ he said to me, extending a hand in greeting. ‘It is truly a wonder to see you.’ His accent was posh, confirming a good education and a family which clearly came from wealth.Although the scar down his face forced one eye permanently closed, there was still something strikingly familiar about him.

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