“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
In a room usually reserved for Council business, Chloe was fielding enough questions to wear down anyone ever accused of doing anything. She sat behind a small table, and a row of dour-looking men sat in opposition behind a long table. Watchmen and constables stood at the door and across the Hill she was fairly certain more watchmen searched her quarters and others’ for evidence. If they were searching thoroughly they might find the worst thing of all—the truth about Lady Astraea.
Her fingers tapped the little table’s surface. It was better this way. If they found her ladyship and ended it all—again—it would be better than letting her wander soulless.
“Explain to us the loss of your ear.”
Chloe sighed and focused on constructing an appropriate answer. “My previous lordship, Lord Kruse, found my service to be lacking and my ears to be too readily available to receive gossip. And so he removed one. With his saber. It was a memorable lesson.”
“And after the loss of your ear, what did you do?”
“I certainly didn’t listen at doors anymore. And I no longer desired pairs of earrings.”
“You make light of the obvious doubt cast upon your character?”
“No, sir, certainly not, sir. I am most grievously offended by the aspersions being cast. But I recognize my station and am quite aware of my innocence.”
“Three people—people from your previous household—one where you ran the kitchen—are dead.”
Chloe nodded. “And if I could identify their killer you would have a fierce fight keeping me from doing him harm.”
“Bold words from a woman who abandoned a fallen household and now finds herself in another household facing ruin.”
“The Council has ruined us already with the accusation of witchery and Harboring—with mere words. Such little things to bring down such a great family.”
“The Tester found a Weather Witch. There was nothing to be done but bring her in.”
“Bring her in and bring the rest of them down.”
“Show some respect,” one Councilman ordered.
“How can I when I am given none?”
“Respect must be earned.”
“I have earned it. For eight years I worked for the Kruse family. I baked for them, cooked for them, cleaned and straightened accounts for them. I was more than a kitchen girl or body servant—I was a nanny to the children, a friend to the lady. I was family. And when they came and proclaimed the boy a Weather Witch—I wept for them. I died inside—all for the love of him and my adopted family.”
“Then why did you kill them?”
“I did not kill them—I loved them!”
“The morning after Marion Alan Kruse was taken in for magicking, they were dead. And you were gone.”
“So was the rest of the staff. We were horrified—finding them like that … their bellies distended, tongues swollen and black…” Her eyes squeezed shut and she clenched the small table until her dark fingers whitened.
“It must have been dreadful to face the results of your actions.”
“How did my actions cause such a tragedy?”
“Through the leaves with which you flavored the biscuits.”
“What?” She straightened, her face going blank for a moment. “We used nothing toxic in the cooking.”
“Then how did they wind up in the biscuits? The biscuits you had none of?”
“I don’t … The staff seldom ate with family—and almost never the same food.”
“But they were like your family, you said. It seems unlikely your family would not allow you to sup with them.”