The Healer (The Witch Hunter 0.5)(3)

“You were sixteen at the time,” Father reminds me gently. “You were his last resort. And you kept that boy alive for two years. Two years more than he would have had otherwise.”

I press my fingertips against my eyelids, trying to push the image of the sick boy away. His rusty-red hair, his freckles, his bright-blue eyes that grew dimmer and dimmer until they faded away completely, dead from what started out as dropsy but spread throughout his tiny body. One by one, his organs failed. First his liver, then his stomach, then his lungs, and then, finally, his heart.

William was his name. I try not to remember their names now. It’s so much harder when you do. They all stay with you, of course—but if you don’t know their names, you can’t remember them as well.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I push my hands through my hair. “Fine. Let me grab my bag and we can go.”

I start to turn from the door but Father holds up a hand to stop me.

“You’ll need to pack a bit more this time,” he says. “Nicholas isn’t in Harrow at present. He’s at his home in Crouch Hill.”

I feel my eyes narrow. Crouch Hill is just outside Upminster. Where the king is, where the Inquisitor is, where the very cause and center of antimagic rhetoric is. And it’s where the witch hunters are, that sickening band of mercenaries who scour every village and hamlet within fifty miles of the city looking to capture and arrest Reformists; willing executioners for the king’s ruthless policy.

I’ve never had a murderous thought in my life, not once. But if I ever come face-to-face with one of them, I’d do what I could to make sure they never drew breath again.

“He shouldn’t be there,” I say. “It’s not safe. For him or for us.”

Father looks at the ceiling again. “He wouldn’t ask us to come if it weren’t important. And it is important. He can explain everything to you himself, far better than I can.” He lowers his head and smiles. “He’ll be glad to see you. And it’ll be good for you to get out of the house. See your friends. Have a laugh. You know.”

He cups his hand behind my head and gives it a gentle shake, a gesture he’s not made in years. Then he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. I stand there for a moment, wondering what’s going on. Father’s hiding something, that’s clear enough. Whatever it is, it’s worrying me more than the idea of going so close to Upminster to figure it out.

I pack my bags.

I don’t bring much, though I don’t know how long we’re going to be gone. A few changes of clothes in one bag, another bag for medicine. I don’t know what I’ll need so I take it all: sachets of herbs, vials of tinctures, jars of powders and seeds, woolen bags for straining. And then there’s the journal. I consider throwing the damned thing out the window, but before I can change my mind I snatch it off my desk and shove it in there, too. I leave the cypress-and-cinnamon-scented letter behind. I’ve put off dealing with it for months; a few more weeks won’t make a difference.

I throw on my cloak, old and travel-worn. Notice a hole in the sleeve and make a note to myself to patch it. Or buy a new one. It’s one of a thousand things I need to do now that it’s just Father and me. Our clothes need mending and washing. There’s a slow leak in the roof, there are birds nesting in the attic, and the hens have all stopped laying eggs. I would hire someone to sort all this out for us; it’s not as though Father doesn’t have the money. But having someone in the house to do all those things would be a constant reminder that someone else should still be here, doing them. It’s just easier for me to take care of it all.

Mostly.

Downstairs, Father waits for me. He’s no longer a pirate, but some of the old habits remain. His clothes are too fine for that of a simple Reformist; he still favors embroidered doublets and leather jerkins and starched ruffs, though I draw the line at being the one to iron them for him.

“Fifer’s anxious to see you.” He claps me on the shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

I nod. “It has been.”

“And George. Though I daresay it’s not been long enough since you saw him.” He throws me a dark scowl and I flush. The last time I saw George we spent all night drinking and gambling our way through every alehouse in Harrow. I wound up getting a tattoo in a place I didn’t think anyone would see…until Father found me passed out facedown in the garden behind some witch’s house, and I was missing my trousers. I don’t even know how I got there. Or what happened to my trousers.

“I don’t think we’ll be visiting the taverns this time around,” I say. I don’t even drink that much; at all, really. It leaves me with a foggy head and unsteady hands, neither of which are much use to me. But it was a bad time, last winter, and George thought he could get my mind off things with a couple of drinks and a couple of girls. He wasn’t wrong, though I usually wound up feeling worse afterward, rather than better.

“Too right you won’t,” Father says. He releases me and walks away, muttering under his breath. I can just make out the words tottering and pompion and hugger-mugger and knotty-pated. I don’t really know what they mean, but I can pretty well guess.

People think having a pirate for a father means you can behave however you like, but it’s not so. He’s been strict for as long as I can remember, sparing neither rod nor child if it came down to it. I was never one for stepping too far out of line—that was my sister—and I still don’t. I may be nineteen now, but my ass has a long memory.