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The woman scowled for a moment, looking mulish. But then she nodded, apparently valuing the lives of her people above that of mere gold. Gillian understood; coven members were becoming scarcer than ore these days, no matter how precious.

“Aye,” the woman agreed, and came up to the foot of the ladder. “Halves.”

“Or . . . or thirds?” someone said, as the two women clasped arms.

They turned on the small man who had just decloaked near another entrance, so quickly that he squeaked and hopped back a step.

“Who the devil are you?” the black-haired witch demanded, not least because he looked all of fourteen.

He swallowed, and then drew himself up to his full height, which was perhaps five foot two. “Richard Masey, of the Charmouth coven.” His face fell, and he suddenly looked as if he was about to cry. “Or what remains of it.”

The two women exchanged glances as a rag tag group of what could only be called children peered in the door behind the boy. He seemed to be the eldest, which was probably why he was leading, and trying hard to stand tall and assured. But his wand was trembling in a grip that threatened to snap it at any moment.

Thunder boomed from above; the ship swayed; and its wooden planks squeaked. For a moment, nothing was said. It didn’t have to be.

Neither witch could afford to take in the orphaned children of another coven. There was a time when such a thing would have been done without question, had some disaster killed the parents. But these days, such calculations were harder.

There was little enough chance that Gillian's group would get out of England alive, even with a haul tonight to ease the way. They were being hunted, and they had children as well to think about. But that didn’t mean that they were completely devoid of compassion.

“What are ye here for, then?” she asked the boy.

Gillian expected him to say something to the effect of “anything we can steal”, which given the state of their ragged clothes and dirty faces, would make sense. But she underestimated him. “Spices,” he said staunchly. “We have a merchant ready to take all that we can bring him.”

“Got sledges, too. Enchanted them meself,” a redheaded child of maybe twelve said proudly, peering around the side of the leader. “Ye can use some, if ye want. I think . . . I might have brought too many.”

The black-haired witch sighed, and glanced at Gillian.

“You didn’t bring too many,” Gillian said hoarsely. There was little enough they could do for these children, but there was one way to help. “Ben, Duncan, load as much spice on their sledges as will fit,” she told two of her men.

“Aye.” The dark-haired witch said. “John, Liza, do the same.”

“I thank ye kindly mistresses,” the boy said, with a little bow.

“Sisters,” Gillian rasped, and he looked startled, as if he hadn’t heard that term in a while.

“Sisters,” he repeated. And then he smiled, and looked like what he was, halfway between the boy he’d been and the man he would hopefully live long enough to become. There was impertinence in it, but charm, too, and Gillian knew what was coming before he opened his mouth. “And the gold?”

“Away w’ ye!” the dark-haired witch said. “Ye’re getting a king’s ransom as t’is!”

“And the gold,” Gillian agreed. “A third of it,” she qualified, as his eyes lit up.

The dark-haired witch turned on her, wand out and ready, a snarl on her lips, but Gillian had her measure by now. “He only brought the elder ones,” she said softly. “There’s sure to be more left behind, perhaps even babes.”

She saw when it landed, when the fire in the witch’s eyes was replaced by unimaginable sorrow. A coven of children, left to fend for themselves. And as like to die as their elders had done if their enemies had their way.

Gold wasn’t much of a hedge against the boiling caldron of hate that their world had turned into, but it was something.

“Aye,” she finally said. “A third—and no more!”

The boy nodded, and held out his arms. Gillian hopped off the ladder and she and the witch each took one. His grip was strong, and he grinned at them with childish glee. “Let’s go plunder these bastards!”

And plunder they did.

Section I: Italy and Lancashire, England, 1588

Dory

Chapter One