Page 13 of Song of the Hell Witch

Eight

The single window in the apartment stretched as wide as the living room wall.

Prudence backed away from it, convinced the Watch were peering in at her from the other side of the glass, and nearly stumbled into the potbelly stove sitting like a portly relative in the corner of the kitchen.

Its heat warmed the back of her calves, and the sensation tethered her, granting her the sense to realize that aside from stray street urchins taking shelter on the rooftops, no one could see her, not this high up.

She crept back over to the far wall. Puck had cobbled together enough pieces of stolen furniture to create a cozy sitting room.

A burgundy chaise sat against the window, its upholstered velvet draped with an evergreen blanket adorned in golden stars.

A matching rocking chair sat catty-cornered on the emerald rug, which was covered in crimson roses and jade-green ivy vines.

Two mahogany bookcases helmed an empty fireplace, each shelf heaving under the weight of books even more beautiful than the ones downstairs.

Pressed up against the side of one of the bookshelves was a hand-painted suffrage banner that read Give Women the Vote in giant red letters.

Someone had torn it straight down the middle, probably an Apostle or an angry passerby who evidently loved living in a country run by incestuous nobles and Lightbringer-fearing fools.

In the kitchen sat the stove, a wooden sink, and a round table with two chairs, though the huge gap between them made it obvious there used to be three.

Prudence wondered how long it had taken for Puck to get rid of Jocelyn’s place—until she saw the chair tucked up against the wall, as though her ghost was sitting in wait, watching.

She jumped as something rattled behind her, slamming a hand over her mouth to silence her shriek. But it was only Bea, surfacing from the back corner of the apartment, partitioned by a curtain of wooden beads.

She sighed, relieved. “Your dad’s just downstairs, straightening some things out with …

visitors.” She shuffled over to the couch and set her boots on the floor, then threw her cloak and the nightgown onto one of the cushions and slumped down beside them.

The trapped energy thrummed like music through her muscles, a constant beat of run, run, run , and despite her exhaustion, her heart refused to slow down.

On little cat feet, Bea hurried over to the bookshelf to grab what looked like a journal.

Then, without making a sound, she dashed back over to the rug and climbed up onto the armchair, snapping her legs into crisscross beneath her.

She opened the journal and, with a fat charcoal pencil, scribbled something down.

She hoisted the paper up with the flourish of an auctioneer. How do you know Puck?

Prudence raised a questioning brow. “You call him Puck?”

Bea scribbled again. Dad sometimes, but I like Puck better. She flipped back to her original question.

Prudence bit her tongue, searching for the right words. “We …” Worked for the same thiefmaster? Helped each other survive? Used to be each other’s everything before I fucked it all up? “We grew up together.”

Bea frowned and returned to her scribbling. But you’re a Silk.

There it was again, that sharp pain she’d felt when Puck said the same thing up at the manor.

But it was true, wasn’t it? She’d dined in elaborate estates, danced in painted ballrooms in dresses worth twice as much as Puck’s apartment, eaten more food in one night than most River Rats ate in a week.

If she were eight years old again and a woman were standing before her having done all of that, she would have said the same thing.

“I wasn’t always,” she told her.

Bea’s pencil flew across the page. So you escaped? She underlined escaped in three dark strokes, her knees bouncing up and down with a seemingly renewed energy.

Prudence nodded. “But I’m …” She snapped her head down. In her lap, her hands were still caked in blood, and she clenched them into fists. “I’m not so sure it was worth it.”

Scribble, scribble. Why not?

Seeing her blue eyes and the freckles dusted across her nose was like missing a step coming down the stairs. Prudence’s stomach bubbled. “Let’s save that one for another time, okay?”

Scribble, scribble. Why do you have a bloody nightgown? The girl blinked at her, unafraid.

Alarmed, Prudence snatched the nightgown off the top of the cloak and threw it away from her.

It coiled on the floor, the white of the linen all but lost to the stain of Frederick’s blood.

Between the reminder of what she’d done and the madness going on downstairs, Prudence felt the tears welling again.

Craving distraction, she took another look around the room. On the mantel, a golden picture frame beckoned her.

The photograph’s sepia color blurred the faces, grayed out the eyes.

A woman sat in a simple wooden chair, a pleasant smile on her face.

Her long hair, no doubt the same brilliant red as Bea’s, cascaded down one shoulder.

Her simple dress cinched tight around her waist, but Puck was right about her hips.

They were full, with curves as soft as the rest of her.

The longer Prudence looked, the more she began to resemble the nymphs and romantic heroines hanging on the walls of so many Silk estates—except her smile made her burn that much brighter.

Behind her, Puck hinged at the hips, his arms slung around her neck. He wasn’t quite smiling, but his face radiated luck, like he couldn’t believe he got to love the woman in that chair for the rest of his life.

There it was again, hornet venom swelling under her skin.

An odd chirp sounded behind her. She turned—and found Bea hunched over, one elbow propped on the arm of the chair. She held her head in one hand, eyes pinched shut, sucking in short breaths.

“Bea?” Mindful of the men below, Prudence scurried across the rug and slipped into a crouch.

The girl’s pink lips faded into an unnatural blue, like those of a child left out in the cold for hours. Sweat shone on her brow and soaked the front of her nightgown.

“Bea, what’s wrong?” Her panic swarmed. The girl wouldn’t open her eyes, wouldn’t respond to her pleading. She slid a hand onto her knee. Her skin was ice through the cotton of her nightgown, as cold as Emmaline the morning she’d died.

“Bea!” She forgot to whisper. Thankfully, the shout knocked the girl free of whatever was gripping her. Her eyes flew open, and her head jerked side to side, like she was blind. “Here.” Driven by instinct, Prudence seized her hand. Finally, the girl looked at her.

It took everything not to gasp. Bea’s bright-blue irises had all but disappeared, forming thin rings around her giant, pitlike pupils.

There was no color in her face, no glow to her cheeks.

She was pale as a corpse, her skin almost translucent, making it easy to see the gray veins branching from her temples, webbing down her arms.

“What …”

Puck burst through the apartment door, his rusted auburn hair as wild as a werebeast’s mane. He moved with a frenzied energy, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Right, so the Watch are down there turning the shop over, which means we’ve got maybe two …” But he choked on the rest when he spied his daughter. He nudged Prudence out of the way as he slid down in front of her, pressing his palms against her cheeks. “What is it, Bumble? What hurts?”

Wriggling out of his grasp, she scrawled something in her journal, her arm sluggish as she lifted the page up: Everything .

“Okay. Okay.” He jerked his head toward Prudence. “I’m sorry. I can’t …”

“I’ll be fine.” It was a lie and she knew it. The city map had gone all fuzzy in her head. She didn’t know which of the River Rat hiding places were still safe and which had been discovered in the last decade. She couldn’t remember which alleys led to dead ends and which to free streets.

Bea was writing again. Marigold .

It was the second time Prudence had heard that name that night.

“What about her?” Puck asked his daughter.

She can watch me.

“Bumble, you’re sick. And it’s pouring rain. I’m not taking you out in this.”

She needs help. Bea looked at Prudence, then underlined the word needs three times. An alarm bell rang in the back of Prudence’s mind. Bea’s fit had come on so quickly, and yet she’d recovered like it was nothing at all. The symptoms felt familiar—and dangerous. But she couldn’t figure out why.

A heavy thud fell downstairs, startling them. Growling, Puck pulled his fingers through his hair, scratching the top of his head like a flea-ridden stray.

“All right.” He leapt to his feet. “We’ll do it Bea’s way. I’ll take you as far as the Rusted Gate. After that, you’re on your own.”

The Rusted Gate.

Everyone, Silk and Groundling alike, knew the Whip branched off in the Podge, curving to the north.

But outside of thieves and runaways, most didn’t know about the small side door along the northern wall used by city messengers centuries ago.

It had long since rusted and decayed, but the River Rats had managed to pry it open and used it for passage in and out of the city.

The worn path outside led directly to the center of Kingston Wood, making it the perfect smuggling route and an easy escape for wanted thieves.

“Okay,” Prudence said, and Puck launched into immediate action. “How are we getting there, though? We can’t just walk—”

Infuriatingly, Puck ignored her, squatting down in front of the kitchen sink.

From a divot in the wood, he dug out an iron latch, cut to look like another groove.

Hooking his fingers around it, he wrenched up—and a chunk of floor swung free.

Gasping out a laugh, Prudence dashed over to where he stood.