Page 24 of Song of the Hell Witch

“Yeah, it’s Amelia.” His nostrils flared, his discomfort almost palpable.

“Look, she’ll have a bed and she won’t talk to anyone.

Plus she owes me for …” He scratched at the back of his head like a dog with fleas.

“For things . If we leave now, we can probably make it by midday, get some rest before we start nighttime travel.”

Both he and Marigold turned to Prudence, like they were waiting for her final say.

Her palms were sweating, her pulse racing.

She wanted to shrink into Marigold’s cape, make Puck take the lead.

But he had enough to deal with. Sure, Bea looked fine, but she was still dying a slow, probably painful death.

And Prudence couldn’t ask Mari to make any decisions. She was the reason her entire house was scattered across the cobbles in the Podge.

You’re it. You’re the one we’ve got.

She swallowed and gave them both a hard nod. “The Honey Pot House, then.”

They took turns rowing, switching every hour to give the others a chance to rest. But whenever Prudence nodded off, she found herself in the porcelain bathtub at Talonsbury Estate, her head submerged in thick, warm blood, her throat and lungs filling with iron.

Pins and needles crawled up her arms and legs, just annoying enough to keep her awake.

Perhaps that was a blessing.

Puck took up the oars after Mari. She and Bea slumbered together at the stern, Marigold tilted on her side, Bea tucked up against her abdomen. From Prudence’s spot at the bow, it was easy to mistake the girl for a doll. She slept so soundly it was hard to believe there was anything wrong with her.

“Do you know what type of Hell Witch she is?” Puck panted, battling the river. “Like, can you tell if she’d be like you or a selkie or … is it too early to tell that kind of thing?”

Prudence shook her head in answer to his first question, clasping her hands between her knees.

“Honestly, it’s probably wrong to classify any of us as types, really.

What we become is based on what happens to us when we hear the song, what we want in that particular moment.

Gorgon, striga, vampiress—they’re just words people use to make sense of us.

” She scoffed as it dawned on her. “Words created by men.”

“Right.” He sounded more than a little nauseous. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what I’m gonna do if it’s snakes. I can handle a lot of things, but … seriously, what the fuck am I gonna do if it’s snakes?”

“Love her anyway.” But Prudence pictured vipers and adders slithering under Bea’s skin, breaking through her flesh to sniff the air with their tongues, and her own stomach heaved. “Probably going to take some time, though. Fuck snakes.”

“Fuck. Snakes.” He dipped the oars back into the water, and the silence crushed down again. “Pru, are you … I mean … fuck, I should know how to do this.”

“What?”

“I … it’s stupid to ask. The answer’s obvious.”

“ What? ”

“Just … how are you doing? After Frederick.”

“Oh. Um.” She played with the hem of her cloak, reluctant to meet his eyes for fear she might dissolve into a puddle. She couldn’t tell him about the bathtub full of blood, how she woke with the metallic taste coating her tongue. “I’m … here.”

“Yeah. It’s a shit question, but till they come up with new words, it’s all we’ve got.

” He sighed as he tugged at the oars again.

“Grief’s gotta be the thing we’re worst at.

After Jocelyn, people told me, ‘Oh, she’s with God now,’ like that was supposed to make all the shock and pain and sick go away. ”

Jocelyn’s death felt like a piece of his story she needed if she ever hoped to know him again—and now seemed like the only time she might be able to ask him about it without making things awkward.

“What happened to your wife?” When he flinched, she wanted to grab the words back. “Sorry, you don’t have to—”

“It’s okay. There’s uh … there’s not much to it, really.

She was a performer, so she did miming and crude jokes, puppet shows, things like that.

” His face glossed over, and Prudence could tell he was falling into a memory.

“She came home one day with this cough. We thought it was a cold, ’cause she’d been outside for three days and the weather was changing.

Then, about a week later, she woke up retching blood. ”

Emmaline’s blood-red lips. The rattle in her lungs. “Scarpetta?”

“Scruggs said it was Storm Lung, actually. Probably from working in the steel factories when she was little, shoveling coal, breathing in all that shit.”

“Storm Lung?” The symptoms sounded familiar, but in the twelve years she’d spent out of the Groundling world, they’d developed a hundred new names for the diseases that stalked the lower classes.

“Basically, there was soot and scar tissue growing in her lungs. Took her six months to die. By the end, she was …” His voice failed him, and she didn’t blame him a bit. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to reach for breath and find nothing.

Both Jocelyn and Emmaline must have been so scared. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The picture in his apartment. He’d looked so bright, so at peace. “But she made you happy?”

His smile wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close. “I mean, she wasn’t some heaven-sent miracle or anything. She was stubborn, and she could be mean as hell when she wanted. But most of the time, she was kind. And funny. Lightbringer’s loins, was she funny.”

Prudence couldn’t remember the last time she’d made anyone laugh.

“Would you still do it?” she asked. “Knowing what would happen, would you still marry her?”

He nodded slowly. “Even with all the bad that came later, it was perfect there for a while. And Jocelyn gave me Bea.” His voice wavered. “Now, if I lose her, I—”

“You won’t.” She rested her hand on his wrist. “I promise.”

Another stroke of the oars, out of her reach. Doubt pulled at his face.

“Were you happy?” he asked. “With Frederick?”

She wasn’t sure how much she’d been dreading the question until he said it out loud. “He … he gave me what I wanted.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes it is.” She thought about the girl who’d stood on the docks twelve years ago, staring up at the ship’s sails.

She’d wanted so much. A different life, one where she could learn new things every day, where she had money and respect, jewel-stitched gowns and soft feather beds.

“I was warm. My stomach was full. I was more than safe; I was …” Only hours ago, she’d been on her balcony, her silk dress soaked through, arms outstretched, convinced she would live the rest of her life outfitted in gorgeous gowns.

“Magnificent. He made me magnificent. So yeah. Sometimes, I was happy.”

“And other times?”

She shrugged. “I was too content to care.”

“About what?”

“That I was bored out of my mind.”

He snickered. “I reckon I could have told you that.”

“Hey, you spend a night sleeping on satin sheets, and I promise you, you’d learn to love boredom.”

“Oh, you’re right. How have I survived this long without satin sheets?” There was a glimmer of that devil she knew in his eyes, the kid who’d robbed folks blind while thanking them for their kindness.

She threatened to kick his shin. “Cockpuss.”

“Language, Your Grace.”

She chuckled. “Do you want me to take over rowing?”

“You sure? You did fly me out of danger; I feel like I owe you some physical labor.”

“Yes, but I’m endowed with magic. You’re just a man.”

He pressed his tongue between his teeth as he nodded, another one of his boyish faces. “Got me there.” He finished one last pull, then switched places with her.

The wood was smooth in her grip, worn from use. Marigold had probably stolen the boat off a fisherman or a dockworker. Poor person was probably waking up to find their livelihood gone.

You’ll never even know how many lives you ruined last night.

Puck didn’t disturb Marigold or Bea by crawling to the back of the boat. He tipped onto his back in the space at Prudence’s feet, his body sending a flush of heat up her shins.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” he said as she fell into a rhythm.

“About what?”

He closed his eyes, slipping his hands under his cheek to pillow his head. “You were magnificent long before you met Frederick Talonsbury.”