Page 25 of Song of the Hell Witch

Thirteen

Miles upriver from the smoke and stink of Talonsbury, Hammersmouth was like something out of a lore book.

The air was clear and sweet as spun sugar.

Each building had a high-gabled rooftop, the storefronts all painted in powdered pastels, which made it feel like they were walking through candy-lined streets.

It wasn’t quite as adorable as some of the villages and hamlets Prudence had visited in Belacanto, but the pleasant colors and relaxed energy did wonders for her nerves.

The roads were uncomplicated, packed earth that wound and curved among the shops and taverns.

Even this late in the morning, it was remarkably quiet, save for the families headed for the small country abbey for morning prayers; the women dressed in plain work dresses, a custom in smaller towns so as to “refrain from distracting the men”; the men in their houndstooth caps and simple vests.

Prudence wanted to slow down, to let the silence wrap around her, but she knew they couldn’t linger too long. In a place this calm, they were bound to be noticed.

The Honey Pot House sat on the river at the north end of town.

It looked more like a boardinghouse than a brothel, with flower boxes on the windowsill and a mermaid weather vane perched on its black rooftop.

Along the front porch banisters hung a sign: Free Women’s Bodies, Free Women’s Minds, GIVE US THE VOTE.

“Think I like this Amelia,” Prudence said to Puck.

“I’d hold that thought if I were you,” Mari said to Prudence.

Behind the building, a small copse of trees swayed in the wind.

It would make for good emergency cover should the Zeraph or her brother-in-law ambush them, which was a small comfort—until Prudence realized how long it had been since she’d spent a single second hunting for possible escape routes in any given situation.

That was what Frederick had been, ease and safety and peace.

And now here we are, right back where we started.

Beyond the wood, there was nothing but wild country for a hundred miles, flat fields that became rolling hills seemingly on a whim, growing ever steeper on the journey to the Wild Fangs. She hoped the river would carry them all the way to Stormlash’s front door.

Beatrice wouldn’t make the distance on foot.

Puck stopped them at the base of the Honey Pot stoop. He shot Mari a strange, almost guilty look before clapping his hands together. “Look, it’s probably best I go in first, chat with Amelia, see if she’s got a place for us.”

Mari cocked an imperious brow. “And why in the Spheres would you want to do that all by your lonesome, dearest Puck?”

Something twisted between Prudence’s ribs as Puck’s eyes narrowed. He took a passing glance at Bea, peacefully asleep on Marigold’s shoulder. “Why don’t you two see if you can find an apothecary? Anyone who might be able to help us with that tea?”

“How are we gonna afford …” Marigold started, but Puck stuck his hand into his pocket—and drew out Prudence’s ruby pendant.

Instinctively, she grabbed for it, the fury a fishhook in her stomach, yanking it into her throat. “You … you …”

“Thief?” Puck finished for her, shifting his stance. “What’s it gonna be, Pru? Take back a necklace you said yourself doesn’t matter anymore or save my daughter’s life?”

“I … I didn’t mean …” But she’d said it, and she couldn’t take it back.

She’d always believed that day on the rooftop meant something to him too, that when he’d fastened the clasp around her neck, he was sealing something between them.

Now she couldn’t be sure. How could he be so willing to let go of something she’d never been able to take off?

“Is there … do you have anything else, like a ring or a—”

“Fine. Mare, you hawk it.” His eyes grew cold as he shifted his gaze toward his best friend. “Make sure Pru doesn’t go all self-serving on us.”

Oh, you absolute …

Before Mari could say a word, Prudence swiped the pendant out of his grip.

The gold backing was clammy in her hand as she ran her thumb over the jewel one last time.

It felt like the end of something, like discovering some childhood myth she’d believed in with her whole being wasn’t real.

Except the myth was love, the truth hot as molten steel.

Maybe she shouldn’t have missed him all those years in Belacanto.

Maybe, in breaking his heart first, she’d saved herself years of pain.

“Don’t know why I hung on to it this long anyway.” She tried so hard to kill the hurt in her voice. “It’s not like it’s worth that much.”

Puck said nothing as he took Bea from Mari’s arms. The girl released a low moan but didn’t open her eyes, and he settled her on his hip and marched up the brothel’s front steps, the wood groaning under his weight.

“Shall we?” Mari asked her.

They made their way toward the town’s center, tired feet shuffling across the gravel road.

“That’s the necklace he gave you the night you first kissed, right?” Mari asked.

The last thing Prudence wanted was Mari taking something back to him, giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d upset her. “I think so. I’m not really sure.”

“Horseshit.”

She couldn’t get the looks they’d exchanged out of her mind, the flush of color in Puck’s cheeks when Mari had first said Amelia’s name. “He slept with her, didn’t he?”

Mari jolted at the question. “Who did what?”

“Amelia, the brothel keeper.” Her teeth clenched. “Puck slept with her.”

“He, uh …” Mari’s head tilted side to side, like she was weighing her options.

“He slept with a lot of people after you left, Pru. He wasn’t exactly …

I mean, there were …” Her nose crinkled.

“What I’m saying is, you break a wild boy’s heart, he’s gonna go a bit mad there for a bit.

If he hadn’t found Jocelyn, I’m not entirely sure he’d still be with us, how’s that? ”

So he could stomach prostitutes just fine after I left, huh?

“She wasn’t from my brothel, was she?” She wasn’t sure why she cared so much.

Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to be able to picture it all so clearly: what each of the rooms looked like, Puck’s hands gliding along another woman’s hips as the sunlight pierced the burgundy curtains of Madame Sybil’s pleasure house.

Marigold shook her head. “He tried real hard not to go anywhere that reminded him of you.”

“Right.” She had to send the conversation somewhere else before her skin melted from her bones. “So, Visage, eh? You were finally going to leave home, become the grand opera house’s newest star. Pretty big detour, this whole thing.”

Marigold fixed her eyes on the cream puff buildings and the small groups of Faithful clustered together, their drab clothing in such stark contrast to the city’s bright colors. “Plans change.”

“Except there’s still time. You can go back, make your ship. Why don’t you?”

It took her a minute to answer. “Bea needs me.”

“Come on, Mari. It’s more than that.” This was dangerous territory, a place she had no right to go after so many years away.

But if she was ever going to get back into Mari’s good graces, she needed to push her a little, remind her she used to care about her, that she could care about her again if she’d let her in. “You’re after something else.”

“And what’s that?”

“This is a chance to meet a Hell Witch coven. Ask them all of your questions. I don’t know, maybe you think they’ll be able to do something for you. Or at least tell you why you didn’t change.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming back after twelve years, talking like you know what I want.

” Mari kicked at a pebble. It skirted along the top of the street, coming to rest at the base of the apothecary’s stoop.

She paused there, eyes narrowing. “And I know why I didn’t change. That’s not hard to figure out.”

“Mari, I’ve met women exactly like you who’ve heard the song, women who’ve transformed.”

Mari stopped walking, her brows knitting tight. “You have?”

“Of course I have.” Prudence smiled at her. “You’re a woman . To your core. I just think it’s sort of like with talent.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t sing like you can, right?” It was the only explanation that had ever made any sense, why some women became Hell Witches and others didn’t.

“I think it’s sort of like that. We all have vocal chords, but only some of us become vocalists.

Sure, the power’s in all of us, but not all of us can use it. ”

The tension fell out of Marigold’s shoulders. It was like watching someone take their first unstrained breath in years. She started walking again, and there was a spring in her step that wasn’t there before. “So, what, you think there might still be hope?”

Prudence couldn’t be the one to kill the spark burning in Mari’s eyes, the one who told her she was nearly two decades outside of the normal transformation time. “Magic’s fickle. That’s its way.”

Thankfully, they’d made it to the apothecary, which meant pausing the conversation for the time being. Mari led them through the front door, and a bell jingled as they stepped over the threshold.

Prudence found the shop’s interior rather dizzying. She was accustomed to the false coziness of paneled mahogany walls and windows caked in grime. The apothecary’s walls were white, the windows’ bubbled glass inviting plenty of sunlight.

Behind a baby-blue counter, a woman with a crown of braided blond hair smiled at them.

Shelves upon shelves of glass jars lined the powder-blue walls at her back, brimming with dried herbs and elixirs.

The labels were all handwritten, the letters connected through swirls and strokes that made the words look like black ribbons.

“Welcome to Mathilda’s, where we believe healing the inside heals the outside as well,” the shopkeeper said. Prudence and Marigold exchanged skeptical glances. “How can I help you?”