The Witch Of Willow Hall: A spellbinding historical fiction debut perfect for fans of Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. Hester Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ Pierce’s waistcoat is partially unbuttoned and his lank hair rakishly slicked forward. He barely bobs his head at me before his eyes alight on Catherine, taking her hand with a wolfish grin. I send Emeline with instructions for Ada to bring refreshments to the parlor, and then fall into step beside Mr. Barrett.

      He’s watching Catherine and Mr. Pierce with a little frown, his eyes melancholy. I want to say something to him, to have him say something back. I want him to turn those blue-green eyes on me and look at me the same way Mr. Pierce is looking at my sister right now. But all my words get tangled up in my head and the only thing I can think to say is, “They make a handsome couple, don’t they?”

      Honestly, of all the things to say. I burn as Mr. Barrett glances down at me, but the look is fleeting and he returns his attention back to them. He’s standing very close and, despite the heat, a little flutter runs through me when his sleeve brushes my arm.

      “Yes,” he says. “They do.”

      We sit in the parlor, Mr. Pierce and Catherine whispering to one another. Mr. Pierce leans in close to her, and Catherine sweeps her lashes down, occasionally tilting her head back and laughing. Her color is high; she must be feeling better. Emeline monopolizes Mr. Barrett, lecturing him on the habits of mermaids and asking if he thinks there might be one in the pond.

      “There might be, I’m not sure.”

      He’s distracted. Emeline doesn’t notice, but he keeps glancing up at Mr. Pierce and Catherine, and he doesn’t look pleased. His fair brow is clouded, his jaw tense. How is it that Catherine can have not one, but two men vying for her attention? I might as well be invisible.

      Ada presses a glass of something cold into my hand and I sip it automatically as I study him. He has the face of a classical statue, all strong angles rendered soft and beautiful as if by a practiced sculptor. His eyes are the misty green of shipwreck glass, and indeed I fear they could lure me to a stormy fate. Because if I’m understanding the look he keeps throwing in Mr. Pierce’s direction, he’s jealous of his friend. The light fluttery feeling in my stomach hardens and sours.

      Damn Catherine. Damn her and her beauty and her cunning and the way she always comes out on top. And damn John Barrett too. I hardly know him, yet I would have thought someone so grounded, so sober, would be impervious to her charms.

      The drinks are finished and Emeline is near to bouncing out of her skin. I clear my throat, bringing Mr. Barrett out of his reverie, and Catherine and Mr. Pierce out of their private conversation. “Should we go for a walk?”

      * * *

      Outside, the thickness of the air hits me like a wall, and I immediately wish I had finished that drink. Emeline skips ahead. Where does she get that endless energy? It’s a labor just to breathe in this heat and humidity. We’re barely out of the yard when Catherine stops in her tracks, her arm laced through Mr. Pierce’s.

      “Mr. Pierce wishes to see...” She trails off, giggling into his shoulder. “What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Pierce?”

      “Rumor has it you have the finest...roses...in New Oldbury,” Mr. Pierce declares with good humor, “and your sister has graciously offered to show me.”

      They head off in the opposite direction.

      “Your sister is rather fond of roses,” Mr. Barrett observes.

      I look up at him, surprised. But then, of course he would remember that she was arranging roses the other day, and he probably saved the one she gave him as a keepsake.

      “I suppose so.” I don’t care what flowers Catherine likes. I don’t care what little tricks and pretty things she says to get her way.

      “And you, what’s your favorite flower?”

      He’s either trying to be polite, or mask the fact that he’s interested in Catherine’s preferences. I shrug, hardly attempting to keep the irritation from my voice. “Foxglove, I suppose,” I say offhandedly. “Or poppies.”

      Emeline is growing restless. “We can look at flowers on the way,” she says, before Mr. Barrett can respond. Then she’s dragging him by the hand down the path.

      “In the poem the mermaids ride dolphins and wear crowns of seaweed and pearls. Catherine says they aren’t real but she’s never looked so how can she know for sure?”

      Mr. Barrett slowly brings his attention back to us and looks down at her. “Well, she may be right. You probably won’t find any mermaids in the pond.”

      Emeline’s face falls. I’m torn between scooping her up and hugging her or giving Mr. Barrett a harsh word.

      But before I can do either, he’s crouching down and squinting off in the direction of the pond. Then he shakes his head. “No, this isn’t the right weather for mermaids,” he says solemnly.

      Emeline studies his face, not sure if he’s putting her on or not. “What do you mean?”

      “Well,” he says, frowning as if in deep thought, “mermaids usually keep to the ocean. That’s where all the dolphins and pearls are after all. No, I shouldn’t think the mermaids would trouble themselves with a little pond.” Seeing her face, he quickly amends, “Unless perhaps they are at the deepest part, where humans can’t find them. Quite shy, are mermaids.”

      She stares at him, enraptured. Then she turns to me, hands on hips. “We just came from the ocean and I never thought to look for a mermaid in the harbor.” Exasperated, she heaves a sigh and tramps on ahead of us.

      I can’t help smiling, and I almost forgive Mr. Barrett his weakness for falling under Catherine’s sway. Almost.

       8

      I’M WALKING A few steps behind them. Mr. Barrett has stripped down to his waistcoat, his riding coat slung over his arm, white sleeves rolled up revealing tanned arms taut with lean muscles. Perhaps there are some benefits to this heat after all.

      Snip bounces at Emeline’s and Mr. Barrett’s ankles, then doubles back to make sure I’m coming before bounding off again. I can’t help but think of the day I met Mr. Barrett in the woods and how different he had been then, smiling and warm and eager. And then he had found out who we were and the door slammed shut.

      We climb the little hill behind the house, past the summerhouse and back down into the woods. Sunlight filters in through the glass-green canopy above. It’s cooler here, but only just, and the air is thicker with moisture. I wipe the sweat from my brow and wish I hadn’t done my laces so tightly this morning.

      The air is quiet and still, charged with an uneasy energy. It’s an alive thing, prickly and filled with restless spirits. Cicadas and crickets grind away, and bullfrogs hold their breath until we pass, then join the chorus. If I stand still and listen closely it almost sounds like whispers. Yet for all the oppressive heat, the farther away from the house we get, the lighter I feel, as if a weight is gradually being lifted from my shoulders. I run to catch up with Emeline and Mr. Barrett.

      A bird calls out above us, and a moment later a streak of yellow flashes between the branches. “Oh! That looks like a golden thrush, doesn’t it, Mr. Barrett? A male, I believe.”

      “Hmm? СКАЧАТЬ