The Near Witch (15 page)

I
REACH A NEST OF HOMES
just south of the sisters’ cottage and the center of town. Houses are sparse on the eastern side, as if the villagers lean, like grass, away from Magda and Dreska.

I’m cutting through the cluster of houses, thinking over my plan, when a small boy darts out, followed by the muffled protests of his mother. Riley Thatcher.

Eight years old and as sharp as a bundle of sticks, Riley sprints across the yard, stumbles in the dirt, and is up again in a blink. But in that moment something is different. Missing. He’s already heading for another house when I catch sight of the small thing left in the weedy grass. I kneel and lift the sisters’ charm, the pouch of moss and sweet earth, its cord now broken.

“Riley,” I call after him, and the boy turns back. I catch up and return the pouch to him. He nods, smiles, and shoves it in his pocket just as a woman’s hand clamps down on the back of his shirt.

“Riley Thatcher, you march yourself inside; I told you not to come out.”

Mrs. Thatcher turns him about-face with one hand and gives him a firm shove back through the doorway. I suppress a laugh as she sighs.

“He’s so restless. They all are. Not used to being shut inside while the sun’s still up,” she says.

My laugh dies away. “I know. Wren’s allowed to run errands with our mother, but she still misses her freedom. Thankfully it’s been damp. If the sun comes out for too long, we’ll have to tie her to a chair.”

Mrs. Thatcher nods sympathetically. “But with all that’s happening, what else can we do? And that stranger, nowhere to be found.”

“What are people saying?”

She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “Don’t you know? They’re scared. It doesn’t look good for a stranger to show up here, the day before all of this…” She waves her hand, gesturing to the cottages, to the footprints Riley made in the dirt, to everything.

“That doesn’t mean he’s responsible.”

She looks me over, and sighs.

“Come inside, dear,” she says. “No reason to talk in the open air. Especially with the weather fickle as it is.”

I cast a nervous glance back at the sky, but the sun is still high enough, so I follow her in.

Mrs. Thatcher is a strong woman. She has a way with her hands, like my mother, and she makes most of the village’s pots and bowls. Where Riley and his father look like sticks connected with rough twine, she is shaped like one of her pots. But round as her sides might be, her eyes are ever sharp. She does not treat me like a child. She and my mother have always been close. Even closer before my mother became a ghost.

“The stranger, what did you say his name was?” She wipes her hands on a towel that always rests on her shoulder.

“I didn’t. It’s Cole.”

“Well, he hasn’t said a word to anyone in the village. And now they go to question him, and he disappears. And I gather it’s not the first time they tried to find him. I say good riddance if he’s gone, and fair hunting if he’s not.”

“But it’s
not
Cole.”

She turns back to the table, preparing a tray.

“Really, now? And how are you so sure, Lexi Harris?”

I swallow. She won’t believe it’s the Near Witch. “Mrs. Thatcher,” I whisper confidingly, leaning forward like Wren does, “I’ve been searching, too, at night. And that boy Cole has been
helping
me. He’s smart. He’s a good tracker. I’m a lot closer to finding the real thief because of him.”

Her back is to me, but I know she’s listening.

“Otto and his men have no idea who’s taking the children, and they don’t want to look like fools, so they picked Cole. They could have picked anyone. And if they run him from the village, we might never find out who’s really taking the children.”

“He’ll be lucky if that’s all they do.”

My throat tightens. “What are they going to do?”

Mrs. Thatcher sets a plate of cookies on the table between us, circular disks that look as hard and set as her pottery. Within moments, Riley is there, snatching two or three in a single swipe. Mrs. Thatcher’s large hand catches his arm before the cookies can make their way into his pocket. Riley has a wicked grin that reminds me of Tyler when he was that age. I watch as his free hand slips two more cookies into his back pocket.

“Off with you, Riley,” she says, and the boy takes one more swipe at the tray and cheerfully departs, having gathered half a dozen cookies between his pockets and palms. I lift one, biting into it politely. The cookie resists. I bite down until my teeth ache, but it’s no use, so I lower it into my lap.

She gnaws on a cookie, her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know, Lexi. Everyone is growing restless. They want to see someone pay. Do you really think the stranger is innocent?”

“I do. I’m sure of it. Do you believe me?”

“Oh, I’m inclined to,” she says with a sigh. “But unless you and your friend find those children soon, it won’t matter what I’m inclined to think.”

And I know she’s right. I push myself up and thank Mrs. Thatcher for the cookies, and for listening. She smiles, tight but genuine. As I step outside, the cold air bites at my cheeks and hands. The sun slips lower. I turn back and find her waiting in the doorway to see me off. But when I go to thank her again, she is looking past me, her mouth a thin line and her hands crossed over her broad stomach. I turn to see a crow circling overhead, a black smudge against the pale sky.

“You need to convince those who’ve lost,” she says, still staring at the bird. “Those with missing children. The Harps, the Porters, the Drakes. I’ve heard Master Matthew has taken this hard.”

Master Matthew
. And then my mind lurches. Matthew Drake. The third member of the Council. And Edgar and Helena’s
grandfather
.

“If you can find the children, do it fast,” Mrs. Thatcher says beneath her breath. And with that she slips back inside the house. But I’m already moving as fast as I can. My mind is racing and my heart is racing and my feet are catching up. I’m off toward Helena’s house.

Three people once knew where the witch was buried. That much I know.

The sun is slipping slowly down the edge of the sky as I head for the Drake house.

Three people. The members of the Council. When Dreska was fighting with Master Tomas, she called him a keeper of secrets and forgotten truths. Is the witch’s grave a secret that would have been passed down from Council to Council? I have to hope the knowledge has lasted this long. My only chance of finding the grave is to coax the answer from one of them.

Master Tomas fought with Dreska, and I can tell by his tone that he won’t budge.

Master Eli supposedly ordered Bo to plant the evidence, so he’s of no use either.

But Master Matthew
Drake
. He has been strangely absent during all of this. And the loss of a grandchild might be enough to sway any foundation. If there’s a chance of learning where the witch was buried, it lies with him.

I catch sight of Helena a field’s length before their home, and my feet drag to a halt. The guilt sits like stones in the pockets of my dress, like a bad taste in the back of my throat.

She looks wasted away, even from here. I urge my feet forward. I should have come sooner. Not to interrogate her, but to see how she was faring. My cheeks are burning from the run and the cold air, and when I reach Helena I see that her face is red, too, but in different ways. Red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks. Her cool blond hair is tied back against the wind, and she’s washing clothes in a stream.

Helena has been transformed. Cheerful Helena, my Helena—who craved the eyes and ears of the village when she announced she’d seen the stranger, when she joked about how attractive he was—now looks gaunt, exhausted. She hums to herself, wandering through melodies like a ghost through rooms. Every now and then the melody strays into the Witch’s Rhyme. As I draw closer I can see her hands, red from the cold of the water. When she catches sight of me she tries to smile, a tug of her lips that is closer to a grimace. I slide down beside her in the grass, and wait. She continues rinsing something dark and blue. A boy’s shirt. I wrap my arms around her shoulders.

“I want everything to be ready for when Edgar comes back,” she says, wringing her brother’s little blue shirt out over the water. “That way he’ll know we haven’t forgotten him.” Her fingers keep twisting the fabric. “I hope they find that stranger,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound like her own. “I hope they kill him.”

The words hurt, but I don’t let her see.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper against her cheek. It takes several moments before her hands stop making their small desperate motions over the clothing. I pull back enough to look at her, surprised at the sudden heat in her eyes. “We’ll find Edgar. I’ve been looking, too, every night.”

“Where have you been?” Her voice is so low and strained, I can feel my own throat closing. “All the others have come to see us,” she says, her voice sliding even lower as she adds, “to see
me
.” She breaks the look, letting her gaze escape out over the river. I start to say I’m sorry again—such a useless phrase, but I have to say something—when Helena cuts me off.

“Have you been tracking the stranger? That’s how you’ll find Edgar.”

I shake my head. “The search party is spreading lies, Helena. They do not know who, or what, is taking the children, and they are accusing this poor stranger because they have no suspect. But it’s not him. I know it.” I take her hands from the water, where they are still working furiously, and pull them out, trying to warm them with my own.

“What do you know?” she says, wrenching her hands from mine. “Would you be so sure if Wren was missing?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t seem to care. “I just want my brother back.” Her voice is quiet again. “He must be so scared.”

“I’m going to find Edgar,” I say. “But please don’t blame Cole.”

She looks shocked that I know the stranger’s name.

“He’s been helping me, Helena,” I whisper. “We’re getting closer to finding the real culprit. We all want answers,” I say, tucking a strand of stray blond hair behind her ear, and turning her face to mine. “But it’s not him.”

“What am I supposed to think, Lexi? Mr. Porter swore he saw him near Cecilia’s the night before last, when she vanished. And now Mr. Ward, he says he saw him outside our house the night Edgar disappeared.”

The breeze picks up, and I fight back a shiver as the sun seems to slip lower before my eyes. Helena puts her hands back in the icy water, and doesn’t flinch.

“It was the middle of the night,” I press. “How could they swear they saw anything besides darkness? I don’t want to argue with you, but think about it—why didn’t that other witness come forward sooner? Yesterday they claim someone saw him near Cecilia’s house, but no one said he was by yours. Today they suddenly add another, earlier sighting? And what was Tyler’s father even doing out this way at night? Any minute now someone will jump up and say they saw him by Emily’s window, too, when really they were all sleeping in their beds.”

I wait for her to agree, to flick her hair or make a comment on the Council, on the strangeness of it, on
anything
.

She just pushes another piece of clothing beneath the water.

I stand and brush a few leaves from my skirt. This is a waste. Wherever Helena is,
my
Helena, she’s not here.

“Where’s your grandfather?”

She waves a raw hand in the direction of her house.

“I’ll come back soon. I promise.” With that I turn and leave my friend by the icy stream.