The Witch Hunter by Boecker Virginia

Author:Boecker, Virginia [Boecker, Virginia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Juvenile Fiction / Fantasy & Magic, Juvenile Fiction / Action & Adventure / General, Juvenile Fiction / Love & Romance
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2015-06-02T07:00:00+00:00

ANOTHER HOUR PASSES, AND THE sky begins to grow dark. The rain that has dogged us most of the day has turned back into snow, coming at us in gusts and swirling around our feet. Eventually we reach a crossing, the road splitting into two lanes. One is wide and well paved, leading into town. The other road is barely that—footprints in an expanse of knee-high grass that looks as if it’s been walked on maybe twice in the last month. John checks his map again and, of course, that’s the road we take.

The snow falls faster and harder, and what little path we had is swallowed by snow and darkness. Every now and again I catch a flash of red in the sky, blinking in the darkness like a crimson star. Spook lights, I suppose; we must be nearing a bog or a marsh of some sort. I just hope we don’t have to cross it. While bog spooks aren’t dangerous, they are very irritating. They’ll make you play a thousand stupid games before letting you cross the water in peace. I’m too tired to deal with that right now.

Finally, we come upon a series of hills, each steeper than the last. I lose my footing on the icy ground a few times, so John walks beside me, holding my arm to keep me steady.

“How much longer?” Fifer moans. “I’m cold, I’m hungry, my feet hurt—”

“We should be coming up on it now,” John says. We crest another hill, the steepest one so far. When we reach the top, John points to the valley below. “There it is.”

Humbert’s house. It’s more castle than home, really, built entirely from gray stone and surrounded by an enormous square moat. Only a pair of arched footbridges joins the house with the surrounding land. It might look like a fortress were it not for all the ivy, the leaves gone red for the winter, lacing the stones like veins. Multiple gardens fill the landscape, cut through with ponds and more arching bridges. The whole thing is covered in a light dusting of snow, like a dream.

We scurry down the hill and cross the bridge that leads to the inner courtyard. The house is less imposing here, more domestic: half-timbered walls, diamond-paned windows, a large stone fountain. When we reach the front door, it swings open almost immediately and a doorman ushers us into an impressive entrance hall. Glittering brass and crystal chandeliers. Shiny black-and-white checkerboard floors. Rich wood-paneled walls, hung with a series of oil paintings. Tasteful nudes, nothing violent here at all. There’s a particularly nice one of Venus and Cupid that takes up nearly an entire wall.

“Hullo!” booms a voice. I look around to see Humbert Pembroke waddling toward us, a large glass of brandy in his hand. He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him: very short, very portly, dressed finely in a brightly colored silk jacket and velvet trousers. “What happened to you lot?”

He looks us over.

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