Witch Hunter by Virginia Boecker

Author:Virginia Boecker [Boecker, Virginia]
Language: por
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

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,

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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 grey 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-

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white checkerboard floors. Rich wood-panelled 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 towards 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

coloured silk jacket and velvet trousers. ‘What happened

to you lot?’

He looks us over. John’s still covered in mud. Fifer’s got

streaks of dirt on her face and grass tangled in her hair. I’m

sure I look just as bad. George is the only one who looks

moderately clean. How does he do that?

John – in an absurdly loud voice – fills him in about

our run-in with the guards.

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