The Jezebel (Taskill Witches 3)

Maisie estimated he was no more than sixteen. Roderick had picked her a good companion to work with. The other, older men were less friendly, watching her with suspicion that aroused a sense of foreboding in her bones, the wariness that Cyrus had taught her to feel whenever attention was on her. It made her think that the shipmen might know the truth about her, but she reminded herself of the captain’s warning, that the men simply did not want a woman aboard. There was no reason they would think her anything other than a normal young woman who wished to travel to her kin.

When she occasionally craned her neck she could see men moving about on the level above. Roderick was there. She noticed how he checked the wind, the sails and the waters every few moments, acting on instinct, it seemed. When he called out for a sail change, he watched as the sailors leaped into action. His crew trusted him, and he didn’t want to put that at risk. He’d said he was responsible for everyone aboard, herself included. Maisie gained new, deeper respect for him as she watched him at work.

Later, she helped Adam gather rainwater from a barrel for the crew to drink as they came to the end of their watches. When she asked him a question, he often spoke in a foreign tongue before translating, the language of his own country.

“There is not much here,” she commented as the lad clambered almost wholly over the rim of the barrel to scoop out another flagon’s-worth from low inside.

“Ja. There was no time to take water on in London. Is bad.” He shook his head. “Three days out of port, there is only rum and grog to drink, but we will call at Lowestoft tomorrow and there will be new water then.” He grinned.

“Lowestoft?” Roderick had mentioned it. She had also heard the name before that, perhaps in her lessons, perhaps elsewhere in conversation. It was a port on the east coast of England. Maisie did not know how far they had traveled, so was unable to gauge how much farther it was until they reached Scotland. The captain had said they would be in Dundee within the week. That was pleasing enough. It would have taken her much longer by coach.

Adam nodded his head at the captain’s first mate, the man called Brady. “He visits with his woman there every time we pass this place, Lowestoft.”

Maisie was intrigued. Brady was the one who had given her the most suspicious looks of all the night before, and yet he had a woman of his own, something she did not imagine many of the other men had. Back at Billingsgate he’d shown his disapproval of her quite openly.

She watched as Roderick ambled over to Brady, and cocked her head to hear his voice.

“Pray for an east wind,” he told his first mate, “otherwise it will take the best part of a fortnight to reach the borderland.”

Pray for an east wind. Maisie turned away quickly, lest he see her furrowed brow.

Staring up at the skies, she observed what he had—endless blue skies strewn with wisps of cloud that did not move. It was her fault, because of her earlier experiment stilling the rough waters. She had inadvertently slowed the passage of the ship in her moment of exaltation. Her belly churned as she realized her mistake. Now she would have to rectify that. It was not her intention to create magic anywhere she might be observed, but it seemed she must correct her earlier error and be quick about it.

With her head turned to the waves, so no one might observe, she beckoned the east wind to them, quietly chanting the ancient words that harnessed the elements. A moment later, her hair swept up, lifted by a dramatic change in the breeze that pulled it free of its pins. It was exciting to see the clouds scudding across the sky once more. Her magic had always been powerful, nurtured as it was by her guardian, but she had been able to contain her reaction. To see her gift realized out here on the open seas caused her to be elated. The ship swayed dramatically, but Maisie was quickly able to adjust her stance, moving in rhythm to counter each pitch and toss.

She didn’t dare turn back and see Roderick’s reaction. She heard him nonetheless, commenting on it and referring to their luck. When his voice faded, she glanced quickly and saw him stride back toward the place he had called the helm. The deck rolled and pitched, and more sails were unraveled to catch the wind on his

order.

Then she heard another voice, close by. “I recognize that tongue. It was Pictish.”

Maisie spun on her heel.

“Those words were Pictish, were they not?”

Her heart beat wildly. She’d been observed making magic.

The man before her was aged, his face deeply wrinkled, his hair and beard full and white. Maisie recalled him from the night before. He’d been one of the three men who stood waiting for the captain to return from town, and he’d scaled the nets almost as fast as his counterparts, despite the fact she could now see how bent over he was.

There was a watchful, suspicious look in his wily eyes.

The fear and caution that Cyrus had bred in her thundered back tenfold, stripping her of the pleasure that she’d had in the magical moment, unnerving her once more. “Always protect yourself,” Master Cyrus had instructed. “Never let anyone know, never let anyone but me see what you can do. If you do, you risk facing what your mother faced.”

It was every bit as dangerous as her master had warned. She was barely two days away from him, and someone had observed her making magic.

“Words my mother taught me,” she replied. That much was true. “From an old song about the Highlands.” That part was somewhat embroidered, but she was eager to deflect his attention.

“A song from the Highlands?” He cocked his head. “Now that would be most pleasing to hear.”

The man was barely as high as her shoulder, crooked as he was. Yet when he peered at her, Maisie felt his scrutiny. Had he recognized the words? He knew their origins, but did he know their meaning? It was hard to gauge how much danger she was in.

She offered him a smile, hoping it might sweeten him. “I know some songs.”

“All Pictish?”

She shook her head. “I know only a few lines of the old tongue, but I also speak Gaelic and Scottish. I can sing a song from the Highlands for you in English, if it pleases you.”

He stared at her still, waiting on the song, beady eyes narrowed.