Weather Witch Read Free Page B

fail.
    “Here,” he said, scooping the water and pressing the ladle against her thin, pale lips. Water poured across her cheeks and chin, spilling down her throat to soak into the linen shift she wore.
    She shivered and choked, but she swallowed. She drank. So he scooped more and poured more and she sputtered, her already large eyes going wider. He slowed the flow of liquid, letting her catch up with a few eager swallows before she shook her head and mumbled something.
    “What?”
    Her eyes, now slightly brighter, remained unfocused and her lips fluttered before she had air enough behind her thoughts to form words. She blinked at him, coughed, and tried once more.
    Her voice strained and small, she said, “They come. And there is naught to be done for it.”
    She gasped and the stormcell in his lantern blazed so bright blue he fell backward, blinded. The lantern flew from his hands, glass splintering as the thing burst into pieces, the glaring soul stone tumbling free and into the thick and dusty hay.
    By the time it returned to its normal intensity and most of his vision was back, Sybil was the cold of death, the very same cold as wildly running water.
    “The stone,” Bran hissed, sifting through the wet straw and grime, his fingers blackening with filth as he hunted for the elusive sparkle of a soul stone. “Aaah!” he exclaimed, pulling his hand up to his face, glass sticking out of it like porcupine quills. “Damnnn…” Bleeding and cursing, he pulled the splinters free, and stood to sweep the floor with his booted foot instead, fingers plunged into his mouth and filling it with the taste of iron and dirt.
    His stomach dropped when he heard the distinct sound of something scraping across the last bit of a grate before clinking its way into the darkness of the room’s single and filthy drain.
    The soul stone was as good as gone.

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
    For there is no friend like a sister
    In calm or stormy weather …
    —CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSETTI
    Philadelphia
    In the generously appointed rooms that Jordan Astraea called her own, there was a flurry of activity in preparation for her natal day celebration.
    “No. No!” a young woman in a fine gown snapped, swatting away a servant’s hands as they tried to fix her friend’s hair just so. “Laura, leave it be,” Catrina demanded.
    The seated girl spoke, her voice soft, nearly shy. “Chloe…”
    Another servant, this one older than the first by a dozen years and larger by at least the same number of pounds, stepped forward, her hands flying up to adjust the calico bandana always knotted crisply atop her head. “Yes, Miss Jordan, milady?” She curtsied, spreading her heavy broadcloth skirts with hands the color and scent of exotic spices and more tropical climes.
    “Please do go see to my good lady mother.”
    Chloe nodded. “But your hair…” she said in echo to Laura’s earlier protestation. “You have not all your ribbons in place.”
    Jordan groaned, leaning back on her damask-padded bench as far as her dress’s snug bodice allowed. “Leave it be,” she requested.
    “Indeed,” Catrina added. “Leave it be. Surely we can handle such a mundane task.”
    Chloe blinked. “If miladies so desire.”
    Drawing each word out with a separate breath Catrina Hollindale, ranked Fourth of the Nine, said, “We so desire.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “Do go on now,” she urged the servants. “I daresay women of our status can finish placing a few ribbons.”
    Chloe again nodded. “Far be it from me to argue with her ladyship, but it is precisely due to your superior rank and status that we merrily dress your hair for you.”
    “Chloe.” Catrina’s tone was thick with warning. “Go now before I become quite cross and throw something at you.”
    Both the servants and Jordan glanced at the walls, papered with boldly alternating stripes and vines and covered in numerous equally bold nicks and dings from the girls’ frequent