You are on page 1of 35

Includes

bonus map
and tear-out
bookmark!

SNEAK PEEK

THE WITCHS CHILD, BOOK 1


THE WITCHS CHILD, BOOK 1

CATHERINE EGAN
CATHERINE EGAN
CATHERINE EGAN
ALFRED A. KNOPF
NEW YORK

ALFRED
A. KNOPF
#JuliaVanishes
NEW YORK

ALFRED A. KNOPF
NEW YORK

Egan_9780553524840_2p_all_r1.indd 3

KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK. . . .

10/22/15 10:2

this is a borzoi book published by alfred a. knopf


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Catherine Egan
Jacket art copyright 2016 by TK
Map copyright 2016 by TK
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint
of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC,
New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Datadatadata
The text of this book is set in 13-point Adobe Jenson.
Printed in the United States of America
June 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books
supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

ATTENTION, READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT

The cab crosses the bridge by Cyrambel Temple, and Jani hears

herself say, Ill get out here.


Here? asks her companion, still bouncing the sleepy baby in her
lap. Surely not. I dont know Lord Snow, but I can tell you he doesnt
live here. Nobody lives here.
It isnt far, says Jani, laughing, though she cannot remember at
the moment where Lord Snow and his family reside. She has the address in her purse; she just needs to get out, gather her thoughts. She
doesnt know and will not have time to wonder what compels her. She
is sorry to leave her companion and the beautiful child. They have
traveled by train all the way from the south together, agreed to share
the cab because they were going to the same part of the city.
You sure? asks the cabbie, also skeptical. There is nothing here
but the temple, the river, the empty bridge.
I fancy a bit of a walk, she says.
Tisnt safe, miss, says the cabbie.
Ill be fine. She turns to her companion. Thank you for keeping me company. Please give me your address. Were both new to the
citywe could get to know it together.
1

Of course. Her companion takes a pen and a bit of notepaper


from her own purse, writes swiftly, folds the paper, and presses it into
Janis hand. The smell of rotten flowers wafts through the cab. Take
care, she says.
You also, says Jani. Impulsively, she leans over and kisses the
woman on her cheek. She kisses the baby too.
Say bye-bye, Theo, says her companion, and little Theo waves a
fat hand. Bah-bah.
The cabriolet pulls away into the night, and Jani is alone in the
shadow of the temple. Someone is waiting for her. She knows that
much. She is afraid too, and yet here she is. She unfolds the paper
her companion gave her. She can only just make out the words in the
dark:

Forget me
She looks after the cab, puzzled, trying to remember who gave her
the paper. Lord Snows house in Forrestal is a long way off, and the
night is cold.
What am I doing? she says aloud.
The soft hand on her throat comes like an answer to her question,
choking off her scream. In one swift motion the blade cuts her loose of
the dark night and all that was to come.

ONE

The floor is cold under my bare feet. Florence and Chloe

are breathing deeply, not stirring. I would guess it to be an


hour or more after midnight. The rusted springs of my cot
shriek when I rise, but the two sleeping figures are undisturbed. They are used to the sound, no doubt, as the beds
scream like murder victims whenever we roll over. I step past
their beds lightly, let my hand slide around the doorknob.
The door doesnt squeakjust last week I oiled the hinges
and took apart, cleaned, and reassembled the knob. There
was nothing to be done about the bedsprings. Moonlight
slips between the curtains, giving some light to the little attic
room where we housemaids sleep, but the staircase is dark.
In one hand I have a candle, unlit in its iron holder. With the
other hand I shut the door behind me.
The main bedrooms are on the third floor, along with the
bathroom. The clock on the landing tells me it is nearing two
in the morning, but I can still see a light under Fredericks

door. That doesnt worry me. Most likely he fell asleep over
a book. The stairs leading to the second floor are wider. I
skip down them quickly, a hand to the wall to guide me in
the dark. I know every floorboard that creaks, and my descent is soundless. Here is the library, the music room, Mrs.
Ochs reading room, and my destination tonight: Professor
Baranyis study. We do not clean this room, so I have never
been inside. It is locked at night.
Not that a lock is any great impediment.
There is no light coming from under the door, but I press
my ear to it and listen just in case. With my free hand, I
slip a pin from my hair and flatten it out. Im not a practiced
lockpick, but I have the basic skills and get it open in under
a minute.
Ive stitched a match into the hem of my nightdress. Shutting the door behind me, I feel my way to the hearth and
strike the match against the stone. Once the candle is lit,
the room leaps into view around me, bookcases looming, the
furniture sending monstrous, grasping shadows my way. Ive
never been one to quake at shadows: I make my way straight
for Professor Baranyis desk.
The professor is not a tidy man, to put it mildly. Precariously stacked books and papers cover every inch of space.
Three ashtrays overflow with cigarette butts, there are two
half-full glasses perched dangerously atop a pile of large
leather-bound folders, and his inkpot lies open, pen leaking
onto the blotter.
It would help if I knew what I was looking for.

A soft sound behind memy imagination turns it into a


handkerchief being pulled out of a pocketand I freeze.
Hooo, comes a fluting little voice. I nearly laugh aloud
with relief. On a perch in the corner is a small brown owl,
blinking at me.
Sorry, I whisper. Go back to sleep.
Hooo, murmurs the owl, shrugging its wings and resettling itself.
I turn back to Professor Baranyis desk, lift my candle, and
scan the books and papers around the blotter, whatever he
was looking at before he retired to bed. Esme taught me to
read, and I can read quickly and well, even the most ungainly,
misspelled scrawl. I shuffle through his papers: an old clipping from a journal about a lake somewhere that has mysteriously dried up, lists of names with some of them crossed out,
figures without context, lists of cities and countries. A circle
around one name in a long list: Jahara SandorHostorak 15c.
That brings me up short. Hostorak is the impenetrable prison
where witches and folklore practitioners and other abusers of
magic await execution. It is a great gray monolith behind the
parliament, the ugliest building in all of Spira City, and the
most terrifying. I commit the name, Jahara Sandor, and 15c
to memory, without knowing what they might mean.
At the back of the study, there is a long workbench with
scientific instruments, but I dont know how they work. I
turn to the bookshelves instead, which line the entire room.
At the bottom of one shelf, I find a locked glass cabinet full
of books. There. Anything with a lock on it is bound to be

interesting. I wiggle the hairpin until the lock gives and slide
the case open. I can see why these books are locked up, with
titles like A Scientific Analysis of Elemental Forces at Work and
Legends of the Xianren I through Legends of the Xianren VII. Ive
heard of the Xianrenmythical, winged wizards in the old
days who could supposedly speak their magic. Folklorish
stuff. I shouldnt be surprisedProfessor Baranyi spent a
number of years in prison for heretical writings, and you can
go to prison just for owning books like these. So you see, Im
not snooping through the private rooms of honest, upstanding citizens of Frayne. Criminals every way I turn.
My hand is on Legends of the Xianren I, pulling it off the
shelf, when I hear a creak on the stairs. I push the book back
and slide the glass door shut, blowing out the candle. I work
the cabinet lock shut again, but there is no time to get to
the door. I hear a key in the lock as I tread softly through
the dark. I bump against a sedan chair piled with books and
freeze, afraid of knocking something over. There is some
fumbling with the door, as I left it unlocked, and whoever is
at the door has mistakenly locked it again. But he tries the
key again, and opens the door.
I draw in a slow breath and release it. The door opens and
light pours into the room. It is Professor Baranyi with a lantern. He is wearing a thick robe and house slippers. By day
he is an affable, genial-looking man, but the light from the
lantern makes his swarthy, bearded face look sinister. He
drops the key into his robe pocket, glances around the room,
and then goes to the owl on its perch and scratches it under

its beak. The owl nibbles at his fingers and bobs its head in
my direction. Treacherous little thing. But Professor Baranyi
does not look my way, going instead to his desk. He places
the lantern atop a pile of books on the floor that reaches to
the height of the desk, and fumbles in the drawer for a cigarette.
I bite back my curses. Hes going to be a while.

In my sixteen years, Ive seen as much as, or more than, someone five times my age, and Ive acquired a number of unusual
skills. Some of those skills required endless practice, while
others came to me more naturally. One particular skill has
always been mine. I dont know what to call it, except to say
that I have the ability to be unseen. Its not invisibility or anything so absolutethis I learned from hard experience when
I was a child. But there is a space I can step into, a space between being myself in the world and I know not what, where
peoples eyes simply pass over me, as if I were a piece of furniture so ordinary they barely take it in. Since I got the hang of
doing it on purpose, only one person has been able to see me
when I did not intend her to.
I watch the professor as if through a fogged window now,
everything slightly blurred. He reaches for one of the leather
folders, moving the glasses of who knows what. I clench my
jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. The house is frigid at
night, and I hope he will think to light the fire.
He licks his finger and turns a page. I try to warm myself

by thinking about Wyn. Wyn feeding pigeons on the roof.


Wyn pulling off his boots and tossing them aside. Wyn by
firelight, reaching for me. Wyns mouth. I feel something run
through me whenever he flashes his wild smile or throws
his head back to laugh so you can see his back teeth and the
brown stretch of his throat. That laugh! How it shreds me,
every single time. I think of Wyns fingers brushing up and
down my arms, his hand moving around to the small of my
back, his breath like wine and smoke and something else,
something sweet. Now Im warming up, and the minutes fly
by for a time.
But even thoughts of Wyn, with his clever fingers and his
sweet lips, can only get me through so much of the night in
phantom form. Shivering violently, toes curled against the
icy floor, fingers aching from gripping the candlestick, I run
through every curse I know in my head. Professor Baranyi
is deep in his leather-bound volume and shows no sign of
returning to bed. Soon Florence and Chloe will be rising to
begin the days work. I imagine them waking up, finding me
gone from my bed and nowhere in the house. What will they
say to Mrs. Och? How will I explain my absence? I cant leave
the room without being caught, and I cant not leave the room
without creating a whole new set of difficulties for myself.
I am weighing the possible disastrous outcomes of this
night when a great crash comes from below us, followed by
a long, low howl. The professors head shoots up. Another
crash, like steel on stone, and a roar to wake the dead. Its
not the first time Ive heard such sounds from the cellar, but

never quite so terrible as this. The professor leaps from his


seat and goes straight for the locked cabinet of books. My
heart gives a jump as he fumbles it open. Footsteps on the
stairs above, and a moment later Frederick bursts into the
room, gangly and half-awake.
Is it a reaction? he asks.
The professor is pulling all the books out of the cabinet.
He reaches behind them and appears to slide open a panel. I
can hardly contain my delightthis night will not be a waste
after all. He emerges with a black case. The sound of wood
splintering makes us all start. The professor curses. He takes
something out of the case and hands it to Frederick, but they
have their backs to me, and I cant see what it is. I am distracted, anyway, by the sound of something on the lower
stairs, and then a snarl in the hall, chillingly close.
Frederick and the professor run together to the door just as
a large, dark shadow flashes past. Frederick aims some kind
of triangular instrument about a hands width in size. There
is a hissing sound, a strangled cry, then a thud as something
hits the ground, hard. The two men seem to exhale as one,
Frederick leaning against the doorjamb, Professor Baranyi
taking a handkerchief out of his robe pocket and mopping
his brow.
So much for the soothing properties of amethyst, eh?
says the professor, and Frederick gives a short laugh. I think
he is trembling, but it is hard to be sure from my blurred
vantage point.
We need a new door, he says. Steel.

Yes. Well see to it in the morning.


And then what? Surely weve tried everything.
Not everything, says the professor. But close.
They are silent for a moment, staring into the hall at whatever it is. Then Frederick hands the professor the peculiar
instrumentlike a miniature crossbow, I see nowand
says, Ill take care of this.
The professor nods, and Frederick closes the door behind
him, blast him. Professor Baranyi seems quite steady now,
muttering to himself as he returns the black case to its hidden compartment, arranging his set of forbidden books in
front of it. Back at his desk, he stares harder at the volume
before him. I dont know how to make sense of what Ive just
witnessed, but my heart is thundering, and I cant stand still
any longer. I begin to make my way across the room.
When I am in a crowd, the movement of others seems to
open pockets of space that I can vanish into and move within.
Moving through a still room while keeping myself behind
that membrane of the visible is much more difficultsort of
like trying to write different things with each hand. But the
professor doesnt look up as I head for the door. I wait until
he seems entirely lost in his book. Then, too fast, I reach for
the knob and open the door, losing my equilibrium. Everything comes sharply into focus.
He starts and stares, and I am caught.
Sir! I cry, pivoting on my heel as if I were coming in
rather than going out. I heard terrible sounds coming from
downstairs, sir!

10

Professor Baranyi pushes his spectacles up his nose to look


at me in the dying lanternlight. Miss . . . ? he says, not remembering my name.
Ella, I say. I was going to the privy, sirsorry, sirand
I heard the most awful bashing and hollering. Im sorry, sir; I
was afraid, and I saw your light.
Hoo-hoooo, says the little brown owl, shifting from one
foot to the other, delighted by all the excitement.
I dont hear anything, says the professor, rising. I can see
his confusion at finding me in his room fading already as he
accepts the more reasonable explanation: that I was coming
in, not going out.
Its stopped, I say. Is it something got into the cellar, do
you think? Is Mr. Darius all right down there?
Mr. Darius is the ailing, aristocratic houseguest who has
a room in the cellar and, as far as I can tell, keeps a very
unhappy nocturnal pet. I only hope he is not the cause of
the suffering down there. Wondering about it gives me chills
every time I have to pour his coffee.
Theres no need to worry, Edna, says Professor Baranyi
soothingly.
Ella, I correct him, then bite my tongue, wishing I hadnt.
Quitepardon me. There is a door down there that
needs fixing, you see. The wind catches it sometimes and
makes some awful echoing sounds in the passageway. We
must see to it, but please dont be frightened.
Hes not a bad liar, if not near as good as I am.
I look down at my bare feet. I shouldnt have barged in on

11

you. I was ever so frightened. But I ought not to have bothered you. Im so embarrassed, sir.
Nobody need hear about it, he comforts me, and I hope
he means it. Mrs. Och would be less inclined to credulous
sympathy, I somehow think. Now, perhaps you had better
get back to bed.
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I duck out the door.
The relief of moving again is tremendous. I nearly fly up
the stairs, slipping back into the housemaids room as quietly
as I can. I ease myself onto the cold sheets. The bed screams
its usual protest, and Florences eyes fly open.
Where were you? she says, in a cold and alarmingly
awake little voice.
Privy, I grunt back, pulling the blankets over me. After a
minute I give a snore, but I can feel her beady little eyes still
watching me.

12

TWO

The following day is Temple Day, and we housemaids

are given the day off. Besides Florence and Chloe, Frederick is the only member of the household to attend temple
with any regularity. I am supposedly going to my hometown
of Jepta, a nondescript village about an hour north of Spira
City. Gregor even took me out there once in case I encountered anyone who knew the place, made me walk around
memorizing alleyways and chatting with grocers and cobblers so that I would know their names. Esme, for her part,
concocted an impressively dull family for me; I have endless
dull details about them and their dullness to share should
anybody be interested, but nobody is. After all, Im just the
new housemaid.
Except, of course, that Im not.
Mrs. Och generously gives me the fare to Jepta, so I buy
myself a hot breakfast on Lirabon Avenue, sitting shoulder
to shoulder at the bar with the students and artists and poor

13

aristocrats who live in the area. Mrs. Ochs house is on Mikall


Street, in a well-to-do neighborhood near the bustling center
of the Scola, the university quarter, which hugs the southern bank of the river Syne. The Twist is just across the river
from here, an easy walk, but a gray sleet is falling, and I am
bristling with impatience, so I flag down a motor cabriolet. It
is still early, and the streets are relatively quiet. There are a
few miserable-looking horses pulling old-fashioned carriages
over the cobblestones, and I see one silent electric hackney
slipping by us down a side street, its occupants dressed all
in white. As we near Cyrambel Temple, hulking darkly between the Scola and the Twist on the very edge of the river
Syne, the street becomes impassable. Carriages and cabriolets are stopped, pedestrians in their temple-best clothes are
milling about and talking to strangers in an avid way that can
only mean one thing: a death.
Ill get out here, I tell the cabbie, and pay him with Mrs.
Ochs coins. I figure Ill be faster on foot.
I fight my way through the crowds to Anopine Bridge,
where I see the blue coats and feathered hats of the soldiers,
the police officers drab and glum in comparison. At the center of the fray is a blanket laid over what I assume is a body.
The pavement all around it is dark with blood.
Back off, girl, a soldier snarls, aiming a shove my way, but
I dodge his arm neatly and wink. His mouth twitches and he
turns his broad back on me.
What happened? I ask a gossipy-looking old hen in an
apron.
Girl from Nim! She rounds on me, delighted to have
14

somebody new to tell the story to. Theyve just identificated


her! She was to be governess to Lord Snows little ones!
Thats a shock. You dont often find wellborn girls dead on
bridges. The old hen sticks her face right in mine, and I can
smell her breakfast of salty broth and weak tea. You hear
about the banker in Nim they found just yesterday? The cabaret dancer the day before that?
I shake my head. Ive not left Mrs. Ochs house in a week
and dont pay much attention anyway to news from far-off
places. Nim is a port city in the south of Frayne. My mother
was born in a village not far from there. Ive never seen the
sea, myself.
Tops of their heads sliced off, she carries on gleefully.
And their brainsd been messed with! This one is just the
same, and this girl, she came from Nim on the train yesterday.
They found her ticket in her purse!
You reckon its a copycat, or the killer came with her?
someone asks. A small crowd is forming around us now to
hear the story told again.
Oh, the killers here in Spira City now, no doubt about
that, declares the hen authoritatively. I saw her body meself
before they covered her up. Shant recover from that sight, I
tell you! She affects a tragic mask, though as far as I can tell
this is the most exciting thing thats ever happened to her.
Move along, all of you! shouts one of the soldiers, but
the mass of bodies keeps pressing in, gaping and gossiping,
wanting a glimpse of the body. Soon the soldiers will start
threatening violence, and then the crowd will disperse.
I make my way across the bridge and into my old familiar
15

territory. Narrow streets wind their way between the


cramped apartments, groceries, and tobacconists. Stray cats
seek shelter from the sleet; glowering faces peer out of fogged
windows. Despite the weather, the market stalls are already
set up in Fitch Square and are spilling out into the surrounding alleyways. The broken statue of some kind of sea beast
burbles a bit of water into the fountain at the center of the
square. Esme owns several rooms on the east side of the
square, including mine and Deks. We get room and board,
and sometimes a little extra, depending on the job.
Esme was born the day of old King Zeys coronation, the
illegitimate daughter of a courtesan. Her mother died in
childbirth, and Esme grew up in the brothel, raised by seventeen whores, if you can imagine that. Now shes got a finger
in every unlawful pie but that one, having no taste for the
selling of bodies, and presides over her own little empire in
the Twist. Crime doesnt pay what it used to, with the Crown
building more prisons north of the city and hanging folks left
and right, but it still pays better than honest work. Since the
big men who used to run the Twist are mostly dead or in jail,
half the crooks around here work for Esme, who keeps a low
profile and doesnt take risks.
I head straight up to the main parlor, technically part of
Esmes apartment, but it is always open to us. Benedek, my
brother, is tinkering with a flat metallic object, but he raises a
distracted hand in greeting. A lock mechanism is in pieces on
the table in front of him. For the past few weeks, he has been
working on a magnetic lockpick that he claims will open anything. Esme is kneeling by the fire, blowing on it vigorously.
16

She rises, clapping the ashes from her hands, and gives me a
warm smile. I am of an average height, but Esme dwarfs me.
She wears mens trousers because shes impossible to fit for
dresses and cant be bothered to go to the expense of having
them made specially. Her short hair is nearly white, but her
face is only subtly lined.
Ill get you some coffee, love, she says, and hands me a
towel to dry my hair with. Good to see you.
You too, I say, toweling off and then throwing the towel
at Dek to make him look up. He catches it and laughs at
me. I peel my wet coat off and throw myself down in a chair.
The fire is blazing nicely now, and I shift a little so my feet
are closer to it. Its such a blessed relief not to have to scrub
a floor, carry water or coal up the stairs, polish a grate or another blasted candlestick. To be home.
Saw a dead girl over by Cyrambel, I tell them, and repeat
what the gossipy old hen told me.
Poor thing, says Esme, handing me a mug of steaming
coffee. This city is a dangerous place for a girl on her own.
You be sensible, my Julia. I dont want to hear about you on
a bridge one day.
Wouldnt happen to me, I say, slapping my boot where I
keep my knife tucked away.
It wont happen to you because youll be smart and not
go wandering about on your own at night, says Dek, giving
me a hard look. Not because youve got a six-inch knife so
snug in your boot lining it would take you five minutes to get
it out.
Nine inches, I say, grinning at him. And look.
17

I whip the knife out at the same moment that he lunges for
me, twisting my wrist back so the knife falls to the ground
with a clatter and I spill my coffee.
Flaming Kahge, Dek, relax! I shout.
He is breathing hard, his bad leg twisted beneath him.
Esme chuckles, sips her coffee.
My point, he says slowly, is you be smart, Julia. You be
careful.
Im careful, I say, shoving him away from me. Im only a
little bit angry, though. He worries about me, I know, and
the truth is, it makes me feel safe to have him worry. Like
his love can keep me safe. Youd think Id know better; love
doesnt keep anyone safe. But hes my older brother, and worrying about me is what he does.

Dek and I were born in the Twist. I was seven and he was
ten when our mother was killed and our father disappeared.
He begged, I stole, according to the fortunes the Nameless
One had bestowed upon us. That was the summer after the
Scourge swept across Frayne, decimating the population. It
was the worst Scourge in living memorycorpses were rotting in ditches and people barely went out. In our house, it
touched only Benedek. I was sent to stay with an aunt in the
countryside who beat me, and I cried every day, not because
of the beatings but because Dek was going to die.
Only he didnt. A child surviving the Scourge was unheard
of. Dek not only survived; he survived with his self intact, un-

18

like the trembling, ravaged, half-witted survivors you sometimes see begging along the river. A decade later, he wears his
curling black hair long to cover the scars and the unmistakable dark blots of the Scourge that deform the right side of
his face, the empty eye socket now sewn shut. His right side
is blighted, the arm and leg withered and nearly useless. It is
as if the Scourge raged through him but stopped halfway and
turned back again. From the left, he is quite handsome, with
a strong jaw and a straight nose. He gets around well enough
with a crutch. Most days he counts himself lucky to be alive,
but I know there are dark days too, when it doesnt feel so
much like luck.
People are terrified of Scourge survivors, as if the contagion
might still be present in them, but Esme never flinched at the
sight of him. Shed lost her own son to the Scourge, and her
husband to a failed revolution, and I dont think anything
frightens Esme anymore. She took us both in, taught us how
to read and a great many other things besides. They became
our new family: Esme, her colleagues Gregor and Csilla, and
beautiful Wyn, her adopted son, a lanky ten-year-old then.
I fell in love with him on first sight, when I was barely eight
years old. He winked at me, and I was lost.

Gregor and Csilla arrive midday, after temple, as I am writing up my report. They come sweeping in and have a way
of making the comfortable parlor seem suddenly dingy and
small. They are recently back from working a long con in

19

Ingleone of their classics. Csilla plays the damsel in distress, a Fraynish lady trapped in Ingle with her abusive husband, lacking funds to escape him and flee to her powerful
family. Each time, several rich, besotted gallants come eagerly
to her rescue and provide her full fare home, that she might
be free of her monstrous husband. Im sure Gregor has had
a wonderful time playing the ogre. Needless to say, theyve
both been having a better time than I have.
Hallo, everyone! says Csilla, pulling off her white gloves.
Gracious, Julia, Ive got to give you something for those circles under your eyes. Dont housemaids sleep?
Not this one, I grumble, stretching my legs out selfconsciously.
Poor thing, says Csilla, settling into a chair and taking out a silver cigarette case. Well take you to the cabaret
when the job is done, wont that be fun? You can borrow one
of my dresses.
I laugh. Id never fit into her clothes, which require all bust
and no waist.
Everything went smoothly, I take it? says Esme. No
angry Inglese aristocrats chasing you across the channel?
See for yourself how smoothly it went, says Gregor, tossing her a thick packet of Inglese bills. Csilla charmed them
senseless, of course, and I was a drunker lout than youve ever
seen.
Really? I ask, raising an eyebrow. Hard to imagine.
Dek shoots me a warning look.
Gregor was, once upon a time, the wayward son of an aris-

20

tocrat executed for treason. Following his expulsion from


high society way back in his unimaginable youth, he became
a revolutionary, and when that didnt work out, a thief, a con,
and a hopeless drunk. He still has those upper-crust manners, though, that way of walking into a room like the whole
bleeding place belongs to him, and when he flashes a smile
at you, theres a glimmer of his former charm, buried under
years of booze and despair. Esmes husband was his best
friend, and shes kept him on in spite of everything. Csilla, for
her part, was a well-known actress before she married Gregor
and gave up the stage for good. What Csilla sees in Gregor
is one of lifes great mysteries. She is ten years younger than
him at least, and a true northern beauty, all porcelain and
gold except for her eyes, which are dark and deep enough to
drown in. She has no family that I know of.
Well take our cut to the track tomorrow, says Gregor,
ignoring my dig. Belle Sofe is a sure thing, make us a fortune! He winks at Csilla, and she smiles back moonily. The
two of them are fanatics for horse racing, in spite of the fact
that they never win anything. Now, what have you got for
me, Julia, my dear? Ive an appointment with the client this
afternoon.
While Esme rules the criminal underworld, Gregor is our
point of contact with Spira Citys elite. They dont invite him
to their parties, but they all know who he is, and a well-paid
case of blackmail or spying often comes our way through him.
I could come with you, I suggest. Ive got the whole
day off.

21

Gregor shakes his head. When the client wants to see


you, Ill let you know.
Fine. Makes no difference to me, I say, but I cant deny
Im disappointed. I am dying to find out more about this
mysterious client.
I have been sent to Mrs. Ochs house with a rather vague
set of questions: Who is in the house? What are they doing?
What do they talk about? What are they reading? Where
do they go? Every week I give Gregor a report and he takes it
to my employer. Its a far cry from the usual sort of thing
digging up material for blackmail, following misbehaving
spouses, locating hidden safesbut my mysterious employer
gave us six silver freyns at the start of the job, and offers
twenty upon completion, whatever completion might mean in
this case.
The six silver freyns are spent already. A thief who worked
for Esme was arrested just last week, and half the money
went to bribing officials so that hell do prison time instead
of being hung. The other half went to his family. Esme might
be rich if she didnt take such good care of her people and
their families. Then again, if crooks werent so loyal to her,
she might be in prison herself. I negotiated hard with Esme
and will get a quarter of the final payment for myself. More
than enough for a few fashionable gowns and weeks of dining out at fine restaurants with Wyn. Perhaps well go mingle
with the lords and ladies at the opera.
I hand Gregor the report Ive just written out on Esmes
good paper. I dont dare keep pen and paper at Mrs. Ochs

22

house; a housemaid with a pen might well be taken for


a witch, and though I could prove my innocence quickly
enough, theres no need to arouse suspicion.
I got into the professors study last night, I tell him. I
found a name written down that could be important. Jahara
Sandor at Hostorak Prison. Fifteen-C might be a cell number.
Hostorak! exclaims Dek. These arent just some rich
nambies, then, are they?
Gregor skates his eyes across my awkward handwriting
and takes a swig from his hip flask.
Then theres the houseguest in the cellar, I continue. I
have this horrible feeling hes doing experiments on animals.
They shot something in the hall the other night, maybe with
sleeping serum, but I didnt see what.
Yes, I mentioned the houseguest to the client last week.
Mr. Darius, isnt it? Youre to find out who he is and exactly
what hes doing there.
Hold up, Gregor. I thought she was just snooping on a
rich old lady, but this sounds like something else, says Dek.
How dangerous is this job?
Julia wont get caught, says Gregor unhelpfully.
Of course I wont, I say, not admitting how close I had
come. So when am I done? If I find out what Mr. Darius is
doing in the cellar? Or what interest they have in a prisoner
at Hostorak?
Gregor shrugs.
Look at these blisters! I show him my hands. Ive been

23

scrubbing a blasted privy! Peeled so many vegetables I never


want to look at a carrot again! Have you ever scaled a fish?
Your hands stink for days afterward!
At least now you know youre luckier than half the girls in
Spira City, says Csilla, pointing her unlit cigarette at me. I
slump back in my chair.
The talk drifts to gossip about Marianne Deneuve, an actress Csilla used to know, now wanted as a witch.
Shes disappeared without a trace! says Gregor while
Csilla shakes her head and says, I cant believe it; I just cant
believe it.
You never had a hint of it, then? asks Esme.
Not at all! says Csilla. She was kind to me back then,
when I was the new face. She taught me a thing or two.
I am barely paying attention. Its almost noon, and I cant
wait any longer. I slip out, skip up the stairs to the room at
the very top, and bang on the door. When theres no answer,
I shove my bent hairpin into the lock and wrestle with it
clumsily, noisily, until it gives.
Its a sad little room, not unlike the attic room Im staying in at Mrs. Ochs, but this one I love. The tiny window
looks out over the square and the spiky rooftops of the Twist,
but the curtains are shut now. A few embers still glow in
the grate, so it must have been a late night. There is a pistol
on the table, next to a half-finished charcoal sketch of Fitch
Square. Hes captured the broken fountain, the mad pigeon
lady with birds all over her. Wyn has a way of drawing ugly
things and making them seem beautiful.

24

He is sprawled across the bed, half-covered by his blanket.


His long brown back is exposed, and one leg with black hair
on it too. His face is turned away from me. The sight of his
back and leg undoes me, my joints suddenly loose and weak.
I cross the room, heart leaping against my rib cage, blood
singing and rushing.
Wyn, I whisper, and he stirs. I run my hand down his
spine, and he rolls over slowly. Dark hair on his chest, long
thick lashes, stormy green eyes, and oh, those lips, parting in
a sleepy smile.
Hullo, Brown Eyes, he says. How did you get in here?
I hold up the hairpin.
Nowhere is safe from Spira Citys fearsome thieves, he
intones.
Lock up your handsome young men! I mimic, sitting
down on the edge of his bed and bending to kiss him.
I thought we just established that locks are useless against
these fearsome thieves, he says, and kisses me back, but
lightly.
You call that a kiss? I protest. Ive been slaving day and
night for a week nowI think I deserve better than that!
He laughs, starting to get up. Hounds, Brown Eyes, I
havent even eaten breakfast yet.
I push him back down and say, with mock severity, Breakfast can wait.

25

Without knowing why, the cabbie leaves the still-busy nighttime

streets of the Scola and crosses Ganmorel Bridge, heading into the
Edge, where Spira Citys destitute and desperate make their way. He
passes the cheap brothels and opium dens, and the cab climbs the hill
toward Limory Cemetery.
Something follows on swift, dark legs, unknown to him but pushing him on.
He parks the motor cab and gets out, pulling his coat around him,
confused. Winter is in the air already, and the street is deserted. He
walks uncertainly through the cemetery gates, then stops, turns, and
looks around.
Hullo? he says. His breath puffs out in a great white plume.
He hears something move in the shadow of his motor cab, or sees it
perhaps, but then there is nothing, silence.
Flaming Kahge, he mutters. He reaches into his pocket for a pipe
and then changes his mind. Turns to head deeper into the cemetery,
then stops again. His mind is a fog. Why has he come here?
The air gets colder, and now he hears, clear as anything, something
breathing nearby.
26
27

Whos there? he calls. Fear surges in and clears his mind. Get
out of here. Dangerous. He heads back toward his motor cab at a
trot, but there is something at the gate, barring his way.
The moon is behind the clouds, and he doesnt see the thing clearly.
It stands upright, but the face is not a human face, the body too tall
and lithe to be a human body. He lets out a strangled yell, turns, and
runs.
There is a sound like a growl, and he finds himself facedown in
the gravel. He thinks of his wife, at home waiting for him, their child
about to be born any day now, his fear dissolving into another horror,
for how will they survive without him? A hand jerks his head up by
the hair. A wetness at his forehead, a spreading blackness. He thinks
of struggle, but fleetingly, as if from a great distancealready this
sudden, brutal ending has become part of somebody elses story.

27
28

WE LCOM E TO

An exclusive YA experience that lets you

BE T H E F IR ST TO R E A D T HE L AST L IN E
of the next big thing.
Secure your place in line:

FirstInLineReaders #FirstInLine

FIRST IN LINE
MEMBERS-ONLY PERKS
A
 ccess to Locked Sections of
the FIRST IN LINE Tumblr

F
 irst Access to Advance
Readers Copies

N ewsletters Delivering
Never-Before-Seen Behindthe-Book Content

Digital Chapter Samplers

D
 eleted Scenes, Cover Reveals,
Annotated Chapters, and More!
A
 uthor Videos, Q&As, and
Twitter Chats

B randed FIRST IN LINE Swag


G iveaways and Sweepstakes
V
 IP Invitations to FIRST IN
LINE Events

Inaugural FIRST IN LINE Picks:

Presented by Random House

WITCHCRAFT MAY BE ILLEGAL,


BUT MAGIC STILL RULES. . . .
Julia has the unusual ability to be . . . unseen.
Not invisible, exactly.
Just beyond most peoples senses.
Its a dangerous trait in a city that has banned
all forms of magic and drowns witches in
public Cleansings. But its a useful trait for
a thief and a spy. And Julia has learned
crime pays.
Shes being paid very well to infiltrate
the grand house of Mrs. Och and
report back on the odd characters
who live there and the suspicious dealings that
take place behind locked doors.
But what Julia uncovers shakes her to the
core. She certainly never imagined that the traitor in the house
would turn out to be . . . her.
With this stunning first book in the Witchs Child trilogy,
CATHERINE EGAN is revealed as a major new talent.

#JuliaVanishes

ORDER YOUR COPY OF

B Y C AT HER INE EG A N

From one of the below retailers:

For more online accounts, click here.

You might also like