But when he opened one eye, the witch was still there. And she was smiling, showing gaps in her mouth where yellowed teeth had rotted away. She leaned close, her fetid breath causing his belly to roil. He gritted his teeth together to keep the bile down and pinched his leg to attempt to wake himself. He felt the pinch, but the witch didn’t disappear.
Instead, she extended a long hand and poked him in the chest. King looked down at her dirty finger, grime under her long nails, with distaste.
“Remember the curse,” she whispered, her hot breath making his nose wrinkle. “I shall enjoy watching ye suffer.” And then she threw back her head and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. King closed his eyes again and covered his ears.
“Danby!” he yelled. “Danby, get in here!”
A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. King shoved it off and jumped to his feet. But when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t the witch who cowered before him, but his valet.
“Where is she?” King turned and surveyed the room. It was empty save himself and the valet.
“Who, my lord?” Danby asked.
King stared at the hearth then moved closer to peer inside it. He felt quite sober now, though he could still feel the rum sloshing about in his belly. The kindling in the hearth was undisturbed, the fire crackling as usual. There was no trace of soot-stained footprints on his carpet. The chair he had been sitting in was right where he’d placed it. “You didn’t see her?” he asked, walking about the room and checking behind curtains and doors.
“No, my lord. You didn’t—er—”
King returned to stand before his valet, noting the man’s cheeks had gone quite pink.
“There was no companion with you tonight, my lord,” Danby said, ducking his head.
“Not a woman,” King said, exasperated. “Well, yes, a woman, but not…” Not a courtesan or a pretty widow. Those were the women he usually took to bed. “This was an old hag, a—” He almost saidwitchbut stopped himself just in time. Danby might call the doctor if King started going on about witches. King half believed heneededa doctor, except the witch was gone. It had been a nightmare. That was all. A very real, very hellish nightmare, but a nightmare all the same.
He sat in the chair again. Tested it carefully and, finding it solid, looked up at Danby. “I’ll need more wine, Danby.”
“More, my lord?”
“Yes.” If he was to sleep deeply and not dream—and God knew he didn’t want to dream of that witch again—he would need a great deal more wine. “Pour it, Danby.” Then he had another idea. “And pour one for yourself.”
Danby started as though pinched. “A glass for me, my lord?”
“Drink with me,” King said, indicating another chair with his toe. “Sit with me.” That would show the witch—er, the nightmare. Danby would be here if he started having that dream again.
“Yes, my lord.” Danby did as he was told and sat on the edge of the offered chair, back ramrod straight. He held his wine glass as though it would explode if jostled. King sipped his wine, slouched back in the chair, and settled in for a long night.
*
Violet Baker stoodwith hands on her hips and surveyed the damage in the public house. Somehow it looked worse than it had last night, even though she’d spent two hours cleaning up after the brawl. Broken glass glittered in patches of sunlight, stacks of broken chairs took up one corner, and five of her eight tables listed to one side or another. One was broken clean in half. She remembered when that had happened. One of the young bucks had tossed a man on the table, and the weight of him had caved it in.
She wiped her hands on her apron and turned her attention to the bar itself. That was the bread and butter of a public house, but it too was in shambles. The mirror behind the bar had been shattered, and the sight of it caused her heart to clench. It had cost a pretty penny to purchase and have the mirror installed. She’d justified the cost because it made the pub look a bit larger and brighter.How can we attract superior clientele if we don’t have a superior environment?That’s what she’d said to Joshua and little Georgie. At thirteen, Joshua had been skeptical, but Georgie was only six, and he had thought the mirror a wonder. He’d loved to climb up on the bar and peer at it for hours, making silly faces at his own reflection.
But if it had just been the mirror, that would be bad enough. Below the mirror had been bottles of gin, rum, brandy, beer, and wine. Those were smashed all to pieces. The sickly scent of the various types of spirits mixed together in the air, making her head ache. She’d tried to mop some of it up last night, but therewas so much broken glass and other debris, she hadn’t had much success. The floor behind the bar would be sticky and slick.
At least the casks of wine and spirits had been untouched. All but two were in the back, and those in the front of the pub had been underneath the bar and thus safe from flying objects and persons.
“Vi?”
She turned to see Georgie step inside the tavern, his brown eyes wide and his blond hair tousled from sleep. He’d been roused from bed the night before when the fighting had begun, but he knew better than to come downstairs. When she’d finally gone up, he had fallen asleep in her bed, where he had obviously been waiting for her. Now he was seeing the damage for the first time.
“What happened?” he asked.
Violet reached up and smoothed her dark hair, squaring her shoulders as she did so. She forced a smile on her lips. “Oh, just a small disagreement between some of the men last night. Nothing for you to worry about, love.”
“But-but—” Georgie gestured to the mirror, tears glittering in his eyes. “Our beautiful mirror, Vi.”
Violet could have cheerfully murdered the men from last night. She didn’t care what they did to the public house or even to her, but how dare they cause her little brother to cry? She’d known as soon as the party of well-dressed men had sauntered through her door that there would be trouble. There had been four of them, and that was not so many, but they did not belong. It wasn’t that her regular patrons were unfriendly. Men, and the occasional woman, came in all the time, and many of them did not belong in Seven Dials. Some were obviously from the countryside, their accents and clothes rustic. Some were from other places, like Scotland or Ireland or even France. Once aman from China had come in. His English had been perfect, and he’d ordered tea.
But all of those outsiders had kept to themselves. They’d sat in a corner or at a table to one side and kept their heads down and their mouths closed. The nobs who had come in last night had taken the middle table and behaved as though they owned the place. Violet had been wiping glasses dry in the back when they’d come in, but she had heard the hush settle over the place and stepped out to see what the matter was. Archibald, her publican, had given her a look and slid the crowbar he kept behind the bar in case of trouble closer to hand.
