Free Weather Witch by Shannon Delany Page A

vision faded in the grip of night. She stumbled on the wet herringbone walkway, only held up by the Wraiths’ fierce and biting fingers. They tugged her forward a moment until she remembered the quality of her shoes and forced her feet to catch up with the rest of her so as to not scuff their brocade satin.
    The smell and the impatient stomp of a beast with shoed feet announced another presence even before she glimpsed them under the soft glow of the street light.
    Horses.
    A carriage was hooked to them, its body rounded and trimmed in molding that reflected the wavering light. Tall wheels and high windows glinted.
    Even she had only ridden in a carriage drawn by real horses for weddings and funerals. Horses were a dangerous commodity with the Wildkin War still raging. Their meat was a Merrow delicacy so few made it over the sea in anything but a Cutter or an airship. And any that had the misfortune of grazing near a body of salty water … Jordan shivered. Bloody trails marking the disappearance of an entire herd of horses by the bay made it known that Merrow—at least when hungry—could slither more than a quarter mile on land to pull a horse back to a watery end.
    When the other water-loving Wildkin joined the Merrow cause in some strange sense of watery camaraderie, not even freshwater was safe. There might be no magicking allowed in the New World, but the beasts that existed here naturally (or stowed away to cross the Pond) seemed happy to thrive as fiercely as if magick had given them birth instead of the natural world.
    Jordan watched the horses—might one be something more sinister in disguise? It had happened more than once according to Catrina. Wealthy men had lost more than pride when a Pooka replaced a horse in a herd and allowed itself to be ridden or hooked to a carriage.
    But, noting the heavy adornments of metal and bars on both doors and windows, Jordan realized her transport was both carriage and cage.

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
    All sorts of things and weather
    Must be taken in together …
    —RALPH WALDO EMERSON
    Philadelphia
    The doors closed and Rowen looked down at his hand, his gaze lingering on Catrina’s fingers, wrapped round his own. He yanked free of her and, taking a step back, nearly trod on his own mother.
    “We really must be going,” his mother said in a stage whisper so loud the entire party heard. “It is not appropriate for us to be seen in the company of such…” She paused, letting the sentence hang so anyone might fill in the blanks.
    Rowen stepped away from her as well.
    “She nearly ruined your future, Rowen!” she scolded, no longer wasting good graces on a gentle tone of voice.
    He shook his head.
    “She lied to you, Rowen,” his mother said, the pitch of her voice rising.
    He shook his head again. Jordan would have teased that if he did that much more people would surely hear rocks rattle.
    Damn it.
    Jordan’s mother sniffled by the servants, eyes and nose running as Chloe tried to dab the moisture away and was swatted at for her attempts.
    Lady Astraea’s husband had stalked from the room, glowering, after tearing her modest silhouette from the foyer wall, the accusation of Jordan being a Weather Witch impugning his wife’s morality. She must have slept with someone with a tainted bloodline to conceive Jordan. She had betrayed his trust and their vows. She was an adulterer. A fornicator. And having been intimate with her, his reputation was ruined as well.
    None of it made any sense.
    Rowen’s brow furrowed in thought.
    Lady Astraea was as blindly faithful as a wife could be. She overlooked all her husband’s imperfections—the squirrel hunts that never resulted in squirrels being brought to the kitchen but inevitably required the servants to help walk a tipsy Lord Astraea to his bedroom, the money that disappeared whenever he and the boys played cards but never (“I swear on my life, Cynthia, never!”) bet, the fact he still could not dance a proper waltz.