Page 33 of A Resistance of Witches

•••

That night Lydiawent exploring.

It was true, she could have opened the lock with a word, but projecting was safer, not to mention quieter. She could cloak her projection and wander the château in perfect secrecy, without ever alerting the high-strung curator.

First, she returned to that dark little room where theGrimorium Bellumhad so recently been kept. She stayed for a long time, trying to make sense of the dissonance in the room—two distinct tones, each making the other’s magic unintelligible. She listened, desperately trying to unsnarl the signals, but it was no use. The more she tried, the more tangled they became, and she was forced to give up, panic-stricken and cursing everything—the late hour, that relentless moon, and herself, most of all.

She found herself tuning her ear to that newer magic—Henry’s cleansing spell. He was no expert, that much was clear. The magic itself was sophisticated—old, deep magic from a tradition altogether unfamiliar to Lydia. But Henry’s execution was clumsy. It was as if he’d been darting glances over his shoulder as the spell came together. An unpracticed caster, Lydia decided. And a fearful one.

She glided on, exploring room after room. There was an extensive library, a music room, several chambers that appeared to have been used only for storage for quite some time. At length she came to a lovingly furnished little bedroom with a cluttered writing desk and a bed piled highwith blankets. The desk was covered with journals and papers with scribbled notes in the margins, all in French. There was a half-finished bottle of wine collecting dust on the side table. The glass beside it showed rings where the wine had evaporated over time. Not Henry’s room, Lydia decided. This room must have belonged to the other curator. René.

The next chamber was empty, and the one after that. Most doors were locked, but that made no difference to Lydia, who moved through each one like a ghost. She’d begun to feel quite comfortable floating through the musty old château, passing through locked door after locked door with ease.

Until she came face-to-face with Henry Boudreaux, shirtsleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned, perched on the edge of his bed.

Lydia nearly yelped out loud. She couldn’t be seen or heard, that much she knew. Not unless she intended to be. Still, she was unnerved to find herself in such close quarters with the curator, not to mention a little guilty—no one liked to be spied on in their own bedroom. She was just about to go, when she heard him speak.

“Please get out.”

He was looking down at his feet, hands folded and head bowed, as if she’d barged in on him in prayer. For a moment she wondered if she’d imagined he’d spoken at all. She was perfectly invisible, she was certain of it, even though at that moment she felt more exposed than she’d ever thought possible. She knew she should leave, and fast, but something, a deep curiosity, made her stay.

“Please.” There was a soft hitch in his voice. “I can’t do this right now. I know you think I can do something for you. And I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m tired, and I just…can’t. So, please, just—” Henry looked up and around the room, searching.“Please.”

She felt a sudden, intense flush of guilt. This, whateverthiswas, was personal and intimate, and absolutely none of her business. The desperate, pleading tone in his voice could only have been intended for somedemon known only to Henry, and certainly not for Lydia herself. She turned, ready to go, when suddenly Henry looked up, and his eyes locked onto her.

“Hello?”

Lydia felt a cold, sinking feeling wash over her. She froze where she stood, waiting for him to look away, but he never did.

“Hello?” he said again, quieter this time.

He wasn’t really looking at her. He was looking intently at the space she occupied, but his eyes never met hers. She tried to calm herself, to remember that even Sybil often had trouble detecting her projections, but then Henry stood, coming closer until he was right in front of her. His eyes floated across her face, searching, but never truly seeing. She could see his pulse in his neck, ticking fast. Then his eyes focused.

“Who are you?” He spoke so softly that Lydia only knew what he’d said by watching the movement of his lips. She panicked, and a second later was flung back into her body, sitting rigid in her own room on the other side of the château.

She sat, catching her breath for a long time. He’d seen her—no, that wasn’t right. He’dfelt herthere in the room with him, something most trained witches could never do. Henry had stood inches from her projection, and on some level, Lydia was certain of it, he had known she was there.

“Who areyou?” she whispered.

•••

The next morning,Henry came to retrieve her. He stood outside the cracked door with his face turned away.

“There’s breakfast downstairs,” he said stiffly.

“I’m decent, Mr. Boudreaux, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Henry glanced at her, then away again.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

•••

They sat acrossfrom each other at the long kitchen table. The fire in the hearth burned merrily, but there was a damp chill that felt endemic to the place. Lydia rubbed her hands together to keep them warm.

“Have you decided yet whether I’m a Nazi spy?”

Henry set down his cup. “I don’t think you’re a Nazi spy.”

“That’s something, at least. Why is that, if I may ask?”

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