The Witch Queen by Jan Siegel Page B

said. “It was the Styx. Remember Achilles. Supposing . . . you’re invulnerable? I mean, your hand . . . Have you hurt it at all since then?”
    “I don’t know. A scratch or two. I wasn’t paying attention.”
    “You might not have noticed,” Gaynor said.
    “There’s only one way to find out,” said Fern. She thrust her hand into the nearest candle flame. Gaynor saw her face whiten and her lips clench and cried out in protest. Fern withdrew it, trembling: her palm was red and already puckering into blisters. But as they watched the blisters sank, the angry ridges smoothed, the red dimmed to pink and vanished altogether. They stared at each other, incredulous and amazed. Then Fern got up and fetched a fruit knife from the kitchen. “It works for burns,” she said. “Let’s try something different.” She jabbed the blade into her finger. The cut opened, filling with blood—and closed, flesh binding with flesh, leaving no scar.
    “Please don’t try breaking any bones,” Gaynor begged. “I’ve never been into self-abuse, even if it’s someone else.”
    “I don’t think I could,” said Fern. “It may heal straight after, but I feel pain first.”
    They were still discussing the implications of their discovery when a glance at the clock showed a startled Gaynor that it was past three. “Stay over,” Fern suggested. “You left your washcloth behind anyway, and I think the Body Shop night cream must be yours.”
    Gaynor was already in bed when Fern appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the light beyond. Gaynor could not see her face clearly, but she was somehow aware that it had changed. “If the river healed my hand,” Fern said, “supposing—supposing it healed Morgus?”
    “She was dead,” Gaynor insisted. “You said she was dead.”
    “She was alive when she crawled to the river and threw herself in. I never saw the body. I should have thought of it before. She knew the power of the river: that’s why she did it. And if it worked—if it healed her—then she must be invulnerable now, mustn’t she?
Completely
invulnerable. Invincible.”
    “We don’t
know
,” said Gaynor unhappily.
    “No, we don’t,” Fern agreed. “It’s late, we’re tired, this may be only a brainstorm. In the morning everything will look different . . .”
    “I hope so,” Gaynor said.

    In the morning it was a gray, ordinary sort of day, the kind of day on which it is difficult to believe in witches and dark sorcery and impossible to believe in summer. But Fern had seen many such days and she was not to be deceived, even in the heart of London: she could sense the evil moving under the skin of the city. She left Gaynor with assurances that she would tell her everything and went to work, trying to focus on the forthcoming magazine launch, and failing. Lucas rang just before lunch, saying could she come to the clinic that evening. The assumption that her time was his annoyed her, but instinct told her she was being petty so she agreed.
    “She’s in love,” opined a colleague, watching her through a glass partition. “She has all the symptoms: abstraction, absent-mindedness, personal calls from unknown men . . .”
    “She doesn’t have a glow of happiness,” said a PA.
    “Happiness? What’s that got to do with love? You poor innocent girl . . .”
    Fern, oblivious to the speculation she aroused, retouched her makeup before leaving the office and took a taxi to the Queen Square clinic. Lucas was waiting for her in reception. She registered privately that he was definitely attractive, or might be if he smiled. He did not smile. He said hello, thanked her for coming, and suggested: “Call me Luc,” when she greeted him formally. L-U-C, he explained, like the French. Poser, she decided. They went up in an elevator, passed an office where a male nurse nodded a greeting, and walked the length of a corridor to a private room with an impeccable display of flowers and the customary array of life support