Though Adam could not understand, the Mage’s words resonated in his mind, their flavor strange, like a new spice on the tongue. As the incantation echoed, Adam closed his eyes, picturing Miranda’s upturned face. He saw her once again for the first time, shy and uncertain at Lady Enderby’s party. The chain swung to and fro as he moved slowly along the edge of the table, the motion of the links seeming to tug him along. Miranda in his arms, waltzing, Tantalizing him with her nearness. Suddenly his hand was pulled downward and he opened his eyes.
“Horwood’s maps of London.” Damien seized the folio with a whoop of delight. “He has not taken her from Town yet.” With a careless sweep, he brushed the rest of the volumes to the floor. Meticulously, he set out the thirty two pages of engravings, covering the library table completely with the detailed drawings of streets and alleyways. “Again, Brand, concentrate.”
Once more, the Mage began his wizardry as Adam took up the jewel. Letting the swing of the emerald guide him, the marquess filled his mind with thoughts of Miranda. As the chant touched his senses, he pictured her as she had been at Gutmacher’s Hall of Wonders, fearless, confronting the charlatan. He felt her at his back, peering over his shoulder, the warmth of her hand penetrating his jacket like a lick of fire. All at once, Wodesby’s pitch rose to a mourning keen and though Adam could not translate, he felt the meaning in his marrow. To lose Miranda just as he was beginning to know just how much she meant to him? How could he have been so heedless? He had failed her . . . failed her utterly.
Wodesby’s chant changed again to a grieving ululation, and a new image came to Adam’s mind. Miranda was staring into a mirror. The rounded walls suggested a turret and behind her was a window, framing a reflected ribbon of moonlit water. Her brocade walking dress was soiled and her bonnet was gone. There was a cut upon her forehead. “She is hurt,” Adam murmured, raising his free hand as if to touch her. In turn she lifted her fingers to touch the wound and he saw the dull surface of metal. “He has her chained!” the marquess roared. “The bastard has her in manacles. I will kill him. I swear it!” The emerald plunged downward and his hand came banging down upon the table.
Adam opened his eyes.
“You must love her very much indeed, Brand, to see her in the present,” Damien said softly, shifting the jewel aside. “Greenwich. But where? We shall have to find a map with more detail.”
As the two men searched through the scattered topographical sketches, Lawrence rushed into the room. “I have some news, Adam,” he said. “Though it may do us little good. Had a private word with the porter at White’s. It cost me ten pounds, but old Charlie wouldn’t keep his post there if he was one to talk free and cheap. But I gave him a tenner and the man did sing for me. Gave me pause, I tell you, to realize how much he knows about the members, more familiar with our foibles than those of his own kin, I’d wager. If Ropwell has Miranda, Adam, we must find her at once. Peculiar fellow, very jealous of his late wife. Challenged men just for looking at the woman.”
“Uncle,” Adam said rising impatiently to his feet. “You have run the fox to ground. To the kill, if you please.”
“Forgive an old man’s tendency to wag on, m’boy,” Lawrence said. “According to Charlie, Lord Ropwell owns better than a dozen properties between here and Kent, every one of them mortgaged to the hilt. Unfortunately, Charlie did not know the whereabouts of all of them.”
“Any of his land in Greenwich?” Damien asked, dumping his pile of maps on the table.
“As a matter of fact, that was one of the few that Charlie recollected,” Lawrence said, brightening visibly. “Ropwell does own a Gothic monstrosity that his father built on the bank of the Thames, not far from David Garrick’s villa.”
“That has to be it. Thames view and Gothic tower, complete with manacles,” Adam said, casting Wodesby a grim look. “Are you with me? You can come so long as you recollect that Ropwell’s neck is mine.”
“Aye,” Damien said, sweeping his sister’s emerald into his pocket. “Much as it galls me, I shall cede you Ropwell; you have earned his throat.”
“I will join you,” Lawrence offered, following them to the front door.
“No, you will be needed here, Mr. Timmons,” Damien said, touching the older man lightly upon the shoulder.
“I have found my cards!” Lady Wodesby cried excitedly from the top of the stair.
“Someone must keep her out of mischief and make certain that she does not come galloping after us,” the Mage added, with the barest suspicion of a smile. “I gladly cede that task to you, sir, and wish you joy of it.” He hurried out the door.
“They were in my sewing bag, if you would believe. Those sly pusses knew how much I detest needlework,” Lady Wodesby said, waving the cards in triumph as she descended. “I would not have looked there for a phoenix age, had not the finder’s feeling possessed me. Perhaps if Lord Brand will consent, I will read for him and we may thereby gain some clue as to Miranda’s whereabouts.” She stared at the pair of backs hurrying down the front stair. “But where do they go, Lawrie?”
“They have found Miranda,” Lawrence said, putting his arm around Lady Wodesby’s waist. As two horses emerged from the stables, Angel shot through the door, loping off after them. “And now, my dear, they are going to bring her home so we may celebrate. For unless I mistake the matter, your son has just given us his blessing.”
. . .
Ropwell took a long, hard pull at the contents of his silver flask and sighed as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “My finger still hurts,” he whined. “You must have took a pint out of me; enough to write a bloody Magna Carta.”
“But the contract is all signed and quite legal,” Miranda hastened to assure him. Ropwell had rapidly progressed well beyond the bosky stage. She had to get free, before he lost consciousness. “My brother will have naught to quibble about when he comes. Now shall we get on with it?”
“Want some?” he offered.
“Very gracious of you, I am sure,” Miranda said. “But I cannot conduct a séance three sheets to the wind. Now if you will undo my fetters.”
“Dunno,” he eyed her suspiciously. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?”
“Why, the contract, of course,” Miranda said, pointing to the document on the table. “We have made a bargain. But as you well know my powers are diminished by cold iron. If you wish me to raise the spirit of your wife, I must be freed.”
Grumbling, Ropwell wove his way to the mantle, picking up the key and returning to unlock the shackles. Miranda suppressed a shudder. She had toyed with the idea of knocking him unconscious and picking his pockets. If she had misjudged and accidentally killed him, she might have condemned herself to a slow, excruciating death. Rubbing slowly at her wrist, she seated herself at the table. She had delayed as much as possible, and now, she would risk all on a single throw of the bones.
“Well, get on with it then,” Ropwell said roughly. “Night’s almost gone.”
Softly, she began an incantation, the slowest and most rhythmic she could remember. Like a lullaby, it was, the ancient words of the spirit chant were as soothing as a balm. Ropwell’s eyes grew heavier, the lids flickering. “Rest spirit,” the Celtic rhyme begged. “Make your peace, oh restless one, and return ye to your source.” With her focus narrowly directed, Miranda did not notice the fingers of grey fog that rose from the Thames below, or the three figures in the moonlight making their way to the castle gate.
. . .
Damien waved his arm, and muttered a spell. “Try it, Brand. The lock is unbound and should open easily enough now,” he declared with a superior smile.
Obediently, Adam gave the gate a shove, but it held fast. He cast Lord Wodesby a look of exasperation. “Bolted tight as Farmer George’s purse.”
Damien dismounted hastily. “Iron,” he grumbled. “The lock is made of iron. We will have to find another way in.”
“I think not,” Adam said, pulling a thin wire from his belt and giv
ing it an expert twist. “A lucky thing that I always carry my own magic. More than once, this little talisman has saved my hide.”
“I have never heard of a talisman that can work against iron,” Damien said, watching with interest as Brand began to work.
“Doesn’t matter if the lock is iron, brass or steel if you can work this charm,” Adam said, carefully manipulating the mechanism. “A pick-lock can outdo magic, Wodesby, in the hands of an expert.” He heard a satisfying click and with a mocking bow, pulled the gate wide open. “You might do well for a few lessons from Dominick’s father, Master Mage. Shall we proceed?”
Damien gave a tight-lipped nod. As they entered the cobbled courtyard, he tried to set aside a sensation of acute discomfort. Being bested by an Outsider was both strange and humiliating. But the Mage’s pique soon gave way to a definite feeling of foreboding. Angel whined softly.
“Keep your hound quiet, or bid her stay and wait,” Adam whispered, looking down at the mastiff in irritation.
“She is warning us, Brand,” Damien said softly, sending his thoughts seeking. “Something wicked is abroad here tonight.”
“Aye we know that already, Ropwell. He is here, Wodesby. Miranda is with him. Somehow, I know her presence. Is that part of your magic?” he asked as he picked open the lock to the kitchen door.
“Any sorcery between the two of you is none of my doing,” Damien said, handing Brand Miranda’s emerald. “Take this, the seeking spell is still upon the jewel. If she is here, as you say, this will help lead you to her.”
As soon as Adam took the necklace, the chain began to sway. He turned, letting the movement guide him toward the stairway.
Damien looked up at into the well of darkness, his uneasiness increasing. The presence that he sensed was more than mundane evil, the banal depravity that was as much a part of humanity as the smell of the sewer. Sheer malevolence was prowling at the portals, waiting for something, someone to bid it enter.
. . .
“‘Come spirit come and seek ye your rest. Find ye judgement and justice and rise to the Light.’” Miranda’s sing-song ended as Ropwell’s head sank to the table. Just in time, her hand caught him, pillowing him against the shock that might well have woken him. She tiptoed to the door only to find the key gone. The room grew chill and a wind from the Thames blew up to rattle the window panes loudly, causing the candles to shudder.
“You were trying to trick me.”
Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. Ropwell was wide awake. His bloodshot eyes stared at her balefully. “You fell asleep,” she said, trying to sound indignant.
“No more of your witch’s lies!” he roared, crossing the room and grabbing her by the wrists. “Bring me Felicity now, or you’ll share her fate. And by the time I’ve done with you, you’ll be wishing for the Thames, I vow.”
“Jaames,” a voice called softly. “Jaames . . .”
“Felicity?” Ropwell let Miranda drop to the ground and went toward the window.
Miranda scrabbled to her feet, knowing that she had purchased only a small respite. Once more, she threw her voice, this time to make it appear to come from the other side of the door. “Open . . . Jaames. . . . . let . . . me . . . in.”
Hastily, Ropwell shoved Miranda aside and fumbled with the key. He swung the door open to the dark. “Show yourself, Felicity,” he demanded, the liquor that he had consumed blotting out fear. “Come to me and tell me where you hid those jewels.”
Adam heard Ropwell’s voice and followed the sound upwards, slipping the jewel into his pocket as he stealthily took the stairs. Damien and Angel followed, but the very air seemed to grow thicker around them, like mud, sucking at their feet, hampering their progress.
“Beware, Brand,” Damien called weakly, but his words seemed to be swallowed by the morass that surrounded him. Too late, he realized that the boundary to the world of souls had been sundered. Feeling like a fool, he muttered the opening words of a warding spell. However counter measures availed him nothing against the furious incorporeal force that flew up above them. Whatever it was would brook no interference.
The essence of what once been Lady Ropwell laughed triumphantly as unconsciousness swallowed the Mage and his familiar. Although a small spark of magic burned bright in the mortal who ran toward the chamber, the spirit quickly dismissed him. He posed no threat to her purpose. She had finally received the summons that she had spurned heaven for, waited for with all the force of her burning hatred. Even a disembodied soul could appreciate the supreme irony. James, himself, had opened the door and invited his doom.
. . .
Miranda was about to make the “ghost” speak again when the air began to shimmer. The room grew icy and she could see the frost of her breath as she panted air. The candles danced and crystals of light coalesced into the wavering figure of a woman. “You called, Jamesss dear?” the ghost asked, her face featureless except for eyes that glowed crimson as the heart of a glowing coal.
“Felicity.” Ropwell greeted her with drunken smile. “You make a beautiful ghost.”
The ghostly head turned to regard Miranda. “One of yours, Jamesss?”
“A witch,” Ropwell replied. “An heiress. I intend to marry her, Felicity.”
“Over my dead body,” Miranda said.
“That comes later,” the ghost said with acerbity. “But you seem a sssensssible child. How did you come to be in league with Jamesss?”
“He kidnapped me,” Miranda explained, rising to confront the incorporeal. “He believes me to be a witch.”
The ghost cackled. “You have no magic,” she said. “Not like the other I have touched tonight.”
A frisson of fear ran up Miranda’s spine. Who among her kin had the ghost encountered? It could only be Damien, but there was no sign of any trepidation on the spirit’s part. What had happened to her brother?
“Of course she is; you have come, haven’t you?” Ropwell maintained doggedly, pulling the vellum from his pocket. “I have a signed contract for my soul right here. So you had best show me where the jewels are, Felicity, before the cock crows.”
“Cheated the child, have you, Jamesss, with your paltry sssoul? Asss you did me? Then let me lead you to your jussst reward,” the shade offered.
“Come girl,” Ropwell said, his hand wrapping round Miranda’s like a vise. “We are going to the jewels.”
“Yesss,” the ghost hissed, beckoning with a skeletal hand. “To the jewelsss.”
Miranda looked into the burning core of the Incorporeal’s eyes and saw into Hades’ fires. The last thin shred of her courage frayed in the face of that merciless promise of eternal torment. She screamed.
Adam heard Miranda’s cry and abandoned all caution. He charged through the open door at the top of the stair to confront the unspeakable. A glowing supernatural figure challenged him, shrieking in anger.
“Do not think to interfere, man,” she warned with a stormy wail. “Ropwell isss mine. Too long have I waited, too long in the place between the worldsss. I shall finish my busssinessss.” The ghost advanced toward Ropwell and Miranda, shadow arms outstretched.
Suddenly, Ropwell began to understand the shade’s intent. “Your death was an accident, Felicity, I swear,” he said, backing towards the window, dragging Miranda with him. “She is angry. Keep her away from me, witch, keep Felicity away. . .”
“No!” Adam screamed, running toward the manifestation and reaching out, but there was nothing to grab, only bitter cold. “Miranda has done you no harm, Felicity. Leave her.” But his words did not stop the ghost’s relentless advance.
Ropwell wrapped his fingers around Miranda’s throat. “Stop her, witch,” he demanded. “Stop her, or else I will take you with me. Stop her, Brand, or else your witch dies, do you hear? She dies.”
“Are you so far gone from this world that you cannot discern innocence?” Adam pleaded with the ephemeral creature. “Will you let him destroy again, as he destroyed you, Felicity? Will you kill me too, for y
our husband’s crime? For if Miranda dies tonight, I might as well seek the Light myself and when I do, I swear that I will find you there and seek my justice.”
“But she isss no witch,” the spirit said scornfully, moving relentlessly forward. “She is powerless. See how she cringes. Like I wasss. But now my hate givesss me power. She hasss nothing.”
“You underestimate Miranda, as you malign yourself, Felicity,” Adam shouted. “It took courage for you to plan your vengeance, fortitude to hide those jewels. Miranda may not have a witch’s powers, but it does not diminish her, quite the opposite. Her wit, her strength, the valor of her spirit, are all the greater because they come from within her, not from some outside source. Even if she could command all the forces of earth, fire, wind and air, I could not love her more. Miranda is my life, my heart.”
The ghost halted and turned once again, a tear-like prism of light dripped from those ember eyes. “You love her that much?”
“I love her, Felicity,” Adam begged the spirit. “Surely you remember what it was to love? I am told that it is the only thing that survives death.”
“Yesss,” the ghost whispered, her tones dropping to the sweetness of a summer zephyr. “I remember . . . I loved you Jamesss. Do you recall how it wasss? You were handsome.”
“Handsome,” Ropwell repeated, his voice rising to an odd pitch. “I was, wasn’t I? And you were so beautiful. Men couldn’t keep their eyes off of you, but you were mine.”
“Alwaysss yoursss, Jamesss,” the ghost declared, weaving a siren spell. “Faithful.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 24
