To my relief, when I turned the key in the lock and stepped into Monsieur Lavelle’s laboratory, the place was deserted, with the fire banked and the candles unlit. I had feared running into Daniel, but it looked as if no one had visited in some time. Sitting down on one of the long wooden benches, I stared blankly at a row of glass test tubes. I must decide soon. Now.
I let my eyes drift closed as I inhaled the smells of the laboratory. Blood and dirt, masked but not quite eradicated by the strong scents of chemicals and soap. Smells that were so familiar I barely noticed them anymore. But each scent still tugged at a memory. I inhaled deeper, reaching for the buried memories.
My breath caught in my lungs, my body reacting in visceral terror, throwing me to the ground. The bench crashed down beside me. I lay panting on the stone floor, gazing up at the dark beams of the ceiling. What had he done to me?
I was indeed not the same girl who left London a few weeks ago. I had delved in magic, faced my fears, uncovered my true self. It seemed that, in the process, I had unburied memories once thought gone and lost. When I thought of Monsieur Lavelle, I finally knew the truth.
Harsh slaps, cruel taunts, hands touching me where I did not want them. Money disappearing from my bank, books removed from my library. He had hurt me in so many ways. And yet, each time, I had forgotten.
What had he done to me?
I needed to get out of that place. I stumbled out into the street, gasping lungfuls of dirty street air. It seemed blissfully clean, untainted by the horrors that lurked within.
Theo had left me with his card. I fumbled it out of my bag and handed it to my driver.
“As quickly as possible,” I told him. “Please.”
We rattled across London’s uneven streets, careening around corners at a speed that was perhaps not safe. I did not care. I half-fell out of the carriage when we pulled to a halt, not even waiting for my footman to hand me down. I pounded on the door of the house. Where was he? It felt like an age before the door opened and Theo’s concerned face peered out at me.
“Lily! What’s happened? Come in, please.”
He ushered me inside and into a threadbare parlour where I collapsed onto the sofa in a puff of dust, and buried my face in my hands.
“There are memories coming out,” I said, my voice muffled. “Memories of before. Things that Monsieur Lavelle did to me. All the ways that he was cruel and callous. Why could I not remember them? Why did I think I loved him?”
Theo settled onto the sofa beside me, carefully arranging himself so that no part of our bodies touched. I appreciated that little courtesy. I felt too raw, too vulnerable to let anyone close to me at that moment.
“Raising your master from the dead certainly seems like a fanatical act,” he said slowly. “But selective memory loss? That’s complex indeed. Did your master ever have you eat or drink the same thing regularly?”
“A bedtime tonic,” I said. “Every day, to improve my senses. He told me to mix it up myself. But I haven’t been taking it since I left. Or since I came back, in fact. I hadn’t made a trip to his laboratory to collect the necessary ingredients.”
“What did it contain?” Theo asked, his voice low. “Anything unusual, anything suspicious?”
I paused, unwilling to share another of my dark secrets. But Theo knew so much of me now. What harm could this one detail do to his opinion of me?
“Blood,” I whispered. “It contained my own blood. And, I suspect, a little of his blood mixed in.”
Theo looked at me sharply, but there was no judgement in his voice when he spoke.
“It sounds like dark magic. But where he obtained it and how he powered it, I cannot say. Perhaps we will never know.”
“Why did he choose me?” I whispered. “What did he have to gain?”
Theo shrugged. “Money? Influence? The desire to manipulate a pretty young girl? Who knows? But he’s dead, Lily. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“The stone! Theo, I must destroy the stone.”
“I would advise against that,” Theo said, finally leaning forward to touch my hands. “I suspect that any normal method of destruction would fail miserably and perhaps cause a reaction beyond our ability to handle.”
I sighed. He was probably right. It seemed unlikely that such a powerful object could simply be smashed and left as dust. But I would not leave it where anyone could grasp it. Who could guess what other dark powers it might hold? If my experiences in Yorkshire had taught me anything, it was to beware what darkness might be contained in seemingly ordinary people and objects. I would take no chances with this stone.
“Well, I will hide it. I will find a place for it that no one will ever think to look. A hiding place even more secure than before.”
Theo raised an eyebrow.
“You look very determined all of a sudden, Lily. Am I correct in my suspicions that I will not enjoy hearing of this hiding place?”
I smiled brightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, fetch your hat and coat. We have a visit to pay.”
And so, a few hours later, the stone was gone forever. I was substantially poorer, with almost half my own body weight in coins handed over as bribes. And Monsieur Lavelle’s coffin - his true coffin- was firmly sealed. Only a little heavier than it should have been, it went on its way to his sister in France, where he could be buried alongside his family. It was, frankly, far more than he deserved.
And, as for Theo and me, it was finally time for us to relax and enjoy each other’s company. I had come to know Theo the witch-hunter very well, but Theodoric Amberson, Earl of Seafield, was a new person entirely. We spent a lazy afternoon in my orangery, talking of our childhoods and making plans for our wedding. I told him what I remembered of my parents. He made me laugh with stories of young Elspeth as we lay on the soft daybed, my head on his lap.
I hummed a gentle song, a lullaby that I faintly remembered my mother singing to me when I was a child.
“Where did you hear that tune?” Theo asked, a curious edge to his words.
I shrugged, so utterly relaxed that any movement at all seemed unnecessary.
“It’s nothing. Just an old song.”
“I thought I might have heard it before. I must have been mistaken. My apologies.”
I smiled at him, and we let the conversation drift to other subjects.
We ate dinner together, sitting side by side at the huge table in my formal dining room. I was secretly glad that Daniel and Alexandra had not made an appearance. They were my family, and I loved them, but I had not realised how powerfully I craved this time alone with Theo. There would be time enough to share our lives with other people.
Our after-dinner sherry finished, a book of poetry read, and the fire dying, Theo and I finally returned to my bed. Once again, I fell asleep in his arms, letting the stress and sadness fall away. Everything in my world felt perfect.
But my peace was not to last. I awoke in the night to a terrible sense of urgency that drove me from my bed and out into the corridor. The darkness was overpowering, smothering my hearing until all I heard was the pounding of my own heart. Shapes moved and twisted at the edges of my vision, vanishing as soon as I whipped around to face them. I crept along the corridors, unable to place where I was going, but knowing I must keep moving.
I came to a halt in the portrait gallery, in front of the painting of my parents. I gazed up at it, the truth slowly settling in my mind as I looked at my mother. The true horror had been before my eyes this entire time, and yet I had not seen it.
The artist had not known what he was capturing - but I did. For the first time, I looked beyond the formal pose and the elegant black court dress. I saw her as she truly was. Those slender white wrists, the wide red mouth, the wildness in the eyes. The darkness crept in around me, thicker than ever before, as I looked up at her portrait. My mother had been a witch.
This was why Monsieur Lavelle had wanted me. This was how I had brought his dark experiments to life.
And it w
as this dark magic I had felt growing and strengthening in my blood since the first moment a witch called to me on the misty Yorkshire moors.
Sister.
Thank you for reading!
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About the Author
Isobel Robertson lives in Yorkshire, England, on the edge of the same moors that inspired Witchfog.
Learn more by visiting isobelrobertson.com or instagram.com/isobel.r.robertson
Coming Soon…
Witchfog Page 18
