by S E Holmes
with Hugo as her protector, Winnie remains in serious jeopardy from all sides. I am terribly afraid for her.”
Okay, so I didn’t understand a thing they’d said, but didn’t need to be a genius to gather it wasn’t peachy. Had they received a kidnap threat or something? And just where did they think they were going without me? I’d only just arrived.
“The Stone’s poison corrupts her mind. Soon, the visions will become tangible and threaten Winsome physically. Dare I state the obvious?” Fortescue whispered. “What if the Stone remains free and its true owner escapes?”
“Unimaginable!” Bea said firmly. “There is no cause for such sentiment, Jerome. We shall not fail Winsome. We will determine her Warrior, and then at least she will not be alone when we are gone.” Oh, no! Whatever they were talking about, surely they wouldn’t saddle me with two bodyguards? I hadn’t yet worked out a way to shake the one I already had. “As for Enoch, it is high time he accepted his culpability in this disaster. He is a hypocrite, who picks and chooses when to intervene, despite his declaration of impartiality. Grace! What could you possibly find to smile at?”
“There has only ever been one choice for the position,” Mrs Paget said.
Just then, Vovo padded up the hall, mewling loudly. “Go away!” I shushed.
My reaction increased the meow decibels and quiet invaded the kitchen. There was nothing for it, spying wasn’t really paying off anyway.
“Good morning!” I swanned in, aiming for a demeanour of virtue.
The traitor cat slunk into the room behind me, purring and shameless. Bea was not the gormless Principal Bird; my aunt could detect deceit at thirty paces. I covered any guilt over my eavesdropping by bending to hug Mrs Paget hello. She embraced me as if I was about to embark on an extended voyage, her tiny, bony body trembling. She let go reluctantly and bestowed me with a luminous smile. I peered around the table and my face fell.
“Oh! Are you all okay? You look sick!”
“Just a touch of the flu. Nothing to worry about, Winnie. Take a seat, please.”
Bea’s reassurance wasn’t the least reassuring. Overnight they’d sunk in upon themselves; skin stretched taut and papery, eyes hollowed and dull, bodies noticeably shrunken like flowers withering at summer’s end. Their flu seemed closer to leukaemia.
Even though the trio combined were probably as elderly as Stonehenge, they’d always radiated abnormal vitality. Currently, they resembled shucked-out cadavers, the walking dead. I hadn’t paid attention to Fortescue this morning in my room, but their ill visages took all of my notice now. Opening my mouth to demand they all go back to bed while I phoned the doctor for a home visit, Bea thwarted the appeal. She raised her hand, pushing a cloud of the lavender perfume she always wore my way.
“Please, Winsome. No fuss. We have a lesson planned.”
My fears eased, somewhat. I slumped onto my chair. I’d been home for a solitary night! My education couldn’t wait? In consideration of their medical condition, I resigned myself to cooperate, belatedly inspecting the strange assortment of articles on the table.
Along with a Japanese tea set, which comprised of a teapot full of vile green tea with lemon myrtle, and dainty cups, sat an unfamiliar golden key on a fancy key chain and a large cardboard box. Bea distributed cups and poured tea for the others, before filling her own cup with unsteady hands. She traditionally performed every act with the scalpel-precision of a surgeon.
“Tea for you, Winsome?”
She knew I didn’t drink the horrid stuff unless forced. It was another lapse in a morning full of them: something as rare as Bea’s most priceless vellum codex from the fifteenth century written in cipher text. The manuscript was so unique, on purchase she’d had it frozen at minus 36º Celsius for three days to kill any chance of bookworm.
“No, thank you,” I replied with strained patience.
The key wasn’t necessary. Bea’s security measures to protect her invaluable objects meant none of us required them to access the building, relying instead on facial recognition software.
“Well,” she said, possibly looking even tenser than I felt. “We’ve decided to review your security plan.”
When your guardian was wealthier than an oil sheik and dealt in rare and highly-sought-after goods, grand-nieces represented a bargaining chip for the criminal element. I was protected with an obsessiveness greater than that of even the most neurotic helicopter parent.
“You will now be allowed to come and go as you please. With Hugo, of course. After fulfilling any task required by me.” My budding hope evaporated like a puff of steam from Bea’s tea. “And you may have friends visit. After they have been thoroughly screened.”
The shock clearly showed. I could not care less about the friends. They were a burden I’d gone cold turkey on after one too many moves. But I’d never had the privilege of inviting people over before. I was tempted to scrape someone up from the street just to test the truth of it.
“Er, what’s the task?”
I sensed an enormous catch in this less-than-inspiring deal. Aunt Bea really wasn’t the type to miss an opportunity for learning, which always meant homework or an exacting chore of some sort. She nudged the cardboard box in my direction with the very tip of one finger, seemingly unwilling to handle it.
“Go ahead,” she encouraged. “Take a look.”
I stood reluctantly to part the flaps and see inside. Praying for a puppy, I was instead presented with the troubling whiff of something burning. A fat book in tan leather nestled on the bottom, about the size of a trade paperback and held firmly shut by a buckled belt. The jacket showed wear in places from many years of use, but it was still a fine-looking volume. Next to it rested a long, golden box, filigreed with inset rubies. It had a small padlocked latch. I glanced at the tiny gold key on the ring.
“The diary first, please.”
Bea held her breath as I reached in to pick the book up. Fortescue and Mrs Paget gripped the table and leaned forward. I sank back into my chair and Mrs Paget whipped the cardboard box away to give them an unobstructed view. I undid the belt, beneath which sat a raised golden triangle that took up about a third of the length of the cover. The metal was flat and etched with complicated symbols.
The rest of the leather was covered by imprinted pictures that were small, very detailed and hard to make out. They gave the impression of movement. I ran my fingers over them, stopping to feel along what might’ve been a sword. Closer inspection revealed my error. The long shaft connected to the groin of an evil-looking creature with pointed fangs and slanted inhuman eyes, thrusting out at the world with a glare of pure hatred.
“Oh!” I pulled my fingers away and dropped the horrible text to the table. Similar sickening imagery blanketed the dust jacket – except for the space within the triangle, which remained pure. “What is this? A nasty grimoire?”
I couldn’t believe Bea would give me such a study in demonology, in spite of some of the more ghastly pieces in her collection. The book was definitely occult and I shuddered to think of the inner subject matter. Any curiosity about the golden box faded. It might be more of the same.
“It is your new project, Winsome. For today, only the opening pages, please.” Bea’s face was dour.
“Must I?” I didn’t mean to sound defiant, but there was a bad feel about the book. I wasn’t keen to touch it again.
“It is non-negotiable.” She used a teaspoon to push the diary closer.
Several thoughts competed in my head: confusion, what was so important about this book? And an inkling of dread, quashed by the knowledge they would never deliberately do anything to hurt me. Why was reading it so necessary? Mrs Paget twitched from across the table’s divide, looking unhappy. Fortescue was as unfathomable as ever.
No gain in dithering, I took a breath, pulled the diary to me by its edges and flipped the page, trying to ignore the front illustrations. What followed was a bewildering anticlimax, as I silently read from an unadorned page: That contained herein
is for the Keeper of the Crone’s Stone and the Sacred Trinity alone. Singly, they stand afore the onslaught and must prevent the unleashed. The Stone can never be returned to its original owner.
It wasn’t a story I knew. And I read. A lot.
Uncharacteristically flustered, Bea instructed, “Read it aloud, please.”
A slight breeze ruffled my hair, as I cleared my throat and began the speech. Goosebumps travelled my skin. My voice didn’t seem my own, a choir of several women whispering while I completed the words. The kitchen’s eerie acoustics hadn’t been apparent before. My psychiatric symptoms seemed to multiply faster than fungus.
“The next page, Winsome. Out loud, if you please.” Well, I did not please! “Focus, Winsome!” Bea admonished in response to my stubborn silence.
I turned to the designated page. It was in the same fancy writing as the last excerpt. I mumbled without enthusiasm, “Amongst the Faiths it is seldom recorded the mightiest of the Fallen took for himself a wife of ageless beauty and guile. And so the Witch-Demon of Perpetual Dark became Lucifer’s only love.”
“Are you joking?” I asked.
“A tad more pep please,” Bea glowered.
I sighed and did as ordered. “Above even him, she was wicked and never inscribed was her true name. She remained unbound by the shackles of his enduring punishment and roamed wherever she pleased across history, bestowing freely of her
