Winter’s Light

by M. J. Hearle

Sam gave a sickly smile and nodded, gaze darting away from his aunt as though wary of revealing his thoughts on the matter. Ignoring her nephew’s discomfort, Magdalene turned to Winter. The woman’s strong perfume pricked her nostrils, overpowering the scent of food. It smelt like burial flowers.

  ‘And you must be the girl I’ve heard so much about.’ She reached out and gently caressed a lock of Winter’s hair. ‘The girl with the beautiful red hair and the power to cross worlds. Winter Adams.’

  Magdalene let the hair drop from her fingers. Now that she was standing so close Winter could faintly make out the old woman’s features through the veil. A thin, pale face; pronounced cheekbones. Her eyes though remained a mystery, lost in shadow.

  Shifting uncomfortably beneath Magdalene’s intense scrutiny, Winter swallowed and said, ‘Um . . . yes, that’s me.’ Eager to shift the attention, she thumbed towards Jasmine who was staring uneasily at Magdalene. ‘This is my friend, Jasmine.’

  The veiled woman tilted her head to one side, examining Jasmine. ‘Ah yes, the interloper. Yuri has told me about you. Apparently, wherever Winter goes so do you.’

  ‘You better believe it,’ Jasmine said, bolstering herself with false bravado.

  Winter was worried that Jasmine’s disrespectful tone might offend Magdalene, a woman who was clearly used to being treated reverentially. Instead, she got the impression Magdalene was smirking behind her veil.

  ‘Well, you are all very welcome at Castle Vled,’ she said. ‘I apologise for the lack of lights but the storm has thrust us briefly back into the dark ages. I trust you will all be able to eat by candlelight?’

  Despite being unsettled by Magdalene, Winter was so hungry she was quite sure she could sniff out the food in absolute darkness. By the eager expressions on the faces of her travelling companions, she wasn’t the only one.

  Chapter 43

  When the sounds of cutlery chinking against porcelain plates had finally abated and everyone had eased back into their chairs wearing contented smiles, Magdalene began speaking again. Throughout their feasting, Winter had noticed the old woman’s plate remained empty. The only substance she consumed was the occasional sip of red wine. She had not yet deigned to remove her veil either.

  ‘Now you have eaten, let us speak briefly before bed. I understand you all must be very weary, but there are some matters that need discussing.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling the other shoe is about to drop,’ Jasmine muttered to Winter. Winter felt the same way. The little conversation they’d shared during the meal had been light and superficial. Nobody had broached the topic of what had brought them to Castle Vled. Nobody had mentioned Blake or the Black Mirror.

  ‘I must admit your presence here is cause for much excitement with the rest of the family,’ Magdalene began, directing her words to Winter. ‘Ever since Yuri contacted us with the news that you had agreed to help us in our . . . endeavour, I myself have had trouble sleeping.’ A flicker of emotion passed through her voice. ‘My whole life I have waited for an opportunity such as this. An opportunity for a Bonnaire to venture to the Dead Lands. I only wish I was a younger woman so I might accompany you on the journey.’

  Growing uncomfortable, Winter cleared her throat. ‘I still don’t really know how I’m supposed to do this. Open the doorway. You people keep telling me I’m a Key, but . . .’ She shrugged in a gesture of ambivalence.

  ‘My dear, nobody expects you to be an expert in these matters. Tomorrow, Elena will instruct you. Rest assured it is not complicated. Your gift is a genetic one and as such your participation in the ritual is really all that is required.’

  ‘When will this “ritual” be taking place?’ Jasmine asked, clearly sensing Winter was feeling a little overwhelmed.

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  Winter dropped the fork she’d been nervously playing with. It clattered loudly onto the plate.

  ‘Tomorrow night?’ Jasmine said, her expression incredulous. ‘Do you really think that’s enough time to prepare?’

  ‘My dear, we have been preparing for nearly a century.’

  ‘I mean for Winter.’

  Magdalene’s veil rippled as she tilted her head towards Winter. ‘I understood time was something of the essence for you, child? Your Demori —’

  ‘Blake,’ Winter supplied.

  Magdalene nodded, accepting the reprimand graciously. ‘Your Blake is being kept prisoner by the hellish creatures that dwell in the Dead Lands, the Malfaerie. Yuri has informed me of the situation. And the nature of the bargain you struck.’

  ‘That’s the only reason I’m doing this,’ she said, staring at the veil.

  ‘Of course,’ Magdalene said, though there could have been a faint trace of condescension in her response. ‘You’re doing this for love and as I’m sure Yuri told you, I fully intend to see that your Blake remains unharmed.’

  ‘Forgive me, Madame,’ Winter said, unable to stop herself. ‘I find your compliance a little hard to believe. Your brother —’

  ‘I am not my brother,’ Magdalene said, a warning edge to her voice. ‘I do not share his obsession with the son of Ariman. There are larger matters at play here. Our fight against the Demori is bigger than a personal grudge against just one of the creatures. If the price I must pay for the greater cause is offering one Demori a second chance, then I do so. Albeit reluctantly. Besides, I understand there is something of a case to be made for Blake’s innocence.’

  ‘That’s correct. I’ve seen the evidence myself,’ Sam said, shooting a quick supportive glance at Winter.

  ‘Well,’ Magdalene sighed wearily, as though the prospect was deeply unappealing. ‘I shall review this new information, but this is a matter for a later date. After you return.’

  A silence fell over the table, punctuated only by Marcel’s enthusiastic chewing on a lamb shank. The man could eat.

  ‘Why are you so interested in the Dead Lands?’ Jasmine asked. ‘Why do you want to go there? I mean you’re not just doing it for Winter and Blake.’

  Winter felt the atmosphere in the room suddenly grow tense. Jasmine’s question was not appreciated.

  ‘Young lady, these matters do not concern you directly so I see little reason for having to justify myself to you,’ Magdalene replied icily.

  ‘I’m interested in this too, and as these matters do affect me, I’d like you to answer,’ Winter said, surprising herself with her own assertiveness. The old woman straightened in her chair. Winter could imagine her expression behind the veil hardening into an angry scowl.

  ‘Very well,’ she began stiffly. ‘Over the last century my family has battled these creatures. The fight that began with Ariman spread once we discovered he was not the only Demori. That there was a whole race of the parasites living among us. What started as one man’s crusade became a war, spanning four generations of my family. There have been losses on both sides, though in recent times it is we that have suffered more greatly. It is our hope that by travelling to the Dead Lands, where the species originated, we may learn something about our enemy that will help swing the tide back in our favour. This is why we need you so desperately, Winter, and why I am willing to overlook Blake’s continued existence. You’re more valuable to us than you can possibly imagine.’

  With that final pronouncement, Winter felt all eyes shift to her. At that moment, if she could have somehow travelled back to the safe familiarity of Hagan’s Bluff, transported herself like the Demori, she would have. Anything to get away from those veiled eyes, and the weight of expectation she was beginning to feel pressing down on her.

  ‘Time for dessert!’ Marcel cried out, slamming his fork and knife down. He seemed surprised when no-one seconded his demand.

  Chapter 44

  Jasmine and Winter followed behind Radermire as he led them to their sleeping quarters. After dinner, he had materialised out of the shadows behind the table as though he’d been there all along, waiting to be summoned by his mistress. Magdalene had bid them goodnight, taken one
of the candelabras from the table and drifted towards the archway, reminding Winter of some tormented spirit, doomed to float through the castle for all eternity.

  Twisting through the innards of the keep, Radermire wordlessly took them up staircases and down long hallways lined with heavy wooden doors and faded scarlet curtains, which trembled and fluttered in the storm wind. Winter watched the kerosene lamp in Radermire’s hand and tried not to let her imagination run wild. There was no point being afraid of phantom dangers when there were so many real ones waiting to menace her.

  Originally they were supposed to have separate quarters but Jasmine had suggested they share the one room, which Winter eagerly jumped at. She would have suggested it herself if she hadn’t been so proud. Here she was, only a month away from turning eighteen, and the idea of spending the night alone in this cold and dark place made her feel like curling up into a little ball and sobbing quietly. She wondered if Jasmine felt the same or had just guessed that Winter did, using that spooky best-friend telepathy trick of hers.

  As they turned down what must have been the third or fourth long hallway, Winter noticed a pair of doors coming up on their left, different from the others they’d passed. These doors were arched and larger for one thing; for another there appeared to be a soft green glow leaking from underneath.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Winter asked as they drew closer.

  Radermire didn’t slow. ‘Castle chapel. Do you need to pray?’

  Unprepared for the question, Winter shook her head nervously. ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Best to stay away then. There are rooms in this castle which clever guests would be wise to avoid.’

  ‘I thought you said we were safe in the castle.’

  ‘Safety is a relative concept, Miss Adams.’

  Winter caught Jasmine’s eye and mouthed, What the hell?

  Jasmine shrugged helplessly, obviously as unnerved by Radermire and the chapel’s spectral light as Winter was. Outside the storm continued to beat down mercilessly on the castle. Thunder rumbled overhead and white flashes of lightning periodically lit the hallway ahead of them like bursts from paparazzi cameras. The rain grew louder until Winter realised the persistent patter she heard was not rain but the sound of many footsteps coming towards them.

  ‘Stand against the wall,’ Radermire ordered just as a dozen or so men and women – Bonnaires – came hurtling out of the darkness towards them, the torches mounted on their crossbows jumping over Winter and Jasmine’s frightened expressions.

  Once the small battalion had disappeared, Radermire turned towards them and explained, ‘Demori.’

  Smirking at the girls’ worried expressions, he continued on, lamp bobbing in the dark.

  After a few more twisting corridors, Radermire abruptly stopped outside a wooden door. ‘This is where you will be sleeping,’ he said, crossing into the room in front of them. He lit two oil lamps on the dressing table. The lamps’ orange glow doubled in the tall mirror against the wall, splashing light across the room.

  It was a huge space, almost as big as Winter’s living room in Hagan’s Bluff. A luxurious looking four-poster bed stood in the centre, easily wide enough to accommodate the two girls and probably a few more people as well. Their suitcases were sitting on a heavy antique chest at the foot of the bed, already open. Somebody had gone to the trouble of laying out their pyjamas. Spread out across the floor was a white wolfskin rug, the animal’s head frozen in an eternal snarl.

  ‘There is an ensuite adjacent.’ Radermire waved his lamp in the direction of a door set near the back left-hand corner. ‘However, I’d recommend avoiding the shower tonight as there is little chance you’ll get hot water.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Radermire.’ Winter smiled weakly at him. He looked a bit disembodied with only his hand and face illuminated by the lamp.

  ‘Please, it is just Radermire. Madame has instructed me to advise that you are free to wander through the castle should you wish, though there are certain areas which are . . .’ he frowned, searching for the appropriate word in English, ‘unsafe.’

  Winter thought about the chapel and the eerie green light pulsing within.

  ‘Should you come across a locked door, trust that it is locked for a reason,’ Radermire continued. ‘In particular, the western tower is off limits. This is an old castle, constantly in need of repair and refurbishment. At the moment, the tower is being renovated and is therefore quite unsafe.’

  There was a flash of lightning outside their window, and the silhouette of one of the towers was haloed against the stormy sky. Winter’s grasp of geography was hazy at best, but she had a feeling their bedroom faced the west.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’

  Radermire turned to follow her gaze through the latticed window. He nodded brusquely. ‘As I said, Madame would prefer it for you to stay away from that part of the castle. For your own safety.’

  Radermire’s shifty expression piqued Winter’s curiosity. Was the tower really unsafe or did Magdalene just not want them exploring it and finding something they shouldn’t?

  ‘Now, if there is nothing else I will see you both tomorrow. Breakfast is at eight and served in the dining hall. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Winter stepped aside so Radermire could pass them. His eyes flicked briefly to her and then he was gone. The door closed and Winter half expected to hear the click of a key turning locking them in. She felt a little like a prisoner sequestered in her cell. Jasmine must have felt similarly because as soon as Radermire’s steps had faded she dashed to the door and tried the handle. She peeked out into the hallway, closed the door and whispered, ‘Right, let’s go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean – we need to get out of here. Like, now.’

  ‘Jas, we can’t leave!’

  Jasmine crossed to the bed, grabbed her pyjamas and stuffed them back into her suitcase. ‘Yes, we can. Something is really wrong here, Win. I’m not just talking about the old lady dressed like death, or Mr Personality.’ She flicked her head in the direction Radermire had taken. ‘I’m talking about the guys with the crossbows. And the fact that everybody who we’ve met seems to be lying. Something bad is coming, Win. Can’t you feel it?’

  Winter stared at her friend helplessly. ‘Of course I can. I’m just as creeped out by all this as you are. Probably more. Remember why I came here though, Jas. For Blake.’

  Leaving the suitcase, she took Winter’s hands, pleading with her. ‘Use your brain, Win. Stop leading with your heart and actually think about the situation. We need to get out of here.’

  The depth of concern in Jasmine’s eyes was so moving, Winter almost agreed. The idea of grabbing their suitcases and escaping into the night, leaving the castle, the Bane, her anxiety and doubts far behind, was incredibly tempting.

  ‘I can’t,’ Winter said quietly, dropping Jasmine’s gaze. The disappointment she read there was too painful. ‘I have to see this through. I don’t have any other options. If you want to leave, Jas, and believe me I completely understand, then please leave.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ Jasmine said, walking dejectedly back to the suitcase. She opened it and removed her pyjamas, throwing them back onto the bed. She glanced up at Winter and smiled sadly.

  ‘If you’re set on doing this thing, then I guess I’m stuck here with you.’

  Blake’s Diary, August 23rd

  Father used to speak of destiny and fate. He called it Alos, the river. We are buoyed by its current, he said, though our course is not fixed. There are many branches and junctions between us and the sea. In this way, we are masters of Alos, as we are its servants.

  Returning to Hagan’s Bluff felt less like a branch than a bend in the river. And the current seemed to flow ever faster towards the end.

  The first night we passed in this old, shadowy house was long and fitful. Many times Claudette threatened to break free of the holding circle, her will alone seeming to erode the warding runes. I threw her back, bi
nding her ever more forcibly, but still she continued to struggle and so I spent the night watching her, waiting for her to tire and sleep, comforting myself with the knowledge that this was not forever.

  And now the girl.

  Winter.

  I found her on the mountain.

  This afternoon I set off in search of the church.

  Walking through these shady woods, the rumble of the ocean in the distance, that sense of being pulled forward towards an inevitable destination grew. I felt confident that every step I took was in the right direction. It wasn’t long before I glimpsed the church ahead through the sighing trees. Pilgrim’s Lament. Still standing, though the passage of time had worn away much of its simple charm.

  Great holes gaped in the roof; the stone walls had faded to a chalky white colour; the bell tower lent at a crooked angle; here and there, dank green water stains had formed, the church’s tears of neglect. I tried the front door but it was locked. While it would have been easy for me to gain access, it was not the church I had come to see.

  Circling around the front, I found my progress to the cemetery impeded by a tall bank of prickly weeds and sword grass. For a moment I was overcome with irritation – How dare they let this sacred place become wild? – and then a breeze blew through the boughs, making them creak musically, a drift of shimmering pollen enchanted the air in front of me, a bird called a bittersweet tune to another and I forgot my anger. There is wonder to be found when we are quiet and watchful.

  My heart began to beat faster as I approached the place where we’d buried her, a confluence of emotions – sadness, anticipation, regret, guilt – jostling for position. Her stone had lost some of its shape, the edges nibbled away by the elements. It had a broken, careworn aspect. The epitaph was gone, scraped away by a century’s worth of wind and rain, but I could still see the ghostly impressions of the letters. Madeleine Duchamp. Beloved Mother. Born 1856, Died 1899.

  Flowers. I needed flowers. Something to bring colour to the brown and green tangle of weeds lying matted over her grave. I set off into the woods to choose an assortment of wild flowers for the bouquet. It would be the only bouquet I ever gave her so I wanted it to be as perfect as possible. Satisfied with my selection, I returned to the grave, closed my eyes and said a silent goodbye.