And now the spirit who stands before me, as clear and vibrant as any living being, is my own dear father.
“Daughter, my darling girl,” he says softly, his voice, as is so often the case with the risen spirit, sounding thinner, lighter, less substantial than his corporeal one had been.
“Oh, Papa!” I must fight to control my tears.
“Hush now, this is not the time for weeping. We both knew this day would come. And, as you see, I am still here, am I not?”
I shake my head, digging my fingernails into my palms to force myself not to crumble. “But … Father.…”
“I know. There are … adjustments to be made.”
“And to step into your shoes, as Head Witch … will I command the respect that the leader of a coven should do?”
“You will, Lilith. In time. I grant you, it is unusual for a girl scarcely twenty-one to take on such a role. Unusual, but not unheard of. Think of all those who have stood where you now stand, doubting themselves just as you doubt yourself.”
“But what if I fail?”
“You will not fail,” he tells me. “Look at me, child.”
I do as he asks, my mouth firm with determination, but my eyes, I fear, giving away my deep anxiety.
“You will not fail because you must not fail. You understand, don’t you, Lilith?”
“Yes.”
Father nods slowly. “You are my daughter. You have studied hard and long for this honor. I know that you are equal to the task, my dear. And you know that you do not face what lies ahead on your own. You have the support of the coven, Lord Grimes and Druscilla in particular. And of course you have my counsel, my guidance, always.”
“Yes, Papa.” I have to be strong, not only to live up to his expectations. There is so much at stake. I force myself to take a steadying breath and stand tall. “I will not disappoint you. I promise.”
“Have all the arrangements been made for the inauguration?”
“They have, as you instructed, and as coven law dictates. Precisely one full month from the stopping of your heart, at the pinnacle of the night, we will convene here. Word has been sent out.”
“Good, good. It will be a proud day for me, daughter.” He smiles at me and then gestures toward a low bench. “Now, sit with me, and amuse me with details of the day. I want to know how quickly the earl of Winchester told you he would happily take over this onerous responsibility from you, how many times the countess of Framley called you a lamb, and how much of my second best claret was sacrificed to the occasion.”
Feeling the weight lift from my shoulders and the joy of my father’s companionship lift my mood, I sit beside him and we chat amiably about the day’s events. I consider telling him about the unknown spirit who spoke to me unbidden earlier, but hours have passed and there has been no recurrence. Perhaps I was merely overwrought. Grief, heat, and concern for my family allowing my mind to play tricks. Father and I have enjoyed fewer than ten brief minutes together before the silver bell in the corner of the chamber rings, blunted echoes of its clear notes reverberating off the low ceiling and dense walls of the cavernous space.
I spring to my feet.
“Withers! Something is wrong.”
“You must go.”
“So soon, Papa? I had wanted so much to stay with you longer tonight.”
“We will have time again. You are needed. Go now,” he says, gently but firmly, and as he speaks he moves silently backward into the shadows until the gloom swallows him entirely.
Hastening back to the house, Violet and Iago at my side, I meet our trusty butler in the hallway.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Lady Lilith, but this has just been delivered.” He holds out a note.
Taking it from him, I immediately recognize the curious hand of Mr. Chow Li.
FM he ailing. Better you come get.
My heart drops. Today of all days. But then, why not today? I am not the only one who has just inherited duty and responsibility. I am not the only one mourning Father’s passing.
“We shall need a cab, Withers.”
“I have one already waiting outside, my lady.”
“Then we should go quickly.”
“I have taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Jessop to prepare a daybed in the library, my lady. It may be we are not able to … encourage His Grace up the stairs.”
I am shocked to hear my brother referred to by his new title. Something else I shall have to come to terms with. Like it or not, things have changed forever, and now, however poorly suited he is for the role, it is Freddie who is the duke of Radnor.
* * *
Nicholas Stricklend finds he often does his best work in the hours of darkness, when there are fewer people likely to interrupt his thoughts. Whitehall is, of necessity, a place of bustle and busy-ness, with so very many civil servants doing their best to manage the politicians who pass through their tender care. It was to avoid the mainstream of this mayhem that he secured himself a suite of offices, and of rooms, indeed, in the newly built Admiralty Arch which spans Pall Mall on the southwest corner of Trafalgar Square. Competition for such a prestigious workplace had been fierce, but Stricklend had never been less than completely certain that he would get what he wanted. His private accommodation is on the top floor, to the rear of the main arch, at its center, so that the windows look directly up Pall Mall and give a clear view of Buckingham Palace. He selected offices on the floor below, with windows at the front, allowing him to overlook the roofs of Downing Street, and the spires of the Houses of Parliament. Never has a building been so perfectly constructed, he believes, to demonstrate the point of power in the land: the confluence of monarchy and state. The royal family to the west, solid, ancient, and privileged. The government to the east, thrusting, dangerous, and clever. Both built upon the labor of the masses. Both kept in their fortunate positions by the love of those same beasts of burden. Both served, or ruled, depending on your view, by the cunning of those who bridged the gap, much as the Marble Arch does, between the two worlds. Where birthright meets public mandate, in the tension of that connection, stand invisible men who are able to manipulate both to further their own aims. Stricklend is just such a man. Ordinarily, of course, the petty desires of these Machiavellian figures are not of great importance to anyone but themselves. The rise of a civil servant through the ranks, the acquisition of a grace and favor property, the opportunity to make money on the stock market, or mingle with aristocrats on their country estates, none of these things make the slightest difference to the man following his plow, or the schoolboy reciting his tables. National security remains secure. The order of things will continue unchallenged. Ordinarily. But Stricklend is not ordinary, and neither are his plans.
He chose to furnish his suite in a Spartan, businesslike fashion. The broad mahogany desk, shipped in from Singapore and weighing nearly as much as the four stout men who had delivered it, reflects, in both its stature and its orderliness, the workings of its owner’s mind. It is in perfect scale with the room it occupies, and yet it projects its own special importance, gravitas, and power. Its top is covered with tooled green leather, bordered with gold leaf, on which sit, in regimented lines, a spotless blotter, a heavy crystal inkwell, three fountain pens, and two evenly sharpened pencils. There is no eraser, for Stricklend will never have need of one. He is of the opinion that a thing done properly is a thing done perfectly, and will therefore require no correction. To the left-hand side of the blotter, placed at a right angle to the edge of the desk, a plain black telephone is positioned precisely at a comfortable arm’s length from the Windsor chair upon which no one, but no one, other than Stricklend is ever permitted to sit.
The desk faces the door, to meet squarely anyone who deigns to come through it. The window behind, and the inspirational view it provides, are for contemplating only when standing up. The evening finds the permanent private secretary in pensive mood. Having satisfied himself that the sixth duke of Radnor is indeed dead, he has now to decide h
ow, and when, he should engineer a meeting with his successor. Whether or not having a woman as head of the Lazarus Coven will prove an added complication to his plans is not yet clear. The Sentinels had been about to make their move when the late duke had fallen ill. Everything has been put on hold. The death of the Head Witch has changed things, of that there is no doubt. Precisely how, and to the advantage of whom, remains to be seen.
These solitary deliberations are interrupted by the arrival of Elias Fordingbridge. The clerk is no more than five foot four, but still feels the compunction to stoop, as if he were much taller, or as if he were simply trying to avoid appearing in any way above himself. He steps across the threshold with his customary partially sideways gait, again as if he wishes to present himself as taking up even less of the world than he actually does, however slight his place in it actually is.
“My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Stricklend, sir,” says Fordingbridge, fixing his gaze on the floor so that there will be no chance he might look his superior in the eye, “but I thought you would want to see this.” He proffers a copy of the evening paper, folded neatly to show a report on the bottom left corner of the front page.
Stricklend takes it from him. The headline reads:
SIXTH DUKE OF RADNOR BURIED TODAY
Stricklend purses his lips. It is an article of minor importance, on the face of it. A small story to fill a small place in the late edition of the London paper. Except that he knows what, in reality, the death of the duke means. And he knows that Fordingbridge knows. What bothers him now, what causes him to furrow his brow and drop the paper onto his desk, is just how careful his clerk has been to keep what he knows from anyone else. It strikes him that folding a newspaper to highlight a particular story, and hurrying along public corridors with it with all too apparent eagerness bordering on excitement, does not demonstrate an awareness of how vital, how crucial, discretion and secrecy are to the success of certain plans. He sighs. It is clear to him that diligence and caution are lessons the pathetic little amanuensis needs to be taught over and over again.
“From where did you obtain this newspaper, Fordingbridge?” he inquires, his voice, as always, soft, his words considered.
“From a stand outside the main entrance, Mr. Stricklend, sir.”
“A stand outside the main entrance. I see. And how many people, do you think, observed you making your purchase?”
“Well, sir, the street was still busy, but I don’t suppose many were interested in my actions. Sir.” The clerk clasps his hands in front of him and begins to look increasingly uneasy.
“You don’t suppose … no, Fordingbridge, that is, I fear, a major part of the problem, your not supposing. You see, I imagine you took no trouble supposing how many people might also observe you noticing the article at the bottom of the page, and that they might have registered your interest in this piece, and that they might have become aware of the haste with which you sought to bring this news to my attention, suggesting that the article was, therefore, of no small interest … to me. Do you see where this might be leading us, Fordingbridge? Do you?”
The look of terror in Fordingbridge’s eyes suggests that he knows exactly where this might be leading them, and it is somewhere he wishes with all his being not to go.
“Oh, Mr. Stricklend, sir, I promise you, I was careful, truly, I was,” he whines, clasping and unclasping his hands, bending his feeble body even farther forward so that he is almost bowing before his master.
“But not careful enough,” says Stricklend. “I think you would agree, wouldn’t you, Fordingbridge? Or are you going to stand there and compound your stupidity by questioning my judgment on the matter, hmm?”
“Oh! No, sir, please…”
An expression of tedium passes over Stricklend’s face as he sends the Suffering Spell across the room. He finds it tiresome in the extreme that he has to so frequently admonish his servant and remind him of what will happen if he fails in his duties.
He watches as Fordingbridge endures his punishment and decides that, if nothing else, the wretched creature is learning to accept painful penalties as his due. He does not cry out when the skin on his hands starts to bubble and bulge but rather stares at them, almost fascinated to witness his own torment. It is only when the agony inflicted by the phantom burrowing worms reaches the tender areas of his neck and his face that he emits a pitiful, high, whining noise. Stricklend judges the point has been made and reverses the spell. Fordingbridge gasps, taking some moments to regain his composure. When he has done so he swallows hard.
“Well?” Stricklend asks. “Have you nothing to say to me?”
“Thank you, master!” he splutters. “Thank you.”
The permanent private secretary nods, satisfied, and dismisses his clerk with a wave of his hand.
4.
I allow Withers to help me from the hansom cab and instruct the driver to wait for us. He is predictably reluctant to linger in such a street, but a few extra coins persuade him it is worth the risk. In fact the place I ask him to halt is some way from Mr. Chow Li’s house. Shame enough that a stranger should be involved in recovering my brother at all. There is no necessity for him to see the actual premises. Or its clientele.
We make our way through the filth of the narrow alleys as hastily as we are able. The district of Bluegate Fields falls considerably short of the bucolic image conjured up by its name. The houses lean against each other like so many listing tombstones. Some are terraced rows with mean windows, but most are single story, little more than shacks, with swaybacked and makeshift roofs, and doors that open directly onto the muck and muddle of the unlit passageways and streets. As we draw closer to the river there are also tall, dark brick buildings, some as high as four floors, built as warehouses for merchandise brought up and down the Thames. Such is the gloom, that had Withers not had the foresight, born of experience, to bring a lamp, our progress would have been both halting and hazardous. Drunken men and women lurch from the shadows, calling abuse or suggesting ways in which they might assist one another. I pay them no heed but stride on, lifting my cape to avoid the worst of the mire. Withers is a large man, and his size and purposeful step go some way to warding off unwanted attention. I know, however, that the fact we are able to pass unmolested is due mainly to the guardian presence I summoned to accompany us. The protection I receive from the spirits who answered my call for help is not visible, not to those who are not witches. Should a witch be walking in Bluegate Fields this night, however, and happen to glance in the direction of the slender woman in the deep green cloak with her sturdy butler, they would clearly see the three long-dead soldiers marching, swords drawn, at my side. They would notice their feathered hats and short, silk-lined capes which marked them out as Royalists fallen in a war over two centuries earlier. And they would have registered the fierce and determined expressions which told of their loyalty to the young witch they now serve. The ordinary folk who reside alongside Mr. Chow Li see none of this. It is not what they see that makes them keep their distance and let us pass, it is what they feel. An indescribable sense that something stands between themselves and the curiously out of place woman in their midst. Something bold and dangerous. Something they had best keep away from.
We will stay close, mistress. Have no fear.
Thank you, my loyal Cavaliers.
As we approach the familiar red door we find the alleyway blocked by a small gathering of agitated people. The commotion appears to center around a ferocious-looking man with a wild beard and even wilder eyes. As I draw closer I recognize him. I glance at Withers, but can see that he is not as familiar with the outlandish creature as I. It is none other than the artist, Richard Mangan, one of our more colorful coven members. He is clearly drunk, and to let him see me now, to have him talk to me in such a state, would be risky indeed. It is an accepted rule of being a Lazarus witch that, when one unexpectedly encounters another in the Outerworld, we take great care not to reveal that we are acquainted unless we ha
ve previously been introduced to one another in society. To do so would raise many awkward questions. I am not surprised to see him in his cups, but I am surprised to find him here. Can it be that he, like my brother, is in thrall to the pernicious substance on offer in this place? I pull my hood a little lower over my face and turn slightly into the shadows.
Withers comments, “Not the usual behavior of one of Mr. Chow Li’s customers, my lady.”
“Indeed not.”
For the most part, those who frequent the Chinaman’s establishment arrive in minor states of agitation or deep despair, and whatever their private torment, leave at least quietly. While the artist is clearly being asked to leave, and encouraged to do so by his friends, he is doing it with considerable noise.
“A man is only as good as his word!” he rages. “If, then, a man’s word will not be taken as good, not even by one who knows him, what should we make of him? Of either of the fellows?” The bear of a man reels as he rants, his arms flinging wide, one hand clutching an empty brandy bottle. “I offered my promise of payment by the week’s end, but I was not believed! Not trusted!”
A slight man with light brown hair makes a feeble attempt to calm his friend, but to no effect.
“I will not be silenced!” bellows the inebriated Mangan. “My honor is at stake! I will defend myself as I must!”
A slender woman with striking red hair flowing loose almost to her waist puts a hand on his arm and says something I cannot catch. For a moment it looks as if her words might have struck home, but then the Mangan begins to argue the point with her.
I grow tired of waiting and turn to the nearest of the troublemaker’s acquaintances.
“Would you kindly tell your friend to allow us to pass?”
The young man looks as if he is surprised to be asked such a thing. Even in the patchy lamplight I can see he has a strikingly handsome face and dark, dark eyes. It occurs to me that I have seen him before, though I am unable to say when or where. When he speaks his voice is deep but gentle, almost hard to discern above the general din of what is going on around us. His slight accent suggests he is not a Londoner, but heralds from the north of the country.
The Midnight Witch Page 5
