“Else?”
“As Head Witch you cannot be content to simply ward off a being who is in the employ of the Sentinels. Have you formulated a plan? I confess, I had expected to hear from you sooner. Another meeting of the senior witches needs to be called…”
“Rest assured, nothing is more pressing in my mind than the Sentinels. However, I do not believe this is the occasion to discuss the matter.”
“But the matter is gravely serious…”
“And it is precisely for that reason that I will not talk of it further during Yulemass festivities. Believe me, Lord Harcourt, nothing occupies my mind more, and I will not trivialize the business of the Sentinels’ threat by conversing about it in whispers and snatches.”
Without giving him the opportunity to press me further I slip away into the crowd.
Already the claret is starting to work its own unique magic and the antechamber is filled with the buzz of relaxed banter and chat. Druscilla and I share a brief embrace, and I am thankful for her strong presence and her continued guidance regarding the Dark Spirit. Victoria Faircroft is dressed even more flamboyantly than usual and is flirting with Lord Grimes. Many present have known each other much of their lives. Meaningful friendships, true bonds, and alliances have been formed over the years. We are a strong coven, and I am, at this moment, so proud to be even a small part of it, let alone its Head Witch.
At last it is time to move into the Great Chamber. As always I experience a powerful combination of excitement and affection as I enter our sacred space. The chamber is bedecked with silvery birch and glossy holly twisted into wreaths and swags. There are three times as many candles in the sconces and stands, so that light dances across the painted floor and flashes off the jewels worn by the gathered witches. Everyone finds a place to sit on the benches around the circle. The senior witches take their places on seats placed in front of the high altar, facing the sacred space. As Head Witch my position is on the middle chair in this row. I feel a nervous tension grip me as the torches are dimmed in their sconces, so that a low, flickering light fills the room. We all stand to recite the Lazarus creed and to say our necromancers’ prayer. Repeating the ancient words together, hearing their singular rhythm throb through the chamber like its very heart is both stirring and comforting. However archaic our rituals, however morbid our practices, however close to the darkness we venture in our journeys to the Land of Night, this is a part of me. This is familiar, and real, and powerful, all at once. This is what I was, after all, born to do. The central focus of Yulemass is the joint communing with a spirit, called forth specifically to tell us what he or she sees for the future of our coven. The Master of the Chalice is charged with this summoning, rather than myself. This leaves the Head Witch freer to question whoever appears before us than if I were engaged in the calling.
A respectful silence falls as the sacred words are spoken.
The air thickens slightly, as if some mysterious new ingredient has been added to it. There is a curious taste in my mouth, too. This is not uncommon. Sometimes the flavor can be quite revolting, which is off-putting, but on this occasion I detect sugar. No, something sweeter, if that is possible. Honey, I believe. Next, faintly at first, comes the sound of singing. It is a high, pure voice, and as it grows stronger a figure takes shape within the circle. The blurred outline of a girl slowly grows stronger and clearer, until we can all see her standing before us. She could have been no more than sixteen when she died, and is dressed in a pretty lace cotton dress of palest blue. It can be hard to determine the time from which the spirit comes, but by the style of her clothes and the way her hair is curled, I estimate she trod the earth some two hundred years ago.
“Welcome, little sister,” I say, standing to greet her, giving her what I hope she can see is a warm smile. She looks quite sad. And why would she not? What must have happened for her to die so young? I want to ask her, and to comfort her, but this is not the way things are done. We are taught to keep our feelings in check when conversing with the deceased. We must not make the contact personal. This is not only to maintain a professional detachment, it is for the protection of the spirit, as well as for our own protection. A close personal connection could prove dangerous. There are well-documented incidents of what can happen when a necromancer crosses that particular line. All young witches who practice necromancy are told these stories as cautionary tales. My father recounted the time, when he was himself a minor witch, learning his craft, and he had been present at a calling. The coven had convened to consult on the matter of succession, as the recently departed Head Witch had left no heir. The aim had been to call a reliably wise and insightful spirit, one who had helped them before, and to, in effect, give this guide the casting vote in the selection of a new leader. No one could have foreseen what would happen that night. It transpired that one of the senior witches, a woman with a dramatic nature, had grown close to another spirit guide. To say that they were lovers would be incorrect, as, of course, the visiting deceased had no physical form through which to express affection or desire, though he may well have felt both. But there had indeed developed a relationship that was intense and exclusive. And, it turned out, lethal. The lovelorn spirit had appeared in the circle during the meeting, highly emotional, and bewailing the fact that the witch had begun to spurn him and had, he knew, taken an earth-treading lover. He was enraged and distraught, and, not unnaturally, the witch in question sought to calm him. In doing so, she stepped into the circle. In an instant the spirit changed from pathetic to demonic. The truth was then revealed. He had gone into the darkness and gained powerful black magic to enable him to exact his revenge. Before anyone could prevent it, he grabbed the witch and took her down with him into the darkness. She was never seen again. The coven members made strenuous and sustained attempts to find her, to call her or her demon lover back, but she never answered.
The girl now standing in the circle has clearly never stepped into the darkness, even though she has dwelled in the Land of Night for two centuries. She looks about her with curiosity and a little awe, but is not frightened. I notice she is holding some flowers in her hand. Small blue ones with yellow centers that I believe to be forget-me-nots.
“You are welcome, my dear,” I tell her. “Thank you for answering the call. We are the Lazarus Coven, and we seek only to ask your guidance. Please know that you are safe here, and that we will do nothing to put you in harm’s way, nor to prevent you from returning to your rightful home when the time comes. What is your name?”
The girl looks at me for a moment with wide blue eyes and then starts to slowly walk around the circle, looking out at the faces that peer back at her. “Amelia,” she says in a childish voice, before returning to singing the little song she had begun earlier. She certainly seems at ease in the chamber, and, although surprised, is not perplexed about being called. It never fails to astonish me how young some spirit guides are. Children sometimes answer our calling. The gift of foresight which the dead receive when they arrive in the Land of Night does not discriminate between infants and adults. All are given the ability to look into the future of those still left in the Land of Day. What differs is the individual’s skill in clearly explaining what they see. Added to which, being human, however altered, spirits can be, on occasion, capricious, or even spiteful. It is their knowledge, after all, their gift. Not all of them want to share it. Some even allow themselves to be called with the express purpose of wielding their power, enjoying a position of influence and respect which they may never have had while living.
It is the job of the necromancer to elicit the truth from a visiting soul. It is not always easy.
“That’s a pretty name,” I say. “And those are very pretty flowers.”
She nods, looking at the blooms in her hands and stroking the petals thoughtfully. “I picked them myself,” she tells us. “From Grandmama’s garden. Such a sunny day. I miss the sun so.”
She seems so fragile, so delicate. I must treat her carefully.<
br />
“We have come together to celebrate Yulemass.”
“I do not care for midwinter. Nothing grows in the garden at midwinter.”
I want to ask her if she has a garden of sorts in her home on the other side of the Rubicon, but I know I must not. We are not allowed to question spirits about the Land of Night. If they choose to tell us, all well and good, but our purpose is not to delve into the mysteries of that existence. We are concerned with helping and protecting the living.
“Amelia, we feel we are in a time of great change. Will you help us? Will you tell us what challenges lie ahead, so that we can be better prepared to face them?”
“Everything is changing,” she says, still pacing slowly around and around in the circle, still playing with her flowers. “Everything.”
A senior member of the coven raises his hand for permission to ask a question and I nod my consent.
“Child, some here believe war is coming. That it cannot be stopped. Do you see it? Will there be war?” he asks. The quality of the silence in the chamber changes perceptibly. Many feel they know the answer to this grave question. None of us truly wants to hear it.
“Oh yes,” Amelia tells us. “There is going to be a war. A very big war. Lots and lots of people will die.”
“How many?” Another of the senior witches cannot contain himself and asks the impossible question without seeking permission. I frown at him. This is too specific. He sees my expression and tries to make it easier for the girl to respond. “Hundreds, d’you think? Thousands?”
Amelia shakes her head sadly. “Oh no,” she says. “Millions will die.” Before we have a chance to react to such a statement she goes on. “So many young men. Boys, really. Poor, poor boys, lying and dying in the mud. No good air to breathe their last breath with. Sinking in the stinking mud.” The terrible words sound somehow so much more dreadful spoken in her soft, singsong little voice. Suddenly she looks up at one of the minor witches and points a thin, white finger at him. “Your son will die!” she declares. There is a collective gasp of horror at this and the witch clutches at his heart. Amelia wheels about now, pointing here, there, everywhere, singling out witch after witch after witch. “And yours! And yours! And your son, too. And yours, and yours…!” On and on she goes, causing shock and despair throughout the chamber.
I try to follow her gaze, to see exactly whom she has picked out. She moves at such speed and finds so many to tell it is hard to discern them all, though each who has been selected knows it. And, as he is seated next to me, I know I am not mistaken when she singles out Lord Harcourt.
“And your beautiful boy, too. He will be among the first to die.”
Louis! I turn back to the earl. To hear of the impending death of a loved one is surely the greatest terror of all who speak to spirits. The man is impressively still and silent, bearing whatever pain and terror he feels without the least outward sign of it, as he has been brought up to do.
“Amelia!” I call to her, gently but firmly. I must stop this dreadful roll call of doom and gain something from her that might be of use. She stops and turns to look at me, cocking her head. “I know this must be hard for you,” I say, “but we are grateful, truly we are, for your insight. Nothing is foretold that cannot be changed if we are prepared to try.” I have to believe this. All necromancers must, else what is the point of our art? Would there really be anything to be gained simply by being informed of the imminence of death?
“You cannot stop the war. It is coming, whether you will it or no.”
“That may be, but we can lessen the horrors it will bring. We can shorten the duration by our actions, perhaps. We can advise the men in power so that the worst, the terrible outcome you describe, might be averted. Can you help us, Amelia? Can you tell us who we should speak with?” I know that if she has, as she claims, foreseen such details as the deaths of the families of some present here, she must also be able to see who controls the armies, who makes the decisions, who should be pleaded or bargained with. Who must be stopped, whatever it takes.
Amelia thinks for a moment. “I might know,” she says. “But why should I tell? What will you give me if I tell? Will you let me feel the sun on my face again?”
“I’m sorry, my dear.” The Master of the Chalice steps in gently. “It is not in our gift to do such a thing.”
She looks at him sulkily. “But I want so to sit in the garden once more.”
“You are welcome to visit my garden,” I tell her.
“But only like this.” She stamps her foot. “Like a ghost. I want to feel warm again. To smell the flowers.”
“Amelia…” I try to comfort her, I want to. For her own sake, as well as ours. But she is upset now, and does not want to listen.
“Then I shan’t!” she says crossly. “I shan’t help you.” She scowls at me now. “Especially you! You are the one they want. You could save those boys. You know you could.”
“Amelia, I could not…”
“Yes you could, if you wanted to. And they will make you do it. They will take you away and make you do it!” she shouts.
There is consternation in the chamber now. None of us can know exactly what she means, but it is clear her vision involves me and my abilities as a necromancer.
“Who will take her?” the Master of the Chalice demands of the girl. “Who is it who threatens our Head Witch?”
“I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want to. I…” She stops suddenly and glances anxiously about her, over her shoulder, searching above her head and then behind her. All at once she has become terribly frightened.
“What is it, child?” the Master of the Chalice asks her. “Do not be afraid.”
“I can hear them!” she cries. “Oh! Can’t you hear them?” She begins to run now, and even tries to jump out of the circle. When she finds she is unable to do so tears of terror stream down her pale cheeks. “Oh no!” she cries.
Now I hear them, too. We all do. Bees. In seconds, dozens of them have come up from below and joined the girl in the circle. She flaps her arms and hands, batting them away with her flowers, screaming. The smell of honey grows stronger. Now I understand. Now I see the curious mark on her top lip, which I had taken for a mole or birthmark but which must have been the bee sting that killed her. And here we have brought her into a confined space and now it is filled with the greatest fear she has ever known.
“Send her back!” I hiss at the Master of the Chalice.
The earl of Winchester objects. “No! We must hear more.”
“She must go back.”
The earl is on his feet now. “We need to know more. She has given us nothing!”
“She is terrified,” I tell him. “She is suffering. She will tell us nothing further now.”
Amelia is on the floor of the circle, desperately trying to cover her head and her face, to protect herself from the bees.
“I don’t understand,” says the Master of the Chalice. “How did the bees come through? We did not call them.”
“Send her back now!” I shout at him.
He nods and quickly chants the necessary words. He does so with skill and speed, but even so it seems an age before Amelia begins to fade before our eyes, the sound of her cries growing ever more faint, until all that remains is the echo of the buzzing bees as they, too, vanish.
The chamber is in commotion. Those who were spoken to are in shock and others seek to console them. Some start talking animatedly of what action should be taken, and how soon we might call another spirit who could help us. They are all so shaken by what has happened that few among them seem to hear what I can hear. A low, distant voice. A whisper almost. Or rather, a strong voice, but far away, slowly growing stronger, coming nearer. Now I can see, in the center of the sacred circle, a shimmering shape, the beginnings of a figure, starting to take form. How can this be? We have neither called nor summoned anyone further. The crossing is strongly protected by our own magic, so that the uninvited shall not enter the Land of Day.
>
And yet the bees came. The bees got through. Someone, or something, enabled them to do so. Someone, or something, who knew what they meant to Amelia. Who knew what they would do. But why? Why torment the girl? Why, if not to prevent her from helping us?
Which can only mean that malevolent forces are at work here. Self-serving, dangerous, wicked forces. The protective magic Druscilla and I worked so hard to place about the chamber was not sufficient. And now a powerful force is materializing as I watch, and I know that I am once again in the presence of the wicked spirit of Edmund Willoughby. Only this time he is not content to pursue me only in voice. This time, he plans to show himself. The figure is not yet sufficiently formed to have human features, but it is without doubt a tall, thickset man. And I can hear the words he speaks more clearly. Or rather, the word. One word, over and over and over.
Lilith! Lilith! Lilith!
I step as close to the edge of the circle as I can without touching it and raise my hand. Some of the senior witches are aware of the spirit’s presence, but without pausing to confer with anyone else, without arming myself with the grimoire or Maygor’s Silver Thread or anything that might protect me, I send a spell of banishment as boldly as I am able.
“You may not enter here!” I tell the fearsome spirit that chants my own name. “You are not welcome. You are not wanted. You were not called. You were not summoned. Return from whence you came!”
The voice twists into a loud hiss. The figure dissolves and is gone. The circle is empty once more. I find I am holding my breath. I release it, and gulp steadying air. As I turn away from the circle I find the earl of Winchester watching me, his face dark, his eyes full of tears.
16.
Bram realizes his defenses against the winter weather are inadequate when he finds a small drift of snow on the floor in his room. The wind has dislodged the newspaper and clothing scraps he used to stop up the holes in the roof, and thin, dry flakes have been falling all night. He climbs out of bed, stumbling about in the half light of the December dawn. He has taken to sleeping in his clothes, with a woolen hat jammed onto his head, and two pairs of socks to prevent his toes being numb by morning. Even so, he quickly shrugs on his coat. Rubbing his hands together, he casts about for matches and then stoops to strike one and set it to the wick of the paraffin stove. He has scant fuel left, and is eking it out as best he can. The money from Charlotte’s portrait will not last long, though at least he has an appointment at the end of the week with another prospective client. A Mrs. Wilding has twin daughters who wish to be painted together as a birthday present for their father. They have agreed on a price for the work, and he is to paint them at their home.
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