I quickly spoon food into Freedom’s dish, and notice that the twins are with him, too. They are boisterous as ever, as only small children can continue to be, whatever their circumstances. It disturbs me to realize, though, that they still seem small, as if they have not grown at a normal rate. How much must their diet have suffered to have this effect? The queue shuffles forward and the boys begin to move on. I have heard of Mangan’s stance as a conscientious objector, and I know that his refusing conscription will ultimately land him in prison. I am assailed by a combination of guilt and longing when I think of that chaotic house in Bloomsbury. I have not returned there since losing Freddie, and Mangan’s attendance at coven meetings has become less and less frequent. He has all but withdrawn from society, his pacifist beliefs and his German mistress rendering him an outcast. He knows me well enough to understand my reluctance to visit. Even so, I fear I have been a poor friend, and the sight of the children here, reduced to queuing in the soup kitchen, makes me ashamed of myself. I will call on Mangan and see if there is anything I can do to help.
I fully intended to make my visit directly after my shift at St. Mary’s, but my plans are changed by the arrival of a note, delivered by Lord Grimes’s second footman. It is short, missing some of the Master of the Chalice’s customary warmth and its tone is urgent.
Morningstar, you are needed. Please come directly. Let us meet at the north gate.
I cannot conceive of a reason Lord Grimes would ask me to meet him in secret, away from his home, unless it is on pressing coven business. Business that he does not wish to address in his home, or, it appears, with other witches present. I know at once that the north gate refers to a specific entry to the cemetery where my father’s empty grave lies.
By the time I have divested myself of my apron, donned my coat, and made my apologies for leaving early, darkness has already fallen. London is currently a place full of sorrows, and seems even more so at night with most streetlamps left unlit in an attempt to thwart the hateful zeppelins. Happily, I am comfortable in the dark and am able to employ the heightened senses of a witch to safely navigate my way through Holborn, threading nimbly between the people who find themselves compelled to be abroad, walking briskly east, beyond Fitzroy Square, skirting Regent’s Park, and on toward the graveyard. As I draw nearer to our rendezvous point, I begin to wonder if Lord Grimes has noticed the restlessness of the spirits and wishes to talk to me about it. Or could it be that he has news regarding the Sentinels? He is not a man given to panic, and I can be sure he would not have arranged such a meeting if he were not greatly concerned about something.
I am but a few paces from the tall iron gates when I sense that I am being followed. No, not followed, pursued. I cast about me, but there is no one else to be seen in the street. No one, that is, living. What I see looming out of the night shadows renders me unable to move. The darkness itself seems to take shape and to form into a towering figure, more than eight feet tall, its features human but blurred, its presence one of pure menace. The realization that the power of the Dark Spirit has enabled it to manifest itself in such a fearsome form astonishes me. It is as if Willoughby has been feeding upon evil energy in the years since he last stood before me. Now he is more terrifying, more powerful, and more determined upon his intended victim. And that victim is me.
The apparition bounds toward me, covering the ground with awesome speed. I have mere seconds to galvanize myself from my stupor. I fling myself through the gate and stumble onto the dusty ground of the churchyard, just as Willoughby swoops. The swiftness of my movement has saved me from his grasp. I am aware of gasps and moans all around me: a chattering of spirits disturbed from their slumbers. Spirits that are, nowadays, so easily brought forth, as if they no longer sleep deeply, but rather are waiting.
While I have evaded the phantom form of the Dark Spirit, I am not beyond the reach of his magic. Magic that has increased and intensified since our last encounter. There swirls about him a foul-smelling mist that reaches for me, filling my nose and mouth with its unearthly poison. I clamber to my feet and force myself to stand firm. Beneath the dim glow of a lone streetlamp I see a carriage drawn to a halt and two men emerge. It is clear that, with the aid of Willoughby, they mean to snatch me away, and no doubt deliver me to the waiting Sentinels, most likely Stricklend himself.
I think not.
“You underestimate me, Dark Spirit. You and your master,” I tell him. Willoughby turns, drawing himself up, his very presence sufficiently forbidding to make the men from the carriage pause in their step. That they don’t flee in terror tells me they must at the very least be minor Sentinels themselves. I quickly cast a spell of disturbance, slamming shut the heavy gates that stood ajar between me and my earthbound assailants. If they have any spellcraft themselves they do not have time to use it. I begin an incantation to return a spirit to the Darkness, which is sufficient to cause Willoughby to have to muster his own power to resist me. At the same time I send a spell of small fire at the carriage. The canvas roof of the little vehicle is aflame in seconds. The horse whinnies in alarm, and the driver struggles to control it. The men are forced to return to beat at the fire which has taken hold. The terrified horse gives in to his natural instinct and bolts, sending one man sprawling onto the pavement, the other clinging to the carriage as it speeds away. A shout goes up and a policeman’s whistle sounds. From farther up the street come running footsteps. I open the gates with another spell and hurry through them, relying on the fact that Willoughby will not want to confront me when I am among people. I feel his dark magic fading as I hurry to join the small crowd who have gathered to assist the panic-stricken horse. Only when I am certain the Dark Spirit has gone do I turn for home, cursing my own stupidity at being drawn into such a trap, wondering if Lord Grimes’s footman who delivered the fake note to me is the only one of his servants to be in the employ of the Sentinels.
* * *
Stricklend is unaccustomed to being kept waiting, but if he is forced to linger somewhere, the earl of Winchester’s drawing room is a pleasant enough place to do so. The family home of the Harcourts is a solid affair, its rooms stout and broad, its frontage foreboding, its decor utilitarian. That this is a man’s house is glaringly evident. No woman has softened the edges of the grand wooden furniture with cushions or curlicues, or framed the tall windows with swags or bows. The earl has been a widower for many years, and until his son succeeds in marrying Lady Lilith, there is unlikely to be a female incumbent at Clifton Villas. As Stricklend drifts around the room casting his eye over a fine Louis XIV escritoire, he ponders the extra value the earl must place upon his only offspring, given that he has no wife to distract him and no other heir.
“Ah, Stricklend, forgive me.” The earl strides through the door bringing with him his own enduring energy. “I was detained on business of the House. You know how insistent junior members can be that their cause is of the utmost urgency.”
“Lord Harcourt.” Stricklend offers a stiff bow. “Indeed, even in the Lords I fear there is no escape from the idealistic young.”
The earl stands facing him, holding his gaze, deliberately challenging. “And were we not just such hopeful youths ourselves once?” he asks.
“A very long time ago, perhaps. Happily, the years have cured me.”
Lord Harcourt gestures toward a high-backed Knole sofa and takes a seat in the one opposite. He knows the game well. Outside of Parliament, the two men are in opposition in all things. The Lazarus Coven and the Sentinels are sworn enemies. This is the man who has threatened his son. And yet they will observe the rules of engagement. They will be polite. They will conduct themselves with dignity. Nonetheless, the earl has no desire to drag out the meeting any longer than is necessary.
“I assume you are here to measure progress in my son’s efforts to win over Lilith Montgomery. I can inform you he dined with her not three nights ago.”
“I am aware that he did.” Stricklend pauses to allow this minor triumph of
information to rankle, then adds, “However, there is a world of difference between sitting at table with a dozen others and enjoying a more intimate liaison. No wedding date has been announced, I take it?”
“It has not,” the earl concedes. “But—”
Stricklend holds up his hand. “Please, do not insult my intelligence by telling me that their friendship continues to deepen. The plain fact is that, for all his charms, your son has failed to win Robert Montgomery’s daughter’s hand in marriage. They are affianced, it is true, but their engagement is a long one, and those who know about such things tell me a wedding is, frankly, unlikely. No, I am sorry to say, waiting for the viscount to secure what we want is no longer an option.”
The earl blanches but makes an impressive attempt to cover his anguish.
“Then … what do you propose to do? I have tried my utmost to get what you asked for. My son has been sincere in his attempts to ally himself to Lilith. You must surely see that we are not to blame if the plan has not brought about the desired result?”
“My dear Harcourt, it is not a question of apportioning blame. Where would be the benefit of recrimination and reproach? No. I am not here to admonish you for your failure. I come, as a representative of the Sentinels, simply to offer you a choice.”
“A choice?”
“Quite so. Time is a harsh master, you will allow, which means we have not the luxury of more gentle options than these: either you yourself obtain the Elixir for us, complete with the necessary spell to accompany it, which will, naturally, include the divulgence of the Great Secret, or we will remove from you the burden of fatherhood.”
“You will kill Louis!”
“Would that there were another way. Our original ploy of using the seventh duke to manipulate his sister ended badly for all concerned. Your son has not succeeded in the more … romantic option. We believe that, given your position in the coven and your closeness to the Montgomery family, you are best placed to get the Elixir yourself. Particularly given suitable motivation.”
“But the Elixir is kept in the catacombs of Fitzroy Square…”
“Which you could no doubt gain access to.”
“Well, even if I could, I am not in possession of the Great Secret. That knowledge is handed down from one Head Witch to the next. Only Lilith knows the truth of it.”
“Then when you obtain the vials I suggest you also obtain this truth from your precious Morningstar. Or bring the girl herself and let us do it. We have no particular preference.”
“She will not tell me.” The earl shakes his head firmly. “I promise you, she will not divulge that Secret to anyone.”
“Really? We shall see. If you are not capable of getting the information from her, then bring the store of the Elixir, and bring your haughty Head Witch. When we have both, we will do the rest.”
22.
As I sit in my room composing a letter to Mama I struggle to find suitable subjects about which to write. After the events of recent times, and the failed abduction attempt, I determined it was no longer safe to have her here in London. With some difficulty, I convinced her that the increase in the number of zeppelin raids was reason enough to send her out to Radnor Hall. The bombing alarmed her so, I knew she would be eager to escape it, and yet she does not like our country house. I believe she feels closer to Father here. Closer to Freddie. I was forced to spin another lie concerning Withers’s health, telling her that he was unwell and badly needed the restorative peace and air of the countryside. At last she agreed to go. In my letter, I reassure her that the house continues to run smoothly despite her absence—although of course she is keenly missed—and that the servants are coping without Withers. I tell her what is blooming in the garden, which is very little just now, with spring reluctant to appear, as if such a cheerful season should be skipped as a matter of propriety amidst all the gloom of wartime London. I cannot mention anything that touches on the suffering people are experiencing here. To speak of the difficulties faced by Mangan’s family would only distress her. I dare not mention Freddie. I know she likes to talk of him, but to engage in the fantasy that he is still alive is surely to compound the problem. I can only hope she will adjust given time. And of course I cannot write to her of what is on my mind. How many times, I wonder, did Father long to unburden himself to the woman he loved most in the world, but was unable to do so because she knew nothing of him being a witch? I do not think I have ever felt so very alone. But who can I turn to in the coven? And Bram. If he were here would I tell Bram everything? Could I? Could I ever make a non-witch understand?
I try to put my mind to finishing the letter, but all of a sudden I am assailed by a feeling of such dread and fear that I drop my pen and clutch at my heart. My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe, and I know without a speck of doubt that Bram is in terrible danger. In front of me the splotch of ink from my dropped fountain pen spreads thickly across the white sheet of paper, as blood might spread across pale flesh.
“Bram!” I cannot help calling his name aloud in a breathless whisper of despair. “Oh, Bram!”
I must discover what is happening to him. I am so disturbed, so frightened, that it is hard for me to still my feverish mind sufficiently to call a spirit. I know many are close. I call to an old friend, a spirit who has helped me locate Bram more than once before.
I am here, Daughter of the Night.
Tell me please … is he hurt? What do you see? What can you hear?
I see him very still. His eyes are closed.
Does he breathe? Does he live?
Yes, he breathes. He lives.
I find I have been holding my own breath and now I gulp air once more. He is alive! Wounded, it appears, but alive. Perhaps that wound will be enough to bring him home. Oh, the thought of it moves me so! How have I endured all this dark, empty time without him? I know he loves me, or at least, he did love me. Will he still feel the same way after I let him down so badly? After I abandoned him? Will he still want me? Is there a chance, after all, that we can be together? If a witch and a non-witch together is folly, then we will only be one small jot of madness in all the murder and muddle that this war has brought. Surely love is what matters? Love is what matters.
Fine sentiments, sister.
I know at once who is there.
Iago lets out a hiss of terror and arches his back, ears flat, teeth bared. He continues to growl, staring into the corner of the room. I jump to my feet. I am already shaken by what has happened to Bram, so that it takes me a moment to compose myself sufficiently to face Willoughby’s spirit. As I do so, to my amazement, he begins to take shape in front of me.
“How dare you!” I speak to him aloud, feeling that it somehow puts distance between us and helps me believe that he is not present in my mind. If he wishes to appear, then I will talk to him as if he still treads the earth. “You are not invited and not wanted,” I remind him. “Your masters have failed in their attempts to take what is not theirs, what will never be theirs. Your persistence is as pointless as it is unwelcome.”
Do you think they will give up so easily, after centuries of waiting for the right moment? If they draw back it is only to regroup. To choose a moment that suits them best before redoubling their efforts. You cannot fight them off forever, Morningstar.
The shadows in the corner of the room appear to grow denser and take human form. Iago continues to growl. I stand my ground as the figure emerges, tall, strong, with a face that could be described as handsome were it not for the harshness of his eyes and the evil that surrounds him like a cloak of bitterness.
“Freddie is gone and Bram is beyond your reach. The Lazarus Coven has never been better prepared and better protected. You must realize that the Sentinels will never succeed. Go back to the Darkness where you belong.”
And whom might I find there—your brother, perhaps? Your little maid? You should never have made her a witch, you know. She wasn’t strong enough. Nor were you strong enough to save her. How many more loved
ones will you sacrifice to your cause, Daughter of the Night? How many?
And he is gone. Disappeared in the beat of a bat’s wing. As if he had never been. But he was here. And the words he spoke tear at my soul. I place my hand over my heart and wait until it steadies before quickly putting on my green cloak. I must go to the chamber. I must summon spirits in the safety of the sacred circle and ask for their advice. It is clear I must act, but I cannot do so alone. I need the guidance of far older souls than my own.
As I cross the garden I become aware of further whisperings of the spirits. They are ever present now, and I fear what might happen if the Sentinels were ever to regain the Elixir and the Great Secret. So many souls, lost and wandering, hankering after a physical form again. How readily they might try to cross the Rubicon if Stricklend were to practice his dark magic again. What is more, they are also affected by the collective fear that washes through the city when the zeppelins come, bringing with them their lethal cargo. By the time Iago and I have descended the twisting stone stairs, however, I realize that there is something else. Something more. I have been here during other air raids, but I have never heard so many voices, so noisily raised. It is as if Land of Night spirits are all trying to make themselves heard, each and every one of them. Louis was right, they are no longer content to remain where they belong, many of them. And it is my fault. They saw what I did for Freddie. They think I could bring them all back to tread the earth.
But I cannot!
I will go into the Great Chamber and will do my best to settle these poor spirits and to ask guidance from those who know more about these things than I ever shall.
I push open the ornate double doors, separating the wings of the giant dragonfly that decorates them, and step into the room that is so sacred to our coven. The shock of finding that the space is not empty makes me gasp. A figure, a man, stands in front of the altar, his hands upon the witches’ trove, which is open, its lid flung back on its hinges. Although I might reasonably have expected to find a spirit taking form here, this is not one of the deceased. This is a living person. A person who is known to me. I gather my wits quickly. Iago stops at the sight of the intruder. I clear my throat and make my voice as steady as I am able.
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