The lodgings Seraphine had found were situated in the environs of Westminster and Meg could just make out the towers of the old palace in the distance, the ancient stone walls conveying a sense of order and serenity. Tomorrow morning all that calm would be shattered by the bustle and fanfare of the king arriving to address his parliament, the quiet halls thronged with the most important men in the realm.
Despite the bitter cold, the evening sky had cleared and the morrow promised to be a fair day. Then why did Meg have this unsettled feeling of a mighty storm a-brewing? She frowned, directing her gaze to the deserted street below.
Likely her disquiet sprang from the fact that it was nearly dark and Seraphine had yet to return. It was not uncommon in London for women to venture to the shops alone. But Seraphine was not familiar enough with the city.
“I should have accompanied her,” Meg fretted, feeling all the more guilty because of the reason she had not. She had not wanted to be gone from the house in case Armagil had come seeking her.
At the very least she should have insisted that Seraphine take along the maid whose service they had engaged, but Seraphine had protested, “Eliza is a fat, idle creature who walks at the pace of a snail. I could complete my errand thrice over in the time it will take me to drag her along.
“Don’t worry about me, Meggie.” Seraphine had flashed her most dazzling smile. “I shall be back before you’ve had time to miss me.”
That had been what—nearly three hours ago? Reveling in her freedom, Seraphine was likely in no hurry to return, lingering as she explored the shops and purchased some provisions with the coin she had acquired from selling the brooch. But what if she had gotten lost? Or her hasty temper had caused her to run afoul of one of the merchants? Or what if—
“Stop it,” Meg adjured herself. Seraphine could be brash at times, but Meg knew of no woman better able to look out for herself.
Drawing back from the window before all warmth escaped the chamber, Meg closed the casement. She ought to go belowstairs to see how Eliza was progressing with the preparations for the evening meal. The maid could not be trusted to stay on task. But that would mean listening to Eliza’s barrage of complaints about her endless aches and pains, most of which Meg suspected were imaginary.
If Eliza burned the meal again, Meg could always slice up some bread and cheese. Propping up some pillows, Meg clambered atop the bed to await Seraphine’s return. She tucked her shawl about her shoulders and yawned. Lord, she was tired. With so much on her mind, she had not been sleeping well.
At least she had not been haunted by any more nightmares of Maidred Brody. If Armagil had succeeded in dissuading Sir Patrick from his scheme of revenge, perhaps the girl was finally at peace. Meg prayed that it was so.
She stared into the flames crackling on the hearth and felt her eyelids growing heavier. Despite all of her best efforts, Meg nodded off.
And promptly began to dream.
Meg stumbled as she raced along the twisting corridors of the tunnel, chasing after the cloaked figure. She could not see his face, but she knew who it was.
“Robert Brody! Stop,” she cried. “Robbie, where are you going?”
The boy ignored her, disappearing around the next bend. Meg plunged after him, emerging into a large cavern. For a moment, she could not see where Robert had gone. Then a torch flared as he struggled to light the end of a rope.
Why it should be so important to him to fire that rope, Meg could not fathom. But she felt an equally compelling urge to stop him. She rushed forward, but she was too late.
The rope had turned into a fiery snake, twisting and hissing and shooting off sparks. It coiled its way toward a mountain of barrels, its tongue flicking out deadly flames.
Suddenly the entire cave exploded in a blinding flash of light and heat that lifted Meg off her feet and hurled her through space.
She was lying sprawled on the floor of hell, the entire city of London quaking and caving in around her, buildings falling in a hail of stones, the night lit up by flame and rent by the screams of the dying.
Meg staggered to her feet, but she was hemmed in by gyrating bodies. Witches capered around her in a mad joyous dance led by Tamsin Rivers, her long gray hair streaming like a banner in the wind.
“Death to ye, James Stuart and all your kin. May ye all perish in the flames.” The old woman cackled and pointed to the blazing palace.
Beyond the burning beams, Meg saw the king clutching his young son, desperately trying to lead his family to safety.
Meg tried to run to his aid, but she was dragged back, held fast by a pair of strong arms. “No, Robbie, let me go!”
She twisted in his grasp, fighting to break free, only to dislodge his hood. The fabric fell back to reveal not Robert Brody’s youthful features, but those of a grown man, regarding her through sad, weary eyes.
Meg ceased her struggles, staring up at him. “A-Armagil?”
He looked at down her, his beard-roughened face streaked with tears. “Forgive me, Margaret.”
She pulled away from him. “Forgive you for what? Armagil, what have you done?”
She could not hear his reply as the witches enveloped her again, chanting her name. “Megaera! Megaera!”
She tried to get away from them, but they surrounded her, propelling her toward a witch who stood apart from the others, cloaked and hooded in black.
“Megaera.” Her mother called to her, Cassandra beckoning with a dead white hand.
No! Meg sat up in bed, her heart racing. She tried to blot out the nightmare, but she could still hear that persistent voice, still see the phantom woman in black gesturing to her.
She knuckled her eyes, but the phantom remained. It hovered by the foot of her bed, whispering her name.
“Megaera.”
She wasn’t dreaming. Meg froze, so petrified with shock, she was unable to speak or move.
“Ah, you have awakened, my Silver Rose,” the specter rasped.
Awakened? This—this thing had been lurking in her room, watching her sleep?
“W-what—” Meg’s mouth had gone so dry, she could barely form the words. “W-who are you?”
“Surely you must already know.”
Maman? No, it was impossible. As much as Meg feared her mother might still be alive, this person who had invaded her bedchamber could not be Cassandra Lascelles. She was not tall enough.
Recovering from her initial shock, Meg noted other things as well. The woman’s hood was drawn too far forward for Meg to discern her features, but the hand that she had stretched out to Meg was slight, nothing like Cassandra’s long elegant fingers. The woman’s other hand toyed with something beneath the flap of her cloak—the hilt of a knife.
Fear sent a rush of warmth through her frozen limbs, enabling Meg to move. She scrambled off the bed, staggering a little as she gained her feet, heading for the door. But the intruder was quicker. In a whirl of black, she leapt ahead of Meg, barring her exit.
“No, milady. Wait! There is nothing for you to fear.”
“Who are you?” Meg demanded again in a stronger voice. “How did you get in here?”
“Why, Eliza was obliging enough to let me in.”
Something in the sly way these words were intoned filled Meg with dread.
“You forced your way past my maid to gain admittance? Did you hurt her?”
“No, why would I hurt Eliza? She is one of us.”
“One of us?”
“Another witch, part of your new coven, milady. She is waiting for you below with the others.”
Eliza, a witch? That placid, idle creature who would not bestir herself to add another log to the fire even if she was freezing? Meg pressed her hand to her temple, feeling as though she was still caught up in some kind of mad dream.
She stiffened as the full import of the cloaked woman’s words struck her. “Others? There are others? How many?”
“Enough,” came the vague reply. “And all of them your devoted followers, but
none more so than I.”
She pushed back her hood, revealing a round face well past the first blush of youth, creases bracketing her mouth, her chin starting to sag. Her unkempt hair was streaked with tinges of gray. Only her eyes remained youthful, wide with a dream-ridden quality.
“Mistress Rivers?” Meg hazarded.
“You know who I am?”
The woman beamed with delight until Meg added, “Beatrice?”
Her lips puckered into a childish pout. “No, that is my sister. I am Amelia Rivers, but my granddam always called me Amy.”
“Of course, Amy. I should have known,” Meg murmured, all the while Mary Waters’s warning echoed through her head.
“Amelia … She’s the dangerous one. If you do confront her, you had best take great care.”
Meg retreated. Her heart leapt in alarm when Amy’s hand shot out to grab hers. Her fingers were icy, sending the same chill through Meg she had experienced in the room at the Two Crowns. She had little doubt that this was the hand that had dripped blood while painting that pentagram.
Meg quelled a panicked urge to jerk free, run to the window, fling open the casement, and scream for help. Amy was calm at the moment, but Meg sensed it would take little to send her into the sort of frenzy that had driven her to kill Mistress Keating.
Desperately, she attempted to probe Amy’s eyes, but it was hopeless. Reading the eyes of a madwoman was like trying to piece together images in a shattered mirror.
“I have waited so long for this moment when I would stand before you and pledge my love and loyalty to the Silver Rose.”
Meg tried not to cringe as Amy carried Meg’s hand to her lips and pressed a fervent kiss upon her knuckles. The woman’s eyes glowed with an unholy devotion.
“My granddam always promised me you would come one glorious day to reward all of your true followers. She was the one who kept your legend alive long after the evil witch-hunters destroyed your coven in France. Granddam was one of the few who managed to escape, but she carried away all the secrets she had learned. She knew how to make those incredible silver roses and she taught me and Bea. Granddam was a great friend of your mother’s. Tamsin Rivers, surely you must remember her.”
Meg nodded weakly, although she had no recollection of any such person. She had been so young at the time, but she remembered quite clearly that Cassandra Lascelles had had no friends. There had been a few trusted members of the coven that Cassandra had allowed into her inner sanctum and taught the art of brewing the deadly poison, but Meg was certain Tamsin Rivers had not been one of them. If Tamsin had acquired the secret of making the lethal roses, then she had done so by spying upon Cassandra, a dangerous pastime. Tamsin Rivers would have had to have been a clever and brazen woman indeed.
“My mama and papa died when Bea and I were very little. My granddam was all the family we had,” Amy said. “After we had to flee France, we moved from place to place, Granddam always afraid the witch-hunters might find us. We finally settled in Edinburgh, where Granddam earned our keep by selling potions and telling fortunes. But she never forgot about her devotion to Megaera, even after she was arrested and condemned to burn.”
Amy’s eyes filled with tears. “Granddam was so fierce and brave, but when the flames rose up and began to scorch her skin, she screamed and screamed. I can never forget it. Sh-she died so horribly.”
“I know,” Meg said gently. No matter what Tamsin Rivers might have done, being burned alive was a fate too cruel for anyone. She pitied the old woman, but even more she pitied the granddaughter who had been forced to witness such a dreadful spectacle.
“I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” Amy’s face flushed with anger. “She died for you. And how did you repay her? You removed her curse from James Stuart.”
Amy’s grip tightened so painfully that Meg gasped. “I didn’t. I merely made him believe that I did.” That was true enough as far as it went.
Amy glared at her. “You mean that you tricked him?”
“Y-yes.”
Amy blinked at her. “Oh.” Her face cleared like the sky after a sudden cloudburst. Her grip on Meg’s hand slackened, allowing Meg to draw away from her.
“That was very clever of you. I daresay you wished to lull him into a sense of false safety. I told Bea there must have been some reasonable explanation for what you had done. My sister and I would have preferred that the villain remain tormented and afraid, but it doesn’t matter. By this time tomorrow, James Stuart will be roasting in hell.”
Meg rubbed her throbbing hand. “Tomorrow? What is going to happen tomorrow?”
Amy ignored her alarmed question. “It is what is going to happen tonight that is important. The coven of the Silver Rose will be reborn. All that is required is your presence, milady. Come with me now. We must make haste.”
Amy opened the bedchamber door, indicating that Meg should precede her. But Meg hung back.
“Where would you have me go?”
“All of your followers have gathered, waiting to proclaim you our queen. Tonight you will fulfill your destiny and assume your place as the most powerful sorceress in the world.”
A chill swept through Meg. It could well have been her mother talking, that same fanatical light in Amy Rivers’s eyes. Meg would as soon have marched straight into hell before accompanying her anywhere. But what choice did she have? In her impatience, Amy brandished her knife, gesturing Meg toward the door.
Meg hung back, trying to stall for time. Surely Seraphine would return at any moment. But the brief flicker of hope that thought aroused quickly turned to dread. Yes, Seraphine would return, but with no idea of the danger that awaited her.
The redoubtable countess would be more than a match for the likes of Eliza, but Amy had spoken of others. Meg had no idea how many more of these deluded women might be gathered below and Seraphine would be taken completely unaware.
The best course would be for Meg to go with them, get them all away from the house as quickly as possible. She would be safe enough as long as Amy and the rest of the coven regarded her as Megaera. And was this not the reason she had come to London, to uncover the truth, to stop any attempt to revive her mother’s coven? This gathering tonight might prove her best and only chance to do so. She could finally put an end to the madness that had stalked her ever since her childhood. All she need do was find the courage to play the part of the Silver Rose one last time.
THE NIGHT WAS BITTER COLD, BUT CLEAR, THE CRESCENT OF moon suspended like a scimitar over the city. Meg’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but she still stumbled as she followed Amy down a narrow alley, the rest of the group close at Meg’s heels. They consisted of Eliza and two other women, hardly the force that Meg had anticipated with such dread.
They were all cloaked in similar fashion to Amy, crude rose emblems stitched into the black fabric. Meg had been unable to make out little of their features beneath the hoods, only noting that they both seemed young. She could sense their nervous excitement, but beneath that she detected a threading of fear. It gave Meg hope that she might be able to gain control of them and perhaps Eliza as well. The maid had been far too abashed to look Meg in the eye, even going so far as apologizing for her deception, mumbling, “Sorry, mistress.”
“That is milady,” Amy had reprimanded her sharply, then bade her hold her tongue unless spoken to, a command Eliza had done her best to obey.
As they hurried along the streets, Meg could hear Eliza behind her, panting for breath, despite Amy hissing for her to be quiet. Eliza moved much faster than Meg would have imagined the heavy woman capable of, but it was necessary in order to keep pace with Amy.
Undaunted by the darkness, Amy skittered through the maze of streets and alleys with all the stealth of a rat. Meg had half hoped they might be caught by one of the king’s officers charged to keep the peace, but Amy was adroit at avoiding the watch. No doubt she had had a great deal of practice.
It was just as well they were not stopped, Meg thought.
She would not fare any better than the others if she were hauled up before a magistrate. Her tale of being kidnapped by a quartet of witches would sound most unlikely. Besides, if the coven were to be stopped, Meg needed to see her mission through to the end.
She wondered if Seraphine had returned to the house by now. When the countess found both Eliza and Meg gone, she would doubtless be alarmed. Seraphine would know that Meg would never have been imprudent enough to leave the house after dark, certainly not with the fires unbanked and lit candles still burning. Only the direst of circumstances would have impelled Meg to do so. Seraphine would be nigh frantic with fear and would set out in search of her.
But Meg despaired of Seraphine being able to track her. Meg was not sure herself where she was, except somewhere in the environs of Westminster. When they emerged from the alley, Meg saw the distant outline of the majestic abbey.
Amy held up one hand, bringing them all to an abrupt halt. She scanned up and down the inky expanse of the street ahead before nodding with satisfaction.
“It’s clear. We are almost there. Come on.”
Amy led the way across the street, Meg and the others stumbling to keep up with her. Meg had formed no clear idea of where this gathering of witches was to take place. Perhaps in a graveyard, or an abandoned building, or some dark cellar.
When she realized where Amy was heading, Meg’s jaw dropped at the sheer audacity of the woman. Amy ran to the arched door of a small church, its stone walls covered in ivy. With a nervous glance around her, she scratched at the door, calling out softly.
A muted response came back and the door creaked open. Amy gestured to Meg and the others to precede her, whispering, “Hurry!”
Meg hesitated on the threshold, her courage faltering as she was overwhelmed by memories from her childhood, all the horror her mother’s coven had inspired in her. She still had occasional nightmares about being surrounded by desperate women staring at her with hungry eyes, plucking at her skirts with greedy hands, their voices shrieking out all their impossible demands.
Megaera! Megaera! Make me young again. Make me beautiful. Curse the husband who beat me. Cure my sister of her deafness. Raise up my child from the dead.
The Lady of Secrets Page 31
