by H. G. Parry
“I think we can make them interested,” Wilberforce said. “We have to try, at least.”
“Am I to take it, then, that you want us all to continue to stir the public while you approach Parliament?”
“More than ever.” It was something he’d given a great deal of thought when he was lying awake in bed. “We have truth and right on our side. It’s a political advantage like any other. We’d be foolish not to use it. Right now, the public support slavery because they haven’t looked at it; I want us to show it to them. If we lay it wide open wherever they turn, then they will no longer be able to keep from seeing it for what it is. I doubt it will sway the most hardened of the slave trade’s supporters, but it may help with those who want to follow their conscience but fear the reproof of their voters.”
Equiano nodded from across the table. “We were of a similar opinion. You know, I daresay, that Cugoano published his own thoughts on the slave trade last year. With his help, and Clarkson’s here, I want to publish a book of my own in the New Year. It would be a complete account of my life, much like that which Clarkson just read tonight. I’ve never been put to work on a plantation, and I was spellbound only for the passage from Africa to Barbados. But I know what it is to be kidnapped and sold, and I know what it is to be a slave.”
“That would be wonderful,” Wilberforce said. It was an understatement; the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Equiano had spoken to him about his past before, in glimpses: he knew about his childhood in Africa, and his account of the Middle Passage. The thought of men and women across the country reading those words made him think, not quite for the first time, that they might actually achieve what they meant to do. “It will do more good than a thousand speeches in Parliament.”
Clarkson nodded. “And how are things set to deliver the first of our thousand speeches in Parliament?”
“We’re set to move against the slave trade as soon as Parliament opens,” Wilberforce confirmed. “We’re still awaiting word from France, but Pitt is confident we can convince them to abolish the trade simultaneously with us. That will do away with the inevitable arguments that France will move in to profit if the bill passes.”
“They say that Parliament might not open next week after all,” Hannah More said shrewdly. “And when it does, it might be otherwise occupied. The rumors are that the king has gone mad.”
“Those are rumors, as far as I know,” Wilberforce said. “I haven’t heard anything more than you. Certainly the king has been unwell, but I doubt it poses a great deal of threat to the government—and certainly not to the bill. I have every hope we can get it passed this year. Then we can look at our move against slavery itself.”
Miss More didn’t seem convinced, but she said nothing further.
“I still think we should move against slavery itself,” Granville Sharp said. “We may as well start as we mean to go on.”
“I wish we could.” It was already an old discussion. “I would love to be completely open about what we mean to do. Unfortunately, my experience of Parliament is that we need to move very cautiously. They’ll be terrified enough at the prospect of losing the trade; the more they suspect the full scope of our plans, the less likely they’ll be to allow us any ground at all. And it would be far more difficult to persuade the French monarchy to abolish slavery outright. They’ll want to cling to spellbinding too, I’m afraid. They’re very paranoid about magical uprisings over there at the moment.”
“They should be.” Granville Sharp snorted. “The Knights Templar have been bearing down on their magical Commoners like wolves since young Louis came to power.”
“I met His Majesty Louis XVI,” Wilberforce said absently; he had fished a diagram from the biscuit crumbs on the table. “He was very kind.”
“He may be,” Sharp said. “But he’s weak, and the Templars are frightened. Once you’ve been in this game a little longer, Wilberforce, you’ll realize that fear is the most dangerous obstacle to reform that there is.”
Wilberforce only half heard him. He was still looking at the diagram. It showed a ship, in broad mathematical outline, and the ship was packed with small black human figures. Several different cross sections showed, with notes and equations, how 482 such figures could be crammed into every available space in compartments the size of coffins. It looked like an illustration of a tin full of the toy soldiers a rich parent might buy a child. It was precise, and perfectly worked out, and monstrous.
“The trouble with that one,” Clarkson said, following his gaze, “is that it only shows how many each ship is supposed to fit. They pack them with six hundred or so. Too many Africans die on the journey. They need to make a profit.”
Wilberforce let the paper fall back to the table. His fingers felt tainted. “This won’t take long.” He really believed it. “Once people see things like this, they won’t let it go on.”
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when the last of the society left with their allotted work to do and promises to meet again in a very few days. Wilberforce went to see them off at the door. The air from the nearby Thames was biting, and light rain cast a veil over Westminster; the buildings looked pale and ghostly behind it. In the grip of winter, there seemed to be no other soul about for miles.
He was very surprised, then, when he stepped back inside only to be informed by his butler that Pitt was waiting for him in the library. Evidently, he had called half an hour ago and told the servants not to alert Wilberforce until after his guests had dispersed.
“Do you actually sleep at night?” Wilberforce said as he entered the library.
“Because I evidently roused you from your bed with my arrival,” Pitt said wryly. He stood and put aside the book he had been reading. Neither of them could leave an unattended bookshelf alone for long. “But I do apologize for calling so late. I just returned from Windsor, and I needed to speak to you.”
“Not at all—I’m delighted to see you at last.” Pitt had meant to finally visit Wilberforce at the Lake District over the summer, but business had meant that once again he had been kept close to London. “How was the king?”
Pitt sighed. “It’s difficult to say. It might just be a fever—it’s the right time of year for it. But certainly when I spoke to him, his mind and his magic were very disordered.”
Wilberforce had meant it when he had told Hannah More that he doubted King George was in any true danger; he blinked now with surprise. “His magic? But that shouldn’t be affected by any illness of the body. That would mean—”
“His magic is turning on itself, yes.” It was rare for magic to turn on itself: it happened in very, very strong bloodlines, lines that mingled unlikely inheritances and incongruous strains. Unfortunately, royal families in any European country intermarried to propagate exactly those kinds of bloodlines. Highborn Aristocrats had been known to die or be rendered permanently insane from their magic before, and it was often explosive and dangerous. But it had never, as far as Wilberforce knew, happened to a king of England.
“It’s too soon to tell yet,” Pitt added. “He was delirious. It might have only been that.”
“I hope so, of course. But still—”
“But still,” Pitt echoed. “Yes.” He shook his head. “I didn’t actually come in the middle of the night to bring you news of the king. There was something else.”
Wilberforce pulled his thoughts back to the present. “It’s not another rogue shadow, is it?” He was not at all serious—it was only that something about the lateness of the hour and the mysteriousness of the visit had taken him back to the tiny Rheims hotel—and so he was startled to see Pitt’s expression become very serious indeed. “Oh dear God…”
“Believe me, I was as surprised as you are—and I probably looked about as thrilled at the prospect. I noticed it three days ago. I told myself it was probably perfectly legitimate, and that there have been more and more high-level shadows in London as displays of magic are beginning to become so fashionable. But any high
-level shadow kept out in the world for more than a day needs to be registered with the Temple Church. I’ve made some discreet inquiries, and according to them there should not be one in Westminster. Particularly not in the abbey, and that’s where this one is.”
“Westminster Abbey?” Wilberforce glanced instinctively out the window: beneath the fine speckling of rain, the walls of the abbey were clearly visible across the courtyard. “Are you certain?”
“Quite, I’m afraid. If I wasn’t before, I became so on my way here tonight. The cold from that church would freeze the Thames, if it were physical rather than supernatural.”
“I don’t see how you can tell the difference, in this weather. It feels cold enough to me, and I can’t feel shadows. Do you think it has anything to do with the king’s illness?”
“I don’t see how it can. There’s no way it could have made contact with him without being seen. Besides, shadows don’t make one ill. Dead, perhaps, on occasion.” He went on before Wilberforce could comment. “But even so, I’d very much like to take care of it before Parliament meets. Preferably tonight, if you would be willing and that would be convenient for you.”
“You want to go after it,” Wilberforce said slowly, “and you want me to go after it with you.” He had known that, really, but he wanted it put into words. They made him feel sick with dread.
“I hate to ask, especially after Rheims,” Pitt said with a sigh. He clearly understood Wilberforce’s feelings perfectly; he may even have shared them. Wilberforce didn’t think Pitt was afraid of any shadow, but he certainly didn’t look happy. “And I really have tried to think of an alternative. I don’t necessarily want to dispatch it ourselves this time—if we see it, and it looks beyond us, we can at least tell the Knights Templar we’ve seen it. I just don’t feel I can report it to the Knights Templar yet, as I felt I couldn’t in France—you now have some idea of why, I think.”
“I could report it to the Templars myself,” Wilberforce offered. “Westminster Abbey is actually closer to my house than to yours, so it would seem reasonable. I could say I had seen it. They wouldn’t need to know you were involved at all.”
“That’s very kind of you, but you haven’t seen it. Neither have I. It hasn’t allowed itself to be seen. I’m not sure how well your story would hold up under the questioning of the Templar shadow hunters. Besides…” He hesitated for such an unusually long time that Wilberforce’s attention was caught. “This is going to have to be another leap of faith on your part, I’m afraid, because I can’t put it into words that make logical sense. But this shadow feels connected with the one in France. I don’t see how it could be the same one—we dealt with that one pretty thoroughly—but its presence has the same quality. And that makes me think it’s not a coincidence that this one has appeared in Westminster.”
“That does make sense,” Wilberforce said. He understood now why Pitt was having difficulty with it. “It doesn’t have to be logical. We’re discussing shadows and blood magic—there are different kinds of sense involved. But I don’t like this. This isn’t a side street in France, and we’re not twenty-four anymore. This is the heart of London, and you’re the head of the British government. It’s dangerous. It was dangerous then—we were just too young and arrogant to understand.”
“You mean I was. And I agree, I was—I took it far too lightly—but I’m not now. I honestly do think we can deal with this before Parliament convenes. And I, at least, would prefer to do so without involving the Knights Templar. I do understand if you feel you can’t accompany me this time. In that case, would you be so kind as to remain here? I will almost certainly return by daybreak. If I haven’t, however, it would be helpful to have someone notify the Templars that something quite serious has probably transpired.”
“You’re entirely in earnest about that, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
Wilberforce sighed. “Let me get my coat.”
From the beginning, it felt more dangerous than France.
Wilberforce had been in Westminster Abbey before many times, during services and ceremonies, and once or twice just to enjoy the hushed quiet of old stone steeped in centuries of prayer. He had never been there in the dead of night, and if he had, he suspected it wouldn’t have usually been like this. It was infected. He was aware, as he hadn’t been in Rheims until they had practically walked into their quarry, of something tangible in the air. It may, of course, have been only his memory of the last shadow, and probably was, but that didn’t prevent him from shuddering at the touch of every slight draft. The high vaulted ceilings, usually so breathtaking, seemed to drip with it. The monuments to dead men through which they were walking stared down at them as if stricken in silent horror. Inexplicably, it made him think of the accounts from the captured slaves Clarkson had been reading them that night.
It was terrible. And yet, through his growing fear, Wilberforce felt suddenly, fiercely glad that Pitt had asked him to come. Whatever its reasons for coming here, the shadow had no right.
They had entered through the north transept—where, Wilberforce remembered, Pitt’s father was buried, though it did not seem a tactful moment to mention it—but Pitt beckoned him forward.
“Do you know where the shadow is?” Wilberforce asked.
“I think so.” Pitt seemed a little surprised and, for the first time, uncertain. “I think it’s in the nave, not far from the west entrance. But I could be mistaken—I never usually know anything that specific.”
“I wish you had in France,” Wilberforce said. “It would have spared us two hours sleepless in the dark streets.”
Pitt smiled, but distractedly. “Well, it may yet be two hours here. As I said, I could be mistaken.”
Looking at his face, however, Wilberforce knew it wouldn’t be. He was not at all surprised when, almost immediately after they turned the corner toward the long, high row of Gothic columns, Pitt said quietly, “There it is.”
It took Wilberforce some time to see it, and not only because of his eyes and the dark. The hundred-foot ceiling and vast chamber seemed to swallow up mere human-sized figures, even on the brightest of Sunday mornings when the nave was filled with worshippers. But then, with a jolt, it came into focus opposite them. It was black against a pillar—and yet not the solid black of a shadow.
“But that’s…” He shook his head. “That’s not a shadow. That’s a human being.”
“It’s a shadow,” Pitt said. There was something like wonder in his voice. “It’s a shadow wearing a human body. It’s an undead.”
There was nothing about the figure from this distance to mark it as anything other than human. It was solid; it had all four limbs intact; it was clothed in the rough garb of a tradesman, albeit a ragged one. Yet it never occurred to Wilberforce to doubt. It wasn’t human. His heart felt as though somebody had laid a finger on it and turned it to ice.
“How?” he managed, in a whisper. “Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. Nobody should know. There hasn’t been an undead in the world for hundreds of years. Not since the Vampire Wars.”
“Can it still be destroyed?”
Pitt took a moment to respond. “Oh—yes. Yes, it can. But it takes a very precise shot: it’s through the heart, or not at all. I don’t know if I can be so precise. We should probably withdraw. You were right; we shouldn’t have come.”
That was the most sensible course, obviously. Wilberforce had not brought a pistol at all: his eyesight was worse now than it had been in France, and he had no wish to put an accidental bullet through the west window or the prime minister of Great Britain. But he did have a stake, the standard sort available for self-protection, and his hand tightened around it.
“Can we draw it outside?” he heard himself ask.
“Why outside?”
“I scarcely know myself,” Wilberforce confessed. “Perhaps because it’s a church. Perhaps because it wants to be inside. It just—I don’t like it being in here. I don’
t want to leave it, even if we can.”
Pitt nodded slowly. He thought for a moment, and his eyes flickered quickly to the stake in Wilberforce’s hand and back to the tall, thin figure.
Wilberforce decided to spare him the trouble of saying the obvious. “If I run for the door,” he said, “and it comes after me, do you think you can shoot it as it passes?”
“It would be extremely dangerous for you.”
“Well, I hardly feel very safe standing here waiting for it to move.” The shape was beginning to turn its head. “And your pistol is more likely to hit a moving target than my stake is, so it will have to be me that draws it off. Quickly, please, because it’s already moving.”
“Run,” Pitt said, and Wilberforce ran.
The nave of Westminster Abbey was 170 feet long. As he dashed across it with his back to the darkness, it seemed ten miles at least. For a terrible moment, almost the worst in his life, his fingers fumbled on the bolt that was drawn across the inside of the door, and he was certain he would never get it open. At once, it yielded, and the hinges creaked as he drove his shoulder into the door. He burst out into the cold, wet air, and he kept running.
From Westminster Abbey, a shot sounded.
Wilberforce checked his pace halfway across the cobbled courtyard and spun back to look. He was breathing fast and heavily, partly through exertion and partly through fear, and the rain stung his face.
A second later, he heard the splash and thud of footsteps, and then saw Pitt running toward him.
“Did you hit it?” Wilberforce asked as his friend stopped a short distance from him.
“No.” Pitt was already reloading his pistol. “It’s a shadow amongst shadows in there. I think I might have shot Richard II.”
