Hessians and Hellhounds

by Tilly Wallace

  “‘The tower is this family’s greatest shame,’” she read aloud.

  Wycliff’s ancestors had a habit of dropping lines like that with no further explanation. It was infuriating. Given that they had written the journal expecting their words to endure for future generations, would it really have been so difficult to include a few explanatory background notes?

  She pondered the sentence and wondered if it were the tower that was the great shame, or its contents? There was nothing particularly secretive or scandalous about building a tower with a lady’s solar on the upper level. Unless it had been used for secret trysts. No, the circumstances surrounding the inhabitant of the tower had to be the source of the secrecy. But had de Cliffe returned from Egypt with remains or a living mage? Or perhaps he had propped the dead mage in a chair at the table and addressed the person as though they were alive? That would be decidedly odd and make the family look askance at him.

  A mage, her mother had said. One who had come to England, yet whose arrival the British mages had failed to mention, their absence in the mage histories rather like the blank spot on the Mireworth house plans. When others sought to conceal something by failing to acknowledge it, they instead drew attention to the omission.

  What if the mage were a woman and de Cliffe had fallen in love, brought her back to England, and in doing so incurred the wrath of some higher power? Hannah snorted at the fanciful fairy tale she constructed. She could imagine how a woman mage would have upset the English mage council. They feared and loathed women mages, and used to snuff out the lives of babes if they were what they considered the inferior gender. What would they have done in the twelfth century if confronted with an adult woman mage who challenged them? Burned her at the stake, or entombed her.

  Hannah waved a hand to dispel the ideas. Already she chased too many threads without imagining that Wycliff possessed an Egyptian mage in his lineage. Instead, she concentrated on how a family would pass down a terrible secret. An oral retelling was the most obvious, but what if a father got some detail wrong, or succumbed to a horrid accident before he could tell his son? If she were the cautious type in possession of such a secret, she would ensure there was a hidden account that a son could find to learn the true history of the tower.

  Her mother interrupted her intellectual pursuit of a possibly concealed journal containing all the missing explanatory details.

  “Do you have time to discuss plants, Hannah?” Seraphina said as she wheeled around the central pool.

  “Of course. I feel a headache coming on from trying to read this rather shocking handwriting.” Hannah closed the aged book and placed it on the pile. “I would appreciate your touch to revive the conservatory. It would be lovely to fill this space with greenery, rather than staring at empty beds.”

  Seraphina reached out and placed one gloved hand in the fresh soil. “I do long for a creative project and soil between my fingers. I cannot remember the last garden someone asked me to design.”

  She fell silent, and a pang of sadness rippled through Hannah. Her mother loved working with Nature and creating gardens, or forests such as the one at their home in Westbourne Green. But since her demise, those commissions had dried up and blown away. She couldn’t help but recall Mr Seager the apothecary’s words: Dead things should fertilise gardens, not give advice about them.

  “I thought perhaps a mixture of edible plants to feed the household, and something purely decorative to feed the eyes and soul,” Hannah said as she pushed back her chair and stood.

  Seraphina swivelled her bathchair and moved along to another raised bed. “Oh, yes. We have the space for delicate ornamentals to brighten the tables inside. If you are keen, I could work a little magic on a spot right in front of the glass with the southernmost aspect, and ensure it is warm enough to grow a pineapple.”

  “A pineapple? Goodness. I never dreamed to be wealthy enough for pineapple. Or perhaps, if we grew one, we could sell it to fund the renovations?” Hannah gasped as her mother painted the conservatory with her magic. A selection of deep green plants burst into life, along with bright flowers and in one spot, the spiky pineapple. Behind it, tomatoes climbed supporting wires and dripped with heavy red spheres. A tall pot held an orange tree with perfectly round fruit waiting to be plucked.

  “Renting is more lucrative, from what I hear. Many a hostess secretly rents the pineapple to place in the centrepiece of her table.” Seraphina waved her hands, playing with the placement of hanging plants that dangled like tassels, and more delicate orchids that needed to be cosseted away from any draft.

  “It would be nice to have something planted before we leave. I fear Wycliff’s work as an investigator will soon call him back to London. Particularly if the scandal sheets have any more stories of missing brains.” Hannah reached up and touched a magical fern frond that curved over the path. The illusion shimmered as her fingers passed through it.

  “I will also have to return. While I can set free other rumours from here, it is easier to control the spread of gossip when I can place my spells more exactly. That requires the help of Kitty Loburn, who hears so many society whispers.” The mage clasped her hands and settled them in her lap.

  “There is always a pull on our time,” Hannah murmured as the surrounding greenery dissolved like a dream upon waking.

  “Speaking of which, we must perform the renewal spell. I dislike venturing too far past thirty days between them.” Seraphina swirled her hand through the dirt.

  Hannah let out a sigh and seated herself on the bricked edge of a raised bed. “What if I do not want to perform the ritual?”

  “Hannah…” her mother began.

  Hannah held up her hands. “I am well aware of what will happen, Mother. My heart will still and I will die. From our observations of the Afflicted, we know it takes three to four days before they are reanimated. I can use that time to journey to the underworld with you and Wycliff to hunt for Dupré and a cure.”

  “And what if we cannot extract the cure from him? Or what if he isn’t even there?” Seraphina wheeled herself closer and took Hannah’s hand.

  Hannah stared at their clasped hands. Would she need linen gloves or could she keep her flesh from rotting? Miss Knightley showed only very faint signs of the curse. If Hannah followed a similar regime to that of the other young woman, she too could almost pass for a living being. “If we fail to find either Dupré or a cure, then I will carry on, as you have. There is plenty to occupy me here, and I am sure Unwin and Alder will deliver to Dorset what I would require to sustain me.”

  Seraphina turned her head and pressed one gloved hand to her temple. “Do you know how it pains me to hear my daughter talk so calmly about her impending death? Your father and I sought to save you.”

  “You did save me—when you asked Lady Loburn to invite Wycliff to Lizzie’s engagement ball. I have found a man who will love me beyond death, and that eventuality no longer holds any fear for me.” Only a very slight tremor raced over her skin at the idea of dying. She would exhale her last breath surrounded by those who loved her and, she had no doubt, would reanimate to find Wycliff waiting for her.

  “Very well. Your course of action makes me despair, but I take some comfort in knowing you will not be alone on your journey. I only ask that you discuss this with Wycliff first. Your decision affects us all, but he will bear the worst of it. He will hold you close as your life ebbs from your body.” The words rasped from Seraphina as though the mage held back tears and remembered her own death.

  Hannah nodded her agreement and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Now, shall we make a list of seeds and cuttings we require for the garden? Then we can ensure everything is waiting for you to plant and nurture on your next visit.”

  She grasped the handles of the bathchair and positioned her mother at the table. Next, Hannah fetched pen and paper to make notes as her mother dictated. On her way back to the table, she passed the pool with its statue of Ma’at. “I believe this is a fountain. It look
s as though water should trickle from the scales she holds.” When she had cleaned out the conservatory beds, Hannah found a set of brass scales that attached to the woman’s hand. A small pipe lined up with a hole in the rod, and its brass length concealed a tiny spout at either end. She hypothesised that water would trickle into one side until it filled the pan, then it would tip to empty the contents into the pool.

  “Oh, how lovely. That only requires a simple spell to circulate the water. Why don’t you ask Frank to fill the pool, while we make our lists? Then when he is finished, I can activate it,” her mother suggested.

  Over dinner that night, Hannah raised one idea with Wycliff that had sprung into her mind earlier in the day. “Do you know of any hiding places at Mireworth?”

  Wycliff lowered his cutlery. “Do you mean like a priest’s hole?”

  Hannah shook her head. What she sought this time wasn’t as large as a concealed tower, or a place to hide a hunted man, or even a nook for a boy playing hide and seek. “Nothing that large. A small nook where documents or valuables could be concealed?”

  Wycliff blew out a sigh. “I imagine there are innumerable such spots in the house. Nobles are a suspicious lot and there is at least one place to store jewellery, deeds, and such. Why do you ask?”

  Hannah took a sip of her wine before replying. “I have not found any history of the tower in the early accounts of Mireworth. Given what we have discovered so far, I wondered if information surrounding a mage’s being here was kept away from prying eyes.”

  Wycliff stared at her, and a light flickered in his gaze. “I think you might be on the trail of something there, Hannah. But how would we find such a small and hidden space? We would have to knock on every panel and bit of wainscoting.”

  She had some inkling of the enormity of the task she had set herself—assuming a spot hoarding the secret history of the tower even existed. “I have given that some thought and believe we should start with the most likely rooms. The library, the master’s study, and the private family rooms. If they reveal nothing, then we work outward to the other rooms and corridors.”

  Barnes trotted along the table and sat before her, waving his fingers in the air.

  “Are you offering to assist, Barnes?” Hannah asked.

  He made the nodding yes gesture with his index finger.

  “Brilliant, thank you. Your perspective would be much appreciated.” Hannah patted the hand. He really proved himself an invaluable member of their household.

  “Tomorrow, I will show you the apartments for Lord and Lady Wycliff. We might as well start our search there, and we can discuss what needs to be done to wrest them back into usable shape.” He said the words with a faint tinge of sadness.

  Hannah stared at her plate. As Lady Wycliff, she possessed her own suite. Noble spouses spent much of their lives apart, seeing each other mostly at the dining table. A husband was expected to make brief conjugal visits to his wife’s rooms and then retreat to his own. She glanced at Wycliff’s profile. Propriety be damned. When at their private residence in the country, she would make her own rules to live by. Hannah brushed her thumb over the stem of her glass.

  “A dressing room would be wonderful, but I have no need of a separate bedroom,” she murmured. Then a blush crept up her neck at having declared in front of her parents that she preferred her husband’s bed.

  “We can work on making both suites habitable, then you will have a private place if you wish to avail yourself of it when not…elsewhere.” Wycliff’s gaze heated and left her in no doubt as to where he imagined her spending her nights.

  Her father spluttered into his wine and turned beetroot red.

  “Are you all right, Hugh?” Seraphina asked.

  He waved aside her concerns and gulped his drink. “Merely thinking of all the rooms Mary will have to clean. You will need more staff eventually—and you should consider getting yourself a valet, Wycliff.”

  After a long dinner and pleasant conversation, Hannah and Wycliff said their good nights. She sat in bed and pulled her knees closer to her body under the blankets. She had promised her mother that she would discuss her course of action with Wycliff, however painful that conversation would be. Already the words tightened in her chest.

  “I have made a decision,” she began.

  Wycliff stripped off his waistcoat and tossed it on the fort of wooden boxes in one corner of the study. He turned as he undid his shirt and pulled it over his head to join the other discarded item. “What about? Not more holes in Mireworth, I hope.”

  Hannah started to say the words, choked on them, and then cleared her throat. “When you journey to the underworld, I will accompany you.”

  Wycliff froze, about to remove his trousers. His eyes widened as comprehension rushed through his mind: In order for her to join him, she first had to be dead.

  “No.” The denial rasped from his throat.

  “I am determined, and will not renew my mother’s spell this month.” Her fingers clenched in the blanket. She discovered that despite her assertions to the contrary, a sliver of fear at giving up life lingered inside her.

  He ran a hand through his hair, and his chest heaved. “Hannah…no, please. You must remain suspended in time until there is a cure.”

  Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to cry. If ever there was a time for boldness, it was when confronting death. Hannah held out a hand and Wycliff moved to sit on the bed. He pulled her into his arms and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  “The last time Mother renewed the spell, she said the curse had changed inside me. She thinks it is testing her work. We knew her spell would be a temporary measure. It cannot last forever,” Hannah spoke into his chest, unable to meet his pain-filled gaze.

  “That is no reason to abandon hope,” he whispered against her hair.

  “Indeed I have not. There is much to achieve when you and Mother travel to the other side. You may need my help, too.” Her heart felt heavy and weariness crept through her limbs. “You will not lose me, Wycliff. I have found a rare love that will endure beyond death and I am no longer afraid.” Hannah reached up and cupped his face in her palm.

  Tears shimmered in his dark gaze. “You cannot expect me to accept your impending death without a single protest.”

  She managed a weak smile. “No. But my mind is made up.”

  He closed his eyes and kissed her palm, then touched his lips to her wedding ring. “Together, beyond death,” he murmured, repeating the words inscribed within it.

  Then he pressed her to the mattress and showed her how desperately he loved her.

  4

  Wycliff had little time to enjoy life at Mireworth with Hannah. As he crept from bed the next morning, the weather cube balanced on the fireplace mantel drew his attention. Within its confines, crimson clouds swirled and where they clashed, the edges turned the deep hue of blood, with tiny slivers of lightning the size of sewing needles.

  “Blast.” He picked up the cube and shook it. Part of him hoped the clouds would return to their usual wispy cream, but the movement only made the red deepen.

  A shard of lightning stabbed at his fingers.

  “What is it?” Hannah asked, her voice still soft with sleep.

  “I am needed in London urgently.” Wycliff let out a sigh. He knew they had to return, but every evening he hoped for one more day. He carried the cube over to the bed and held it out to Hannah.

  She stared at the weather formation, trapped by her mother’s magic. “Red sky in morning, shepherds take warning.”

  “I think the saying should be, Red sky too early will make a hellhound surly. I do not wish to go, but I must. Sir Manly would not summon me unless it was important.” Wycliff took the cube from Hannah and returned it to its spot above the fire.

  “It might be about the woman with the missing brain. Perhaps he has determined Unwin and Alder were not responsible and we have a rogue Afflicted to apprehend. Will you leave immediately?” Hannah flung bac
k the blankets and found her robe.

  He paced about the room retrieving the items of clothing that he had carelessly discarded the night before. “Yes. If I leave now, ride hard, and change horses frequently, I will make it to London by this evening. But there is one thing, Hannah. Please, I beg of you, have your mother perform the renewal spell.”

  She straightened her spine and he could see the denial making its way to her lips.

  All he needed was a little more time to keep her alive. Time that might yet provide a cure for the dark magic poised to still her heart. “Let me deal with whatever calls me to London first. All I am asking for is a little more time. I—” He choked on his words. “I cannot go to London with—knowing—”

  “You cannot go with my death on your hands?” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Yes. I promise you that, once we resolve this case, we will all travel to the underworld together.” He breathed her in and wished that keeping her alive were as simple as keeping hold of her. That had worked to save her from a selkie and drowning, but he could not battle this enemy.

  She nodded and reached up to kiss him. “I will do as you ask, but I fear my time runs out, Wycliff. The curse inside me seeks a way to defeat my mother’s magic, and I would rather die on my own terms.”

  He couldn’t imagine her doing it any other way.

  Wycliff pulled her tighter to his chest and stroked her hair. “I had hoped for more time here, away from the prying eyes of society.”

  She smiled up at him. “I am sure we can split our time between Mireworth and London, and that we can come to some arrangement with Sir Manly. Whether I am alive or dead, I would like to spend our first Christmas here, if you are agreeable?”

  There at least was one glimmer of happiness in the sadness circling him. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  “We will certainly return to Mireworth before winter. There is the autumn harvest to help bring in and then celebrate, and I do not want to miss that. Mrs Rossett has so many more tales to tell me about the rapscallion that it will take several visits here before I have heard them all.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes.