The Midnight Witch (18 page)

“Charlotte!” I hiss at her as a harassed maid takes my coat. “You promised me this would be a quiet affair. A handful of interesting people engaged in diverting conversation, I seem to recall you telling me. You said nothing about wild partying. Look at all these people!”

“It does look rather lively,” she confesses. “Not to worry, Lily. No one here will know who you are. I told you, this is a chance for you to have a tiny bit of fun for once. Is that so terrible?” she asks, unwrapping the fur stole from her shoulders. “Oh! An ice sculpture. Look! It’s a turkey. To celebrate the turkey trot, which I insist you dance later on. It’s a scream. Isn’t it all too wonderful? Now”—she takes my arm and leads me into the melée—“have a glass of champagne and stop looking so cross, or no one will dare speak to you.”

We battle our way across the hall and into the drawing room, which has been cleared of furniture to make more room for dancing. It is a large room, with long windows, much like any other built at the same period, but it is unlike any I have stepped into before. Every surface—walls, ceiling, even the floor—is covered in the most intricate murals, all rendered in vivid colors and touched here and there with gilt. The scenes depicted are of medieval maidens and knights in armor, or fairylike creatures drifting through tangled forests. Or half-naked figures languishing among flowers. The effect is striking. I am sure the space would feel full of frantic life even if it were not full of revelers. And what revelers they are. Many are dressed in the most outlandish ways possible, as if each were trying to outdo the next. There is a preponderance of exotic fabrics and styles of clothing, with many of the women, and quite a few of the men, sporting bejeweled turbans.

“Mama would have a fit of the vapors if she knew I was here,” I protest.

“I promise not to tell her. Oh, come
on,
Lily, darling,
do.
” She squeezes my arm, her eyes beseeching. “I know you are officially still in mourning, but it’s doing you no good, stuck in that big empty house all the time. You are beginning to look quite peaked, if you’ll forgive my saying so. You will feel so much better for letting your hair down, just a teeny, weeny bit. Besides, there’s no one here remotely connected, I promise. These are artists, writers, poets. Young people who are making their own way in a dazzling new world. Ooh, here, a glass of this will oil the wheels,” she says, passing me a bubbling flute from a tray held perilously aloft by a nearby footman. She is immediately engaged in conversation, at some volume to rise above the noise, with a bright-eyed couple beside her.

I know I ought to leave now, turn my back on all this gaiety, and go home. And yet, I confess there is something very appealing about staying and allowing myself to be part of such freedom. I do not see a single familiar face among the partygoers, which means it is unlikely they will know my identity. Such anonymity is seductive. I find myself tapping my foot to the syncopated ragtime beat and a smile, unbidden and unexpected, visits my face. The atmosphere is quite intoxicating. I notice a portly young man doing his level best to master some frenzied new dance. I can’t tell if he is executing the steps correctly, but he does look wonderfully silly, so that I cannot suppress a giggle. As I take a sip of champagne my elbow is jogged by a passing dancer, so that the bubbles fizz up my nose making me sneeze. I attempt to fish a handkerchief from my sleeve, but one miraculously appears in front of me. I am so busy sneezing it is a moment before I can properly open my eyes to see who holds it. Bram stands before me, grinning broadly.

“It’s not called bubbly for nothing,” he points out as I take the proffered square of cotton. “Though I would have thought you’d have had plenty of opportunity to master drinking the stuff.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Naturally. All aristocrats are weaned from mother’s milk directly to Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“That’s what I’d heard.”

“Being born in Yorkshire, I expect you went straight on to brown ale.”

“Stout, actually,” he corrects me, still smiling.

I hand him back his handkerchief, but he shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says. “That way I will have an excuse to call on you again to request its return.”

“Is it a family heirloom, perhaps?”

He laughs openly at this. “It is good to see you out enjoying yourself. I don’t think I have ever seen you so…” he searches for the right words, “… at ease.”

“The music is hard to resist. And such a concentration of fun…” I attempt to wave my arm to indicate the packed room and energetic dancing couples, but there really isn’t the space. “Have you come on your own?” I ask.

“With Mangan and Gudrun. Perry was invited, too, but he said he had an appointment. He’s being very mysterious about it. Gudrun suspects a woman. She and Mangan are here somewhere, though I haven’t spied either of them for over an hour.”

“I can’t wait to see Mr. Mangan dancing.”

“Oh, it’s very frightening. We try to dissuade him. With such a crowded dance floor there are bound to be casualties.”

It is a revelation to me that I can be so relaxed in this man’s company when at the same time he unsettles me so. I cannot help thinking of the Lalique vase. Of what I did. Of what he saw me do. He knows that I stopped the glass from shattering, that I halted its progress through the air. And I chose not to work a spell of forgetting on him, a fact that has disturbed me ever since. But it was a choice. Almost as if I wanted him to see. What has he made of it? I wonder. What has he told himself to explain the inexplicable? And will he challenge me about it? It would surely be better if I did not give him the opportunity to do so. But I have no wish to remove myself from him. It is, in fact, both surprising and a little thrilling to find that I am prepared to risk his questioning me in order to remain in his company. I take another sip of my champagne, aware that he is observing me closely. What would Louis make of me being here, allowing another man to scrutinize me so?

Charlotte comes bounding up to us, a lanky young man in tow.

“Oh, Lily, you’ve found Mr. Cardale—how perfectly splendid that you are here! I’ve just seen Mr. Mangan holding forth on the merits and demerits of the Impressionists. He’s in the kitchen, fueled by a dangerous-looking punch. Oh, listen, the ‘Maple Leaf Rag’! We can do the turkey trot to this! Come on, Spencer, we simply have to dance. You, too, Lily,” she calls over her shoulder as she races into the fray.

Bram raises an eyebrow at me. “Have you ever…?” he asks.

“I admit, I have not.”

“Nor I.”

We watch the gyrating dancers, limbs flailing, moving at some speed despite the restrictions of space and the very real danger of injury from other frenzied couples. The music is wonderfully fast and catchy.

“It does look rather fun,” I say quietly.

Bram takes my glass from me and sets it down on the mantelpiece.

“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his hand to me.

“I have no idea of the steps,” I warn him, putting my gloved fingers into his hand.

“If a turkey can manage them, I’m certain you and I will cope,” he says.

I have always considered myself to be a reasonable dancer, but this is like nothing else I have ever attempted. Bram and I do our best to copy the footwork and arm movements of our fellow trotters, with increasing hysteria. A tiny woman in a beaded dress and glasses barrels into us at one point, and an enthusiastic young man treads heavily on Bram’s left foot. Soon we are forced to hold onto one another if only to avoid injury. By the time the rag reaches its triumphant final notes we are quite helpless with laughter. As the music finishes a cheer goes up amid cries of “Again! Again!” Bram groans at the idea of repeating the exercise. The crowd becomes more and more vociferous, demanding the record be played over at once. Bram still has his arm protectively around my waist, and I find that I have no wish to step out of his casual embrace. At this moment, a rosy-cheeked woman flings herself from the chair she has been standing on into the arms of her beau. In doing so, she drops her cocktail glass, which smashes on the wooden floor. I glance at Bram. He returns my look, and I know he is thinking of another piece of glass. One which was saved from smashing. His expression grows pensive.

“Let’s go outside. Somewhere quieter,” he says. When I hesitate he takes hold of my hand. “Please.”

I know I should refuse. I should stay in the safety of the noise and bustle of the party, where conversation is nigh on impossible. But I want to go with him. I want to. So I let him lead me through the throng, out of the drawing room, threading through the hectic people, across the hall, down the passageway to a door that opens onto the small walled garden at the back of the house. The night is still and the sky clear. The cool air is refreshing after the fug of the party, but cold. Bram takes off his jacket and, ignoring my protestations, slips it around my shoulders. I can feel the warmth of him held in its silk lining. We walk to a wrought-iron garden seat at the edge of the lawn. I find I cannot look at him now. I know what is coming. I should not be here, with him, waiting for questions I must not answer. What do I hope for? What is it that compels me to stay? I steal a glance at him. His expression now is one of thoughtfulness, as if he is struggling to frame the inquiry that I so dread. His dark eyes look almost sorrowful. His profile is exquisite; some might say too beautiful for a man. I am astonished to find that I
want
him to find a way to broach the matter of the falling vase. I
want
him to start the conversation that can only lead to one thing: my revealing my true identity to him. This realization fills me with panic. What am I thinking? All my years of being a Lazarus witch, of knowing how vital secrecy is to the protection of the coven—have they come to nothing? Here I am, ready to tell a man I scarcely know … tell him what? How, precisely, do I anticipate this dialogue proceeding? Am I to confess to using magic, and casually inform him that I am a witch who practices necromancy, and then we can return to the dancing? The champagne must be addling my mind!

“Lilith,” he says softly, and the sound of his voice uttering my name stirs something in me. “The other day, when I visited you at your home … as I watched you … I saw…” He looks at me, searching my face, no doubt trying to read my expression. “You did something … wonderful.”

I hold his gaze. I must know that he is being honest with me. “You weren’t … frightened?” I ask.

“I was astonished.”

I start to blush and look down at my feet. The grass is damp, and the light from the rear windows of the house catches the water droplets, making them shimmer in the darkness. How can I tell him? Where would I begin? It is too much. Too soon.

Would you trust this non-witch with all your deepest secrets, Daughter of the Night?

The Dark Spirit’s unmistakable voice interrupts the intimate moment as if it were a bomb blast inside my skull.

Go away! Leave me alone!

I will go only when you have given me what is rightfully mine.

I don’t know what you mean!

You do, Morningstar. If you want to be rid of me, if you ever want to be free, you will give it to me.

I leap to my feet, Bram’s jacket slipping from my shoulders.

“Lilith?” Bram stands, taking my hand once again. “What is it? I shouldn’t have pressed you on the subject. Forgive me.”

He cannot begin to understand. You will never be able to explain to him how different you are.

I could! He would listen, I know it. He would try to understand.

That you talk to the dead? That you call them to you and walk with them? If he were to know the truth about you he would be repulsed. He would think you despicable.

“Lilith, please…”

“I have to go. I’m sorry. I…” I pull my hand from his and hurry back toward the house.

“Wait!”

Run, little witch, run away. A necromancer cannot pull one from the Outerworld into the circle, you know that. This man cannot help you.

I clutch at my head, trying to block out the spirit’s voice, but I know it is futile. Bram runs after me, calling my name, but I know that the Dark Spirit is right. We are too different. The gulf is too wide.

Bram catches me up just as I reach the door to the house. He takes hold of my arm and spins me round.

“What is it, Lilith? Why are you so afraid of talking to me? Why do you shroud yourself in secrecy? I … I care about you. I promise you, there is nothing you could tell me that would make me feel differently about you.”

I shake my head. “That is a rash promise,” I tell him. “You do not understand. You cannot.”

He pulls me closer. “Let me try,” he says. For moment the warmth of him, his strength, almost undo me. How wonderful it would be to have him hold me like this often. To feel so wanted, so protected. And now it occurs to me that, in all the years I have known him, and for all his fondness for me, I have never felt this way about Louis. The thought unnerves me. My judgment is clouded. I must get away so that I can think clearly.

I raise my eyes to look at Bram as levelly and steadily as I can.

“If you care about me at all, then let me go,” I say.

He hesitates, and I see how difficult it is for him to release me, to let me leave without explanation, without giving him hope that we might speak again. Slowly he lets his arms fall to his sides and takes a step back. Without another word I turn for the door.

“I will wait, Lilith,” he calls after me softly. “When you are ready, I will listen,” he says.

I do not trust myself to look back or to respond but hurry into the hall and ask the nearest maid to fetch my coat.

10.

“Isn’t this simply divine, Lily? Don’t you think? I must try it on. And so must you!” Charlotte claps her hands together with glee.

I agreed to accompany my friend to her appointment with her dressmaker, but have not come with the intention of buying anything for myself. It is, however, hard to resist the seductive charms of such a place as the House of Morell, Ladies Tailor, Court Dressmaker and Furrier. In truth, I am at sixes and sevens after the events of the party. I am still aghast at the vehement persistence of the Dark Spirit, and angry with myself for allowing it to so disturb me. I
must
take charge. I must learn to block him from my mind, to somehow rid myself of his presence. And then there is Bram. I came so very close to revealing the truth about myself to him. Even now, without champagne to embolden me, and removed from his company, I find the thought of him stirs me. Stirs me so that I feel both joy and guilt. For, after all, I am engaged to Louis. How quickly my life has become so complicated.