The Midnight Witch (4 page)

However much I disliked the subterfuge involved, how I reveled in those hours I spent learning to become a fully-fledged Lazarus witch! It is our custom that several members of the coven should undertake to instruct a young witch. Some will have only a small part to play. This was the case with dear Lord Grimes, who introduced me to the ceremonial duties that are expected of a Head Witch. His role as Master of the Chalice is a somber and important one, but he is such a sweet man, and took such pains to make sure I was neither bored nor confused, that I quickly grasped the formal elements of my future role. There were others who listened to me recite the creeds and incantations, and still others who had me sing until I was word perfect with our songs of celebration and thanksgiving. Most of my tutoring fell to two people, and the first of these was, naturally, Father, who spent long hours hearing my defense of the functions and duties of the Lazarus Coven, challenging my assumptions, truly making me think hard about what was expected of me.

How often Father reminded me that it was all to ensure I was properly prepared to take over from him one day. And now that moment has come, and the Lazarus Coven is in my hands. I sit on the edge of the high bed and reach to the side of the headboard with its carvings of rose-briars, to pull the bell rope. Slipping off my shoes I wriggle my tired toes and sigh with relief that the worst part of the terrible day is over. I feel almost overcome with weariness suddenly. I was about to ring for Violet, but instead I decide to have a moment to myself. I feel a small shiver of excitement as I step over to the far wall and slide the little oil painting to one side to reveal the safe. I close my eyes and let my fingers spin the lock, muttering the words that release the combination that guards the precious items within. There is a faint clicking sound and the door springs open. Reaching in to take out the antique green leather case I find myself revived at the very thought of holding the wonderful stones in my hands. I settle at my dressing table and open the box. The Montgomery diamonds have been in the family for generations, and are famous even abroad. My mother wore them when she was first married to my father, but has always considered them too ostentatious. It was Father who suggested they be given to me on my eighteenth birthday. Mama was aghast at the idea to begin with, questioning how an unmarried woman could possibly wear such a necklace in public. But dear Papa, knowing the deeper significance of the gems to us—to me—insisted. He also insisted I be permitted to wear them when I came out into society, and so I have done, at many grand balls. Each time I feel the cool diamonds against my skin I sense a connection with my ancestors. Not merely the aristocratic family of the dukedom of Radnor, but my coven family. For the stones are a central part of the Lazarus Coven, as without them, the Elixir would be powerless. I cannot resist touching them. Their magic is strong. The low light of the bedroom is still sufficient to make them flash blue and green. They are in an unusual arrangement, linked together as if they were a cascading waterfall of ice, each diamond set into a fine holding of pure white platinum, hard and bright. As always, proximity to the stones revives me. Iago, who has little time for the importance of such things, jumps up onto my lap, purring loudly, putting himself firmly and furrily between myself and the object of my interest. The clock chimes the hour.

“You are right, puss. I must call Violet and get myself ready.”

I put the necklace away, ring for my maid, and take my seat at the dressing table once more. I begin to remove the pins from my hair and am still doing so when Violet arrives on swift, silent feet, hurrying to take over.

“Please, my lady, let me,” she says.

I willingly give myself up to my maid’s care. I am certain I would look a fright without her help. My hair can look kempt and presentable, it is so very black and heavy, but only with proper attention and dressing. Left to my own devices, I would wear it in a ropelike plait, nothing more complicated. But certain things are expected of me, and a particular standard of turn out is the least of them. I close my eyes as Violet brushes my hair with long, rhythmic strokes. Is this how Iago feels when I stroke him? It is marvelous to be so comforted by such a simple thing.

“A sad day, my lady,” says Violet. “And a long one.”

“Would you tell everyone downstairs how much Mama appreciated all their hard work? She was very pleased; everything ran like clockwork.”

“Thank you, my lady. I’ll be sure to pass the duchess’s kind words on.”

“Not the duchess any longer, Violet. Just Lady Annabel now.”

Violet pauses and says, “It will all take quite a bit of getting used to.”

Her words end in a sob. Looking in the mirror I see the maid fighting back tears. I forget how much company I have in my grief. Poor Violet. It is small wonder she is so sad. She came to the house as a kitchen maid when she was only eleven, although her age was an estimate, as she was an orphan without a known birthdate. I always liked her. We are close in age, but, more than that, we share the coven as our family. She arrived at Fitzroy Square an orphan, and Father must have seen that there was something different about her. Something that was receptive to magic. With foresight typical of him, he encouraged the friendship between us. More than once Mama protested when she found Violet in the nursery with Freddie and me, but Father insisted we were helping train her as a maid. How much harder my duplicitous existence would have been, and would still be, without Violet.

When I became old enough to have a lady’s maid of my own I requested her. We are as close as servant and mistress can be, and I know how much she had cared for my father. It is a measure of this closeness that I continue to call her by her first name, rather than her surname, as etiquette would normally require in the case of a lady’s maid. I reach up and pat Violet’s hand. In the silver-framed mirror in front of us, our eyes meet in the reflection. She has a pretty face, open and curious, with wide brown eyes and hair that curls of its own accord.

“Courage, Violet. You of all people know that he is not completely lost to us.”

Violet nods tearfully and musters a brave smile.

“Take no notice of me, my lady,” she says, busying herself with putting away the silver brush and tidying the hairpins. I know her well enough to understand that further sympathetic words will only bring on more tears.

I stand up so that she can unbutton my gown. The stiff silk is wearisomely heavy and I will be glad to be free of it. With the long row of buttons at the back unhooked, I am at last able to slip it forward over my shoulders and step out of it. Next Violet unties the laces of my corset. I am naturally slim, and have a long, slender waist, but fashion demands my stays be worn fiercely tight even so. It is a blessed relief to have them undone after such a long day. With the corset removed, I can step from my underskirt, and then pull my thin silk chemise over my head. I sit once more to tug off my stockings. My cotton petticoat feels wonderfully light and allows the gentle breeze of night air from the open window to refresh my skin. I hold up my arms so that Violet can help me into my crisp white nightdress, which I tie loosely at the neck. When I glance at the blackened pane between the undrawn curtains my own pale reflection gazes back

“Come,” I say to Violet, “it is properly dark now. We must go.”

“Yes, my lady.” She fetches my velvet cape, helping me to drape it around my shoulders and fasten it with its elaborate gold clasp.

“Such a lovely green,” she says.

“Dark as a pine forest, shimmering as a dragonfly’s wing.” I quote the words my father spoke on the day I first wore my witch’s cloak. The night of my thirteenth birthday when I was initiated into the Lazarus Coven and my life changed forever.

Followed closely by Iago, we leave the bedroom, walk the length of the first floor hallway and use a door at the far end which leads onto a steep wooden staircase. These stairs, though plain and worn, are not for servants or tradesmen, but for the sole use of the family of the house to gain direct, and discreet, access to the garden from the bedrooms. The narrow door at the bottom gives onto the lawns. Outside, night has fallen, still and warm after the sweltering day, and muted sounds of the bustle of the city beyond the high garden walls can be heard. A clear moon glows against the blue-black of the sky. I walk quickly down the little gravel path, Violet following briskly behind, on a short journey we have made together over the years hundreds of times.

We traverse the lower part of the grounds, which are mostly lawns and shrubs with lovingly tended rose beds. A short flight of steps takes us up to the terrace, which is shaded and sheltered by small fruit, walnut and magnolia trees. To the left of these stands the white-painted wooden summer house, with its pretty curved eaves and verandah. Iago knows precisely where we are going and bounds ahead to wait at the door. I take a key from the pocket of my cape and turn the lock. The interior of the summer house is just as might be expected, with striped deck chairs leaning against the walls, a folded parasol waiting in a corner, two trestle tables and a croquet set, all slightly worn and a touch shabby from many hours of use. This summer house, however, differs from its many cousins in one small detail. On the far wall, carefully designed to look like part of the weatherboard construction of the building, there is another door. I take a second key from my pocket and unlock this one. We slip through it, the cat darting ahead. I pause to make sure it is locked again behind us.

We stand for a moment in the almost total blackness of the space we have just entered. No city noises reach us here. I compose myself, taking a deep, sustaining breath, inhaling the faintly musty smell of the stairwell, feeling the cool air of it upon my face. I close my eyes, as I know Violet will be doing. It would not be seemly to rush the transition from the Outerworld to a place that is consecrated and sacred to the coven. A minute’s reflection, a moment of stillness, a chance to master a racing heart, calm a ragged breath, or quiet a noisome mind. These are habits born of years of listening and watching, of learning and growing, of becoming a true and loyal member of the coven of Lazarus.

And the nearer I draw to the heart of our coven, the more at home I feel. How could I ever explain such a thing to one who has never experienced the joy of being a born witch? What would dear Charlotte make of it? Would she think me a monster?

When I open my eyes they have adjusted to the gloom, so that different levels of darkness present themselves. There is a faint line of paler darkness, from the windows of the summer house seeping in from around the door behind us. There is a chink of moonlight dropping from a tiny fissure in the stone roof above. And there is the coal black of the descent in front of us. Although I am familiar with every stair, every twist and turn, every uneven convolution of the descending steps, I will not venture farther without light. This is my sanctum. My coven. Mine. I will never approach cloaked in the dark. I will always, now, arrive in a glow of warm light. For the Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven is the bridge between day and night, between outer and inner, between life and death. Here, from this day on, I stand for the pulse of the living, even when I walk among the dead. I must always move in light, or risk being lost to the other side before my time.

“Light!” My voice echoes off the cold walls. “Light now!”

A short whooshing sound accompanies the flames which spring to life ahead of us. Heavy iron sconces hold thick torches at regular intervals along our route, all now burning brightly, flickering in the eddying air of the underground passage, casting dancing shadows all around. We move forward and downward, one hand holding up our hems, the other sliding lightly down the wall. There is no rail or rope to hold onto, but the damp stones beneath our fingers add at least the illusion of support during our steep descent. The staircase doubles back beneath the garden until we come to a long, low-ceilinged room which is directly under the house. Here the grimness of the stairwell is replaced by a certain amount of comfort. Thick rugs cover the floor, and maps and paintings relieve the dull gray of the stone walls. Around the room are low wooden benches with padded seats, as if in a somewhat expensively decorated waiting room, for indeed that is the function of the space. This antechamber is a place for gathering, for assembling, for collecting, before being admitted farther into the coven’s sacred place of worship. There are several doors in each wall. Some, as in the case of the one I have just closed behind me, conceal staircases. One other—a grand double door, ornately embellished with an enormous green dragonfly, its body brightly enameled, its wings constructed from layers of finest spun silver—is the entrance to the main hall. A second, in a wall by itself, stands beneath a low lintel, solid and fortified with iron studs and wide strap hinges. Iago has sprinted down the stairs and now sits on a bench, idly washing his paws.

I turn to my maid and take her hands.

“Wait here for me.”

“Are you sure, my lady?”

“I am sure.”

“Then I will stay behind. But, if you need me…”

“… I will call you.”

Violet nods and gives a small smile of encouragement. I am not sure why I should feel so nervous. Is it excitement? No, something more. Fear, perhaps? I choose not to believe that. In truth, what is there to be frightened of? I have been preparing for this moment for so long. Father prepared me. I must believe I am ready. I summon my courage and move swiftly across the floor to place my palm against the low door.

“
Open,” I command, and the door swings slowly on its heavy hinges. I step inside. As I pass them, torches burst into flame, until at last the passageway broadens and I am standing in the wide and ancient space where the bodies of my forebears truly lie: the Montgomery catacombs. And there, in the center of the stone tiled floor, a tired smile playing on his dear, familiar face, his hands outstretched in greeting, stands my father.

*   *   *

Bram is not expected at Richard Mangan’s house until nine o’clock, so he finds a table in a small restaurant in Marylebone. While he waits for his meal he takes out the sketches he made at the cemetery and pores over them, subjecting them to the scrutiny of his very harshest critic—himself.