The Midnight Witch (42 page)

“Lord Harcourt. What brings you to the chamber at this hour, uninvited?” I ask.

“Lilith.” He smiles at me, seemingly untroubled at being found trespassing. “The friendship between our families is many generations old. Would you refuse me entry to your home?”

“Refuse, no. If I were asked. But you chose to come here in secret. That is … curious.” My gaze has lighted on his left hand and I see to my horror that he holds the cask containing the Elixir. Now all is clear! Stricklend has sent him. He must have known the earl would be familiar with the catacombs. How long, I wonder, has it taken him to devise a method of getting in unseen? Of gaining entry without alerting any of my guardians from the Land of Night or Day?

I silently call my Cavaliers, but they do not come. Or rather, they cannot. I sense their struggle and know that they are being held. This has been a carefully considered course of action. The earl has seen to it that my spirit guardians are kept from me. What else has he planned? Trying hard not to let my fear show, I step forward. The torches around the room burst into life as I bid them do so, but I leave some unlit, the better to conceal from the earl my trembling hands.

“My father always said you were a useful ally but that you would make a dangerous enemy. I see that he was right in this.”

“As in so many things.”

“You have the Elixir. I assume you intend taking it to Stricklend.” Lord Harcourt’s facade of calm slips for just a second. Just long enough for me to see that I have disconcerted him. I press home my meager advantage. “I must say, I am surprised and disappointed. I had thought better of you. I know you and Father did not always see eye to eye, but you had his respect. And mine. Until now.” I begin to walk around the perimeter of the Sacred Circle. Slowly. Carefully. Iago follows, his lithe little body tense, his tail whipping from side to side.

Outside, bombs continue to fall. Even down here the walls shake as nearby buildings are burst apart. “I could never have imagined,” I go on, “that you, a senior witch of the Lazarus Coven, would betray us, would break your vows, would hand over the Elixir to such a vile and dangerous creature. For what, Lord Harcourt? What has he promised you? What did he have to offer you that persuaded you to trade your own soul?”

The earl’s face darkens. “Do not presume to judge me, Lilith Montgomery.”

“I do presume! Any Lazarus witch would judge you likewise. You are a traitor!”

“You are not so blameless, Morningstar! You were ready to break your vows to save your worthless wretch of a brother!”

“I broke no vows to save my brother! As Head Witch I alone am permitted to use the Elixir. I did so out of love. And I paid a high price for what I did. You would give away our most treasured possession, sell it to a man who would use it for spirits alone know what dreadful purposes.”

“Who is to say they are dreadful? Why should we be the ones who decide who should use the greatest of all the necromancer’s tools? Why not him?”

“You make a poor argument to justify your actions, my lord.”

“But you have no answer for it! Why is our refusal to use the Elixir the right and only way? You yourself saw that it might not be. You yourself, Lady Lilith. Are you so different?”

“From that monster? The man who had Freddie killed? I most certainly am! And what is more, I did not divulge the Great Secret. That remains safe with me, and was safe even as I used Infernal Necromancy to raise my brother from the Land of Night.” I stop, for we have both come to the silent question that now drowns out all other sounds. “Tell me, Lord Harcourt, how do you intend obtaining the Great Secret from me? I see you are alone. Do you plan to torture me, perhaps? Do you think my father did not teach me how to use travel with the spirits to avoid the torment of pain? Do you think to frighten me like a young girl, spooked by stories of horror? There is no one dear to me you can threaten here now. My mother is far away and well protected. Freddie is gone. Even…”

“Even…?”

I know in this instant that he has been informed of my feelings for Bram, and find myself in the unlikely position of being thankful that Bram is at this moment somewhere on the other side of the world, and being tended by doctors and no doubt guarded by fellow soldiers.

“There is no one else I care for. Save Louis, of course, but you would hardly threaten your own son.” Something in his expression, some minute alteration in his stance, a fleeting fear in his eyes, gives him away. Now I understand. He is not doing this for the promise of riches or glory. He is doing this for Louis. He is acting out of love, just as I did for Freddie.

He sees that I understand, and I fancy it weakens rather than strengthens his resolve. I take a step toward him. He instinctively steps back, holding the cask away from me.

“Don’t do this,” I beg him. “Louis would not want you to. Please, do not do this.”

“You could simply have married him.” The earl shakes his head, blinking away tears. “He loves you. You know that. You’ve admitted as much. If you’d ceased prevaricating and married him, the two of you would have become close. He could have persuaded you to share the Great Secret with him willingly, I’m sure of it.”

“No.”

“Yes! That way, none of this would have been necessary.”

Another bomb falls, very close this time, causing plaster to fall from the north wall and the chalice on the altar to teeter. Iago flattens himself against the cold stone floor.

“I will never let you have the Great Secret for Stricklend. He is a wicked man. He would use it badly. Cruelly. Dreadfully. Without restraint. Without care. Without morality. Such a person must not ever be given such terrible power, surely you see that?”

The earl stands straight now and his eyes harden once more. “I knew you would not tell me what I need to know. I have known you all your life, Lilith. I knew that without the leverage of a loved one I would not be able to pry the secret from you. But Stricklend is different. Stricklend is a Sentinel. He has his own skills. His own strong magic. He will get what he wants from you. Of that there can be no doubt.”

Before I have a chance to ask him how he intends to get me to wherever it is the Sentinels are waiting for me, I hear footsteps on the stairs and two burly men burst into the room. I summon a spell of disturbance, flinging one of the benches across their path. One of the henchmen trips over it, the other continues toward me. I raise my hand and use a spell of small fire to set flames dancing along his sleeve. Alarmed, he stops to beat at them. I seize my moment and run at Lord Harcourt to try to wrest the casket containing the vial of Elixir from him.

He tightens his grasp. “Do not make this any more unpleasant than it need be, Lilith. I must have it.”

“No!” I try to summon my guardians, to call upon Hekate to lend me her strength, but there is powerful magic here, far more powerful than anything Louis’s father could manage alone. A cold sweat dampens my neck as I become aware of a familiar, loathsome presence. Willoughby! The Sentinel has his pet spirit here, in the chamber, acting as a conduit for his own magic. No wonder my friendly spirits are blocked and my own magic diminished. My suspicions are confirmed when I see a ragged shadow emerge from beneath the altar. Iago leaps to stand in front of me, hissing fiercely at the shape that moves closer and closer. The poor cat is too terrified to run, and too loyal to leave me. In a second he has been hurled across the floor of the chamber.

“Leave him alone!” I cry, just as Lord Harcourt’s men lay their hands upon me. “You are making a terrible mistake. You must not help Stricklend. You must not!” I am hauled backward. The earl follows me, still clutching the casket.

“Louis will never forgive you for this,” I tell him. “Never.”

“Louis need never know what has taken place. Stricklend will send you to join your beloved father, you might even thank him for that. And when you are gone, as you have no natural successor, I shall make sure that I become the next Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven, and one day Louis will take my place.” For the briefest of moments I see some remorse in his expression. He seeks to rid himself of it by another attempt to justify his actions. “Remember, Lilith. I do not choose between a modest life for my son or a distinguished one; I choose this life for him or none at all.”

It is as his men drag me through the doorway and out of the chamber that I hear the bomb fall. The bomb that will hit us. The others hear it, too. For several terrible seconds we stand rendered incapable of movement, listening to doom speeding its way down through the night sky, ripping the blackness apart as it plummets toward us. And then everything happens as if in one fluid, almost balletic movement. One of the men lets go of my arms and turns to run. The other almost instinctively, I think, grips me tighter. But he only does so for a fraction of a second, for it is then that the roof explodes above us. There are screams. There is no time to run. I could try to find protection beneath the altar, but I know that only something much stronger will save me now. I close my eyes and call upon Hekate one final time, while bricks and stone and timbers and choking dust rain down upon us, as the largest bomb ever dropped on London finds its mark on Number One Fitzroy Square.

23.

1919

I hardly recognize the reflection that peers back at me from the full-length mirror in my new bedroom. The severity of my recently bobbed hair is lessened somewhat by the pearl-encrusted headdress that will hold my veil in place. I have quickly grown to like the sleek lines of my short hairstyle, and it is a relief not to have to spend hours taming and dressing long tresses every day. Mama, with a new forthrightness that has come to her with age, has declared it hideous. Louis likes it, which matters, I suppose. I am still sufficiently old fashioned to believe a bride should at least attempt to present herself in a manner which pleases her husband-to-be.

Turning slowly before the looking glass I take in the cut and detail of my wedding dress. I could not have done without Charlotte’s help these past few months, and she outdid herself in finding me such an excellent designer. One who, spirits be thanked, listened to my requirements and produced something that does not make me feel ridiculous. The lines are modern, slender, skimming my narrow curves, emphasizing my naturally angular silhouette. The fabric, in contrast, is Chinese silk and antique lace, beaded with pearls. The combination is very pleasing. When the day comes, I will, I hope, make Mama proud and Louis happy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Morell, I’ll take it off now. No further fittings will be necessary.”

“You are satisfied with the finished dress, my lady?”

“I’m delighted with it. You have all worked so hard and done an excellent job. Thank you.”

I hold out my arms so that she can undo the tiny covered buttons at the cuffs.

“You look exquisite, my lady,” says Mrs. Morell. “I will see to it that the veil is sent over to you the moment it arrives from Paris,” she assures me, clapping her hands together in a gesture of delight that also prompts her assistant into action, so that I am soon out of the gown and back in my own more mundane clothes.

When I am alone again I take Iago in my arms and the two of us step out of the wide glass doors onto the balcony to enjoy the view of the Thames at night. This outlook, directly opposite the Houses of Parliament and with vistas both up- and downriver, was the reason that I chose this penthouse apartment. After the house at Fitzroy Square was destroyed I knew I did not want anything so grand, or so big. Mama is, against all expectations, happily settled in Radnor Hall and has no wish to return to living in London. Times have changed. It is no longer practicable or desirable to employ a large retinue of servants. And besides, there is only me. It is surely a foolish indulgence in this modern age to keep a dozen maids and footmen and suchlike all dancing attendance upon one person. And when Louis and I are married, well, Clifton Villas will be our town residence. I cannot say I relish the prospect. It is a gloomy house, with little charm, and a great many rooms without sense or purpose. Perhaps, given time, I can persuade Louis that my lovely apartment would suit our needs better. It certainly suits mine.

By the end of the war this poor city was badly battle-scarred. The bombing raids had not been many, but they had left their mark. Added to which, the sheer lack of everything, including manpower, meant that buildings went untended for years; parks were either allowed to run wild or were plowed up to grow food; monuments and landmarks stood neglected; lead was stripped from roofs, and railings from the front of houses to further the war effort. The process of regeneration has been a slow and painful one. This building, completed only months ago, and erected to stand with its toes almost in the Thames, presents its broad, fiercely modern frontage toward the Victorian gothic of Parliament across the water. I like this juxtaposition. As a Lazarus witch, I am at once a part of something ancient almost beyond memory, but I am also of the generation that must, perhaps more than any before us, look forward and construct a new, bold future, putting the pain of the recent past behind us.

Iago wriggles in my arms and I set him down on the balcony. He springs up onto the little iron table and sets about washing his paws. He is quite aged now, but his fur is still black as midnight, and he is still as lithe and light on his feet as ever. He has had no trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and seems to enjoy our high vantage point as much as I do. I doubt he appreciates the finer points of the design of the building, however. I think the place quite wonderful. After my childhood spent surrounded by the dark clutter favored by followers of Victorian fashion, and then Mama’s giddying swirls of Art Nouveau at Fitzroy Square, I was at once drawn to the fresh, clean lines and elegant simplicity of Waterloo Court. The apartments are spread over seven bone-white floors, all with balconies overlooking the river, with woodwork, windows, and smooth railings picked out in pale mint green. Some people have expressed their horror at the bold shapes and unfamiliar proportions that this new style dictates, but I find them perfectly fitting for the age we are now in. Frivolity and frippery would be out of place. The era of excess has gone. How much more dignified, more honest, somehow, this modern fashion is.