He turned, almost in deference, Marjorie thought with growing bewilderment, and half bowed to one of the men accompanying
him. They were all strangers, none of them even wore Stoke County militia uniforms. The other two farm rangers were braking
behind the first, also full of strangers.
“Marjorie, I’d like you to meet Quinn Dexter. Quinn is a…priest. He’s going to be staying here with some of his followers.”
The young man who walked forwards had the kind of gait Marjorie associated with the teenage louts she glimpsed occasionally
in Colsterworth. Priest, my arse, she thought.
Quinn was dressed in a flowing robe of some incredibly black material; it looked like the kind of habit a millionaire monk
would wear. There was no crucifix in sight. The face which smiled out at her from the voluminous hood was coldly vulpine.
She noticed how everyone in his entourage was very careful not to get too close to him.
“Intrigued, Father Dexter,” she said, letting her irony show.
He blinked, and nodded thoughtfully, as if in recognition that they weren’t fooling each other.
“Why are you here?” Louise asked breathlessly.
“Cricklade is going to be a refuge for Quinn’s sect,” Grant Kavanagh said. “There was a lot of damage in Boston. So I offered
him full use of the estate.”
“What happened?” Marjorie asked. Years of discipline necessary to enforce her position allowed her to keep her voice level,
but what she really wanted to do was grab hold of Grant’s jacket collar and scream in his face. Out of the corner of her eye
she saw Genevieve scramble down off her horse and run over to greet her father, her delicate face suffused with simple happiness.
Before Marjorie could say anything, Louise thrust out an arm and stopped her dead in her tracks. Thank God for that, Marjorie
thought; there was no telling how these aloof strangers would react to excitable little girls.
Genevieve’s face instantly turned woeful, staring up at her untouchable father with widened, mutinous eyes. But Louise kept
a firmly protective arm around her shoulder.
“The rebellion is over,” Grant said. He hadn’t even noticed Genevieve’s approach.
“You mean you rounded up the Union people?”
“The rebellion is over,” Grant repeated flatly.
Marjorie was at a loss what to do next. Away in the distance she could hear Merlin barking with unusual aggression. The fat
old sheepdog was lumbering along the greensward towards the group outside the manor.
“We shall begin straightaway,” Quinn announced abruptly. He started up the steps towards the wide double doors, long pleats
of his robe swaying leadenly around his ankles.
The manor staff clustering with considerable curiosity on top of the steps parted nervously. Quinn’s companions surged after
him.
Grant’s face twitched in what was nearly an apology to Marjorie as the new arrivals clambered out of the farm rangers to hurry
up the steps after their singular priest. Most of them were men, all with exactly the same kind of agitated expression.
They look as if they’re going to their own execution, Marjorie thought. And the clothes a couple of them wore were bizarre.
Like historical military costumes: grey greatcoats with broad scarlet lapels and yards of looping gold braid. She strove to
remember history lessons from too many years ago, images of Teutonic officers hazy in her mind.
“We’d better go in,” Grant said encouragingly. Which was absurd. Grant Kavanagh neither asked nor suggested anything on his
own doorstep, he gave orders.
Marjorie gave a reluctant nod and joined him. “You two stay out here,” she told her daughters. “I want you to see to Merlin,
then stable your horses.” While I find out just what the hell is going on around here, she completed silently.
The two sisters were virtually clinging together at the bottom of the steps, faces heavy with doubt and dismay. “Yes, Mother,”
Louise said meekly. She started to tug on Genevieve’s black riding jacket.
Quinn paused on the threshold of the manor, giving the grounds a final survey. Misgivings were beginning to stir his mind.
When he was back in Boston it seemed only right that he should be part of the vanguard bringing the gospel of God’s Brother
to the whole island of Kesteven. None could stand before him when his serpent beast was unleashed. But there were so many
lost souls returning from the beyond; inevitably some dared to disobey, while others wavered after he had passed among them
to issue the word. In truth he could only depend upon the closest disciples he had gathered.
The sect acolytes he had left in Boston to tame the returned souls, to teach them the real reason why they had been brought
back, agreed to do his bidding simply from fear. That was why he had come to the countryside, to levy the creed upon all the
souls, both the living and the dead, of this wretched planet. With a bigger number of followers inducted, genuinely
believing
the task God’s Brother had given them, then ultimately their doctrine would triumph.
But this land which Luca Comar had described in glowing terms was so empty, kilometre after kilometre of grassland and fields,
populated by dozing hamlets of cowed peasants; a temperate-climate version of Lalonde.
There had to be more to his purpose than this. God’s Brother would never have chosen him for such a simple labour. There were
hundreds of planets in the Confederation crying out to hear His word, to follow Him into the final battle against the false
gods of Earth’s religions, where Night would dawn forevermore.
After this evening I shall have to search myself to see where He guides me; I must find my proper role in His plan.
His gaze finished up on the Kavanagh sisters who were staring up at him, both trying to be courageous in the face of the strangeness
falling on their home as softly and inexorably as midwinter snow. The elder one would make a good reward for disciples who
demonstrated loyalty, and the child might be of some use to a returned soul. God’s Brother found a use for everything.
Content, for the moment, Quinn swept into the hall, relishing the opulence which greeted him. Tonight at least he could indulge
himself in decadent splendour, quickening his serpent beast. For who did not appreciate absolute luxury?
The disciples knew their duties well enough, needing no supervision. They would flush out the manor’s staff and open their
bodies for possession: a chore repeated endlessly over the last week. His work would come later, selecting those who were
worthy of a second chance at life, who would embrace the Night.
• • •
“What—!” Genevieve began hotly as the last of the odd adults disappeared inside the manor’s entrance.
Louise’s hand clamped over her mouth. “Come on!” She pulled hard on Genevieve’s arm, nearly unbalancing the younger girl.
Genevieve reluctantly allowed herself to be steered away.
“You heard Mother,” Louise said. “We’re to look after the horses.”
“Yes, but…”
“I don’t know! All right? Mother will sort everything out.” The words brought scant reassurance. What
had
happened to Daddy? Boston must have been truly terrible to have affected him so.
Louise undid the strap on her riding hat, and tucked it under an arm. The manor and its grounds had become very quiet all
of a sudden. The big entrance-hall doors swinging shut had acted like a signal for the birds to fall still. Even the horses
were docile.
The funereal sensation was broken by Merlin who had finally reached the gravel driveway. He barked quite piteously as he nosed
around Louise’s feet, his tongue lolling out as he wheezed heavily.
Louise gathered up the reins of both horses and started to lead them towards the stables. Genevieve grabbed Merlin’s collar
and hauled him along.
When they reached the stable block at the rear of the manor’s west wing there was nobody there, not even the two young stable
lads Mr Butterworth had left in charge. The horses’ hooves made an almighty clattering on the cobbles of the yard outside,
the noise reverberating off the walls.
“Louise,” Genevieve said forlornly, “I don’t like this. Those people with Daddy were really peculiar.”
“I know. But Mother will tell us what to do.”
“She went inside with them.”
“Yes.” Louise realized just how anxious Mother had been for her and Genevieve to get away from Daddy’s friends. She looked
around the yard, uncertain what to do next. Would Mother send for them, or should they go in? Daddy would expect to talk with
them. The old daddy, she reminded herself sadly.
Louise settled for stalling. There was plenty to do in the stables; take the saddles off, brush the horses down, water them.
She and Genevieve both took off their riding jackets and set to.
It was twenty minutes later, while they were putting the saddles back in the tack room, when they heard the first scream.
The shock was all the more intense because it was male: a raw-throated yell of pain which dwindled away into a sobbing whimper.
Genevieve quietly put her arm around Louise’s waist. Louise could feel her trembling and patted her softly. “It’s all right,”
she whispered.
The two of them edged over to the window and peered out. There was nothing to see in the courtyard. The manor’s windows were
black and blank, sucking in Duke’s light.
“I’ll go and find out what’s happening,” Louise said.
“No!” Genevieve pulled at her urgently. “Don’t leave me alone.
Please
, Louise.” She was on the verge of tears.
Louise’s hold tightened in reflex. “Okay, Gen, I won’t leave you.”
“Promise? Really truly promise?”
“Promise!” She realized she was just as frightened as Genevieve. “But we must find out what Mother wants us to do.”
Genevieve nodded brokenly. “If you say so.”
Louise looked at the high stone wall of the west wing, sizing it up. What would Joshua do in a situation like this? She thought
about the layout of the wing, the family apartments, the servants’ utility passages. Rooms and corridors she knew better than
anyone except for the chief housekeeper, and possibly Daddy.
She took Genevieve by the hand. “Come on. We’ll try and get up to Mother’s boudoir without anyone seeing us. She’s bound to
go there eventually.”
They crept out into the courtyard and scuttled quickly along the foot of the manor’s wall to a small green door which led
into a storeroom at the back of the kitchens. Louise expected a shouted challenge at any moment. She was panting by the time
she heaved on the big iron handle and nipped inside.
The storeroom was filled with sacks of flour and vegetables piled high in various wooden bays. Two narrow window slits, set
high in the wall, cast a paltry grey light through their cobweb-caked panes.
Louise flicked the switch as Genevieve closed the door. A couple of naked light spheres on the roof sputtered weakly, then
went out.
“Damnation!” Louise took Genevieve’s hand and threaded her way carefully around the boxes and sacks.
The utility corridor beyond had plain white plaster walls and pale yellow flagstones. Light spheres every twenty feet along
its ceiling were flickering on and off completely at random. The effect made Louise feel mildly giddy, as if the corridor
were swaying about.
“What’s doing that?” Genevieve whispered fiercely.
“I’ve no idea,” she replied carefully. A dreadful ache of loneliness had stolen up on her without any warning. Crick-lade
didn’t belong to them anymore, she knew that now.
They made their way along the disconcerting corridor to the antechamber at the end. A cast-iron spiral staircase wound up
through the ceiling.
Louise paused to hear if anyone was coming down. Then, satisfied they were still alone, she started up.
The manor’s main corridors were a vast contrast to the plain servant utilities. Wide strips of thick green and gold carpet
ran along polished golden wood planks, the walls were hung with huge traditional oil paintings in ostentatious gilt frames.
Small antique chests stood at regular intervals, holding either delicate objets d’art or cut crystal vases with fragrant blooms
of terrestrial and xenoc flowers grown in the manor’s own conservatory.
The outside of the door at the top of the spiral stairs was disguised as a wall panel. Louise teased it open and peeped out.
A grand stained-glass window at the far end of the corridor was sending out broad fans of coloured light to dye the walls
and ceiling with tartan splashes. Engraved light spheres on the ceiling were glowing a lame amber. All of them emitted an
unhealthy buzzing sound.
“Nobody about,” Louise said.
The two of them darted out and shut the panel behind them. They started edging towards their mother’s boudoir.
A distant cry sounded. Louise couldn’t work out where it came from. It wasn’t close, though; thank sweet Jesus.
“Let’s go back,” Genevieve said. “Please, Louise. Mummy knows we went to the stables. She’ll find us there.”
“We’ll just see if she’s here, first. If she’s not, then we’ll go straight back.”
They heard the anguished cry again, even softer this time.
The boudoir door was twenty feet away. Louise steeled herself and took a step towards it. “Oh, God,
no!
No, no, no. Stop it. Grant! Dear God, help me!”
Louise’s muscles locked in terror. It was her mother’s voice—Mother’s scream—coming from behind the boudoir door.
“Grant, no! Oh, please.
Please
, no more.” A long, shrill howl of pain followed.
Genevieve was clutching at her in horror, soft whimpers bubbling from her open mouth. The light spheres right outside the
boudoir door grew brighter. Within seconds they glared hotter than Duke at noon. Both of them burst apart with a thin
pop
, sending slivers of milky glass tinkling down on the carpet and floorboards.
Marjorie Kavanagh screeched again.
“Mummy!” Genevieve wailed.
Marjorie Kavanagh’s scream broke off. There was a muffled, inexplicable thud from behind the door. Then: “RUN! RUN, DARLING.
JUST RUN, NOW!”
Louise was already stumbling back towards the concealed stairway door, holding on to a distraught, sobbing Genevieve. The
boudoir door flew open, wood splintering from the force of the blow which struck it. A solid shaft of sickly emerald light
punched out into the corridor. Spidery shadows moved within it, growing denser.