The Return of the Witch (28 page)

He had slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him. Aloysius squirmed in my pocket. I forced myself not to resist, not to show anything of the revulsion I was feeling. I let him hold me, let him nuzzle my neck. Images of his true self, his demonic face leering at me from the magic water in the pool, flashed before my tightly shut eyes.

“Are you pretending, my little witch?” he asked. “Who are you trying to fool, Tegan?” As he spoke, he laid gentle kisses on my throat. The thought of him revolted me, my witch senses were recoiling at his touch, but my body responded to him differently. How could he still have such an effect on me? “Are you trying to persuade me that you still have feelings for me, or convince yourself that you don't?” He was taunting me now, moving his kisses lower.

I couldn't stand it anymore. “No!” I yelled, pushing him away as hard as I could, wrenching myself from his arms, staggering backward until I was against the rough, damp brick wall. I rubbed at my flesh where he had kissed me as if I could rub away the memory of his mouth on my skin.

He laughed loudly at me. “Really, Tegan, you will have to do better than that.”

Enraged, I leapt at him. It was stupid, I knew that even as I began raining blows on him. Just as I had known it when I tried to do the same thing back in Bathcombe. But he always pushed me into doing what was beyond sensible, past reasonable. I had barely had a chance to land a single decent swipe when he whipped round and without so much as touching me, sent me flying backward. I crashed against the wall and slid to the floor, winded and bruised. I was as shocked as I was hurt. Even for Gideon, this was something awesomely strong, and yet it had looked effortless. If this was what he could do when he wasn't really trying, he had definitely become more dangerous since before, since he had come back from the Summerlands. The thought made me feel even more trapped. Through the pain I sensed another presence. Someone was coming. There were muffled footsteps and sounds of movement on the other side of the door. I detected magic, fierce and close. Could it be Elizabeth? Could she have followed?

Gideon turned the key in the lock and let the door swing open. I held what breath I had regained, hoping against hope. But it was not Elizabeth who stepped into the room. It was a very different face that moved into the dim glow of the candle. A familiar face. Or rather, two of them.

Gideon said, “Lucrecia and Florencia will take better care of you this time. They have promised me that, haven't you, girls?”

The twins nodded and simpered at him in a sickening way that clearly came from a potent mix of fear, awe, and devotion.

“There are matters requiring my attention,” Gideon told me before handing the key to Lucrecia and taking his hat from the table. He tipped it at me and then placed it firmly on his head again. “Until later,” he said.

And then he was gone, and I was left hugging my bruised ribs, alone with the poisonous sisters and not the smallest idea of what I was going to do.

 

20

Mrs. Timms saw it as a personal mission to restore me to good health. She bustled and fussed and appeared with trays of food until I thought I would go mad from it, though of course I knew she meant well. When I questioned Erasmus as to how he explained his curious comings and goings and what reasons he gave for his long absences, he smiled as he told me that both Mr. and Mrs. Timms were themselves Time Steppers! It was hard to reconcile this elderly, slightly comical couple with my idea of the risky and adventurous business of Stepping, but apparently they had plied their craft successfully for decades, eventually finding a contented retirement running their guesthouse and supporting Erasmus, both in his role as Time Stepper, and as Mr. Balmoral the talented bookbinder and collector of antiquarian books.

I had attempted to both call and sense Tegan, but could detect nothing of her at all. I refused to let this lead me to dark thoughts. I did, briefly, succeed in detecting what I was sure was Gideon's presence, though it was only a weak glimpse. I reasoned that whatever else he might be, Gideon was neither slipshod nor reckless, and would have done his utmost to make sure Tegan survived the stepping.

First thing on the morning after our arrival, I picked up the bonnet Mrs. Timms had furnished me with and descended the stairs from the drawing room to the ground floor of the house. There were two main rooms on this level; a kitchen at the rear—with a door that led into Mrs. Timms's adjoining one in her own house—and the shop at the front. This was really a showroom for Erasmus's beautifully bound books, housing some of his most intricate and skillfully worked creations. These were displayed in glass-fronted cases as well as in the bow window that gave onto the street. There was a high counter with a locked till and a ledger for taking orders and recording transactions. The shop was not manned, but a large brass bell sounded clearly through the house whenever the door was opened. It was this that gave away my intention to go out, and brought Erasmus galloping down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I need some air.”

“You won't find her by roaming the streets. I thought we established that last night.”

“I cannot stay cooped up in here like an injured hen. I feel completely recovered. I have to do
something.
”

“Do you plan to walk the whole of the city? How many days, weeks, months would it take you to tread every cobble and paving stone, and even then not find a trace of Tegan?”

“I might stand a better chance of picking up a trace of her, of sensing something…”

“If you happen to walk in the right direction.” He stepped closer to me. “Elizabeth, your knowledge of Gideon, and of Tegan, of how his mind works and what it is about her that makes him so determined to keep her—these are the things that will lead us to them.”

“I am weary of racking my brains, I am tired of thinking. I don't know why he wants her or why he has brought her here. If I ever thought I did, I am sure now that I do not.”

“What we can be certain of is that he will be expecting you to search for him. Have you masked your own presence?” Seeing my face he went on, “No, I thought not.”

“It may be the only way, to show myself, to let him come to me.”

“You put yourself in great danger, Elizabeth. He has tried to get rid of you before, he would happily have had Cromwell's men hang you…”

I did not let him finish, but turned and strode through the door. “I will return before dark,” was all the reassurance I gave him as I left.

The day was much brighter than my mood, and sunshine fed dappled light through the leafy pollarded trees that lined the broad street outside Erasmus's home. This was a genteel part of London, with smart, pastel-painted Georgian houses on either side of the road. What shops there were sold such things as only those with a certain amount of wealth could afford. There was a tailor, a dressmaker, a milliner, a shop selling only mirrors, an apothecary, and a bakery. The other buildings were mostly comfortable residences. The street curved upward toward an enticing swath of green. I soon found myself stepping through an iron gate between gleaming black railings and onto the grassy path that wound its way through the park and up Primrose Hill itself. It was a relief to be outside, and the air in this part of the city was pleasant enough. Although slowed by the heavy skirts and petticoats of my Victorian dress, a further ten minutes walking took me to the top of the hill, where I was rewarded with a glorious panorama of London. The whole of the city was laid out below me, with familiar landmarks picked out by the sharp sunlight. Amid the tightly packed houses and grander buildings I quickly identified the dome of St. Paul's, and the newly built jagged rooftop of the Houses of Parliament. Winding through it all, pewter and ponderous, was Old Father Thames, dotted with small boats, broad barges, and tall cargo ships maneuvering into the docks. I took a deep breath, revived by the vista and the feeling of being out in the open once more. I closed my eyes for a moment and just listened, with all my witch senses alert for the tiniest sound from Tegan. But there was nothing. I sensed instead that I was being watched. I was mindful of Erasmus's warning, but this was not a malignant presence. When I opened my eyes it was to see a small girl standing in front of me. Her appearance suggested she lived a poor life, and a hard one. Even in such a prosperous district poverty made itself a neighbor. She was dressed in raggedy clothes and had no shoes, but her hair was neatly tied. She clearly belonged to someone. She looked about eight years old, but could have been older, her growth and development stunted by a meager diet. She had evidently been watching me stand before the finest view in London with my eyes closed and this struck her as odd.

“Are you praying, missus?” she asked.

I smiled at her. “I suppose you might call it that.”

“I say my prayers before I go to bed,” she said. “That keeps you safe at night.”

“They must be very good prayers.”

She shrugged and rubbed her eye. Now that I looked closer I could see she had infection which must have been causing her no small amount of discomfort. It was a simple problem with a simple cure, but if left untreated could compromise her sight. It was unlikely her mother would have either the facilities or the knowledge required to heal the girl.

“What is your name?” I asked her.

“Lottie.”

“Well, Lottie, I could make your eye better for you. My house is very near. If you come with me I will give you something for it.”

Instinctively Lottie began to back away, and I cursed my own clumsiness. Of course she would not go anywhere with a strange woman she had just met in the park. At that moment half a dozen more small children came by at a run. One grabbed Lottie by the arm and another called out her name and in an instant they had swept her away with them and were charging down the grassy slope, skipping and squealing like a litter of piglets let loose. I saw her glance over her shoulder at me, and then they left the park and darted down a side street.

My encounter with the child had diverted my thoughts only briefly, but had had a more profound effect on my mood. Perhaps it was my failure to help the girl because my attempt had been ill-thought through, or perhaps it was the calming effect of the open air and the vista, but I found I could face up to the fact that Erasmus was right. No amount of trudging the streets would help me find Tegan. I could not search so blindly. Gideon was clever, and the only way to outwit him would be to behave with more cunning, more intelligence, more guile even than he was capable of. I turned away from the gleaming city and hurried back toward home.

I found Erasmus in the drawing room, sitting by an open window, book in hand. Now that we were in his preferred time and place he did indeed seem to fit better. He wore a dark red velvet smoking jacket, his silver-flecked hair pushed back off his face but falling untidily over his collar. On seeing me he got up. “I had not expected you back so soon,” he told me.

“I owe you an apology.” I untied my bonnet and dropped it on top of the nearest pile of books. “I should not have been so dismissive of your advice. You are right, of course. We have to work out what Gideon is about, what he wants, and why he wants Tegan, or we shall never find her.”

“There is nothing like the view from Primrose Hill to clear the head,” he declared, bounding over to his desk. He began removing books and papers from it, hastily searching for spaces to put them. Very soon he lost patience with the process and simply cleared the entire surface with a single sweep of his arm, letting everything tumble to the floor and lie where it fell. “We have work to do!” he announced, and unfurled a large sheet of paper, which he pinned down at the corners with an inkstand, a paperweight, and two volumes of
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. He rubbed his hands together before snatching up a stub of pencil. Across the top of the sheet he wrote
London 1851
in a bold, swirling hand.

“We will begin with Tegan,” he said, pausing to look up at me. “Tell me of this girl of yours, Elizabeth. Who is Tegan?”

I moved to stand beside him. The clear light from the window lit up the paper with an optimistic glow I did not feel. “She was just a child when first we met. A lost soul, really. Adrift, at least. Lonely, certainly.”

“And you … recognized something in her? Something of yourself, perhaps?”

I was surprised. “Do you know me so well already, Erasmus?”

He smiled broadly. “It seems I do. But we digress. Tell me not of how Tegan was years ago, tell me of the grown woman you returned to. Did you find her changed?”

“In so many ways. Of course, she had developed from a gauche teenager into a young person—five years at such a time in life are always significant. And she had a newfound confidence, in herself, I believe. I quickly saw that she had grown comfortable in her own skin.” I paused, revisiting the brief time we had spent together at Willow Cottage before we began flitting through the centuries. We had spent hours of true closeness talking, trying to fill in the gaps and to heal the ache of those missing years. And when we had spellcast together I had the sense that I was with someone at home with what she was doing, someone accomplished and bold. “I recall the strength of her presence,” I went on. “She had always had magic in her soul, innate but dormant. Now her being sang with it. She told me she had spent many months, years in fact, traveling the world in order to sit at the feet of talented and revered witches.”

“A diligent and committed student. You kindled something special within her, it seems to me.”

“If only I could have stayed with her. How I would love to have witnessed that blossoming for myself!”

“Perhaps it would not have taken place, had you been there. After all, Tegan would have been reluctant to leave you. So,” Erasmus wrote with decisive, swift marks, “let us put … here … what we have: a serious student of magic; a woman of strength and seriousness regarding her craft; a well-traveled, broadly tutored pupil.”