The Midnight Witch (10 page)

“I think … I think this is quite extraordinary,” he says at last, letting his palm rest on the figure’s knee. “I think it breathtakingly bold, and modern…”

“Yes, yes, yes, exactly what art critics have been saying about my pieces for years. But how does it affect you? You are an artist—what does it make you
feel
?”

Bram has never been asked such a question. His mother might guess at any inner turmoil her son was experiencing, but she would not expect him to speak of it. And his father would place no importance whatsoever on feelings.

It frightens me, his work. I find it disturbing. But how can I tell him that? And why does it make me feel that way? I believe it has to do with a fear of my own ungovernable desire to produce art, and that it might lead me to become as wild as he. Would that matter? What would I sacrifice?

“It makes me feel … insignificant,” he offers.

He can tell at once that his answer disappoints. Mangan sighs and turns away.

“Never mind,” he says. “You are new here. It was not fair of me, perhaps…”

What was he expecting? What was he looking for? I am being stupid—if I want his approval surely the way to find it is through my own work.

“I hope you will be brutally honest when you assess what I produce,” he says.

“You have begun?” Mangan asks. “You have something to show me?”

“Only sketches.” He feels panic at the thought of revealing such unformed, unfinished jottings, which are all that remain of his abortive efforts to make something of the funeral drawings. “I had hoped to present you with a finished work. Indeed,” he adds, a little more brightly than he intended, “I have my canvas waiting. I mean to start this very afternoon.”

“Excellent! And who is to be your model?”

“Ah. I…” He knows that nothing but working from life will satisfy the great man. Inspiration strikes. “I was hoping to ask Gudrun if she would sit for me,” he says.

“Gudrun? Not possible, I fear. She has taken her boy to have his teeth attended to.”

“Oh.”
Now I feel ridiculous. A portrait painter with no one to paint.

“My advice to you is to take yourself out into this seething city, my friend. Put yourself among the people. There you will find something that moves you.”

“You think so?”

“I do not doubt it. A true artist—for such I intend to consider you to be, unless or until you prove me wrong, Bram from Yorkshire, which I sincerely hope you do not—a true artist sees with a different eye to other mortals. You will find the gems among the rubble. Something will speak to you.” He pauses, then adds with a shrug, “A muse may take a little longer to unearth.”

Or it may be I have already found her. Found and lost again in the same few days. I will search for her, that beauty possessed of such strange strength. I will find her. I must.

*   *   *

The night of the inauguration is unhelpfully hot and humid. I am unable to stop myself fidgeting restlessly as Violet helps me with my hair and makeup. I must look my best. Elegant, well-groomed, serene, and if possible older than my twenty-one years. I feel hopelessly young and insignificant, and not nearly up to the honor which is about to be bestowed upon me. Iago jumps onto my lap and sets up a comforting purr, but even the feel of his silky fur beneath my fingers does little to settle my nerves.

“Easy for you to be so calm,” I tell him. “All you have to do is watch.”

“Will he be allowed in for the ceremony, my lady?” Violet asks as she carefully pins back front sections of my hair. Earlier she washed it and put lemon juice in the rinsing water, so that it is pleasingly glossy now.

“He certainly will. What’s the point of being Head Witch if you can’t decide a few important things?” It is a feeble attempt at a joke, but it lightens the tense moment a little.

“Shall we give him a ribbon to wear?”

“I don’t think he’d tolerate one, would you, Iago?” I scratch behind his ear and the purring increases in speed and volume. I, on the other hand, have no choice in how I am to present myself. I stand up and move to the full-length mirror, turning slowly to take in how I look. It is customary for the nominee at an inauguration to be clad in something simple and plain. I selected a cream linen sleeveless shift that skims what curves I have modestly, stopping just above my ankles. The slim silhouette makes me look even taller than usual. There are two slits in the side seams up to my knees to enable me to walk, and, crucially, to kneel easily. I feel frighteningly exposed, with no corset, no underwear, and so little material between myself and what will be a considerable gathering of people, all with their critical gaze focused upon me. Still, there were small mercies to be considered. A century earlier I would have been required to attend naked. At least I do not have to suffer that humiliation. I will feel vulnerable enough as it is.

I know there are those who disapprove of my becoming the leader of the coven. It is inevitable, given such a large collection of strong-willed, powerful people, that there should be rivalries and voices of dissent. I also know, however, that most will accept that the position is my right. The Lazarus Coven has always followed the system of inherited rule. One day my eldest child will succeed me. If I ever find anyone I wish to marry. I wear no jewelry and will remain barefoot throughout the ceremony. Aside from being secured back from my face, my hair is loose. I can’t help thinking of my initiation. I was just thirteen when I presented myself, similarly attired, to be accepted into the coven. But on that occasion there was only my father, Violet, and a handful of coven members to witness me taking my vows. And no one had any expectations of me. How differently they might have regarded me if we had known then that dear Papa was not to walk this earth many more years.

Glancing at the gold clock on the mantelpiece I see that it is already midnight, the most potent time of night for Lazarus witches, so that all our most important events are timed to start to coincide with the mesonoxian hour. The coven will be assembled in the secret chamber beneath Number One Fitzroy Square. There will be hushed voices, tension growing as they wait for their new Head Witch to arrive. Not until the first hour of the full night is past its first half can I appear. Then, and only then, will the time be right for the successor to the Head of the Coven who now dwells in the Land of Night, to put herself forward.

The minutes crawl by. I close my eyes and steady myself with an incantation asking for strength. The ancient words are so familiar to me, learned over many years of diligent study, and I find their exotic sounds reassuring. I have been preparing for this moment for so long. My father prepared me. I will not fail him.

Do you truly believe yourself to be worthy of the title your father held?

Who is this? Who speaks to me uncalled?

The shock of hearing the unwelcome spirit again, tonight of all nights, sends chills through me. I still my mind and quiet my thoughts. If I give any outward sign of my distress, Violet does not notice it.

You are wrong to put your faith in a few prayers, a handful of dusty words, and scribblings, Daughter of the Night. You dabble with forces beyond your imagining.

Leave me! I will not converse with one who violates my thoughts in such a way. One who is too cowardly to identify himself.

At this the spirit laughs. It is a mirthless, guttural sound. I shake my head and open my eyes. Iago jumps from the chair and winds himself around my ankles, his fur tickling my bare skin. He meows loudly, sensing some unseen disturbance. Mercifully, the spirit falls silent. I try to put from me the notion that he is with me still. That he will be with me throughout the inauguration. How frequently does he listen to my thoughts? I wonder. Is he, in fact, with me always?

Looking up I am startled to see Violet has put on her mask and her cape. Of course I knew that everyone present would be masked. Everyone other than me. Even so, it is a shock to see my trusted friend and maid hidden and disguised, here in my own bedroom. The wearing of masks is deemed necessary to reinforce the coven’s creed of secrecy. For we guard a secret so powerful, so wonderful, and so terrible, that no person is greater than its keeping. I force myself to concentrate on what I must do now, and not to be distracted by listening for the return of the spirit who appears to dog my steps.

“My lady.” Violet’s speech is distorted by her mask, which has been specifically designed to prevent individual voices being recognizable. “It is time to go.”

“Has Withers seen to it that no one will see us leave the house?” It would not do to have a servant catch sight of the two of us so outlandishly attired crossing the lawns and disappearing into the summer house.

“He treated everyone downstairs to wine with their supper, my lady. Strong wine. They will all be fast asleep by now.”

As will Mama and Freddie, for much the same reason, though I strengthened their wine with a Sleeping Spell.

Taking no lamp, but being guided by the moonlight, we leave the house and follow the path to the rear of the garden, Iago trotting on silent paws beside us. When we reach the stone staircase that descends and twists so steeply, I speak the words that make the torches burst into life. A low murmur of voices can be heard drifting up toward us and the cool air that would fill the subterranean space on any other day has been replaced by an unpleasant warmth generated by the presence of so many heavily robed people. Or rather, not people at all, but witches. Every last one of them. So much spellcraft, so much skill, so much magic, all gathered in one place this night. All gathered for me.

When we reach the antechamber I pause, taking three long steadying breaths. I must not let my nervousness show. Not now, not here. The great double doors, with their striking embellishment of the giant Montgomery dragonfly glittering in the torchlight, stand closed, waiting. As custom demands, I stay still and silent, using nothing but my own will and my capacity for magic to slowly alert the coven to my presence. At length, the chamber on the other side of the doors falls into silence, too, save for approaching footsteps. There is a jarring clunk as the lock and handle are turned, and the doors slowly open. On the threshold stands a stout figure dressed in a robe of fiery reds and oranges, worked in exquisite needlepoint to cover the brocade that swings from his broad shoulders. He leans heavily on the ancient oak staff that he holds in his left hand. However contorted his voice might be, however much his mask obscures his face, there can be no mistaking the sturdy physique and arthritic gait of Lord Grimes, Master of the Chalice, stalwart friend of the late duke, and skillful necromancer. The sight of him calms me a little. I know I can rely on his unquestioning support, now and in the years ahead. He greets me with a low, if rather stiff bow, before stepping aside, indicating the chamber with a sweep of his arm.

“Enter and welcome, child,” he says.

I step forward, my heartbeating loudly. I am aware of Violet slipping into the chamber behind me to take up her place in the ranks. A dash of darkness to my right gives away Iago’s entrance. The Great Chamber boasts a higher roof than the catacomb it adjoins. The curved ceiling could have given the feeling of a cave, but such is the extent of the decoration that it is impossible to think of it as such. The brick and stone from which it was constructed have been plastered and painted the Prussian blue of a Nordic summer night sky. The joins of the rafters which crisscross it are studded with carved bosses, painted in rich colors, each depicting the symbols of a coven family—the Montgomery dragonfly, the Harcourt viper, the Grimes owl, and so on.

I have never seen the chamber so full of people. Robed figures line the walls on all sides, forming many long rows. There are so many witches present that the intricate carvings in the paneling of those walls are almost entirely obscured. The silence in which my observers view me is oppressive, yet I had expected it. Secrecy and silence. How well we are drilled in these tenets. How much of a habit they become, so that people of the Outerworld often think us cold or reserved. Even though space is scarce with so many in attendance, all present respect the sacred circle at the center of the chamber, so that the crowd holds itself at a dutiful distance from the painted floor. I stop when I come to the edge of the outer ring.

Many covens, I understand, use a pentacle as their holy space, but the Lazarus Coven have always favored the circle, symbolizing as it does a continuation, a life without end. The rim is of pure gold, layer upon layer of leaf painstakingly applied to the stone floor until it gleams and shimmers, priceless and fabulous, marking the limit of where one might tread without purpose or invitation. Inside the ring of gold is a broad swath of silver, to signify the beauty of the night and the influence of the moon in a witch’s spellcasting. The main part of the circle, which is a good twenty paces across, is split into halves, the uppermost one containing an image of the sun in a cloudless sky, the lower the black of night with moon and stars. The two are separated by a winding red river, known as the Rubicon. The coven adopted this symbol some centuries after they came into existence, when they had been searching for an image to signify the narrow but crucial division between day and night. Between life and death. The ancient Roman river from which it took its name was red because of the soil beneath it. The pigment on the chamber floor, however, the dark red which is regularly and solemnly renewed and replenished, is colored by blood.

The Master of the Chalice walks past me and takes up his position beside the high altar. The instruments of magic and ceremonial objects sit in their places upon the silver-threaded silk that covers the altar, the precious gold chalice most prominent among them. There is also a beautiful statue of Hekate, queen of all witches and our guardian when we are spellcasting. The Master of the Chalice bangs his staff three times on the stone floor, the dull sound rebounding off the high ceiling.

“We come to witness to the inauguration of the new Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven. The nominee stands before us, unadorned and revealed. What is your given name?”