The Midnight Witch (21 page)

Stricklend had not known it at the time, but he had passed an important test in selecting a modest punishment for his tormentor at school. He had been content that the boy had suffered for his behavior, and that he would never bother him again. That was sufficient. This cold restraint had earned him praise from Mr. Ellis, who had assured him he would not only now be received into the Sentinels’ society, but that membership of the elite would surely soon follow. Even he, though, might not have foretold that Stricklend would, ultimately, become the most powerful Sentinel of all. Or perhaps he had an inkling.

He had said, “At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done my job, Stricklend. You will rise to greatness, and that will be a great day for the Sentinels, I am certain of it.”

Recalling the conversation now, Stricklend fancies he had seen sadness in the Latin master’s expression, despite his words. Had he known then? he wonders. Did he know what Stricklend would be asked to do to prove his unquestioning loyalty to the Sentinels on his induction? Did he guess on whom the Sentinels would require him to demonstrate his mastery of the Stopping Spell? He has played over in his mind, many times, the moment when he stood before his mentor, poised to take his life. Ellis had shown neither fear nor surprise, only a calm acceptance of his fate. Such was the man’s
own
loyalty. How could Stricklend, in the face of such dignity and courage, how could he, then, not have done what was asked of him? Obedience without question. And he never did question. Never sought an explanation as to why he was instructed to kill his tutor, his guardian, his only friend. It was the defining event of his life, he knew that then. The instant the Stopping Spell halted Ellis’s heart for good was the same instant Stricklend felt the pure power of such unswerving dedication. It was, and is, what drives him still.

11.

Bram wakes up to find himself on the floor of his room, still dressed. He rubs his eyes, scratches at the stubble on his chin, and stretches his aching limbs. The cold has awakened him, and his fingers are numb and colorless, save for smudges of charcoal and oil paint. He rubs his palms together briskly, blowing into them in an effort to restore some life. Scrambling to his feet he is confronted with the chaotic results of two days and nights of painting. Sketches litter the studio floor. Brushes and palettes and tubes of paint lie abandoned. Rags wet with turpentine sit in gray heaps, testament to the number of times he snatched them up to obliterate his work. To begin again. And again. He gets to his feet and forces himself to consider the four canvases propped against the wall. He feels his heart gallop. A familiar excitement grips him.

There is something, something there. Yes!

He hurries over to examine the pictures more closely. One is of the flower girl who sat for him some time ago. It shows her in profile, sitting next to her stall at the end of the day, most of the flowers sold, a few drooping blooms remaining. The girl’s pose, her own coloring, her attitude, all seem to echo the wilting, forgotten flowers. It is as if she too is the overlooked one, not quite lovely enough to be chosen. The painting pleases him. It is the first work he has produced since arriving in London that makes him believe he
can
do what he came here to do. Can be what he intends being.

The three other paintings—all produced in these frenzied, sleepless hours, where he has not set foot outside his attic rooms, or spoken to anyone—all show the same glimpse of the hidden lives of the sitters. All show the same strength. At last he turns to the canvas on the easel. The blank, greasy canvass, where each attempt to capture Lilith seemed to take him further and further from the truth of her, so that in the end he wiped away his faltering efforts. The final thing he recalls before falling into an exhausted sleep on the bare boards was the sadness in her eyes as he erased them.

A slender ray of sunshine forces its way through the grimy skylight, making him squint. The clock on his bedside table says ten o’clock. Bram shakes his head, determination rousing him. He will not be defeated.

I will paint her. I must.

He pulls on his coat against the chill of the room. There is still water in the kettle, so he puts a match to the gas beneath it and sets about gathering fresh paint and brushes. His plans are interrupted by swift steps on the stairs, and Freedom appears in the doorway.

“Jane wants you,” he says simply, before turning and disappearing into the gloom of the stairwell.

With a sigh, Bram turns out the gas burner and follows the boy, promising himself to return to his task at the first possible moment. He feels he has grown accustomed to the chaotic nature of life at home with the Mangans. Their excesses and eccentricities rarely shock him now, and he is so used to the noise and frenetic energy the children supply he misses it when they are out of the house. It comes as a surprise to him, then, to find that there is another level of Bedlamic wildness into which the household can be propelled, given certain circumstances, and one such is Mangan falling ill. Mangan has a heavy cold, though to hear him rail and moan anyone could be forgiven for thinking it at the very least influenza, or possibly some little-known tropical disease. From his bedroom come sounds of suffering and drama equaled only by the enthusiastic and noisy care he is given by his wife, his mistress, and his children. Jane comes striding from the room carrying a tray of dirty plates and glasses. Mangan’s hoarse cries follow her onto the landing.

“Brandy under these circumstances must be considered a medicament, Jane. Surely you can see that?” His entreaties disintegrate into coughs.

Jane turns a wild-eyed, sleep-deprived face to Bram.

“Oh, dear Bram! Have you any brandy hidden in your little aerie? We’ve not a drop left in the house, and poor darling Mangan is suffering so.”

“I’m sorry, Jane, I haven’t any.”

She looks on the point of dissolving into tears of exhaustion.

“No? I’m certain Perry will have none. Twins! Keep your noise down, do! Your pa has a dreadful headache as it is, without having to listen to children thundering up and down the stairs.”

The twins charge past at dangerous speed. Freedom follows on more slowly. Bram has noticed the boy is his father’s shadow, always watching quietly, taking in the great man’s every word. With Mangan temporarily bedridden, the child looks bored and lost.

“Have you tried Gudrun?” Bram asks.

Jane tuts and lets her face show an uncharacteristic flash of anger. “All Gudrun has to offer is cigarettes and sex, neither of which Mangan needs nor wants at this moment. Boys! Do please avoid slamming what doors are left on their hinges!”

“I could go out and buy some brandy, if you like,” Bram suggests.

Jane looks as if she might hug him, were she not still holding the tray.

“Would you? Oh, Bram, that is frightfully kind. Mangan will pay you back, of course. He will insist,” she says, vigor renewed as she squeezes past him and heads for the kitchen.

Bram realizes he has just agreed to spend the last few shillings he has to his name, and is certain he will never see them back again from his mentor, despite Jane’s promises. And his painting will have to wait. He squashes down the rising resentment he experiences at this thought, and quickly fetches his hat and money. He hurries down to the front door. When he opens it he is astonished to find himself face-to-face with Lilith.

He smiles broadly, and then is suddenly acutely aware of his disheveled appearance; his crumpled clothes, uncombed hair, and unshaven face.

Lilith smiles prettily at the sight of his surprise, and he feels his heart lurch.

“You were not expected,” he tells her. “Mangan is unwell. Jane sent word, or at least, she intended to…”

“No message arrived. Charlotte,” she turns to call to her friend who is paying the driver of the motor cab, “did you receive a message about Mr. Mangan being ill?”

“What? No! Nothing serious, I hope?”

“The casual observer might think so, but no, a cold only.”

“One would not imagine the great artist to be an easy patient.”

“Indeed, he is not.”

Charlotte joins Lilith on the front step. “Is there to be no sitting, then? Such a pity. Can we do anything to hasten poor Mr. Mangan’s recovery?”

“I was on my way to purchase brandy.”

“An excellent plan,” comes Perry’s voice from the hallway behind him. He is shrugging on his coat and wrapping a woolen scarf about his neck. “Good morning to you, Miss Pilkington-Adams, Lady Lilith,” he says, lifting the hat he has only just set on his head.

Charlotte smiles at him. “Oh, no formalities and titles here, I beg of you. It is so tiresome. Charlotte is a perfectly serviceable name, and I do wish people would call me it. And my father always insists we drink brandy when we have colds. Even as children we had the wretched stuff spooned into us.”

“Did it effect a cure?” Perry asks.

“None of us is able to recall!” Charlotte falls into tuneful laughter.

Bram sees this is his moment, his chance. A very small, very slight chance, but the only one he is ever likely to have.

She felt so close to me at that party. Can we find such intimacy again?

“Why don’t we all go? The four of us, I mean. To the Soldiers’ Arms on the corner of Cleveland Street. We can buy Mangan’s brandy there. And to be certain it is of the very best quality we can test it ourselves first.”

“Go to a public house?” Charlotte all but squeals.

“It is a respectable one,” Bram assures her. “And it has a large fire we might sit by.”

Perry rubs his hands together. “Ah, a cozy hearth, a glass of fortification, and excellent company. What could be better? What do you say, ladies? Will you join us?”

“Oh, Lilith, do let’s!” Charlotte squeezes her friend’s arm.

Lilith glances at Bram and he is sure he sees her blush. “Very well,” she says quietly. “As there is to be no sitting … perhaps just for half an hour.”

Perry steps forward and bows before Charlotte, offering her his arm. “Allow me to lead the way,” he says. “Though of course I’m not the regular at the establishment that Bram is.”

“Hey!” says Bram.

“You do seem to know a lot about the place,” Lilith says.

“I’ve been there precisely twice,” Bram tells her. He meets her eye and tries to read what he sees there.

She is happy to be in my company, at least, and not awkward after how our previous evening ended. I must take comfort from that. But I must not press her. Must not frighten her away again.

Charlotte and Perry set off down the pavement, leaning into the icy wind that has gotten up. Bram offers his arm to Lilith and feels a frisson of pleasure as she takes it. She is wearing a beautiful black woolen coat trimmed with thick fur, and a matching hat that suits her very well. As they walk along the street together he is certain he has never felt so proud of the woman on his arm. It strikes him as odd, perverse almost, that etiquette should dictate they must address one another formally, and yet also require them to have this physical contact. He can feel the warmth of her slender fingers through the soft leather of her glove upon his sleeve. He wishes the inn they are bound for were a mile away, just so he might enjoy the delight of her holding his arm for longer. The sky is heavy with icy rain, and the inclement weather has driven indoors all those who need not be abroad. Those who must brave the cold do so with collars up and heads down, hats firmly pinned or held. Horses trot by with ears turned back against the wind, picking up the pace each time they head in the direction of home, resisting whip and rein should they be asked to travel out again. The many motorcars and cabs that now vie with the broughams, landaus, hansoms, and horse-drawn omnibuses for road space splutter and belch fumes as their engines falter in the low temperatures.

Bram is aware of the thinness of his coat, and the inadequacy of his clothes. Ahead of him he sees Perry striding happily on, his own garments of a far superior cut and cloth. He has not noticed this before, and vaguely wonders how his fellow artist can afford such quality. He realizes he knows little about him beyond that he, too, has come to London, to Mangan, to pursue his love of art and try to develop his talent.

“You walk quickly,” Lilith says.

“Oh, forgive me,” says Bram. “Am I going too fast for you?”

“On the contrary. It is a relief to find, for once, a man who does not believe women must be led at the pace of a small child. In this weather we should both freeze at such a speed.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think me too eager for the brandy.”

“Oh, it’s too late for your character, I’m afraid. I already have you down as a hardened drinker and frequenter of public houses in the mornings.”

“And you are a person who would accompany such a fellow.”

“I find that I am.”

He smiles at her and is so intent on doing so that he almost steps into the path of a hurtling gig.

“Be careful!” Lilith pulls him back to safety. Laughing at him, she says, “It is a good thing you have a companion for your loose living today, else you might not have lived long enough to die a famous artist.”

“Then you must always come with me when I visit the many public houses where I am known by name. You owe it to the world of art. How could you live with yourself if I were crushed beneath the wheels of an omnibus because you were not there to save me? Think of the loss to future generations.”

She regards him closely for a moment. “Do you always tease your visitors this way?”

“Only the ones I have lured into dissolute habits,” he says.

He finds they have come to a stop and stand on the pavement, regarding one another intently, each openly studying the face of the other, neither speaking, as if to do so would shatter the moment.

“Lilith,” he forces himself to say at last, “I have been thinking of you constantly. Since the party. Since we spoke…”

“Please, don’t…”

“Bram!” Perry calls from a little farther down the street. “Hurry along there.”