The Midnight Witch (25 page)

Stricklend slows his pace. Even though the Sentinels will be the only people permitted entry to the area, the practice of secrecy must be maintained. There are two hundred and fifty-nine steps to the gallery, so that the chill of the night has been driven from his bones by the warmth of exertion by the time he reaches the gallery. He walks briskly around the circular walkway, glancing down over the balustrade at the giddying drop to the marble floor below. He affects interest in an inscription on the wall and pauses to read it. Two more figures slip past him. He checks his watch. The appointed hour has arrived. He moves a little closer to the smooth stone of the wall and turns to stand facing outward and upward, as if contemplating the splendid architecture of the dome above or perhaps, inspired by his surroundings, offering up an exultant prayer. But the god Nicholas Stricklend serves cannot cross the portals of the cathedral.

A voice, thin and breathy, travels the circumference of the circle. The words hiss slightly as they loop the gallery, but are nonetheless clear. This is not the first time Stricklend has chosen the Whispering Gallery as the venue for a meeting. The trick of construction and acoustics means that a person standing here may speak his thoughts softly, and they will be heard on the far side, and indeed all around the narrow walkway. Stricklend himself is unimpressed by such parlor games. A point in favor concerning the location, however, is that the lack of comfort considerably curtails verbosity and keeps the meetings short.

“Let all present declare themselves in turn,” the speaker instructs.

To Stricklend’s immediate left the sequence is started with the first response of “I serve,” then from the next point on, until it comes full circle and he, in turn, declares his presence, anonymously, but with the statement “I serve,” as is required of them. Tradition also dictates that the Sentinel who called the meeting be the first to speak.

“I have summoned you here in order to further the most important aim, the singularly most pressing need for all Sentinels,” he tells them.

“As always, we are happy to answer the call,” comes the somewhat sycophantic response from the far side of the gallery. There are similar murmurs of assent and agreement.

“The time has come for action,” Stricklend says.

“It might help,” says Loxton with ill-concealed rancor, “if you were to tell us precisely what it is you are so concerned about. Now that you have us all assembled, and duty bound to hear you out, spare us all the rheumatism that will set in from these damp stones if we linger too long in this faintly ridiculous building.”

“
You,
sir, know full well why I have convened this meeting!” Stricklend’s voice is gaining strength and volume and already beginning to give the lie to the name Whispering Gallery. From somewhere farther around the wall he is shushed but pays no heed. “As all here will recall, it was your idea to have the heir to the Lazarus leadership challenged at the inauguration. A plan which succeeded only in consolidating the girl’s position.” There are murmurings of assent. “Time is passing and we are no further forward. We must act.”

“And what would you have us do?” asks another member of the elite from the shadows.

“I suggest there are but three options left to us in order to obtain the Elixir.”

At this there is a collective gasp. To name the prize, to speak of it at all, let alone in a public place, feels shocking even to the most seasoned member of the group.

“The first of these is to use the spy that has become an insider of the Lazarus Coven. The challenge at the inauguration was not as successful as we might have hoped, but it was not the fault of the challenger that the outcome was not in our favor,” Stricklend points out. “The man is a loyal and experienced Sentinel, and he is now a trusted member of the Lazarus Coven. Our first option, then, is to have him seduce Lilith Montgomery, become her lover, win her over completely, so that he is able to obtain the Elixir from her.”

The other Sentinels mutter among themselves regarding the merits of the proposal.

“But,” says one, “we do not know that the girl is … well, kindly disposed to our man. She might refuse his advances.”

“She might,” Stricklend concedes.

“And,” another points out, “seduction is hardly an activity one can set one’s watch to. The process might take weeks. Months even.”

“Quite so,” Stricklend allows, “which brings me to the second option. We abduct the Head Witch and … persuade her to part with the recipe for the Elixir. She alone of the coven members knows both the spell and the formula in their entirety.”

“You amaze me.” Loxton is beginning to lose patience. “You have so far suggested love or kidnapping as ways to overcome the obstacle before us. In both cases our success would depend on the foolishness, on the weakness of character, perhaps, of Lilith Montgomery. This is the witch who summoned a demon and controlled it sufficiently to send it back to the Darkness at her bidding. This is the witch who is known to be as serious-minded and clever as she is well connected. This is the witch who is, after all, Robert Montgomery’s daughter, schooled by him over many years. Do you truly believe she will fall for charm like some naïve debutante? Or that she would be so stupid as to leave the house without guardians?”

“The third route calls for more drastic, more violent action.” Stricklend goes on as if Loxton has not spoken. “Which is why I put it to you as a last resort. We must dispose of all the senior witches of the coven, save for the girl. Then, when she stands alone, when she has no real support, we take what we want from her. We may even be able to take the coven, too.”

A laugh from the shadows is followed by an incredulous question. “You mean us to become followers of Lazarus?”

“I do not. I mean us to conquer them, and to assimilate the followers, to absorb them into our own group. The Lazarus Coven would cease to exist and the Sentinels would become the keepers of the Elixir. We would, at last, fulfill our destiny.”

At this the other members fall silent. Stricklend knows some will find that the idea has appeal. But it is ambitious. And such ambition, at such a time, might cause them to overreach themselves. Might cause them to fail.

“We must decide,” Stricklend tells them. “We cannot let the matter rest any longer. The time is, after so many years of waiting, perfect for us to make our move. The country is in a state of flux with war imminent. The Lazarus Coven have a new and unproven young Head Witch. We have at last succeeded in having our spy infiltrate their number. There will never be a better moment. We must not leave this place until we are agreed upon our course of action, and until we have decided how best it should be executed.”

While the Sentinels stand in silent thought, far below them in the choir stalls young men raise their angelic voices upward, ever upward, so that sublime music drifts aloft to soothe the furrowed brows of those in the Whispering Gallery.

*   *   *

Throughout this time of turmoil and disturbance there is one aspect of my life that brings me such joy, it is as if I am two different people at once. Indeed, that is precisely what I am. I am Morningstar, who must put the coven before all else, and I am Lilith, a girl in love. What conflicting emotions stir me! I do my best to give the impression that nothing unusual disturbs my equilibrium, but in this I am not always successful. Charlotte, certainly, has noticed the difference in me, but then she is, of course, in my confidence where my affection for Bram is concerned. I have had to acknowledge to myself that my feelings for Louis cannot compare with what I now feel for Bram. The thought of causing him pain is dreadful, but I know I cannot continue with our engagement. I cannot marry him. To do so would be dishonest, however much it may be what he and Mama want for me. Now that I know what true love feels like, how one can be transformed by it … I cannot turn away from it. I know I will have to face Louis, to find the right moment to talk to him. It is something I dread doing, and I admit I am relieved he has gone to his country estate in Hampshire for the shooting, so that I have at least a little time to consider how I will try to explain to him … how I will break his heart.

In the meantime, I try to see Bram as often as I can. Ours is not an easy romance to conduct. I cannot introduce him to Mama, who would put a stop to our seeing each other at once. And the grounds she would use to do so would rankle and irk and cause me to inwardly rage, and yet I would know them to be valid. This means we are compelled to meet in secret or, at least, with utmost discretion. In this, Charlotte has proved a great ally, due, I think, as much to her love of the idea of love, as to her affection for me. She provides the necessary alibi, so that I might leave the house unquestioned, and otherwise unaccompanied. Bram has finished his portrait of her, so that when she sits for Mangan—who has yet, helpfully, a fair amount of work to do on his sculpture—he and I are free to spend our time together. And what freedoms exist in that house! We take ourselves up to his garret rooms, unchaperoned, where we can be reasonably sure of uninterrupted privacy. If Mama knew … well, she must not know.

The motor cab speeds through the icy streets of Bloomsbury. Christmas shoppers are abroad, and the atmosphere is already festive. Charlotte is full of her plans for the next few weeks, but I find it hard to be attentive. There are things I do not wish to think about, and Christmas is one of them. How will I ever be able to engineer further meetings with Bram if Charlotte is engaged on a ceaseless round of parties and functions? This will be such a difficult Christmas for Mama as it is, I cannot give her something else to fret about. And Freddie grows ever more restless at Radnor Hall, threatening almost daily to return to London. Bram has not spoken of his own plans, but it would be perfectly reasonable of him to go home to Yorkshire. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from him so soon.

“Oh! Do look, Lily, the Mangan children have decorated the house.” Charlotte tugs at my sleeve.

Indeed they have. Not satisfied with a simple holly wreath on the front door, most of the lower half of the narrow town house has been festooned with greenery, either fir boughs or holly or mistletoe. The effect is quite mad, but at the same time enchanting. Two of the younger children, tightly wrapped against the cold, are still adding to the decorations, tying string through painted wooden shapes and distributing them here and there as Jane and Perry hold them so that they might reach. They see us and wave. I consider it nothing less than marvelous, the way in which the household has quietly accepted the closeness between Bram and me. I have received not so much as a disapproving glance or any of the more robust responses I might have expected from the great sculptor himself.

Once inside, Charlotte makes her way to the studio. Gudrun saunters out from the drawing room and calls up the stairs to Bram.

“Artist! You have a visitor.” She steps closer to me, and for the first time I feel her scrutinizing me, as she leans against the newel post, cigarette in hand, head cocked as she considers me thoughtfully through curls of smoke. “You are a very beautiful woman,” she decides, “and our Artist is a very beautiful man.”

I am trying to form a suitable response to such an odd statement when she goes on.

“Do you think this is enough, Beauty? Do you think this will overcome all?” she asks, her German accent seeming stronger today than at other times.

“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “I think what’s beneath the surface is more important.”

“Oh? And would he love you if you were plain? Or you him?” She flicks ash carelessly onto the floor. “And what is it that you think lies underneath that matters so much? He is an artist, after all. He cares very much for beauty. They all do.”

You won’t tell him your secret!

The unexpected voice of a spirit shocks me into open-mouthed silence. He is so adept at catching me off guard. I steady myself. I have decided I will not talk with him anymore. I have asked Druscilla to help me, and we have planned a summoning. I admit I am nervous about it, this spirit has such attendant bitterness and hatred, such as I have never known before. But Druscilla is the most skilled necromancer I know. I am reassured that she will be with me. We will face him together, for face him we must. It is imperative we discover his links to the challenger and to the Sentinels.

You will never be able to tell him what you are!

The voice sounds so vehement, so angry.

Go away! This is none of your business.

Anything you do is my business, Daughter of the Night.

I have not summoned you. This is not the time …

Do not forget who you are, Morningstar. You cannot escape your destiny, any more than I escaped mine. To be free of your burden you must rid yourself of it. It was passed down to you, a poisoned chalice because it is not truly yours. You must give it up. You must.

Gudrun is frowning at me, clearly surprised I have no argument to give to what she has said, little knowing that I have another clamoring for my attention. Bram’s hurrying footsteps on the stairs save me from having to respond.

“There you are, Artist. Better not keep Beauty waiting,” she says, pausing to dust off his lapel lazily before disappearing back into the drawing room.

Bram gives a shrug, then a smile, then snatches up my hand and kisses it quickly. We can hear approaching children and the dog, and before they can reach us he leads me swiftly away, up the stairs to his rooms. Even in my good new coat and fur hat I can feel the temperature drop as we enter the attic space. The fact is, there is very little warmth on the ground floor, and none at all in the bedrooms, and what heat might remain to drift upward simply continues its journey through the frozen slates or holes in the roof. As Bram bustles about boiling a kettle for tea I can see his breath forming small clouds in front of him. He glances at me, clearly unsurprised to see I have not removed my coat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It is horridly cold up here.”

“The tea will warm us.”