The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  Alice sat down beside the casket. “Are you there, fiend?” She said this in a friendly tone.

  “I have no idea where ‘here’ is, but yes,” the box replied. The abomination’s strange, otherworldly voice was muffled somewhat. “Although I would be grateful if you would call me Gilbert. Mr. Hiltman would work as well, if you’re wary of sounding too familiar.”

  “As you like, Gilbert,” she said as she leaned against his box, propping herself up on one elbow. “I am Miss White. Or Alice, if you’re wary of sounding too formal. I’m afraid you’re going to be sealed in there for a while longer.”

  “So I heard,” Gilbert lamented. “Although I’d find the wait more comfortable if I had fewer questions needling me.”

  “If I can ease the discomfort of being bound in a box for a day by simply answering questions, I’ll be happy to do so.”

  “Splendid,” said Gilbert, sounding surprisingly cheerful. “Being bound in a box isn’t nearly as painful as you’d expect. I likely would have suffocated by now if I was properly alive, but in this state I think my chief foe is boredom. At any rate, I’m very curious about what you plan to do to me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite know yet myself,” Alice said, scanning the piles of books and wondering where she would begin. “There are many types of necromancy and several different ways of animating the dead, none of which are well understood. I’ll need to figure out how you were revived before I can consider what might be done to reverse this. The story you tell about your companion’s necklace is strange to me. I have not read anything before about vigor being held in a container. Perhaps this is new knowledge.”

  “I don’t suppose there are scholars you might consult?” Gilbert asked hopefully.

  “I must regretfully report that I am our scholar. Ethereal Affairs is the only place in Great Britain - or indeed, most of the world - where people are permitted to study sorcery. Of course, we only do this to catch sorcerers. My father was the first man to legally study the subject, and a great deal of our understanding was lost when he passed. I have been a poor substitute.”

  “How is it that nobody knows about how magic works?” Gilbert asked.

  “For centuries the dark arts have been wholly mysterious to those that do not practice them. We have mostly the church to thank for this. Their habit of burning books along with their owners has kept us in perpetual ignorance. It wasn’t until this ministry was founded that we even began to study what we were fighting. You can’t see it, but this room is filled with forbidden books. Well, the left half of the room, anyway. On the right the books are more scientific in nature, and much more to my liking. I don’t really enjoy magic except where it can be illuminated by science.”

  “Magic and science are related?” Gilbert asked dubiously.

  Alice sighed. “That’s much too large a subject for now. The point I was making, is that the church would slay a commoner for possessing most of the books on the left side of the room, whether they were capable of reading the work or not. Some we imported from places where laws are less strict. Others we have acquired in the course of our work. It’s a daunting mountain of learning, and despite my vigorous study I’ve barely taken in a tithe of it. And even if I were to suddenly know all of these books, it would still be but a sip of the whole cup of forbidden knowledge.”

  “Another question, if you’ll indulge me. You talk about this place like it was a house. Is that the case? If so, why does everyone sleep elsewhere?”

  “Grayhouse used to be a proper house. Then it was given to Ethereal Affairs as a sort of headquarters, and all the rooms were converted for that purpose. The men are all on loan from Her Majesty’s Service, and so they sleep at the barracks, which is a short walk from here. When I joined it was decided that I couldn’t sleep at the barracks, and so a bit of the upstairs was given over for my use.”

  “So you live here?” the box asked curiously.

  “When I’m not being dragged through graveyards and sleeping in ditches, yes. I am sorry for the lack of hospitality you’ve been shown.”

  There was a thoughtful silence. “It doesn’t bother me as much as you might imagine, and I don’t think you have much that could make me more comfortable than I am now. Since I was... awakened, I haven’t felt the need for sleep or food, or even drink. And as I discovered last night, I don’t need to breathe.”

  “Yes!” she said with enthusiasm. “Ever since we boxed you up I’ve been eager to find out what it’s like to exist as an abomination. The specimens we’ve encountered before have been more interested in murder than science. We knew that they could not be starved, or suffocated, or throttled, or drowned, or killed with thirst. This much has been known since at least the thirteenth century, and probably long before that. But what does it feel like?”

  “I’m afraid the answer is very boring,” answered Gilbert. “It doesn’t feel like anything at all.”

  “That won’t do!” she scolded. “I’m sure there are lots of things to discover about you. We shall have to do some proper tests once you’re out of that box. Do you remember what it was like being dead?”

  There was a long silence, “You know, I hadn't realized it before, but now that you've put the question to me I do seem to have a memory. I remember a girl.”

  “Someone you knew in life?”

  “No. I've never seen her before. Now that I think of it, the memory feels more like a dream than a recollection. I don't know. But there was a young girl. It was very vivid. Dark braided hair. Her mouth was moving, as if speaking, although I couldn't hear what she was saying. I could tell she was upset. Angry. I remember feeling afraid of her. Maybe she was scolding me? After that, I awoke in the crypt with Simon.”

  “Strange. I've never heard such a thing. Do you remember anything else?”

  “Nothing.”

  She sighed, “Well, I suppose I should either go to bed or prepare for my day. I am too excited to sleep and too exhausted to stay awake.”

  “You’re meeting with that Moxley fellow?” Gilbert asked.

  “You are a careful listener, aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly. But there’s not much else to do in here.”

  “Well, Mr. Moxley is our director. The captain answers to him. He seldom takes a close interest in what we’re doing. If you meet him, do not think him to be a self-interested dandy. His demeanor is rather disarming and you might foolishly reckon him a simpleton, but he is a genius in court politics. He’s also a bloodhound for news. He has spoken for us many times among the Lords, saved us from scandal in the papers, and has often obtained the exotic supplies we needed whether we had funding for them or not.”

  “I don’t expect him to visit me in here but I will be careful not to underestimate the man if he does,” Gilbert promised.

  “Good. Now I hope your curiosity is satisfied, because the day calls and I must answer or retreat to bed.”

  Alice ate, and brought poor Archer a bite and a bit of tea to help keep his eyes open. Then she bathed and put on proper clothes. She was anxious to escape her trousers and she needed to look like a lady if she was to meet with Mr. Moxley.

  No sooner had she picked out a hat then there was a knock at the door.

  “Mr. Moxley, I was coming to see you just this morning! So rarely do you visit us here in Grayhouse,” she said as she showed him in. “And for you to visit us on such a menacing day. It looks like the clouds will fall on us at any moment.” The sun had risen to little effect, and the sky was the color of charcoal.

  “I do not permit it to rain while I am out,” he declared proudly. “I would not suffer to have my ruffles spoiled by something as common as the weather. And moreover, I suspect those rain-clouds are more than half smoke. If this unseemly industrialization continues the smokestacks shall blot out the sun.” He dusted his coat as he said this, but it seemed to beat the soot into the fabric rather than dislodge it.

  Mr. Moxley was dressed flawlessly, and with far more care than Alice
had given herself. As always, his coat had many buttons, his shoes were small and well-polished, and he carried a black cane. He was adorned with a great degree of finery, stopping perilously short of bad taste. Despite his age of fifty, he had round, boyish cheeks and long dark locks of hair resting on his head.

  “Miss Alice White, you look delightful!” he bubbled. “Is that dress new?”

  “A gift from my mother, for my birthday,” she nodded.

  Alice attempted to offer him tea, but he refused all forms of refreshment and seemed eager to chat.

  They sat in the front room. Originally the sitting room, it had been converted into a storage area for unused military gear by the early members of Ethereal Affairs. Since moving in, Alice had hung or placed as many items as possible in order to create the illusion that these items were on display. This, combined with a few hunting trophies left by previous owners, gave the impression that this was the home of an extraordinarily aggressive and well-armed huntsman.

  “You should more often come and visit me at court”, Mr. Moxley declared, “The handsome young men would slay one another for the opportunity to speak with you.”

  “Then I think I should stay here, if only to preserve England’s stock of handsome young men.”

  “Having you live in this blackened fortress is like growing a lily in a coal cellar. Certainly the young men are mistreated at being denied your face.”

  “Perhaps so,” she said carefully, “But through my efforts they are kept safe from greater dangers than my absence.”

  “Quite right!” he replied, suddenly brightening. Mr. Moxley often began their talks this way, disparaging her situation until she reasserted her desire for it, at which point he would cheer up and change the subject. She never understood his purpose in this, but was always happy to play along.

  “Now, it is about that very business that I called this morning,” he began. “I read the most extraordinary claim in the paper recently. It made the most assuredly slanderous assertion that you had been spotted carrying a coffin into this very house.”

  This was how Mr. Moxley referred to gossip. He never called it rumors, but always spoke of it as if it was something he’d read recently. He even did this when the claim of having read it was patently absurd, such as now, when the rumored event was no more than a few hours old. Alice never understood this, but also never questioned the habit. It suddenly occurred to her now that acting as if the news had appeared in the paper removed the question of who had given him the news.

  “Do you think many others will read that story?” she asked timidly. She was no good at politics and the art of communicating things without saying them. She wished that her father was still here, so that he could handle this sort of business and leave her to her science.

  “Not yet, but soon I expect it will be read by everyone. This will lead people to begin theorizing about who was in the casket and why they hadn’t been buried as is customary. Others might wonder why the body was brought indoors.”

  “The... body is needed for study. But not for long,” she added quickly. “Just a few days.”

  “I see,” Mr. Moxley said. He had suddenly become very hard to read. “People will be alarmed at this news.” He looked at her for a few more moments and then brightened again. “But I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Provided it really is only a few days,” he added. “Public curiosity is a dangerous beast to leave in the dark, and unfed.”

  The subject changed again, and they spoke about the other members of Ethereal Affairs, men’s fashions, the unappealing thought of the oncoming winter, and the effects of industrialization. Eventually Mr. Moxley drove the conversation, as he always did, to the subject of the royal family.

  “Actually,” Alice said, interrupting him mid-thought, “I had a question about the royal family. About Princess Sophie in particular.” For the first time in her life, she had managed to surprise Mr. Moxley. Suddenly the preening man with the vacant smile slipped away, and she caught a glimpse of the shrewd planner who had survived for decades in the gossip and intrigue of the royal court.

  “Why do you ask about that?” he asked quietly.

  “It relates to the case we’re working on now.”

  “That story,” Mr. Moxley said seriously, “Has not yet appeared in the papers. It’s a story I’m still trying to puzzle together for myself. I should very much like to know if you have anything to contribute.”

  Alice sighed. “I’m not sure how to say this. I know in the past you’ve expressed a preference for remaining ignorant of our more unsavory work, so I don’t know if you’ll want me to tell you about this or not. Only that it might be connected to the princess.”

  “Very well,” he said decisively, “I will tell you what I know - a rare privilege which I hope you do not abuse - and you can decide if your contribution is worth adding. Three days ago I became aware that something was wrong in the palace. There were no rumors, but a few people seemed more worried and tight-lipped than usual. Naturally I set to work on this at once, fearing it was some matter of politics or scandal, and I wanted to know where to position myself when the storm fell. I extended all of my ability, and came back empty. The next day I had more luck. There were rumors that Princess Sophie was late. She had been on some sort of excursion - a simple holiday no doubt - to the Isle of Wight. But she did not return on the expected date. At first this looked to be a scandal in the making. She and a boy - forgive me, his name escapes me this morning - had a mutual romantic interest, which the Queen strongly opposed. It was feared that the two had run off. A search was performed, quietly.

  “The next day it was revealed that the boy was found, and not with Sophie. His alibi was beyond doubt. He had not been with her or seen her in some weeks. This is when worry of scandal transformed into worry of a more serious sort, and this is where I finally caught up with the story. It is very hard for the royal family to panic in secret. Since then there has been no news. I know that a search was performed between Buckingham and Wight, but no news has come. Indeed, another, more thorough search has been sent out, so we can conclude that nothing was found by the first one.

  “This is dangerous business, Miss White. Members of the royal family don’t just vanish. And now you come along, asking about young Sophie. So what of it? Are our tales related?”

  “I fear they might be. Two nights ago we found an abomination in Ravenstead. Shockingly, it surrendered to us, and told us that a sorcerer had raised it, and that Sophie was involved.”

  “Involved?” Mr. Moxley could not hide his unease at this idea.

  “Not as a perpetrator, but as a victim. A necromancer needs one life to restore another. The style and mechanics of the magic change from time to time, but the need for a living victim remains. The life of one is given to the dead.”

  Mr. Moxley looked down at the floor, shaking his head, “This is far worse than I might have guessed.”

  “But it’s not as final as you might imagine. If we can recover Sophie, it may be possible to restore her to life.”

  “I see now. So you don’t know where she is?”

  “Correct. We guess that she’s at the Viscount’s estate in Ravenstead, but we can’t be sure. And so now we’re studying the magic and looking for how it might be undone.”

  A look of surprise suddenly flashed on Mr. Moxley’s face, “Wait! You said the abomination surrendered. Are you telling me that the casket you brought-”

  Alice nodded.

  “And is it still... animated?”

  She nodded again.

  “Alice, you must understand, what you are doing is far more dangerous than chasing hedge wizards through the streets of London. If word of this gets to the church, they will want to hang you. All of you. They’ve never liked the idea of us fighting against magic. They saw that as their exclusive domain, and warned against it when the Ministry of Ethereal Affairs was formed. And they have greatly resented the success we’ve had over the ye
ars, both in fighting malignant magic and in capturing the hearts of the public. They hated your father most of all, and I’m sure you inherited that hate when he died.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Alice, I know you imagine that I wield the power of Her Majesty the Queen, but it is not so. If the church moves against you and discovers you’re housing an abomination - regardless of your intentions and the peril of young Sophie - they will hang you all, and there will be nothing I can do to stop them.”

  Alice nodded slowly. “It would be easy enough to destroy this abomination. It could be done this hour if we decided. It’s upstairs, sealed in a casket and bound tightly. We could burn it, or even have its head if we wanted to be sure it was ruined. That would end the abomination, but it would doom Sophie as well.”

  Mr. Moxley let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know, Miss White. I cannot advise you. Will you risk the lives of yourself and all your fellows to save the princess? It is a terrible gamble. Just remember that for every person who knows your secret, your danger is increased tenfold.”

  Mr. Moxley stood. “I sense I must leave now. I must leave and not return until this dangerous business is over with. If I had known, I would not have called on you. Perhaps you will think me heartless, but I am not willing to risk my own neck in this venture. I intend to place myself far away from you, so that I can claim ignorance if the worst comes to pass. I might lose my position, but I shall be spared the sword.”

  “You are right, of course,” Alice said, “You should not get mixed up in this. And I doubt your skills could aid us in any event. The only thing I ask is that you send word if you hear rumor of our discovery.”