Dafydd Selwyn was worth any risk. Worth the use of magic. She was so terribly lonely! And she would, she swore to herself, do everything in her power to make him happy.
By the time Jago arrived home, she was jumpy as a cat. He looked at her strangely once or twice as she served his meal, and as she did the washing up afterward.
He didn’t say anything, but she felt his attention all the evening, as if his hand were on her shoulder. She pretended to read while he worked on the loose stitching of a boot, and then, as early as she dared, she bid him good night and escaped to her bedroom.
She changed out of her dress and into a nightgown, with a robe over it against the evening chill, and she extinguished her lamp, though she knew there would be no sleep for her. After a time she heard the thump of Jago’s boots across the parlor, followed by the click of his bedroom door closing. The noises from the street below dwindled into silence. Beyond her window a fresh mist rose, obscuring the stars and even the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Morwen arranged and rearranged her candle, the crystal, her dish of herbs, the small pottery jug of water.
The fog blotted out the stars, but she could hear the bells from St. Mary the Virgin. One o’clock came, and two. Three o’clock, then four. She was sure by then the morning star was beginning its rise, though she couldn’t see it through the heavy mist.
Trembling with excitement, Morwen lit the candle. She sprinkled water in a generous circle. She took the twist of sage stems from their protective paper and set a match to them. Careful to stay within her circle, she walked around the table, once, twice, three times. The sage smoked gently, filling the air of her bedroom with its spicy scent. She laid it in a saucer to burn itself out, and took up the potion in her two hands.
Holding the little jug above the crystal, she felt the magic of her ancestresses sing in her blood and vibrate through her bones. It was an old spell, and a strong one. The very idea of it made her feel reckless with power.
Mother Goddess, hear my prayer
All your power bring to bear
For me only, none to share
Dafydd Selwyn cause to care.
Three times three times she spoke the words. Tendrils of sage smoke curled around her, reflecting the flicker of the candle flame. Between her hands she felt energy increase. The water in the jug swirled in glistening eddies. The crystal began to shine with coruscating light, yellow and gold and red, as if it were afire.
Morwen closed her eyes, exulting in the witch’s power, her body and brain throbbing with the strength of her magic.
At that moment, as she stood wreathed in smoke and candlelight, the door banged open.
Morwen’s eyes flew open, and she beheld Jago’s pale face. He glared at her, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight.
He growled, “What’s this?”
Her mouth opened, but no words of explanation would come. Suddenly, devastatingly, she saw herself through his eyes. She saw herself in a loose robe with the crystal blazing beside her, the candle wildly flickering, smoke hovering around her. Just as devastating was the conviction, belated but overwhelming, that she was committing a terrible act, a crime against the person she loved, and against the person she herself wished to be. All the doubts she had felt at the beginning returned in a rush, and left her trembling with shame.
Slowly she lowered the jug. The energy dissipated around her, dimming the crystal, drowning the candle flame in a pool of melted wax. The sage smoke drifted toward the ceiling, where it hung in lifeless shreds.
Morwen whispered, “It’s—it was—for Dafydd.”
Jago’s grim expression was terrible to see. Morwen’s eyes suddenly welled with tears. They blinded her, dripping down her cheeks to fall onto her hands, which still held the pottery jug and its dangerous contents.
Jago’s strong arm came around her shoulders. His hand guided hers to set down the jug before he led her across the room, through the door, and into the parlor. She was sobbing now, her chest aching. She wrapped her arms around herself, crying so hard she didn’t hear Jago stir up the fire, or go to his own room and return.
He had brought a blanket, which he draped around her. He crouched beside her chair, not speaking, waiting for her spate of tears to abate. It took a long time for her to cry herself out. She huddled beneath the blanket, sniffling and shuddering like a child. When her tears ceased at last, she had to gather what was left of her courage to lift her head and look into his eyes.
He spoke gruffly. “Wouldn’t want him that way, you.”
“No,” she choked. “No, I—I see that now. I didn’t—I just—”
“Great temptation.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No.” With a tired grunt he got to his feet. He patted her shoulder, once, before crossing to his own chair and settling into it. He let his head fall back and his eyes close. “The thing is,” he said, in such a low voice that Morwen had to lean forward to hear him. “I admired her. Wanted her, even, though she was so far above me, older, of course. Married to boot.”
“You mean Maman?”
“She was beautiful. Mysterious. Had a sort of power around her, aside from—” His hand lifted and fell on the arm of his chair.
Morwen listened, watching him, still shivering with the aftermath of crying.
“After she magicked me, all that changed. I didn’t want her anymore. A man doesn’t like to feel he has no power of his own.”
Morwen waited a bit more, in case Jago would reveal anything else. When he didn’t speak again, she rose and crossed to his chair to kneel beside it. She took his hand between hers and saw how similar their hands were, with long fingers and broad palms. “Go back to bed, Jago,” she said softly. She gently stroked the back of his hand, though she felt his fingers quiver with embarrassment at the familiarity. “I’ll get rid of the potion. I promise.”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “You love him, young Dafydd?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“If it’s meant to be, Morwen …”
“I know.”
She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t seen it before. Perhaps a fit of madness had come over her, brought on by the crystal. She should have resisted, whatever the source. She should have had more respect for herself.
Morwen sighed and got up from her knees. She planted a single kiss on Jago’s forehead, though she knew he wouldn’t like it, then trudged back to her room. She poured the potion out her window, careful that it fell into the shrubbery. She covered the crystal without looking in it again, and put it away with the grimoire. When everything was restored to its customary order, she stood by the window for a long time, watching the outlines of the city emerge from the fog.
Her heart yearned for Dafydd, but her mind had cleared.
She would go to Ynyr, as soon as it was light enough. She would ride, and ride, and take comfort in his massive, gentle presence. She would stay away from Regent’s Park. If Dafydd wanted her, he would find her. And if he didn’t—there was Ynyr. And Jago. And perhaps some other use for her power.
She stood by her window, lonely but relieved, until the full sun of Lammas rose over the city to banish the mysteries of the night.
THE BOOK OF VERONICA
1
1937
Young ladies in white dresses crowded the throne room. Their feathers nodded above their too-warm faces as chaperones and palace officials shepherded them into the proper places. Veronica Selwyn was grateful her own dress was silk, and nearly weightless. She couldn’t think how Queen Elizabeth could bear being trapped in her vast gold chair, weighed down by brocade and pearls and her elaborate crown. The face of the new king, sitting next to her, was scarlet, and the hair showing beneath his crown was dark with sweat. Everyone said he was shy, this youthful man who had never expected to be king, but Elizabeth, next to him, was all charm and confidence. If the heat bothered her, she gave no sign. She smiled and nodded to each debutante in turn, behaving as if she had all the time in
the world.
Veronica did not share her patience. She would have much preferred to be at Sweetbriar, dressed in her riding clothes, counting livestock or conferring with the farm managers. The train of her dress tangled every time she turned and made her want to tear the thing off. She wore three feathers in her hair, as prescribed, and they itched. She also carried a fan, something she had never done before and vowed she would never do again. An inherited pearl necklace, an adornment that had sent her dressmaker into rhapsodies, wound four times around her throat, with enough length still for one loop to hang to her waist.
The lord chamberlain clanked his silver mace against the floor as he made his introductions. Three clanks for each name. The girls, backs straight and eyes cast down, each took their turn to curtsy to the royals. Veronica had been spared the lessons with Mrs. Vacani, who taught the knee-behind-the-knee curtsy all the girls employed, and which they studied for weeks before the event.
“I think you can manage a curtsy, darling,” Papa had said in a wry tone. They had been in the Sweetbriar stables, their favorite place in the world, surrounded by horses and ponies and assorted dogs. “Just tuck one knee behind the other, and down you go.”
“Do I have to be presented, Papa?” she had asked. “It’s archaic!”
“It is that, Veronica. But I’m mending fences.”
“You mean Grandfather Selwyn wants me to do it.”
“That’s it, I’m afraid. You’re making the sacrifice so I can have some peace.” He poked her with a gentle finger.
She laughed and sidestepped out of his reach. “For you, Papa, anything. Even the throne room!”
“Thank you, dear heart.” He shifted his cane so he could press his hand over his heart and bow to her. “I’m in your debt.”
“It really is stupid, though. I mean, with the war coming …”
“There may not be a war.”
“Phillip thinks there will.”
“Phillip is a bright young man. I hope he’s wrong.”
Veronica hoped so, too. She couldn’t bear the idea of her brother, quiet, artistic Thomas, going off to fight. Phillip was another matter. He found the idea of war exciting. He didn’t understand how much her papa suffered still from the wounds he’d received at Belleau Wood. To Phillip, Dafydd was a romantic figure, leaning on his ebony cane, his back soldier straight and his head held high. Phillip thought giving a leg for your country covered you in glory. He had no idea of the pain that darkened her father’s nights, or how many times the doctor had to be called in the small hours, when the agony grew unbearable. No one should have to suffer—
The thump of the mace jarred Veronica from her reverie. One, two, three it clanged against the floor, and the lord chamberlain, sounding even more bored than Veronica felt, intoned, “The Honourable Veronica Selwyn.” It was her turn.
She managed well enough. She didn’t trip on her long skirt, and the train floated obediently behind her, as it was meant to do. She tucked one knee behind the other, her hands hanging straight, and curtsied, first to Queen Elizabeth and then to King George. Elizabeth smiled pleasantly and nodded, as she had done with every other girl. George—poor George, who they say dreaded speaking or even appearing in public—gazed at some point above Veronica’s head. As she rose she saw a drop of perspiration roll down his forehead and along his nose, and she felt a stab of sympathy. It must tickle like the very devil.
She was just stepping to the side, as she had been instructed, when a stiff man with a blond mustache stepped forward. The lord chamberlain pronounced a long string of German names, of which Veronica caught only “von Ribbentrop.” She was much better in French. His Majesty George VI got to his feet to greet the dignitary in person.
Von Ribbentrop stiffened and clicked his heels together. Then, in an appalling gesture, he threw up his right arm in a stiff-armed salute. His hand came so close to striking the king in the chest that His Majesty instinctively rocked back on his heels.
The assembly sucked in a horrified collective breath, followed by several seconds of frozen silence. Disbelieving faces turned toward von Ribbentrop, and the lord chamberlain made a small, involuntary movement, lifting his ceremonial mace as if he might wield it to force the German away from the king.
Veronica couldn’t see precisely what happened next. One moment she was gazing with horror, like everyone else, at the man who had given offense to King George. The next the scene around her blurred, suddenly enveloped in smoke. The room—the walls, the hangings, the rich carpet—disappeared behind red and yellow flames. Her brain felt as if it were swelling inside her skull, and she had the vertiginous sense of rising above herself, looking down on a bizarre view of her own feathered head, her white dress, the sparkling crowns of the royals.
Her view shifted, and she found herself inexplicably gazing down on the roof as Buckingham Palace began to burn. The city beyond was also afire, great gouts of smoke obscuring the river and the docks of the East End. Walls collapsed and blocked the streets. Roofs shattered and broken windows gaped. Her ears rang with the sounds of explosions and bells and sirens punctuated by the screams of injured and frightened people.
She couldn’t bear to see it. With an effort of will she forced herself back into the throne room, but the scene was no better. At least half the people there now sprawled on the marble floor, clearly dead. Blood puddled around them, staining the girls’ gowns, the fawn trousers of the men, ruining the beautiful carpet. Smoke hung in the room like a fog. In the middle of the chaos, the German—von Ribbentrop—stood erect and proud, his plumed hat under his left arm, his right arm raised toward the king like the blade of a sword. His fair hair shone red in the light of the flames. Veronica struggled to breathe.
A heartbeat later the vision vanished as if it had never been. She found herself on her feet, automatically sidling away from the royals. It was obvious no real time had passed. The German was bowing to the king, his arm now dropped to his side. King George, his face stiff but composed, spoke to him. The queen hadn’t moved a muscle, but her famous violet eyes were nearly black with fury.
Veronica stumbled back to her place, trembling, and sank down hard into her chair, her legs weak with shock. Her stomach quivered, and her gorge rose almost too swiftly for her to control it. For one terrible second she thought she might be sick, right here in front of the debutantes, their chaperones, and Their Majesties.
She closed her eyes and made herself picture Sweetbriar. She imagined driving up the tree-shaded drive to the house, strolling out to the cool, shadowed stables, or reading in the arbor in the south garden. She thought of Honeychurch, waiting faithfully outside the throne room, and Papa in his study at home.
Her stomach settled. Her composure returned. She opened her eyes as the last girl was presented, curtsied, and did the complicated sidestep that brought her back to her seat. Veronica exhaled with relief and lifted her head.
The queen was watching her.
That couldn’t be. Surely Elizabeth was looking at something else, someone behind her, or next to her …
But no. Elizabeth Windsor, said to be gentle and kindly and motherly, met Veronica’s startled eyes with a gaze of cool blue steel, as if she knew exactly what Veronica had seen. With deliberation Elizabeth nodded, once.
Veronica, mystified, inclined her head in courteous response. She wished she understood what had just happened.
2
Veronica, could you take this out to the Home Farm this afternoon?” Papa pointed to a thick envelope lying on the sideboard in the morning room. “It’s not heavy. You could ride.”
“What is it?”
“Just some papers for Jago, from the sale of his business. I promised I’d send them.”
Veronica pushed away from the table. “I would be happy to, Papa. I don’t have anything on my schedule this morning.”
Her father smiled at her, but there were white lines around his mouth, and his eyelids drooped. His once-thick hair had grown thin, and now, in the sunli
ght, she saw that it was silver all through. She moved around the table to him, and crouched beside his chair. “You look like you had a bad night, Papa.”
“I’m all right,” he said, as he always did. “But I’d rather not have to take the car out.”
“It’s fine. I haven’t seen Jago in days, and Mouse could use a gallop.”
“Thank you. Give Jago my greetings, and explain why I didn’t come myself, will you?”
“Of course, Papa.” She dropped a kiss on his head. “Do you want Honeychurch to call Dr. Jacobsen?”
“No. No, thank you. There’s no point. He’s done all he can.”
“Oh, Papa.” Veronica paused, her hand still on her father’s shoulder. “Are you sure? Maybe in London, a specialist …”
He reached up to pat her hand. “No more specialists, dear heart. It’s just what I have to live with. It’s probably the weather. I think it’s going to rain later on.”
She kissed him again and went off to change into her jodhpurs, but she frowned into her dressing table mirror as she buttoned her shirt. Her father’s pain was getting worse. He had refused to try a new prosthesis, and the old one hurt him. With her brother away at school, it was left to her to help with the tasks of running the estate.
As she trotted down the stairs, she thought it was better that way in any case. She was far more suited to country life than Thomas.
The Home Farm was barely a farm anymore, now that Jago had grown old. The barn was empty, and the stables held only a single horse. The fields were rented out to other farmers. Jago lived alone in the old stone house with its huge kitchen and shabby, comfortable parlor.
As Veronica trotted Mouse, her gray Arab gelding, up the dirt-and-gravel road, Jago emerged from the front door. He came down the steps and along the weedy flagstone path to wait for her at the gate. A dog, a disreputable-looking terrier bitch with one floppy ear and a wiry black-and-brown coat, trotted at his heels.
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