Veronica wanted to feel triumphant, too, but she couldn’t summon that emotion. She would have to settle for relief.
She wondered, without much energy, if there was any chance Valéry had survived the war. She doubted she would ever know.
Fireworks still bloomed in the night sky when Veronica fell into an exhausted sleep, curled on her bed with Oona beside her. She woke when the night was far gone. The sky was beginning to lighten, but ribbons of smoke still wavered against the faded stars. She lay drowsily watching the drifting spirals and wondering why, now that the noise had stopped, she was awake.
She rolled onto her back and realized Oona was no longer on the bed. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked around.
Oona was perched directly in front of the wardrobe, ears pricked forward, gazing at its closed doors. Every few seconds she whimpered. From inside the wardrobe, piercing the dimness of the room, a light shone, as if a lamp were burning among the dresses and coats.
Veronica was out of bed and halfway across the room before she realized there was no lamp in the wardrobe. It was the crystal. The stone had lain neglected in the Fortnum & Mason hamper for months. It was trying to get her attention, and had captured Oona’s instead.
Olive had said, “That never succeeds,” and “You’ll find out.” This must be what she meant. Olive had no scrying stone, but she was descended from a long, rich line of witches who had passed on their history and their stories. Grandmother to mother to daughter, generation after generation. She knew what she was talking about.
With a sigh Veronica knelt beside the dog and opened the wardrobe doors.
The light that poured out from beneath the lid of the hamper was neither soft nor gentle. It was white and harsh, and it pulsed angrily, blistering through the woven rattan, past the hems of garments, and glittering in Oona’s eyes.
Oona’s whimpers became a growl, a long, uneasy rumble. “It’s all right, Oona,” Veronica said, as she reached through the hanging clothes to pull the hamper out. “I know what to do.”
She set the hamper on the floor, and Oona jumped to her feet, watching warily as Veronica lifted the lid and began to fold back the layers of silk.
“You see, Oona. Olive was right. I should have known she would be. The craft has its own power.”
Ritual, in this case, was not required. The moment the crystal was free of its covering, images began to tumble through it, a jumble of scenes half-obscured by glimmering lights and shifting shadows, flowing at such a dizzying pace Veronica had to brace her hands on her knees to keep her balance.
Face after face peered out at her, dark eyed, dusky skinned, sometimes with black hair, sometimes gray, one haloed by a mass of silver curls. The faces appeared, gave way to others, reappeared, disappeared again in a stunning procession, and she was connected to all of them.
When she had seen the faces before, she had not understood, but thanks to Olive’s instruction, she now understood who they were, and why they had come.
These were her ancestresses. They were her predecessors in the craft. She had become an adept. She had learned how to listen. She had only to watch, and wait. She knelt beside the hamper, unaware of the rising light beyond her window, of the stirring of the house beneath her. Energy thrilled through her body and her soul. The old ache in her body was welcome, hinting at a return to the vitality she had lost.
In her excitement she forgot one of Olive’s crucial lessons, and Jago’s, too. She forgot the peril that hung over every witch, in every age. She neglected to lock her door.
The succession of dim faces slowed, after a time, and settled into a single, wavering image. Veronica leaned closer to make out what it was. There was a row of what looked like cots, covered in white sheets, with people in them. Sleeping people, she thought—no, not sleeping, ill. These were hospital beds, a room full of them, very like Sweetbriar’s hospital at the height of the war. This wasn’t Sweetbriar, though. The walls and the ceiling were unadorned, and the cots were crowded together, with barely enough space between them for a person to move.
The patients were men, some in bandages, some in casts, some with their eyes closed and their hands folded on their breasts as if they were waiting for death to relieve them. And one …
Veronica leaned closer. He had black hair. A bandage covered half his face. He turned his head in her direction, as if he sensed her attention. She could see only one eye, the fine straight shape of his nose, the lean jawline she remembered.
Valéry.
She gripped the crystal tighter. Something terrible had happened to him, some awful wound, but he was alive! She couldn’t make out details, but she could see the movement of his head, the lifting of a hand as he pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. He was alive!
At the very moment of her realization, a knock sounded on the door to her bedroom, and a second later the door clicked open.
Veronica was on her knees on the floor, her hands on the scrying stone. The crystal was as bright as if it were on fire. The lights must reflect on her face, even shine in her mirror. She drew a breath of alarm as she realized morning had come while she knelt here.
“Lady Veronica?” It was Honeychurch. “Cook wants to know—”
Of course! It was the day of Lord Dafydd’s funeral, and there would be guests.
The door was opening wider, the butler in full expectation of his welcome. Veronica shot to her feet. The lid of the hamper was an arm’s length away. Even if she could have reached it in time, the light from the stone would coruscate through the rattan. A dozen ways of hiding it shot through Veronica’s mind in an instant, but none of them would be quick enough, and she couldn’t think—
Oona burst into a sudden frenzy of barking and threw her small body at the door. Honeychurch exclaimed in alarm, and though the door swung wide, poor Honeychurch stumbled backward, into the hall, away from Oona’s onslaught.
“Oona!” he said helplessly, as she nipped at his toes and worried his trouser legs, barking and growling as if he were the devil himself. He fell against the wall opposite, swinging at the dog with the empty tray in his hands. “Oona, what’s wrong with you? What’s the matter?”
Veronica strode into the corridor, her nightgown swirling around her ankles. She shut the door firmly behind her, and made a great show of seizing Oona’s scruff and scolding her.
The moment the door was closed and the scrying stone out of Honeychurch’s sight, Oona fell silent. She sat down beside Veronica and began to beat her tail cheerfully against the carpet, the very picture of a well-disciplined canine.
“I’m so sorry, Honeychurch,” Veronica said in as matter-of-fact a voice as she could muster. “I can’t think what got into her.”
The old butler scowled. “Terriers are unpredictable. Always like a nice spaniel, myself.”
“Yes, I know you do. But she was a gift, you know. From Jago. I couldn’t part with her.” Veronica gave the dog a pat and released her. Oona lay down, gazing up at Honeychurch without a trace of guile.
Veronica put a hand to her throat, where her pulse beat a mad rhythm. Her voice, she was proud to notice, revealed nothing. “Such a ruckus!” she said in an offhand manner. “Now, tell me, Honeychurch, what is it Cook needs to know?”
Veronica rarely made use of her title, nor had she ever intended to take advantage of her private relationship with the queen. Just the same, in this case she felt it was necessary. She wrote a cryptic note to Her Majesty, and received one just as cryptic in reply. She made a day trip to London and was treated to a private interview with Elizabeth that yielded a sincere promise of help. On the way out of Buckingham Palace, she met the king coming up the stairs, and she curtsied with care.
“Ah,” he said cheerfully. “Lady Veronica, isn’t it? My wife’s wartime assistant. I th-thank you for your special help. She t-tells me you have been invaluable.”
“It was the greatest honor, Your Majesty,” Veronica said with sincerity. He smiled charmingly at her and went on his
way, innocent, she supposed, of any knowledge of the true service she had rendered. Unescorted, she hurried down the stairs to the private door. Soon she was back on the train, eager to be at Sweetbriar to await the promised information.
Elizabeth did not fail her. Two days later a note arrived from the palace, listing several hospitals that, according to the War Office, were caring for wounded American soldiers, with some French and British casualties among them. The queen closed her note with “Happy hunting.”
Veronica wasted no time in collecting maps, traveling money, and papers. She packed only a small valise, though she didn’t know how long she might be gone. If she went to the right place first, she would soon be home again. If she had to visit them all, it could be weeks.
When Honeychurch learned of her plan to go into France, he fussed at her for a full fifteen minutes, until she put up her hand to stop him. “Honeychurch,” she said firmly, “we’re at peace now. The war is over in Europe.”
“There are still dangers, Your Ladyship,” he said dourly. “Land mines. Prisoners of war. Unexploded bombs.”
“We have those right here in England,” she said.
He acknowledged this bitter truth with an inclination of his head, but he wasn’t finished protesting. “At least take someone with you.”
“Who? Everyone’s gone!”
“Don’t you have friends in London? At the palace, perhaps?”
“I’m going to be fine,” she said. “My French is much improved. I will need you to watch over things while I’m gone.”
“I don’t like it, Lady Veronica. You’re the heir to Sweetbriar. You’re needed here.”
“I’ll be back, Honeychurch. Please don’t worry.”
She had written out detailed instructions, just in case, and placed them in her desk, but she thought it best not to mention that. She hadn’t told Honeychurch precisely why she was going abroad. She had implied there was an old friend wounded and lying in hospital, but she hadn’t spoken a name.
It was an odd sensation to realize there was no one who could forbid her going. She was her own mistress. She was the lady of Sweetbriar, the last of her line. If she didn’t return, for any reason, Sweetbriar would pass to her father’s brother’s grandson. She couldn’t remember his given name, but at least his surname was Selwyn.
She wondered, idly, who would care if she resumed her maiden name. She couldn’t see that it would matter much either way. The aristocracy was on its last legs, she was sure of that. The Great War had dealt it a nearly fatal injury. The second war had been the death blow.
The night before her departure, Veronica locked her door, opened her wardrobe once again, and pulled out the Fortnum & Mason hamper. She lifted out the crystal and set it on her little table with a new candle, a posy of herbs she had gathered from Sweetbriar’s park and woods, and a vial of salt water. She had more confidence in her ritual now, and as she began, she silently thanked her instructresses—Elizabeth, Olive, even Rose—for their guidance.
Mother Goddess, hear my plea:
Show what lies ahead for me.
It was a simple prayer, but a clear one, as Olive had taught her. The answer she received might be unclear just the same. It might be one of warning. Worse, it might be one of danger. She had decided that if the stone showed her some threat, she would do her best to prepare for it, but she wouldn’t be deterred. Valéry’s child had become one of millions of war casualties. She would not allow its father to be added to the lists.
She knelt in front of the stone of her ancestresses, with fragrant smoke floating about her head and tremulous candlelight dancing across the crystal’s surface. She chanted her prayer in a low, clear voice, three times three times, while Oona sat nearby, watching and listening.
The succession of faces was familiar to her now, like those in a recurring dream. The images peered at her, each in turn, half-obscured by the mists of time. The sequence spun rapidly at first, too fast for her to pick out individuals. After a time it began to slow, to allow features to become distinct. There was the old woman in a long, shapeless robe. There was the one with a cloud of silver hair. The final one to appear was her mother.
The mists receded enough for Veronica, for the first time, to see Morwen’s face clearly. It was the face of the portrait, and yet it wasn’t, quite. The portraitist had worked hard to make her into a beauty, shortening her nose, softening her jawline, widening her eyes, making her cheeks unnaturally rosy.
The face Veronica saw was subtly different. It was better than beautiful. It was a face of character. The eyes, smaller than the painting showed, tilted at the corners, ready for laughter. The nose was longer, stronger than the painter had shown, the chin more pronounced. Veronica leaned forward to cup the stone with her palms, and she whispered, gazing into her mother’s eyes, “Oh, Mama. Could you show me …”
Morwen’s smile was one no painter could ever replicate. It was full of love, full of mystery, the tender expression of a mother for her child. It vanished swiftly as her image dissolved into the mist, as if she had taken a step backward to make way for another.
Veronica had been too occupied, in recent years, for vanity. She spent as little time looking into a mirror as she could, and almost none improving her appearance. She had cropped her hair short when the war started, and she never bothered with cosmetics beyond a dash of lipstick when she thought of it. So when she saw her own face in the crystal, for a disorienting moment she didn’t recognize it.
Even when she realized whose image it was, she was distracted by the infant this slender, dark-eyed girl held in her arms, snuggled close under her chin in the age-old posture of mothers and babies.
The image trembled before her for what might have been mere seconds, or long minutes. The girl—herself, Veronica realized at last, though she would check in the mirror when she could—didn’t look up. She was absorbed in the child. Her child.
A daughter, of course. A girl, to carry on the craft.
All anxiety about her upcoming mission fell away. Whatever was to come in the next days and weeks, Veronica’s prayer had been answered. She had a future, and there was a child in it. Someone’s child, in any case.
With fresh energy she brought out the grimoire and began to turn its pages.
11
The American nurse, dressed in practical khaki trousers and a loose shirt, walked ahead of Veronica, leading her up a set of wooden stairs that creaked alarmingly as they climbed. The hospital at Mirecourt had once been a psychiatric facility, but the Twenty-First General Hospital of the United States Army had transformed it into a sprawling medical facility, the largest of its kind in the war zone. The entryway had become a triage room, though it was quiet now. Rows of cots, most of them empty, filled every room Veronica could see.
“Most of our men have been shipped home, you see, Mrs. Paxton,” the nurse said over her shoulder. “We still get an occasional accident, or infection. Sometimes leftover munitions go up, and people get hurt.” She passed the second floor and headed to the third. That staircase was steep, and creaked even more loudly. “Long-term cases are up here, in what used to be the attic. These patients are waiting while someone figures out where they should go.”
“No one knows where they belong?”
The nurse sighed. She was a squarish sort of woman, a girl really, with short brown hair and wide shoulders. “The non-American ones. We have two who can’t speak at all, and their identity disks are gone. I think they’re Russian, but it’s hard to tell. It’s sad, but they probably won’t make it anyway. There are several French soldiers, all of them too sick to go home on their own. Some of them aren’t sure they have homes anymore.”
“That’s terrible.”
They reached the top floor, and the nurse paused outside an unpainted door. “You English had the worst of it, I guess. The bombing and all.”
“Not worse than the French.”
“No.”
“And there were the camps.”
The A
merican girl shuddered. “I can’t look at the pictures,” she said. “I see enough here without putting those horrors into my mind.”
She reached for the door handle, but still she hesitated, eyeing Veronica doubtfully. “It can be shocking, seeing these men.”
“My home was converted into a convalescent hospital. I nursed wounded soldiers, too.”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s just—the way you speak—”
“Oh yes?” Veronica wished she would just open the door.
The nurse grinned. “You sound just like the king! I listen to him on the radio. Can’t imagine him nursing patients, can you?”
Veronica tried to smile back, but she was tempted to reach past the nurse and open the door for herself.
It had been a hot and uncomfortable trip to reach Mirecourt from Southampton. A summer storm had made the crossing rough. The train journey had been long, often interrupted, and short on amenities. She had come first to Mirecourt, but she had several other hospitals to visit if Valéry wasn’t here. They were scattered all over France, meaning more frustrating travel, overlaid with the constant worry that he might be gone at any time.
She had transformed the little silk pouch where she kept Valéry’s ring into a sort of charm. She sprinkled blessed salt inside it, and needles of rosemary. She added a fragment of silk from the scrying stone’s wrappings, carefully removed with her nail scissors. She wore the bag on a thin ribbon around her neck, and as she steeled herself to step into the ward, she touched it beneath her frock.
The attic was a dim room with a slanting ceiling and exposed roof beams cutting the space in half. As in the other wards, cots lined the walls. Perhaps a dozen patients reclined or sat on the beds. A nurse working at the far end looked up and left her desk to meet the visitors. Veronica put out her hand with automatic courtesy, but she was already looking past both nurses, scanning the men in their various bandages and splints, searching.
A Secret History of Witches Page 40