He had been thirteen the first time he had been singled out and set upon. Returning to the dormitory from the library late one evening he became aware he was being followed. He was not afraid; he knew his skills as a boxer, his height, and his strength would mean he could equip himself well in a fight if the need arose. What he did not, at that moment, understand, was that his persecutors were not so reckless as to risk personal injury. They had contrived to have about them a gang of followers, each more eager than the next to prove themselves to their leader. They pinned him to the ground, kneeling on his arms and holding his feet while blow after blow fell about his stomach, his face, his head. Then, when he was bleeding and dazed, they dragged him by his ankles the entire length of the corridor. He can still recall the feel of the boards beneath him as he was hauled along, his back snagging on a nail that was ever so slightly proud, causing a deep tear in his flesh and leaving a scar he carries still. They took him outside. It was December, and the ground was hard, the night clear, the mercury low. He was manhandled to his feet and bound to the leafless magnolia tree in the center of the quad. Stricklend had struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. The ringleader was called Hilton, a thickset boy with an unfortunately broad face and a prodigious growth of bristle on his chin. He leaned in close.
“Think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you, Stricklend? Well, guess what? You’re not, see? Nothing special about you. No reason to give yourself airs. No title. No family to speak of. Precious little money. You come from nothing, and you’ll go right back there when you leave this place, so you can just stop looking down that hoity-toity nose of yours at the rest of us. Hear me?”
Stricklend fought to open his eyes properly, but blood was congealing on the lids. He felt a loose tooth beneath his tongue. Tasted blood in his mouth. Felt pain in his stomach. From somewhere dark and distant he retrieved his voice.
“Hilton,” he said, “do you know how incredibly ugly you are?”
The older boy scowled. He hesitated for only a moment before drawing back his fist and bringing it forward with angry force into Stricklend’s face. Into the still of the night came the unmistakable sound of bone splintering. One of the more delicate boys vomited copiously onto his own feet.
“Not so pretty yourself, now, are you?” Hilton hissed into his ear before whistling at his troops and leading them off at a run.
Once alone, a curious peace descended upon Stricklend. He felt himself starting to drift, floating downward, ever downward. The sound of approaching footsteps halted his descent. Through one half-opened eye he saw what appeared to be a giant crow looming over him, its wings by its sides, its bright eyes peering at him in the moonlight. The crow shook its head and then untied the rope that held him to the tree. He fell forward and was caught not by some freakishly large feathered being, but by the strong arms of the junior Latin master, Mr. Reginald Ellis. Stricklend felt himself lifted and held tight, the master’s gown wrapped about him. He was aware he was being carried into the school, but not, as he had expected, toward the dormitory, or to Matron’s room to have his wounds tended. Instead Mr. Ellis took him up the narrow, winding stairs that led to his own quarters. Even in his confused condition Stricklend knew this was strange. Masters were forbidden to take pupils to their rooms. Lurid tales of teachers leaving under clouds of suspicion were well known in every school. Was that to be his fate now? he wondered. Was he to be taken advantage of? Defiled? After all that he had already endured?
Mr. Ellis sat him down in an armchair near the hearth and set about stoking up the fire. He fetched water and cloths and bathed Stricklend’s wounds with detached care, rather than any prurient interest. He did so in silence, so that the only sounds in the small attic room were Stricklend’s own occasional protestations of pain, and logs crackling in the fire. At last the blood was washed from his face and head, and soothing ointment had been applied to his many cuts and bruises. The Latin master stood back to contemplate the boy before him.
“Well, Stricklend, you are quite a mess, aren’t you? Those cuts shouldn’t scar too badly, but that nose of yours … hmm. Did a good job, whoever hit you. No”—he raised a hand—“I’d really rather you didn’t name him. Though I can understand you wanting to. In fact, I’d wager you’d like to break his nose, too, wouldn’t you?”
Stricklend nodded, painfully.
“Quite so. But you are unlikely to get the chance, I’d say, given the blindly loyal foot soldiers he no doubt surrounds himself with. No, I’m afraid you’re not going to be allowed the satisfaction of using your boxing skills on the boy. Unjust, I know, but there it is.”
Stricklend turned his head to stare into the flames. The truth of what Mr. Ellis was saying was every bit as painful as his injuries.
The Latin master sat down in the winged chair opposite and regarded Stricklend with his head to one side, as if weighing him up.
“You are a bright boy. Consistently top of your year. Should make Cambridge for mathematics, if that’s what you want. Pity to see such intelligence treated so very badly.” He leaned forward, fixing Stricklend with a bright-eyed gaze. “What if there was a way, another way, of getting your own back? Of teaching all those foolish thugs a lesson. Of ensuring that they never put a finger on you, so that your time here at Winthrop will pass smoothly and without fear of any such incident ever occurring again. What would you say, Stricklend? Might that be of interest to you, hmm?”
Stricklend forced himself to sit up a little straighter to show he was listening.
Mr. Ellis smiled. “I have noticed how you strive for perfection, Stricklend. How excellence is both your spur and your goal. I admire that. I know there are some who consider you … aloof. Never mind them. Let those who value popularity and the approval of their peers continue on their merry way. You, Stricklend, my boy, you have it in you to be something quite … different.”
Now, as Stricklend sits in his prestigious office, sipping his expensive brandy, certain of his place in the world and his purpose in it, he still feels the importance of that moment in shaping his life. It was, it seems, destined that he should have been cast out and ridiculed in order to gain entry into an altogether more desirable society. He had, not surprisingly, never heard of the Sentinels. Never, previously, seen anything remarkable about the young teacher who had drilled him and the rest of his class in Latin verbs and challenged them to decline the same over and over, regardless of the hour or the wit of the boys, until they were word perfect. That pursuit of perfection should have alerted him to something, he now thinks. But how could he ever have imagined such things as Ellis was to teach him? How could he ever have dreamed of the power, and the purity of the power, that was to be given him by being taken into their fold?
He runs a finger down the line of his nose, tracing the kink where the bone had set askew and inflicted a lasting flaw in his own perfection, leaving him with a permanent memento of the beating that altered both his face and his future that night.
He stands and walks to the window. In the fading light of the late afternoon, the crowds below in Trafalgar Square exclaim at the prettiness of the fountains, throw food to the nodding pigeons, gaze up at the lofty statue of Nelson, or allow their children to scramble over the great lions at its base. He finds that their seeming ignorance of what is taking place in the world about them—their apparent carefree attitude, their ability to amuse themselves so simply when the order of things is about to come crashing down about their ears—he finds it builds within him a contempt for the masses. Pondering this thought, he admits to himself that, aside from the grudging respect he afforded his father, the only person he ever regarded with anything approaching warm affection was his tutor and mentor, the man who instructed him in the craft and skills of the Sentinels, that same young Latin master who had tended his wounds all those years ago and recognized something special in him, Mr. Reginald Ellis. Ellis had given generously of his time in training Stricklend. Over the remainder of his years at the school the two
had met most nights, when all others were slumbering in their dormitories. Ellis had instructed his eager pupil in the history and knowledge of the Sentinels. He had coaxed from him the energy and strength that he had first noticed, along with the boy’s keen intelligence and ability to focus, which so suited him to the art of sorcery. In Stricklend he found a student untroubled by conscience or favor, and one who quickly recognized the beauty of power, the purity of it. Stricklend had learned the Sentinels’ belief that sorcerers and necromancers are made, not born, and that it is their unquestioning allegiance to the group that gives them their strength. He was told of the injustice that had brought about the downfall, centuries ago, when the Lazarus Coven, jealous of the Sentinels’ talents and power, had taken the Elixir and the Great Secret from them, under guise of protecting it, and claiming to be the only possible moral guardians of such dangerous magic. Stricklend soon came to see that regaining what was rightfully theirs was imperative for the society. As he progressed in his schooling, and as his natural flair for the tasks presented to him became obvious, he knew that he himself would be instrumental, after so many generations of waiting and hoping, in reclaiming the Elixir.
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 t
he 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.”
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