It is my search for answers to these questions that finds me heading for the shabby house in Bloomsbury while the rest of the world slumbers. I have slipped away alone, unseen. I need a confidante. Someone who might help me make sense of what has happened. Someone I trust utterly.
The carriage arrives at my destination. I alight onto the pavement and the driver, whose discretion is beyond question, flicks the reins quietly, moving away to wait in the shadows. It would not do for curious eyes, however unlikely, to notice the Montgomery carriage parked outside the house of a disreputable bohemian artist in the small hours of the night. I do not knock, but open the door which has been left unlocked so that I may make my entry as quickly and quietly as possible. I have visited the house on a number of occasions, always in darkness, and so have become adept at navigating the flotsam and jetsam of the hallway as we thread through the gloom to the studio at the rear of the building. Mangan is waiting for me.
“Ah!” He takes an unlit pipe from his mouth and holds out his hand in greeting. “The splendid, shining Morningstar. Welcome! Welcome.” He grasps my hand in his and does not so much shake as squeeze it warmly. During our meetings I feel I have come to know the outlandish sculptor quite well, and I am aware of how much he has to dampen his natural ebullience and indeed volume if he is not to wake the whole household. He bids me be seated, clearing a space on a dusty chaise. The only light in the room comes from two short candles, and the gray wash of the city night with its blurring streetlamps diffused through the glass roof and frontage. It is not so much illumination as a subtle lessening of the blackness.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I tell him, but he dismisses my gratitude with a wave of his pipe.
“My dear, beautiful girl, have not I always insisted you are welcome here whenever you need me? That has been the case since your father appointed me one of your tutors all those long, sunlit summers ago. Now that you are elevated to Head Witch you are, of course, doubly entitled to any help you feel I can give you. I am your friend and your servant.”
Not for the first time I have reason to be thankful for my father’s foresight. When he chose Mangan as one of my instructors there were those in the coven who voiced their doubts. I recall Lord Grimes protesting that such a man was unsuitable to give any sort of guidance to a young woman. Mangan is known for his wild ways, for his unorthodox living, for his flamboyant nature. Just as he is an outsider in society, so he is seen as a maverick in the coven, often kicking against our customs and traditions, urging us to reform, to move with the ever-changing times. And yet, he is perhaps one of those among us who truly lives his beliefs. He treats all men as equals, and all women, too. He is not hidebound by etiquette, and this gives him a certain freedom. Did Father consider I would need him to balance my rich diet of tradition and heritage? I wonder.
“I do need your help,” I tell him. “At the inauguration … poor Violet.” At last I can hold back my tears no longer. I have kept my grief and sorrow hidden from everyone, but now I can do so no more. I pluck a handkerchief from my purse and sob into it, unable to speak.
Mangan is more at ease with displays of emotion than my father would have been. He leans close and pats my hand.
“Terrible,” he agrees gently, “quite terrible. But you must not blame yourself.”
“How can I not?”
“I don’t say you must not for your own sake. You must not because as Head Witch you cannot afford yourself the luxury of wallowing in guilt and regret.”
I am taken aback by the harshness of this comment. He sees my reaction and attempts to soften his words.
“My dear girl, you have taken a huge step for one so young. This … honor, this great task, has been given to you without your asking for it. But it is your due. It is both your burden and your blessing. I know you will serve the coven well. And if there is anything I can do to help … Anything! Ask, and if it is within my gift, it is yours.”
I compose myself, putting my handkerchief away.
“I need to know who it was who challenged my right to be Head Witch.”
“Ah, naturally, that would be a sensible concern. Alas, I do not know who it was.”
“Have you no idea at all? You have spent so many years in the coven, seen so many new members inducted, acted as tutor to many … was not the voice, however distorted, just the tiniest bit familiar? Or the speaker’s stance, perhaps? Or his manner in any way?”
“I fear such a man—for we know that much at least—such a man would make certain his disguise was not so easily seen through. In that, he was successful.”
“But I felt certain you would be able to tell me something. The spirits, they have been speaking to me. Two of them specifically named you as the person I should turn to. They directed me to come to your house. They were insistent.”
“It may be they sought to send you where they knew you would be sure of support and reassurance. I fear that is all I can give to you on this matter, Daughter of the Night.” He sits beside me now, taking both my hands in his. “Don’t be afraid. There will always be someone foolish enough to want to test the new order; such an action does not necessarily mean the challenger would be a suitable candidate himself, hmm? And in any case, you saw him off! And in fine style, too.”
My shoulders sag. I had, I realize now, placed no small amount of hope on the notion that Mangan might know something. “There is more,” I tell him. “What prompted me to come to you is something … something difficult for me to express clearly. I am certain this … occurrence is connected to the challenge. I don’t know why, not clearly. I just feel that the two things, both so dark, so threatening, they must be connected. I hoped that if you could shed light upon the identity of the challenger you might also be able to give me guidance as to what to do…”
“Shh, my dear girl, you are making little sense. Take a breath. Calm yourself. Whatever it is you are trying to tell me about has clearly upset you a great deal. Take your time. I am listening.”
I do as he bids me and then begin again in a more measured and sensible fashion, choosing my words for clarity, making myself say aloud what I have scarcely dared face up to alone.
“I have been visited by a Dark Spirit. More than once. He comes to me unsummoned, uncalled, he … he has threatened me. He has threatened the coven.”
Mangan, briefly, is at a loss for words. His face shows how seriously he takes this news. At last he says, “Dear Morningstar, I don’t wonder that you are distressed. You have every right to be, both for yourself and for the coven.
“As a matter of fact,” he says, “it is fortunate you wanted to see me, for there was a matter I wished to talk to you about.” He hesitates, choosing his words with care. “Shortly before he died I visited your father and found him uncharacteristically agitated.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, he was more restless than I had ever seen him. I questioned him as to what it was that was troubling him. At first he was reluctant to speak of it, and then, once he decided to confide in me, he became quite vociferous. Quite determined that I should hear what he had to say.”
“Go on.”
“It seems that certain of the spirits with whom he had, over the years, if not regular then at least frequent contact, well, they had been contacting him to warn of a threat.”
“A threat to my father or to the coven?”
“Indeed, one must necessarily involve the other, but he gave me to understand the danger posed was to the coven and to all Lazarus witches. They stressed that it was an old adversary who was preparing to move against us.”
“The Sentinels?” Even saying their name aloud makes me shiver.
Mangan nods. “Your father believed so.”
“He did not speak to me of this.”
“As I say, it was but a few days before he died.” Mangan shrugs. “Perhaps your father was waiting until he was certain, until he had something more specific to tell you. And then the chance did not occur.”
“
I can see how that might have happened, but why, then, has he not mentioned it since? We have met in the catacombs. We have spoken at some length…”
Mangan pats my hand. “I am a father, too. Would I fill my child’s mind with such worries so close to the inauguration? I think not. He can’t have known about the challenge, or he would have been compelled to warn you. It may be he considered you had sufficient to occupy your thoughts and your nerves. He may be waiting for the moment to raise the matter.” He hesitates and then adds, “I confess, I myself was looking for the right time to talk to you of this. You are young, so newly come to a position of such responsibility, and still grieving for your father. Perhaps I should have spoken sooner … Now, of course, we have reason to think that whatever plan there is against us is set in motion.”
“You think the challenger was a Sentinel! One of our coven members?” I cannot keep the shock out of my voice.
“It would seem something of a coincidence otherwise, don’t you think?”
For a while I say nothing. I need to take in all that he has said. If the challenge was part of something more, something bigger, then I begin to doubt that I have successfully risen to it after all. I was clumsy, my magic as yet not confidently used. Things could so easily have ended badly. Will my challenger report that I am but a novice, and that the Lazarus Coven is in the hands of an unskilled girl?
I search Mangan’s face for answers. “Have you ever witnessed a demon summoning before?” I ask him.
“Once, many years ago. Not at an inauguration, though. It was a small coven meeting, convened expressly for the purpose. These skills have to be practiced from time to time, otherwise the knowledge of them would fade from memory and die out.”
“And was it … was it successful? Was a demon raised, and was it controlled and returned as it should have been?” The vivid memory of the demon hauling me on Maygor’s Thread toward the pit, of Violet’s shrieks of pain, of the moment her life ended, all assail me as I think of them now.
Mangan gently lets go of my hands.
“These things, as you have seen all too clearly, are very dangerous. The summoning is the least of it.” He pauses and stares at the floor for a long moment, and then goes on, “Eight witches entered the chamber that night. Only seven left it.”
We sit in silence as we contemplate the full meaning of his words.
“So you see,” he says at last, “what you achieved was no small feat. You have justly earned the respect of all those present. And, no doubt, given your detractor pause. Ha! Shouldn’t wonder if the fellow wasn’t scared half out of his wits himself!”
He cannot contain a short burst of laughter. The sound is so loud in the stillness of the room I worry someone will hear. We listen for a few seconds, but can detect no footfalls or creaking stairs. We are both startled, therefore, when Perry appears in the doorway. Even in the dimness I can see that he is still groggy with sleep and his brocade robe has been hastily thrown on over his nightshirt.
Mangan springs to his feet.
“Ah, Perry. Did we disturb you with our chatter?”
“I … forgive me, Mangan, I did not realize you were … entertaining.” He turns as if to leave, but Mangan hurries after him, taking his arm and steering him back into the room. Now that we are discovered, it is important the confused man be with us long enough for a spell of forgetting to be worked upon him.
“Come along in. Look—Lilith has come to see us.”
I nod my greeting to the dazed interloper. It feels strange to be called only by my first name, with no title or formalities. I know Perry will recall none of it in the morning, for Mangan will work a swift spell of forgetting to erase this meeting from his mind. Indeed, he even takes advantage of the young man’s presence, sending him into the kitchen to make tea.
We are left alone again. For a while we return to the subject of a possible threat to the coven. He agrees with me that we should convene a meeting of the senior witches as soon as possible, and organize a calling to consult the spirits further. It is now that I think to speak to him of the spirit who was present at the ceremony, but before I can do so Perry has reappeared with the tea and we allow our talk to turn to more personal matters, awaiting the right moment for Mangan to send him to his room and relieve his memory of my ever having been here.
“How is Jane?” I ask. “And the children?”
“All in rude health, as ever.”
“And your work goes well?”
“It is both my pleasure and my torment, as it will always be.”
I glance at Perry and whisper, “We should have been more careful. We might have woken others in the house.”
“I doubt it.” Mangan smiles. “The children would sleep on though the last trump sounded, and Jane is a true mother. Nothing stirs her save the smallest whimper of one of her offspring, at which she is up and out of the bed before her eyes have fully opened. Gudrun will not wake before noon, whatever the provocation. And our new artist has his billet beneath the rafters, and no sounds can reach him there.”
I experience a frisson of delight at the mention of Bram, and for a moment am distracted by the thought of him sleeping upstairs.
I watch Mangan steer Perry from the room, pausing as he does so to blow me a kiss from the doorway. I compel myself to hold the thought he has given me. As Lilith, I may grieve for Violet. As Morningstar, I must not allow sorrow to weaken me. I must turn my thoughts to the notion that the Sentinels are moving against us, that they may be using a Dark Spirit to weaken me, and that one of them has wormed his way into the very heart of our coven.
At home the next day I cannot settle to anything and am aware of my sharpness with Mama. I must call a meeting of senior witches to discuss what is happening. It is only right that they are informed, and, in truth, I cannot do without their help. I send word that I will await them in the Great Chamber at midnight.
It seems strange to be standing alone in this sacred space now, but I felt in need of a short time of solitude before my fellow witches arrive. How peaceful it is in here tonight, the air not yet disturbed by either the physical presence of the living or the spectral presence of the dead. How different from the last time I was here. If I allow myself to think of that terrible creature I can see him clearly in front of me even now. I wanted to call Violet, to try to speak to her, but I was counseled against it. Lord Grimes was as gentle as he could be when he pointed out that, as she was taken down to the Darkness, she will not be easily called. Such a connection must only be attempted with support, if at all. Oh, poor dear Violet! But I cannot let the memory of what happened change the way I feel about this chamber. This is my domain. Mine. Mine to keep and guard, mine to use. Tonight it will be the meeting place for five senior witches including myself. I have requested them by name, the most trusted and experienced members of the coven. I need their wisdom. I need their help.
I thought carefully about whom I should ask to this meeting. Lord Grimes and Druscilla are old friends and obvious choices, of course. I decided against asking Mangan to attend. He has told me all he knows on the subject of the potential threat to the coven, and his presence can sometimes be a little disruptive. I know I can talk to him whenever I need to. Instead I have called Victoria Faircroft, who is nearly as old as Druscilla, but a very different type of witch. She is positively evangelical about magic and communing with spirits and has struggled all her life with the secrecy that surrounds the Lazarus Coven. I have chosen her precisely because she will take a different view from Druscilla on almost every point. Such a breadth of opinion will, I hope, be useful. The last of our number will be Lord Harcourt, the earl of Winchester. I may not like the man, but he had my father’s respect, and his loyalty to the coven is unswerving. And besides, I will soon be his daughter-in-law. I must learn to see him as an ally.
There are seven torches burning in their sconces around the curved walls of the chamber. They cast a welcome warmth, and their jumping flames a lively movement to relieve the solemnity
of the place. It is here where I received most of my instruction, here where I practiced my craft. Sometimes more successfully than others.
I am brought back to the present by sounds of approaching footsteps. The double doors are pushed open and the four senior witches stand on the threshold. It takes a moment for me to realize they are waiting for my invitation to enter.
“You are all most welcome,” I say. “Please, join me.”
Before the doors can be closed Iago scampers through them and comes to wind himself around my ankles. His purr reverberates about the chamber.
“Ahh, how perfectly charming!” cries Victoria Faircroft. “It is so rare to see a witch with her familiar these days, and I do so enjoy the quainter traditions being kept alive.”
Druscilla gives a snort. “Really, Victoria, you ought not to go bandying about words like ‘familiar.’ That sort of talk used to get people hanged, you know,” she says, sitting lightly if somewhat stiffly on the front bench. She holds her slight frame erect and contained as ever, and is dressed neatly in black.
Victoria is a blur of floating layers and pastel shades. She wears a gown that looks as if it might have come from a dressing-up box, and has added to it some sort of woolen sleeveless tunic and a trailing scarf. She wears no hat, and her hair is secured not by pins or combs but plaited and twisted upon her head and tied there with strips of silk. She favors long strings of beads, and leans her ample figure on a silver-topped cane as she embraces me with her free arm. The years have not been as kind to her as they have to Druscilla, and arthritis bends and swells her joints painfully. We exchange affectionate pecks, and I am all but overwhelmed by her perfume. At present she is awash with the scent of rose petals, but it is her habit to change flowers every twenty minutes or so.
The Midnight Witch Page 18