The Midnight Witch

by Paula Brackston

  A laugh from the shadows is followed by an incredulous question. “You mean us to become followers of Lazarus?”

  “I do not. I mean us to conquer them, and to assimilate the followers, to absorb them into our own group. The Lazarus Coven would cease to exist and the Sentinels would become the keepers of the Elixir. We would, at last, fulfill our destiny.”

  At this the other members fall silent. Stricklend knows some will find that the idea has appeal. But it is ambitious. And such ambition, at such a time, might cause them to overreach themselves. Might cause them to fail.

  “We must decide,” Stricklend tells them. “We cannot let the matter rest any longer. The time is, after so many years of waiting, perfect for us to make our move. The country is in a state of flux with war imminent. The Lazarus Coven have a new and unproven young Head Witch. We have at last succeeded in having our spy infiltrate their number. There will never be a better moment. We must not leave this place until we are agreed upon our course of action, and until we have decided how best it should be executed.”

  While the Sentinels stand in silent thought, far below them in the choir stalls young men raise their angelic voices upward, ever upward, so that sublime music drifts aloft to soothe the furrowed brows of those in the Whispering Gallery.

  * * *

  Throughout this time of turmoil and disturbance there is one aspect of my life that brings me such joy, it is as if I am two different people at once. Indeed, that is precisely what I am. I am Morningstar, who must put the coven before all else, and I am Lilith, a girl in love. What conflicting emotions stir me! I do my best to give the impression that nothing unusual disturbs my equilibrium, but in this I am not always successful. Charlotte, certainly, has noticed the difference in me, but then she is, of course, in my confidence where my affection for Bram is concerned. I have had to acknowledge to myself that my feelings for Louis cannot compare with what I now feel for Bram. The thought of causing him pain is dreadful, but I know I cannot continue with our engagement. I cannot marry him. To do so would be dishonest, however much it may be what he and Mama want for me. Now that I know what true love feels like, how one can be transformed by it … I cannot turn away from it. I know I will have to face Louis, to find the right moment to talk to him. It is something I dread doing, and I admit I am relieved he has gone to his country estate in Hampshire for the shooting, so that I have at least a little time to consider how I will try to explain to him … how I will break his heart.

  In the meantime, I try to see Bram as often as I can. Ours is not an easy romance to conduct. I cannot introduce him to Mama, who would put a stop to our seeing each other at once. And the grounds she would use to do so would rankle and irk and cause me to inwardly rage, and yet I would know them to be valid. This means we are compelled to meet in secret or, at least, with utmost discretion. In this, Charlotte has proved a great ally, due, I think, as much to her love of the idea of love, as to her affection for me. She provides the necessary alibi, so that I might leave the house unquestioned, and otherwise unaccompanied. Bram has finished his portrait of her, so that when she sits for Mangan—who has yet, helpfully, a fair amount of work to do on his sculpture—he and I are free to spend our time together. And what freedoms exist in that house! We take ourselves up to his garret rooms, unchaperoned, where we can be reasonably sure of uninterrupted privacy. If Mama knew … well, she must not know.

  The motor cab speeds through the icy streets of Bloomsbury. Christmas shoppers are abroad, and the atmosphere is already festive. Charlotte is full of her plans for the next few weeks, but I find it hard to be attentive. There are things I do not wish to think about, and Christmas is one of them. How will I ever be able to engineer further meetings with Bram if Charlotte is engaged on a ceaseless round of parties and functions? This will be such a difficult Christmas for Mama as it is, I cannot give her something else to fret about. And Freddie grows ever more restless at Radnor Hall, threatening almost daily to return to London. Bram has not spoken of his own plans, but it would be perfectly reasonable of him to go home to Yorkshire. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from him so soon.

  “Oh! Do look, Lily, the Mangan children have decorated the house.” Charlotte tugs at my sleeve.

  Indeed they have. Not satisfied with a simple holly wreath on the front door, most of the lower half of the narrow town house has been festooned with greenery, either fir boughs or holly or mistletoe. The effect is quite mad, but at the same time enchanting. Two of the younger children, tightly wrapped against the cold, are still adding to the decorations, tying string through painted wooden shapes and distributing them here and there as Jane and Perry hold them so that they might reach. They see us and wave. I consider it nothing less than marvelous, the way in which the household has quietly accepted the closeness between Bram and me. I have received not so much as a disapproving glance or any of the more robust responses I might have expected from the great sculptor himself.

  Once inside, Charlotte makes her way to the studio. Gudrun saunters out from the drawing room and calls up the stairs to Bram.

  “Artist! You have a visitor.” She steps closer to me, and for the first time I feel her scrutinizing me, as she leans against the newel post, cigarette in hand, head cocked as she considers me thoughtfully through curls of smoke. “You are a very beautiful woman,” she decides, “and our Artist is a very beautiful man.”

  I am trying to form a suitable response to such an odd statement when she goes on.

  “Do you think this is enough, Beauty? Do you think this will overcome all?” she asks, her German accent seeming stronger today than at other times.

  “I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “I think what’s beneath the surface is more important.”

  “Oh? And would he love you if you were plain? Or you him?” She flicks ash carelessly onto the floor. “And what is it that you think lies underneath that matters so much? He is an artist, after all. He cares very much for beauty. They all do.”

  You won’t tell him your secret!

  The unexpected voice of a spirit shocks me into open-mouthed silence. He is so adept at catching me off guard. I steady myself. I have decided I will not talk with him anymore. I have asked Druscilla to help me, and we have planned a summoning. I admit I am nervous about it, this spirit has such attendant bitterness and hatred, such as I have never known before. But Druscilla is the most skilled necromancer I know. I am reassured that she will be with me. We will face him together, for face him we must. It is imperative we discover his links to the challenger and to the Sentinels.

  You will never be able to tell him what you are!

  The voice sounds so vehement, so angry.

  Go away! This is none of your business.

  Anything you do is my business, Daughter of the Night.

  I have not summoned you. This is not the time …

  Do not forget who you are, Morningstar. You cannot escape your destiny, any more than I escaped mine. To be free of your burden you must rid yourself of it. It was passed down to you, a poisoned chalice because it is not truly yours. You must give it up. You must.

  Gudrun is frowning at me, clearly surprised I have no argument to give to what she has said, little knowing that I have another clamoring for my attention. Bram’s hurrying footsteps on the stairs save me from having to respond.

  “There you are, Artist. Better not keep Beauty waiting,” she says, pausing to dust off his lapel lazily before disappearing back into the drawing room.

  Bram gives a shrug, then a smile, then snatches up my hand and kisses it quickly. We can hear approaching children and the dog, and before they can reach us he leads me swiftly away, up the stairs to his rooms. Even in my good new coat and fur hat I can feel the temperature drop as we enter the attic space. The fact is, there is very little warmth on the ground floor, and none at all in the bedrooms, and what heat might remain to drift upward simply continues its journey through the frozen slates or holes in the roof. As Bram bustles a
bout boiling a kettle for tea I can see his breath forming small clouds in front of him. He glances at me, clearly unsurprised to see I have not removed my coat.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It is horridly cold up here.”

  “The tea will warm us.”

  “If I can ever get this blasted gas to light, the matches are so damp … there. Shouldn’t take too long.” He leaves the kettle and hurries back to wrap me in his strong arms. “It is ridiculous that I subject you to this,” he murmurs into my hair.

  “There is no place on earth I would rather be.”

  “There is nothing in the least bit romantic about pneumonia,” he warns, “which is what we shall both soon have if we are obliged to hide ourselves away in the roof like, oh, I don’t know, a pair of mice.”

  “Bats,” I tell him. “I would rather we were bats.” I smile up into his lovely face. “The cold doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” For a long moment we say nothing but gaze at each other, reveling in the embrace. He kisses the very tip of my nose.

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t even feel that, your poor dear nose is so frozen.”

  “Better kiss me again, then.”

  He does, but not my nose. This time he puts his lips to mine and I melt into the blissful closeness of a long, luxurious kiss. The heavenly moment is pierced by the shrill cry of the kettle. Bram lets me go, grinning. He pushes his unruly hair out of his eyes and claps his hands together, rubbing them in a businesslike fashion.

  “Tea,” he says, hurrying back to his task. He fills the pot and puts a little milk and sugar in the cups. He is careful to shut the sugar tin and milk away in the shabby metal cupboard where he stores his comestibles. He gives the tea in the pot a stir before pouring it with a flourish from some height.

  “Do you know, until I met you I had never seen a man make tea.”

  “I’m happy to hear I have added so significantly to your life experiences.”

  “Particularly with the tea making.”

  “Particularly.”

  He brings the steaming cups and sets them down on the low table in front of the single armchair. When I hesitate he plonks himself down in it, taking hold of my hand as he does so and pulling me onto his lap.

  “Thing with only having one decent chair,” he tells me, “is that you have to decide: share or take turns. Sharing is warmer.”

  “I like sharing.”

  “Excellent. Then we are in agreement.”

  “As in so many things.”

  “Only now you will have to pass the tea over.”

  I do so carefully and we sit with our hands wrapped around the saucerless cups, sipping at the scalding drink.

  “It’s too cold to go out today,” he says.

  I laugh a little. “It might be warmer than in here.”

  “Snow is threatened.”

  “We could go to the Soldiers’ Arms and sit by the fire.” The little public house has become one of our favorite haunts. No one who knows me would ever go to such a place, and the walk there is short, so we are not at any great risk of being seen. But there is the matter of money. Bram was paid well for Charlotte’s portrait, and is hopeful for further commissions on the back of it, but none have yet been forthcoming, and we are both aware that the money will not keep him for long, especially if we spend it on brandy. I have insisted on paying my share, but he simply will not let me pay when he cannot.

  “Not today,” he says. “Today I’d like to do something different.”

  “Oh?”

  He looks unsure of himself, but continues.

  “I want to paint you, Lilith. Please say you’ll let me.”

  “Only if you’ll allow me to buy the picture from you when it is finished.”

  “Don’t be absurd. How could I let you pay for it?”

  “Then I won’t sit. It is my only condition.”

  “Really? Your only condition?”

  “Absolutely. A fair price, the minute it is completed.”

  “I won’t want to part with it.”

  “You can keep it here, show it to Mangan, if you’re pleased with it. Perhaps it will gain you some commissions.” I do not mention that I can hardly take it home to hang above the stairs at Fitzroy Square. How would I ever explain its existence to Mama?

  He thinks about this for a while and then smiles broadly. “Very well, I accept your condition.”

  I hop to my feet, excited at the prospect of being his model now. “Where shall I sit? I trust you don’t expect me to remove my clothes. I would freeze to death before the paint was dry.”

  “Only your hat,” he says, leading me over to where he has the easel set up. I see now that there is a canvas in place and a chair positioned just so on the other side of it. Had he really been so sure I would agree to sit? He already knows me better than I know myself.

  You know that he does not, Lilith. He cannot!

  The voice is so unexpected that this time it makes me jump.

  “Lilith, what is it?”

  “Oh, nothing. I … thought I saw a mouse. Over there,” I tell him, sitting on the worn wooden chair and allowing him to turn my face fractionally to one side.

  “There,” he says, “that is perfect. There is not much light this time of year, but what there is now falls directly onto one side of your exquisite face, my love. Your hair, though.” He frowns. “It should be loose. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I say, reaching up to take it down from the high bun into which it is coiled.

  “Please … let me.” One by one, with great tenderness, he removes the hairpins. Slowly. Carefully. Allowing each lock of hair to fall naturally onto my shoulders. Such an intimate action, such gentleness, should be blissful, but I am still tense, alert, waiting for the Dark Spirit to speak again, so that the moment is quite spoiled.

  When he has finished his task Bram stands back to look at me. “Now,” he asks, “are you comfortable? Can you hold this pose, do you think?”

  “Quite comfortable,” I assure him, though I find I am stupidly anxious. The unwanted spirit is still with me. I can sense him watching. Listening. Ready to remind me of the fact that Bram does not know, cannot know, that the woman he adores, the woman he has lost his heart to, the woman who now sits before him, holds such strange and powerful secrets. I do my best not to let my anxiety show, but Bram is not so easily fooled. He is, it seems, attuned to my own moods and cannot help but see that something is troubling me deeply.

  “Darling, please tell me what it is.”

  “I … cannot.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t you recall what I told you? Nothing you can tell me about yourself would alter my feelings for you. You must surely believe that now. Do you doubt me, is that it?”

  “No. No, it’s not that.”

  “Is it…” he hesitates, and then goes on, “is it something to do with your fiancé? Breaking off the engagement will not be easy, I know…”

  “It’s not about Louis.”

  “Then what?” He takes my hands in his and feels them tremble. “How can I help you if you will not talk to me?”

  Perhaps you should tell him. Tell him what you are and see how he regards you then. It will be interesting to watch his promises of love turn to an expression of disgust.

  I leap from my chair, pushing past Bram, my hands over my ears.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  Bram grabs me and pulls me to him. He is searching my face for answers and knows that my cries are not directed at him. “Who is it, Lilith? Who is making you so very afraid? Tell me.”

  “I can’t! You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I could try.”

  “It’s impossible. We are impossible. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be seeing you.” I try to pull away from him, but this time he will not let me go. I can hear his voice, soothing yet urgent. I can hear the Dark Spirit, goading and laughing at me. I can hear other spirits now, disturbed by the activity of such a powe
rful soul from the Darkness. I can hear my loyal captains offering their help. I am deafened. I am drowning in all their voices, all their words. I feel as if my mind will burn up from it all. I let out a shriek, and as I do so I unintentionally loose a shock of magic, fiery and dangerous, without direction, that lights up the entire attic space. The heat of it sends Bram hurtling backward, crashing against the far wall. The easel and chair are overturned, the teapot and cups dashed against the floor and smashed, the armchair upended, the bed turned, the mirror burst in smithereens from its frame. The blinding light lasts a second, no more, but when it passes and cools, there is an aroma of singeing hair and wood and dust. I stand very still, my fists clenched, my hair flowing outward, billowing, undulating, as if moved by a celestial breeze.

  Slowly, cautiously, Bram gets to his feet. He looks a little bruised, and shocked, but otherwise unharmed. He takes in the devastation of the room and then returns his bewildered gaze to me.

  The Dark Spirit has, mercifully, been silenced by my outburst.

  I take a long, deep breath and look at the man I love, levelly, calmly. I want to hold close in my memory that dear, loving face in case, after I have spoken, he never turns it upon me again.

  “You know me as Lady Lilith Montgomery, daughter of the sixth duke of Radnor. And so I am. But my father also happened to be Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven. A position that, when he died, passed on to me. My chosen name is Morningstar, and I lead a coven dedicated to the art of necromancy, sworn to commune with the dead in the Land of Night for the good of all, and to protect the Great Secret. In short, my darling, darling Bram, you have fallen in love with a witch.”

  * * *

  Bram pulls the rough blanket a little tighter around Lilith’s shoulders. In his narrow bed they lie together, fully clothed beneath the covers, holding one another in an embrace that he wishes would never end. In those first moments after Lilith told him, after she uttered in all seriousness—and he knew it was serious—the word “witch” he had felt as if he were falling. As if nothing he thought he knew would ever be true again. As if he could not, now, be certain of anything. The ground under him might not be real. Indeed, at that moment it had seemed to dissolve beneath his feet and no longer to be able to bear his weight. He knew one thing—Lilith was not lying. Nor did he believe her to be mad. Which meant that what she said was the truth. She was a witch. A witch, she had gone on to explain, who talked to the dead and who was capable of magic. This last was not, in fact, a surprise to him.