At least I shall be warm there, he thinks, even if it means I must trudge across London four times a week until the portrait is finished.
He reaches out and touches the canvas. The paint is still sticky. A freezing space with air damp from the stove is a poor environment in which to attempt to work with oils. The moisture in the air means the painting takes forever to properly dry, so that he has to wait many hours, sometimes days between sessions. The low temperatures mean the paint all but freezes in the tubes and is difficult to mix, but at least his new stove has gone some way to remedying this. He has chosen to depict Lilith using a limited palette of muted browns and blues. The effect is dramatic, if slightly somber. And somehow mysterious.
The thought of not seeing her, of there coming a time when she might disappear out of his life completely, causes him real physical pain.
Footsteps on the stairs shake him from his thoughts. There is a knock at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Gudrun lets herself in. She has two cups coffee on a small tray and a cigarette between her teeth. Bram takes one of the drinks from her, wrapping his fingers around it gratefully, sniffing brandy in the steam.
“I heard you stamping about up here,” she tells him. “It is as if I am living beneath an elephant.”
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Who could truly dare sleep in this cold? We might never wake up.” She saunters over to the easel. “Ah, your little liebling. Very good, Artist. Really, it is very good. You have found your muse at last.”
“Oh, I think she will only let me paint her once.”
“Pity. She stirs something in you.” She gives him a blatantly vulgar glance which, much to his annoyance, causes Bram to blush. “So, you have not yet taken her into your narrow little bed.”
“I don’t see that is any of your business.”
“Don’t be such a prude. In this house everything is everybody’s business.”
“Perhaps I prefer to keep some things private.”
“Why?” She shakes her head, genuinely baffled by this. “Do you think your sex life is so very different from anyone else’s? What do you think Mangan is doing to me when you hear him roaring in the night, hmm? What is he doing with Jane, on the days when she can be bothered to care? How do you think the house came to be full of children?” She folds her arms, still smoking, sighing at him. “You English make too much fuss about sex, anyway. How long are you going to go on torturing yourself with Beauty? What are you waiting for? She’s never going to marry you.”
Bram frowns now and looks away from her, contemplating his feet.
“You surely do not think this?” Gudrun laughs flatly. “My God, Artist, you do! You think Lady Lilith, daughter of a duke, who has ridiculous amounts of money and could marry a prince if she wanted to … you think she is going to marry you?” She laughs again. “Has she even broken off her engagement to that handsome viscount of hers? I have not read of it in the paper.”
“If you’ve just come up here to mock us, mock me, you can take your nasty coffee and leave.”
“Oh, I have hurt your feelings. Forgive me, Artist. I grow cynical. Why shouldn’t she marry you? Why not marry for love? There is plenty of space in here, after all. Jane can help look after your beautiful artist babies. And Mangan won’t mind, though of course he will expect you to share her with him. Do you think Beauty would like that? Some highborn ladies find the wild man exciting. Perhaps yours is no different.”
Bram has never in his life wanted to hit a woman, but he knows he is as close to doing so now as he will ever come.
“Get out,” he says.
Gurdun shrugs, drops her cigarette butt to the floor, and grinds it out with her heel.
“I’ll go,” she says. “I’ll leave you to your dream of love in a perfect world.” She pauses as she passes him. “Just don’t leave it too long to enjoy her, Artist, or you may miss your chance. Because one day she won’t come knocking on your door anymore, and it will be because she has married some dusty, dry aristocrat with a big house and a grand title. Still, there is always, as you English with your relentless optimism will say, the lining of silver in the cloud.” She smiles at him from the doorway. “An artist always does his best work when his heart is broken. You will see.”
* * *
We passed a dreary Christmas at Fitzroy Square. Father’s absence was all the more painful for the memories of happy times gone by. Against all odds I persuaded Freddie to stay at Radnor Hall, so it was just Mama and I who sat down to a Christmas day meal for which neither of us had any appetite. For the sake of the servants, we observed the traditions the house ordinarily followed for the festive season, though of course these were muted by our status of mourning. Mama was reluctant to take part in anything, but I convinced her that the staff should not be done down. Duty, as always for someone of my parents’ generation, is the clarion call to arms. Christmas Eve saw her giving out small gifts beneath the exquisitely bedecked tree in the hall. Together we attended a service at St. Bartholomew’s on the Strand at midnight. She was even persuaded to come to the door to listen to carol singers on one occasion. She and I knew, however, that such involvement did not necessarily reflect her own inner spirits, and we were both relieved when the festivities came to an end, the decorations were put away, and life in the house was allowed to return to its quiet winter rhythm once again.
Aside from fretting about Father and how he now thinks of me, and watching my mother struggle with the endlessness of her grief, the most difficult thing for me to bear has been separation from Bram. We have scarcely been able to meet at all these long, dark months. Mangan finished his sculpture of Charlotte in time for it to be presented to the Pilkington-Adamses by Christmas, so there has been no excuse for me to accompany her to the house in Bloomsbury. She has been stalwart in providing an alibi for us when she can, but since her mother decided to take the family to their Scottish estate for the New Year and has seen fit to keep her there, we are without our best ally. We write notes and letters, but must be careful that even these are not seen by Mama, who would set about asking all manner of questions. She would not approve of Bram. Indeed, I can think of no way of presenting him in a light that would make her look at him favorably. Any thought of the future casts me down, and my cowardly tactic for enduring this is simply not to think of it.
As if there were not obstacles enough in the path of our seeing each other, the events of Yulemass have complicated things still further. An emergency meeting was held, with only the senior witches present. It was decided that I should not be left at any time unguarded. I railed against such a decision, reasoning that I have my own guardian spirits who accompany me whenever I am out of the house. It is well known among coven members that I have an able and trustworthy escort in my Cavalier captains. But there is fear among my fellow witches now. The threat to me is unavoidably a threat to the security and perhaps even the continuation of the coven itself. Those who were singled out by Amelia for the dreadful prophecy of loss she brought with her are understandably anxious that we strengthen our position. Further spirits have already been called or summoned in an effort to gain more detailed information of what lies ahead, and of what might be done to change things. Sadly, we have found little comfort, for the consensus seems to be that war is inevitable. Amelia was, alas, right about this.
In addition, we have taken to holding regular meetings of the whole coven, in order to maintain and strengthen the bonds between witches, to cast and enforce spells of protection and incantations designed to alert us to danger. We have set up groups within the coven, working in rotation, undertaking frequent callings and summonings of spirits that may give assistance or comfort in these difficult times. Some are able to pass on specific, if fragmentary information about the forces that oppose us, whether Sentinels or foreign militia. Others suggest courses of action that might prove sensible, or warnings if certain members or their family are in particular peril. It seems our work as nec
romancers will become ever more important, both in the coming war abroad and our own, closer to our coven home.
The earl of Winchester has insisted one of his own guardian spirits, a fearsome Goth, accompany me when I am out after dark. This has horribly curtailed my movements. While I might persuade the spirit to wait outside Mangan’s house, he still reports back to his master regarding my whereabouts. And the earl has taken it into his head that the closer Louis is to me, the safer he becomes. Indeed he has clearly been pressuring him to redouble his efforts to press me for a date to marry, and has insisted he return to London. Last time he called at the house I felt terrible, seeing how worried he is and knowing I can only add to his difficulties now. He looked so very frightened, and yet did his best to sound cheerful and brave, that my heart went out to him.
When I am trying to be sensible I wonder, could the earl be right, perhaps? Might it be that if Louis and I were to form such an alliance, a pairing of witches and a joining of two ancient families of necromancers, might he be saved? If that is the case, it could be seen as my duty to marry him. And how happy it would make Mama. But what of Bram? What of love? There are times when it seems I must consider everyone else before myself, and Bram barely at all. If I were Mama I would know exactly what to do. I would marry Louis.
And now at last winter is fading and we are beginning to emerge from its gloom into spring. Today Freddie is expected home. Part of me longs to have him here, but I am wary. From Withers’s reports it seems he has been spending longer and longer time away from the hall. Who knows what he has been doing. I have sent a friendly spirit to watch over him, but it is a difficult task to do well. Freddie might not be a witch, but he is aware of our practices, and clever enough when it suits him. Over the years he has become quite adept at evading anyone Father or I have sent to guard him. After all, who are they guarding him from if not himself, and how can they possibly succeed in that?
* * *
The glorious early spring morning is too good to miss, Bram insists, and they cannot possibly pass it indoors. Besides, the portrait is finished. He is secretly delighted with it, and he senses that Lilith is, too. He knows he has captured the essence of her, and the muted hues he chose have worked better than he dared hope.
Winter has now fully relinquished its grip on London, and brave new life can be found forcing its way up from previously frozen flower beds, bare branches, and even between cobbles and paving slabs. Small birds flit to and fro gathering twigs and beakfuls of all manner of snatched materials for their nests. The sun is still low in the sky, and the days not yet lengthened into spring proper, but there is a sense of regeneration, of renewal, of hope. This rebirth of slumbering life has infected Bram with what he knows in his heart to be a misplaced optimism. He has even managed to persuade Lilith that they can venture out in public together for once.
The second he sees her slender figure standing by the entrance to the zoological gardens he knows the darkness of winter, of her time of mourning, of the most acute phase of her grief, all have passed. She is quite changed. Although still dressed in her sumptuous black woolen coat, she has chosen a hat of silver-gray, with matching gloves. He marvels at how such a tiny lifting, a minute step of barely a shade, can bring about such an alteration. Her complexion seems rosier, brighter, more alive.
For a brief moment she does not see him, so that he is free to enjoy watching her. As he does so he notices something curious. Lilith takes out a handkerchief to dab at her dust-smarted eyes. As she is putting it back into her bag she drops it. It falls to the ground, and she stoops to pick it up, but she does not reach the ground. Instead, the small square of cotton and lace appears to rise up to meet her outstretched hand. Bram marvels at what it must be like to have magic as part of one’s everyday life. At one’s disposal for things both trivial and important.
And then she looks up and spies Bram, and her green eyes shine, and the smile with which she greets him warms his heart. As soon as she reaches him he snatches up her hand and presses it to his lips. For a moment they stand close, without speaking, desire fizzing between them. At last she pulls away.
“Come along,” she says, smiling, “I want to visit the wolves.”
They walk on past the aquarium, beyond the new Mappin Terrace with its bears and arctic animals, and to the very edge of the zoological gardens where a wooded area borders Regent’s Park. Here a shaggy-pelted wolf pack have been given an unlikely home. Lilith loops her arm through Bram’s, and they watch the lupine family stretch and yawn and stir themselves for a new day.
“They don’t look at all savage,” she says.
“That’s because there is a sturdy fence between us and them.”
“No, it’s because they are never hungry. They don’t have to hunt. Everything is given to them.”
“I shouldn’t imagine they mind. Look at that one, he’s positively plump,” Bram points to a black wolf lolling beneath a silver birch.
“It isn’t right. They should be living wild, not in a park.”
But Bram is not listening. He pulls away from her, his eyes wide, his expression stricken, as he feels the weight of a terrible coldness, a dreadful dark energy, enter his body.
“My God!” he cries, struggling for air. It is as if he is being crushed from within, his lungs pressed as though in the grasp of some unseen giant, his heart constricted, unable to beat as it should.
“Oh, Bram! What is it, what’s the matter?” She gasps as Bram staggers backward, clutching at his head.
He opens his mouth to speak, to try to tell her of the fierce ringing inside his skull, of his fight to breathe, of the blackness descending upon him, but he can form no words, can make no sound.
I am dying! Dear Lord, my body surely cannot withstand …
“Bram! Listen to me. You must listen to me!”
Lilith kneels beside him as he slumps against the railings of the wolf enclosure. Behind the iron bars, the animals are suddenly awake, alert, pacing swiftly this way and that. Bram knows Lilith is talking, telling him something, but he is so very dizzy, in so much pain, it is hard to make out her words.
“It is the Dark Spirit. It is Willoughby. He caught us unawares, here, in daylight … I let down my guard. My darling, you must do what I tell you.”
“Argh!” Bram screams as a stab of pain pierces his body.
How can this be?
“I can see no one!” he gasps. “I hear no voice.”
“But I do. He is mocking me. He is … he is showing me what he is capable of. What he can do. What he will do if I refuse to give him what he wants.”
“Give him … nothing!” Bram insists through clenched teeth.
“Stay awake, my darling! He is trying to manipulate your mind. You must not fall unconscious. The stronger you fight him, the better able I will be to send him from you.”
Lilith leaps to her feet, oblivious to the anxious stares of passersby. A young man steps forward to offer his help, but she waves him away furiously, standing guard over Bram, trusting nobody. “Leave him be!” she cries. “He is not yours to inhabit. I command you, return to the Darkness where you belong and release this man from your grasp!”
The confused onlookers move back. They think Lilith is talking to them, and her words appear those of a madwoman. Bram knows different. He knows she is trying to control the Dark Spirit. He bends forward, clutching at his chest.
I will not be broken like some toy in this vicious game!
He forces himself upright, clinging to the railings. Behind him the black wolf also stands its ground, head low, hackles raised. He catches its eye as he hauls himself to his feet. Its teeth are bared and it emits a ferocious growl. It is the growl not of a hunter after its prey, but of an animal in terror.
Lilith has set up a chanting. The small collection of people nearby has thinned as men lead their women away from the lunatic and her ailing friend. Someone has summoned a keeper, but he stops short when he sees the wildness in Lilith’s eyes as she holds h
er arms wide, her voice growing ever stronger and louder. Bram is aware that he has no breath left in his body, and if he does not take in air very soon, he will pass out. Try as he might he cannot force his chest to expand, cannot overcome the force that restricts him.
The gentle morning has been transformed into an atmosphere of turmoil, with an unnatural wind stirring up dust and whipping the branches of the nearby hazel bushes and birch trees. Lilith is shouting now, her words whisked away by the swirling gusts that snatch at her clothes. Her hat flies from her head, her hair is tugged from its pins, so that it billows out and tangles about her face. Bram sees she is giving her all, but that it might not be enough. His vision is beginning to blur and dim at the edges, and unconsciousness cannot be more than seconds away.
And then what? Then what?
He staggers along the iron fence, causing the black wolf to spring toward him, barking and snarling. He knows he must do something to stop himself from falling into that darkness. Summoning his last vestige of strength, he pushes his hand through the railings directly in front of the wolf. Instinctively, the animal lunges forward and sinks its teeth into Bram’s flesh.
He screams. And that scream forces his reluctant, failing body to take a deep, life-giving gulp of air. Oxygen surges through him. And in that instant, when he is stronger, and Willoughby’s hold is weakened, Lilith works her magic, and the spirit is sent spinning away. Far away.
The Midnight Witch Page 24