“I tried to persuade Lily to take me with her when she accompanied Charlotte for her sittings, but she refused me. Said genius must not be disturbed.”
“I said nothing of the sort.” Lilith colors a little.
“Well, you wouldn’t let me, in any case. I believe you like to keep your little secrets and you didn’t want me joining your bohemian arty group.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense, Louis. Why don’t you go and find someone to pester for a dance? The orchestra is about to play.”
He clutches dramatically at his heart and reels away. “Ah! You have a cruel streak in you, Lilith Montgomery—to speak to your own fiancé in such a way! But I shall not stay where I am not wanted. When you’ve finished talking about art and genius remember that I have the first waltz and a polka booked on your dance card.” So saying he disappears, grinning, into the crowd.
They watch him go, then Lilith raises her gaze to meet his and gives a faltering smile.
“I am sorry,” she says. “That was … difficult. I should have…”
“Told him? Yes, you should.” The words come out sounding far harsher than he intended.
Lilith frowns and briefly closes her eyes. He opens his mouth to take it back, to say he is sorry, but he is drowned out by the opening bars of a Strauss waltz.
He puts his hand on her arm. “Lilith … I had to come. Mangan wanted me here. And … I wanted to see you so very much. You look exquisite, my love.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but Louis reappears, bounding from the milling crowd.
“Our dance, I believe,” he says, offering Lilith his arm. She lets him lead her away, glancing back at Bram too briefly for him to be able to read her mood.
The music increases in volume. The hosts take to the floor amid much applause, and somehow, in all the excitement, Lilith melts into the crowd and is gone. When Bram sees her next, Viscount Harcourt is holding her tightly to him as they waltz expertly around the ballroom.
* * *
From his vantage point in the gallery overlooking the ballroom, Nicholas Stricklend has a useful view of everyone in whom he has an interest. His position also has the advantage of removing him from the hurly-burly of the revelries in which most of the guests are engaged. He does not enjoy social gatherings of any sort, but particularly dislikes those that involve such large numbers of people, all galloping about, quaffing poor champagne, and attempting to outdo one another in the weight of their jewels, the elaborateness of their gowns, and the volume of their laughter. The resulting fug of human heat turns his stomach. That the Anstruthers’ ballroom boasts a minstrel’s gallery is a bonus indeed. Better still, they have seen fit not to fill it with minstrels, but to position the orchestra below. With the dancing underway the gallery has all but emptied, which suits Stricklend very well.
He notices the earl of Winchester, who is not dancing, but watching his son with an attention bordering on obsession. As well he might. For his own part, Stricklend is pleased that the Yulemass prophecy has opened up another avenue to obtaining the Elixir—one that need not rely on anything so crude as the abduction and torture of the new Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven.
He can see Lilith Montgomery being whirled about the room to the accompaniment of Strauss’s oompah in what he decides is a proprietorial manner by the young Viscount Harcourt. While Stricklend does not choose to partake of friendships of any sort which involve physical contact, he has spent many years observing those who do. And all that he has learned brings him to the conclusion that the viscount is smitten, but the duke’s daughter is not. There is a stiffness about her back and shoulders, a tension in the way she carries her head, a lack of softening toward her dance partner that are at odds with the seemingly sincere smile she bestows upon him. The viscount, in contrast, grips her about the waist as if she might try to fly from his arms, and never for one instant takes his disconcertingly penetrating gaze from her face. He does detect, however, a certain affection on Lady Lilith’s part, but it appears to be something born of family ties, and of duty, rather than passion. It is however, he is quietly confident, an attachment that will be sufficient for his needs. The girl trusts the young man, that much is clear. Indeed, she apparently trusts most of the assembled company. Or else she merely finds safety in being in a crowd. How could anything untoward, let alone anything threatening, possibly happen to her here, in this dazzling place, surrounded by all these sparkling people? On his arrival Stricklend observed her guardian spirits waiting with laudable patience and loyalty at the entrance to the house. He was not surprised to see the dashing Cavaliers who always accompany her, but the hulking Goth is a new addition to her personal guard, and the second he spotted Stricklend he sent a burst of particularly unpleasant will in his direction as he passed.
As he watches the Lazarus witch dance, he catches something in her movement, a subtle inclining of the head, a sweeping glance in a particular direction, a focus in one part of the room. It does not take him long to find the object of her attention—a tall, good-looking man in ill-fitting clothes. He has the hair and eyes of a poet, but there is a line to his mouth that is full, yet quite severe, quite basic. What can such a girl as Lilith Montgomery, blessed in so many ways, want with a nonentity such as this? And yet, there is a strength about him, an intensity that does draw the eye.
Stricklend searches the throng for another who is necessary to his plans. At last he sees the tall, angular figure of the seventh duke of Radnor, glass of champagne in hand, already a little unsteady on his feet and evidently more interested in drinking than waltzing. Frederick Robert Wellington Montgomery can pass muster at the glance, but will fall woefully short of the mark under closer inspection. His skin has about it the fragility of one whose health is compromised. His jet-black hair is not fashionably floppy, but lackluster and lank. His eyes are at once restless and weary. If Stricklend were given to pity he might feel some for this somewhat pathetic creature, for his lot in life was not of his choosing. But a stronger young man would rise to the challenges of being born into witchery, necromancy, and aristocracy. Freddie Montgomery is weak, and Stricklend can find not the smallest iota of sympathy for one who had so much given him, and fell to weakness. Still, his flaws will prove useful to the Sentinels, and for that the permanent private secretary finds himself grudgingly grateful.
He checks his pocket watch and then turns toward the main entrance to the ballroom. At precisely fifteen minutes past ten, a strikingly glamorous young woman with a winning smile and an appealing swagger to her hips enters the room. She looks up at the gallery and sees him. Stricklend tucks the gold watch back into his waistcoat pocket and gives her a single but definite nod. She returns the gesture, and scours the room, taking out her fan, which she works coquettishly beneath her dark eyes. At length she finds her target and sashays between the guests until she stands directly behind Freddie. Stricklend watches as the woman taps him lightly on the shoulder. The young man turns, sees her, takes in the risqué loveliness of her, and smiles back. Within moments she has him laughing and stroking the back of her hand. Seconds later the pair thread their way, arm in arm, through the throng, and leave the ballroom together.
Satisfied, Stricklend adjusts his jacket minutely and quits the gallery, taking the ornate spiral staircase which descends to the dance floor. The waltz comes to an end, amid much gloved clapping, and is quickly followed by a minuet. Ladies study their dance cards. Men hurry this way and that looking for their partners. As Lilith turns about in search of her brother, as Stricklend knew she would, he moves forward and presents himself with a low bow.
“Lady Lilith, Lord Frederick has asked me to tell you he has had to step out for a moment, and so regrets he will not be able to partner you for the second dance as he promised.”
Lilith regards the stranger before her with puzzlement.
“Had to step out? Step out where?”
“Oh, not from the ball entirely. He promised you will see him shortly.”
“Oh.
I see.”
“In his absence, might I perhaps prevail upon you for this dance myself?”
“Forgive me, sir, but do I know you?”
“It is I who am at fault. My name is Nicholas Stricklend, and I have the honor to be permanent private secretary to the minister for foreign affairs. A dull title, I understand, but there it is.”
“And how do you come to know my brother?”
Stricklend pauses and does his best to arrange his features into what he hopes is a gentle smile. The lie he is about to present is distasteful to him not because it is a falsehood, but because it paints him as having a weakness, and a weakness of a variety that he finds particularly repugnant.
“Let us say your brother and I, we share a predilection for adventures of a singular and, some might say, moribund nature.” He watches her face with interest as she processes this information.
“I have no wish to associate with anyone who leads my brother into the destructive pastimes that are destroying his health and his mind. Will you kindly tell me where he has gone?”
“All in good time. Let us talk while we dance.”
“I will not dance with you, sir.” Lilith turns on her heel, but Stricklend calls her back, his voice still soft, his demeanor, should anyone observe it, friendly.
“Dance with me, Lady Lilith, or you will never see your brother alive again.”
18.
I struggle to take in what I am being told. There is something so very frightening about this stranger, I knew it the moment he spoke my name. I knew it before he uttered those terrifying words. I have no choice but to let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor. As we step this way and that, following the music that I scarcely hear, instinctively avoiding other dancing couples as we glide about, we must appear, for all the world, a perfectly respectable and undistinguished pair of dancers. This Stricklend is probably ten years my senior with a strong, fearsome energy about him. A dark, dark energy. I contemplate calling my guardians. I know they would come quickly to my side. But what manner of confrontation do I imagine I could instigate here, in the ballroom, among all these people? No, I must let him speak. He wants something from me, and Freddie is in great danger. I have no alternative but to play his abhorrent game and listen to what he has to say.
“I fear,” he begins, “I am not such an able dance partner as Viscount Harcourt. You and he are friends of long-standing, I believe, and now engaged to be married.”
“What has my relationship with Louis Harcourt to do with Freddie?”
“I am merely curious.”
“You have just informed me my brother is in peril, Mr. Stricklend, I have neither time nor interest in your curiosity. Say what it is you have to say.”
“As you wish, I will dispense with niceties.”
“I fail to see how there can be any in this situation!” I snap, causing Charlotte, who has just danced past me, to turn toward me with a worried frown. I must remain calm. I contrive not to meet her quizzical gaze.
“It really is quite simple, Lady Lilith. I am here to ask you for the Lazarus Elixir, for the spell that it requires, and for a list of its components.”
A chill grips me. Such a dread that I am robbed of words for a moment. When finally I rediscover my voice I cannot mask the tension in it.
“Are you quite mad?” I ask. “If you know of the existence of the Elixir, then you must be sufficiently informed about the workings of the Lazarus Coven to know I would never, under any circumstances, relinquish its details. Myself and my fellow witches are sworn to protect the Great Secret, with our lives, if necessary.”
“And with the lives of others?”
The terrible man even manages a polite smile as he forms the question which leaves me in no doubt as to what he has planned. The Elixir in return for Freddie. A simple trade. I glance about the room, but there is no sign of my brother. I am not surprised. I am not being challenged by the sort of person who would fail to put into practice the greater part of his threat. I know that. And now, thinking about what my father taught me, thinking about the dangers and threats he warned me of for so many years, I know who it is who stands before me. Ridiculous tears blur my eyes. I will not cry! I will not let this … creature see that I fear him. That I understand the gravity of the situation. I take a breath and raise my chin, putting a little more energy into the dance. I see his expression alter fractionally, registering surprise at my determination, I think.
“I have never, to my knowledge, stood in the presence of a Sentinel before,” I tell him.
“To your knowledge,” he repeats. The thin smile has gone now, and I can see from the lines on his face that this sterner, harsher countenance is more natural to him. “We do not announce ourselves,” he goes on, failing to resist the temptation to talk about his precious group. “Secrecy is the mainstay of our creed. Secrecy and strength. And we are strong, Lilith Montgomery, make no mistake about that. We mean to have the Elixir, and have it we shall. One way or another. You might consider yourself fortunate that I decided to offer you this chance to avoid any … unpleasantness. Leave with me now, take me to your beloved chamber—oh yes, we know all about that, we know all about you—take me there, give me what I want, and your pitiful brother will be returned to you unharmed.”
“And if I refuse?”
He pauses for just a few seconds before answering, but the melody suggests the piece is about to end, and I sense he does not wish to prolong our discussion beyond this single, hateful danse macabre.
“As I said, we will have the Elixir. The time is right for the Sentinels. We will not be denied what is rightfully ours any longer. The only choice you have in the matter is whether you give it to us or you have it taken from you.”
The music stops. I let go of his hand and step back. Around us guests clap with delight, and the mood is happy and carefree, and yet in front of me stands a man who threatens to be my nemesis. I swallow the cry in my voice that would burst forth if I let it. The cry for Freddie. The cry for the girl, the sister, the lover, I cannot ever be. The cry for the fact that no one can ever mean more to me than my duty to the coven. The noise level in the room is enough that I can be confident only Stricklend hears my words.
“I am Morningstar, Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven, and I will never reveal the Great Secret, to you or any other Sentinel, no matter the threat, no matter the sacrifice!”
Before he can respond I turn on my heel and march from the ballroom. From the corner of my eye I see Louis watching me go. I hurry on so that he cannot delay me. The one thought on my mind now is to find Freddie.
In the hallway, maids and footmen scurry to assist me, offering to fetch my cape or call a driver, but I tell them I am feeling faint and I need a quiet room to sit in for a few moments. A sprightly maid leads me upstairs and shows me into a small bedroom. I decline her further offers of help with my clothes or fetching water and suchlike and she leaves me. The second I am alone I stand at the window, eyes closed, and call to my guardians. As they rejoin me I bid them show themselves. At such a time I have a very human need to see them, to make them feel as tangible, as substantial as the threat to me, even though they are not.
My brave captains are the first to come. Their fury at my distress is evident, and they are all for taking off after Stricklend and tormenting him, but I don’t believe he would feel threatened by them. Sentinels are known to have powerful individual defenses against either spiritual or physical attack. Instead I dispatch them to search the house for Freddie.
The Goth I will send to watch Stricklend closely.
Do you wish me to confront him, mistress? I can enter his thoughts and see what lies there.
I doubt even you could breach whatever shields he has in place. No, better you merely observe him.
He will know he is being watched.
That can’t be helped. At least I will know his whereabouts. If he leaves the ball, tell me at once.
The Goth then fades to nothing before my eyes. I str
uggle to still my racing pulse and focus my fractured mind. Freddie is still close by, I can sense his presence, but it is feeble, like a fluttering moth that could expire at any moment.
“Oh, where are you, Freddie?” I whisper. “Where are you?” With my eyes closed I can watch my Cavaliers as they charge through the house, room after room, floor after floor, until the youngest and swiftest comes upon a body, supine and inert upon a chaise.
Here, mistress! Here!
Where? Oh, yes! I see him.
I run from the room taking care not to be seen by any curious servants. I have to climb two flights of stairs before I find my way to the guest suite on the third floor. In contrast to Mr. Chow Li’s, this is a pretty place, a place of good taste and refinement and respectability, but the end result is the same, because what has gone on here is the same. I fall to me knees beside my darling brother. He has removed his jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. His left arm trails to the ground, and from it a thin line of fresh blood that still drips to the floor.
Carefully I turn him over so that I can see his face.
“Freddie! Oh, my poor, dear Freddie!” His skin is a ghoulish green, his eyelids closed, his mouth open. I place my hand against his brow and let out a small scream. He is cold. Dead. Gone. I am too late. Too late! No!
“No!”
Mistress, should he be shaken? Try to rouse him.
Should we call a spirit physician? Or one who treads the earth still?
No. No, there is nothing to be done. I am too late.
My tears fall unchecked now, splashing onto Freddie’s lifeless chest as I lean over him. I have failed him. I have failed Mama. I could not protect him, from himself, or from Stricklend and the Sentinels, and now he is dead, and Mama’s poor battered heart will be broken forever.
“Oh, Freddie.” I gaze at his face, stroking his broad smooth brow.
And in that instant, his eyes spring open.
I gasp, wondering if I can have been mistaken, if, after all, he is still alive and there is still hope. But no, I can see there is no life in those beautiful green eyes. They stare back at me, accusing, reproachful. And when he speaks to me his blue lips do not move, for it is his spirit voice I hear.
The Midnight Witch Page 27