The Midnight Witch

by Paula Brackston

  As always my mother’s frailty distresses me. She has become so insubstantial, so delicate. She sits by the fire in a winged chair that dwarfs her.

  “There you are. Oh, Lilith, darling, you surely haven’t been out of the house looking like that?” Her hand flies to her mouth and her shock is genuine.

  “I’ve been helping out at St. Mary’s, Mama. You remember?”

  “Of course I do. I have not entirely lost my wits, whatever you may think.”

  “I think no such thing.”

  “Don’t you? You regard me as if I were an imbecile at times. And yet I am not the one who goes about looking as if I have fallen from a carriage into a puddle.”

  “There is no point in dressing up, Mama.”

  “I am not suggesting ‘dressing up,’ as you call it. I am merely observing that if anyone appears to have lost their sense of what is reasonable it is not me. Really, Lilith, when everyone else is making such an effort. Look at all those brave young men going off to war. Do you see them looking a fright?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “No, of course you don’t. They wouldn’t dream of turning out shabbily. It would be letting the side down.”

  I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from saying something I know I will later regret.

  I continue to plead a headache so that I am able to avoid having to dine anywhere with Louis or indeed with Mama. Mrs. Jessop has a light supper sent up to my room on a tray, but in truth I have little appetite. The sight of the poacher’s pie, pickles, and crusty rolls all lovingly and lavishly prepared by Cook earlier in the day starts up the gripe of guilt in my stomach. How is it that I have so much when others must go to their beds hungry? And is Mama right, after all? Am I a hypocrite? It has taken a war to wake me from my privileged slumbers. And yet my engagement to Louis continues. I never told him of my feelings for Bram. I should have, perhaps. Should have offered him the chance to turn me away, knowing that I had been in love with someone else. I fully intended doing so. But then, after Freddie, well, it seemed to matter less, where my affections lay. Bram had gone, and I had let him go. There was a moment when I thought I would find him, find him and tell him what had happened. Attempt to explain the inexplicable. Ask him to forgive me for letting him down. Make him see that I loved him still. Love him still. But the events of that terrible night served to remind me of how difficult it would be to make my life with a non-witch. Of how much danger—constant danger—Bram would be in if he were to be with me. How could I hope to protect him? How could I ever convince myself I could keep him safe when I had so utterly failed Freddie?

  And Louis had nearly died trying to save my brother. Trying to undo the harm I had caused. And Mama, poor Mama. She has so little left to light her dark existence now. The prospect of my marriage to Louis is some small crumb of comfort that it is within my power to give her. And yet I put off and put off and put off the wedding. So long as this dreadful war lasts no one is able to press me on the matter of a date. To celebrate a marriage with all the fanfare and expense such a union would demand—it would be in poor taste, unseemly, simply wrong, when so many are suffering. As long as the war continues I can avoid becoming Louis’s wife.

  I finish brushing the tangles from my hair, and Iago springs onto my bed beside me, his legs moving a little stiffly now, and a few gray hairs around his eyes giving away his age. I lie back on top of the covers, too restless for sleep, yet weary. I cannot recall the last night I slept well. I know only it was some time before the Anstruthers’ ball. Before Stricklend murdered my brother. Now the small, quiet hours are filled with the threat of nightmares and remembering. Nightmares about Freddie, about what I did to him, and how I failed him. And remembering the one other living person in this world who has ever made my heart dance. Bram. I know him to be living, even though I have not seen him or heard from him since the ball, because I frequently call upon one of the more reliable spirits who can assure me that he still treads the earth. It gives me such comfort to know he is safe. Comfort and hope, though I do not deserve such a gift. Would he ever forgive me for treating him so badly? I failed to meet him at the station that day as I had promised, and I sent no word of explanation. Mangan told me he had left London, returned to Yorkshire. I started so many letters to him but never posted one. He has never written to me, but then, why should he? I later discovered that he enlisted soon after war broke out.

  My spirits tell me they do not see him in Darkness, so I know he still lives. At present, they do not hear heavy guns near him, so I am certain he is not in France now, and I thank the heavens for this. I pray daily that he be spared. Even if he is lost to me, I dearly want him to be safe. To be happy. I hope that he is able to know true happiness again one day. I fear I never may.

  Iago sets up a rumbling purr and curls up next to my feet. I lean forward and stroke him gently.

  “You may be ready for sleep, my little friend. I am not.” I pull on my robe and step into my brocade slippers. The rain has ceased gurgling through the gutter outside my window, but it will be a damp and cool October night outside. I pull my green cloak about my shoulders and make my way down the wooden stairs and out into the garden. The trees have already shed most of their leaves, and their branches drip water onto the sodden lawns and paths. It is really too wet to sit anywhere, so I settle to pacing around the garden, slowly shutting out the nighttime noises of the city that drift over the walls. The streetlamps are no longer lit at night, and their glow has been replaced by the sweeping searchlights that scour the skies for the deadly zeppelins that come to drop their bombs on us. But tonight all is quiet. Quiet, that is, save for the urgent whispering of the spirits who have been waiting for me to come to them.

  Where have you been, Morningstar?

  Lilith! Lilith!

  We thought you had forgotten us, Daughter of the Night.

  I am here. I will always be here.

  So many dead! So many terrible things.

  The way I commune with the spirits has undergone such a change since war began to tear countries and families asunder. Now, all I have to do is to still my thoughts, to open my mind and my heart, to allow them to come, and the voices start up their clamor for my attention. Some are old friends, and all I recognize. There is the kindly grandmother who frets over suffering and is horribly dismayed by the war. She frequently tells me of young men, so very young, who have passed to the Land of Night, cut down before they had a chance to live their lives. She often weeps, setting up a chorus of wailing among the more sensitive spirits. Since the Yulemass calling, Amelia has come to speak with me from time to time. I am pleased to hear from her, but her sadness endures, and I wish there was more I could do to help her. I never hear from Father, which is a constant source of sadness for me. Sadness and guilt, for I know why he will not come. At times, I find communicating with the spirits brings me more pain than comfort, but I am a necromancer. I am here to allow those spirits to have their voice. It may be that their divinations can be of help or give solace to those of us still treading the earth. Or it may simply be that I am a cypher for the anguish of those who have crossed the Rubicon. Either way, I cannot turn my back on them.

  I pause under the denuded walnut tree, leaning against its ancient trunk, the smooth bark cool against my back even through the thickness of my cloak.

  Morningstar, you are welcome.

  Good evening, Grandmother, who have you brought with you this peaceful night?

  Oh, there is no peace to be had in these terrible times! The living have lost their wits and the dead cannot rest.

  We must all do what we can to help one another.

  Use the Elixir!

  Who said that?

  I am astonished to see a shadowy shape form on the grass in front of me. The earlier clouds have drifted away and a fair moon allows me to see that the figure is that of a young man. It is most unusual for a spirit to actually show themselves outside of the chamber, and without being formally called or summoned. I feel a chill
enter my body as I realize he is wearing the uniform of a British soldier from the present. As he takes a step closer I gasp, for the slanting moonbeams fall upon his youthful face to reveal he is missing an eye and half his jaw has been blasted away. The wound is horribly fresh. Wet mud glistens upon congealing blood. I fight to keep my reaction hidden.

  What is your name, soldier?

  Alfie. Alfie James.

  I am truly sorry to see you so terribly hurt, Alfie.

  Mortar landed in our dugout. Everyone died. Every one of us broken and ruined.

  You asked about the Elixir …

  There’s so much talk of it … down there. Among the dead.

  What … what do the spirits say about it?

  Some say as you should use it. You could, if you wanted to, couldn’t you? Use it to bring us back. To give us another chance.

  Yes, Morningstar! You can help us.

  The cries and entreaties multiply until I cannot think for the cacophony. I throw my hands over my ears instinctively, even though I know I do not need them to hear the sounds the deceased make.

  Stop! Please stop. You do not understand. The Elixir cannot be used in such a way …

  Why not?

  Are you afraid?

  Is it because of what happened to your brother?

  Freddie! Is Freddie among you?

  He won’t come. He doesn’t want to talk to you.

  But you will help us, won’t you? Please? Please, Daughter of the Night.

  I can’t! It … wouldn’t work. You don’t understand. It wouldn’t be right.

  Is it right that I died at seventeen?

  Oh, Alfie, I am so sorry.

  You used it to try and save your own brother. Who’s to say you shouldn’t use it for us, too?

  They fall to shouting and arguing until I am forced to flee. I run back down the gravel path, across the lawn, and into the house, not stopping until I am in my room. Iago is startled awake by my sudden entrance and sits up, green eyes glaring at me. I stand panting, struggling to steady my breath and my racing heart, waiting, listening, fearing the hordes of spirits might follow me, might assail me with their cries anywhere now. For what is to stop them? They all know of the Elixir. Is that my fault, because I used it? Perhaps those Lazarus witches who sought to have me thrown out of the coven, or at least stripped of my position as Head Witch, perhaps they were right. I have unleashed a hunger for new life among the spirits. The Land of the Dead cannot sleep now. The war is swelling their numbers, the dark power of violence stirs them, and I have shown them that there is a way they can tread the earth once more.

  They are no longer content to stay where they are. If they have become sufficiently bold to address me uncalled, to argue so vehemently, to question my actions and demand things of me, what will they do next? Will they assail the thoughts of those who are not necromancers or witches? Will they set about haunting? Will they never be at peace? It seems that by using the Elixir on Freddie I have opened their minds to the possibility of resurrection, of letting them cross back to the Land of Day!

  What have I done? What have I done?

  * * *

  The steelworks at night is a throbbing cauldron of industry. The mezzanine office is set in a separate building from the furnaces, yet Bram is still conscious of their intense heat. It is as if a barely tamed dragon were kept across the yard. But it is here, in the high-ceilinged factory which used to make nothing more threatening than cutlery, that the real danger is to be found. At the start of the war Cardale’s Steel, like all other factories in the area, was commandeered to produce munitions for the war. Now, at the benches below the glass-walled office, women work with careful efficiency assembling the bombs and bullets that will, God willing, one day bring the fighting to an end.

  Are we engaged in a futile mission? he wonders. We produce the means of killing in order to put a stop to the killing. It is as if the war has rendered all good sense beyond us.

  His time spent in the trenches of France has left his spirit sapped and his faith in those in control of the armies shattered. He saw nothing there in that struggle, in that slaughter, to convince him that more of the same will bring peace. Now, home on a rare few weeks of leave, awaiting news of his next posting, he has welcomed the activity of helping his father at the steel yard.

  Anything rather than remain idle. For without purpose to occupy myself, to occupy my thoughts …

  It had been easier, he found, to bear the suffocating pain of losing Lilith while he was away. Away from anything that might remind him of her or of what might have been. But now, back in England, watching the brave young women at their hazardous work, he cannot help but think of Lilith. And thinking of her, conjuring her face in his mind’s eye, still causes his heart to constrict. Still causes his breath to catch. He has become aware, over the years, that he cherishes this pain now. It is as if the heartache is all he has left of her, and he is unwilling to let it go.

  He regards the scene below him with an artist’s eye and contemplates picking up his sketchbook. After leaving London he had not the heart to paint, but in France he found fresh inspiration. He chose not to depict the carnage and horror but focused instead on the courage of the young men he served with, attempting to capture them in his battered notebook. In the determined concentration of the female workforce now employed at Cardale’s, he sees an equal bravery.

  Bram notices one of the women pause in her task. She looks up, not at him but toward the high windows that give only a view of the clouds. He sees her cock her head, listening. He, too, listens. At first he can hear nothing above the hammering and clanking on the factory floor, but then, faintly yet clearly, he makes out an altogether more chilling noise. His eyes meet the girl’s at the moment they both recognize the throaty whir of the zeppelin. The women exchange glances. One reaches over to pat the trembling hand of another. Not one of them starts for the door. In the distance bombs can be heard bursting upon houses and factories with fatal inaccuracy. Should one find its target here the resulting explosion would wipe the buildings and all inside them from the earth, leaving no trace. Every worker knows it, but still they stay. Still they press on with their given part of the war. The air-raid siren has not sounded, suggesting the threat is still some way off. Bram has witnessed the calm courage of these women before and knows they will not desert their posts unless absolutely necessary.

  From the far bench come the first faltering notes of a popular song. Other voices join in, and soon the singing fills the space, the defensive town guns lending a muffled percussion to the stalwart choir. At length the artillery falls silent. The threat has passed them over. This time.

  Bram’s father arrives and hurries up the metal staircase to the office. He opens his mouth to speak, no doubt to urge his son home, but changes his mind.

  He knows me better now. He has learned more about me in my absence than ever he did while I was home.

  Cardale senior holds out a telegram.

  “This came for you, lad” is all he says.

  Bram takes it from him and finds he has no reaction left to give when he reads that his next posting is to be in Africa.

  21.

  Despite the stove burning and the soup bubbling in its giant pots, the kitchen at St. Mary’s is bitterly cold today. A cruel easterly wind has got up, strengthening over the past day or so, and it seems to force its way into this building through every gap it can find. Even as I hurry to help Sister Agnes set up the table, the exertion does not properly warm me. What must it be like for those with insufficient money to properly heat their homes? For myself, I know that part of the chill that troubles me resides inside, and comes from the dread I feel at the way in which the spirits suffer. They call to me so very often now, farther and farther from the usual places in which we used to commune. And they are so terribly distressed, I find it almost impossible to comfort them. There is to be a coven meeting soon, and I am undecided as to how to talk to the other senior witches about this. I would dear
ly welcome their help. Lord Grimes has been Master of the Chalice for many years, and he must surely have experienced something similar in other times of conflict. But I am concerned that my own actions have had more of an impact than I dare to believe. Perhaps the behavior of those in the Land of Night is indeed unprecedented. Perhaps it is my fault, and will be seen as such. Dare I raise the matter at the coven meeting? What would Druscilla say? She has already expressed her disappointment at my actions. Victoria, I think, understood. Others kept their views to themselves. To admit my fears that what I did has somehow caused lasting ill effects in the Land of Night … I cannot imagine how such an idea would be received. Nor if there is anything any of us can do about it.

  “We are ready!” calls out Sister Bernadette, clapping her hands to alert everyone to the fact that the doors are about to be opened.

  I take up my position behind one of the stew pots. The queue is longer than ever, and those in it have been made more desperate and more miserable by the cold. It is heartbreaking to see small children, some of them barefoot, sent out on their own to stand in line for hours to receive a meager bowl of soup. I am struck by the abundant red hair of one of the older boys, and it is only in my staring at him instead of concentrating on my ladle that I realize I know him.

  “Freedom?” I ask quietly. “Freedom, can it be you?”

  The boy frowns at me. I sense he recognizes me but that he is reluctant to acknowledge me. And who could blame him? Surely to be found in such a place, bowl raised for charity, is better done anonymously. Yet I must talk with him.

  “Do you remember me? I came to your father’s house with Charlotte. It was some years ago, you were not such a grown-up young man then, of course. And … I came to visit Bram. Do you recall?”

  At the mention of Bram’s name I fancy the boy brightens a little, but it is a fleeting alteration in his expression.

  “Hurry up!” comes the cry from farther down the line.