The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  A chorus of rooks started up from the trees at the back of land. They sounded as if they were laughing at her with their raucous calls. Maybe in revenge for being evicted from the house—she tried not to think of them coming to investigate while she literally couldn’t move.

  “Sadie!” she called, trying to catch her breath. “Sadie!” Nothing. The girl was probably listening to music with her headphones on.

  Twenty minutes later Jack had cramp in both shoulders from holding her arms above the thorns prickling her skin. The light was going fast, and without the work she had cooled down. She could feel something trickling down her thigh, and suspected it was blood.

  “Sadie!” she bellowed for the hundredth time, trying not to struggle again out of sheer frustration. Nothing. Finally, a ringing from the newly installed doorbell.

  At last, movement. Jack could hear the girl’s light footsteps cross the landing above, and down the stairs.

  “Sadie!” This time it came out hoarse, but the girl didn’t divert her steps to the back of the house, but went toward the front door.

  “Maggie!” Sadie’s shout was full of warmth and welcome.

  Jack’s breath caught in her throat in something that felt like a sob. She leaned forward a few inches, jerking her head up as a thorn stabbed into her cheekbone, but the movement ensnared more branches in her hair.

  “Help!” she managed and, finally, footsteps hurried down the hallway.

  “Jack!” Maggie’s voice sounded like it was just a little amused. “Oh, you idiot, you can’t just hack at a witch’s garden! I told you to wait for me.”

  Her hands reached over to detach the bramble from Jack’s face. She seemed to almost stroke the leaves and the barbs popped out of Jack’s cheekbone, where they were snagged.

  “I just wanted to get to the back windows—” Jack mumbled in protest, but Maggie was talking to Sadie.

  “Here, put these gloves on. Just unhook them very gently. I’ll ask for permission to prune them back a bit.”

  “Permission?” Jack’s temper bubbled to the surface with a few angry tears. “A machete and a flamethrower might be more—” Her voice faded. It felt as if the bands were tightening, the thorns in her leg digging deeper. “OK, OK, I’m sorry!” She tried to find some calm center that might reassure the plants, even when the logical part of her mind scoffed at the thought. She was never very good at this back-to-nature stuff.

  “Jack, shut up.” Maggie’s voice had a note of alarm that made Jack stand still, and close her eyes. “Let us do it. That’s right, Sadie, you’ve really got the knack. Think of the plants as just trying to look after each other—”

  While they worked, Jack could feel a tear track down one cheek and then the plant prickling her face shifted, almost as if it were exploring the salty liquid.

  “Right,” Maggie said, with some authority. “I’m going to prune these big branches back carefully, then they should let you go.”

  “That’s what I was doing!” Jack mumbled, trying to stand still even as the edge of a leaf explored her chin and something pricked her eyelid. “It’s going for my eyes—”

  “Shut up, Jack. Stand completely still and think nice, planty thoughts. Think of hot sunshine, imagine your feet in water.”

  A few snipping sounds, close to Jack’s ear, then the brushing of leaves and Maggie murmuring something in Latin. The barbs just caught in Jack’s eyelid were somehow released. Sadie reached down and popped out, one by one, a long strand of thorns that felt like they were deeply embedded in Jack’s thigh.

  Sadie was talking to the brambles. “Poor plants, just minding your own business, just growing, here you go—”

  “Ow. Ow.” Jack tried to stay still but the pain was intense and, worse, there was an intense itching.

  “Look. Look at your arm.” Maggie was serious.

  Jack opened her eyes and turned her head a fraction, very carefully.

  Her right arm was completely encased in greenery, maybe forty or fifty branches whipped and woven around her wrist and forearm. “What—?”

  “Think of the garden as a sentient colony of interrelated beings, not a wall of inanimate objects,” Maggie said. “This is a witch’s garden, so it’s more reactive than most, but all gardens do this to some extent.”

  “But at Rook Cottage I just weeded and planted—”

  “You were trying to cultivate, you were conserving the trees, pruning out diseased wood. You weren’t trying to destroy it.” Maggie stood by Jack’s side, pressed against her, and stroked away brambles and ivy stems. “You never did get this green witchcraft stuff, did you, just the fighting spells.”

  It was true, Jack’s limited manipulation of magic was confined to protection and aggression, which had proved very helpful on occasions. “Was the garden always like this?”

  Maggie untangled a particularly prickly stem. “I remember when my grandmother had the cottage, it was always a bit wild, but no, it was lovely. A little orchard, a lot of vegetables, the bees of course. And the elder trees.”

  “Maisie Talbot said—did I tell you I met her? She told me a bit about Ellen.”

  Sadie leaned in the other side now Jack’s flanks were clear, murmuring something that sounded a lot like “nice bramble.”

  “Maisie? I’m surprised she’s still alive.” Maggie’s voice had a drop of acid in it. “She and Ellen were good friends.”

  “She said she knows where Thomazine’s papers are. I suppose you know all about them?”

  Maggie’s hands stilled for a long moment. “The book’s still here?”

  Jack’s left arm sagged when the last bramble holding it up was removed and a cramp stabbed through her shoulder muscles. “Oh, thank God,” she said, turning away to allow Maggie to work on her right arm. “She won’t tell me, only you. Why?”

  “If there was one reason to break into this house it was to get the book. Thomazine’s journal. I’ve only seen it a few times but—there you are.” She undid Jack’s coat. “Just slide out of your jacket.”

  “Ow. Ow.” Jack’s jeans were studded with dozens of curved hooks that Sadie had detached from the stems that had trapped her. Spots of blood oozed through the cotton when she pulled them out.

  Maggie looked over her glasses to remove another thorn from Jack’s neck. “Stand still,” she fussed. “There.”

  Jack felt along her forearms. “Ouch. It was trying to kill me.”

  Maggie tutted, untangling more branches from Jack’s hair, tugging a little. “Thomazine, the first witch here, planted that garden. Everyone who has lived here since came from her line, and her tradition. The garden is used to a more collaborative approach than having a machete taken to it.”

  Jack turned to the door, filled with a solid wall of greenery once again, a few cut branches oozing sap onto the kitchen floor. “How am I supposed to shut this?”

  “Like this.” Maggie walked to the brambles, ran her hands softly over the leaves, tucking a few stray ones out of the way, and pushed the door shut. It still took all of Jack’s strength to press it firmly enough to shoot one of the bolts.

  Jack licked a drop of blood off the back of her hand. “How are we ever going to get out there, then?”

  Maggie picked up the kettle and filled it from the tap. “It responds to the right approach.” Sadie had scrubbed the sink and tap—under protest—but it was still encrusted with limescale. “I hope a new sink and tap are on the list.”

  “The kitchen units are in the spare room, waiting to be made up and put in.” Jack held out her hands in the light of the single bulb. “I think I’m allergic to brambles. These scratches are swelling up.”

  Sadie perched on the single remaining kitchen chair. The table had been salvageable, but most of the chairs had been riddled with woodworm and covered in bird shit. “This Sir Henry something, he came here and offered thousands for the book,” the girl said. “And some potion. Tell her, Jack.”

  Jack turned around, brushing off stray leaves. “Dannick,
his name was.”

  Maggie opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then closed it again. “I know Ellen used to make a potion for the family. I don’t know exactly what was in it.”

  “Well, they are desperate for it.” Jack took the cup of tea Maggie was offering. “Thank you. I thought I was going to be stuck there for hours.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Sadie looked up at her, as inquisitive as a bird.

  “I did. Repeatedly.” Jack sipped the tea. “Look, we should get back to the B&B. I could do with a shower and about three hundred plasters.”

  Maggie sighed. “I was hoping I could stay here.”

  The room, lined with damp plaster on each wall, looked even less hospitable to Jack. “Why?”

  “We need to start connecting with the house so we can get out in the garden.”

  Sadie hugged her knees, curled up on the chair. “We could. It might be fun, you know, now the rubbish is all gone.”

  “I thought you said this was a terrible house?” Jack could see the appeal of staying, and at least she could rescue the bird sooner. “We’ll see. There are plenty of rooms at the guesthouse in the meantime. And there’s a lovely restaurant around the corner, if you don’t mind square plates and fancy sauces.”

  Maggie laughed, steering Jack into the hall. “Let’s have a look at what else you’ve done, then.”

  Apart from the still wrecked living room, plaster hacked away and ceiling removed, the house was feeling fresh and clear. The dining room was cleaned up, the floor repaired, and newly stripped and primed window frames were ready for painting. The fireplace had been cleared and the chimney swept, ready for the woodburner which stood shrouded in plastic to one side.

  Maggie placed a hand on the wall, and stood, as if listening. “We could keep this as the living room, it’s the same size as the other one. The stove is nice.”

  “It’s drafty.” Jack looked down at the gaps between the scrubbed floorboards.

  “Well, we’ll pick up a carpet remnant and cover the boards. And putting the burner in will seal off the chimney. That should help, and we’ll get some coal and logs in. What do you think, Sadie?”

  The teenager, looking tired and pale again, leaned against the door frame. “We need to do the symbols in here. Jack did them upstairs in the front bedroom so I could sit up there, but I think I need some downstairs too.”

  Jack turned to Maggie. “I didn’t want to upset the builders. I think I’ll do them in the silver ink Felix gave me.”

  “When are they back? The plasterers?”

  Jack wrapped her arms around herself. “Monday. I thought I could make a start on the garden while they weren’t here, so we could work on the back of the house.”

  “And look for the book. You’re sure you haven’t thrown it out by accident?”

  “I’m sure.” Jack turned her head to look over her shoulder.

  Maggie sighed. “Well, we’ll come back tomorrow and see what we can do. Come on, Sadie, drink up and we’ll go back to this B&B. Hopefully, once we’ve moved into the cottage, you can have Ches with you. Charley will bring him up, so you’ll have some company.”

  Even the thought of Ches filled Jack with a longing for home, for the big wolf-dog. Jack could hear Maggie and Sadie chattering as she rinsed the mugs in the sink and started turning off lights. Dusk had darkened the rooms, filling the corners with shadows, yet the house felt less creepy, more welcoming than it had. As if she had been tested, and had passed in some way.

  She walked out of the front door, barring the door with the new lock, and looked up at the blank windows. It felt as if something—maybe the house itself—was looking back.

  Chapter 14

  Within the Roman world were sects so dark and magical they were feared as monsters or demigods. That they survive today I have no doubt. Wielding such magic and ruthlessness, they perpetuate and grow, their devilish ways penetrating even unto the ruling houses and chapels of this land.

  —EDWARD KELLEY, 1586, Venice

  I was forced into a strange imposture when I attended the meeting of sorcerers. A man much as my own build wore clothes akin to mine own under a scarlet robe, and donned a mask. He then, with great ceremony, was taken onto a boat to be borne to some public ball or party, where no doubt he would despoil my reputation. I was clad safely in black like a servant, and carried by a hired boat to the conference with some of Count Contarini’s associates at the house of his mistress.

  I was handed a mask before I left the palazzo, a cunning face in silver foil attached to a bar which I was told to hold with my teeth. Thus would I be unable to speak, reveal my Englishness or my identity. The waterside doors were wide open, servants running hither and thither with cloaks and torches, and we—Lord Marinello and I—were led in a slow-moving caravan of people in bright robes and masks. Many, like myself, did not speak, and it was left to those who did to fill the halls with chatter.

  I was at liberty to stare at the Venetians at play. Many wore elaborate animal masks. A tall woman had one glittering with stones, like a peacock feather. Another was formed into the snarling face of a wolf. Suns and moons abounded, as well as many mouthless blank stares, like the mask I gripped between my own teeth. Men wore elaborate and padded cods within embroidered britches. The women were taller than the men in their raised soles, their feet contorted until they were almost on tiptoe. One lady, seeing my interest, placed one hand under the front panel of her dress. She slid it aside to reveal undergarments laced with stitched patterns and so fine her skin showed pink beneath. I turned away, grateful for the mask which covered the blushes of an Englishman.

  It was a surprise then when a young boy came to my side and tugged upon my sleeve. He babbled something and gestured as if to follow him. I looked for Marinello, but he had already been absorbed by the crowd.

  I stepped into the throng, but people allowed me to squeeze between them after the boy. He pulled me through a gap in the revelers and along a darker corridor, which I judged the servants’ access. Then to a door, the light spilling through the crack ’twixt it and the frame, and the murmur of men’s voices.

  I pushed upon the door, and was confronted by a table, each tall chair with a man seated, each one in black clothing, each masked but the host. Contarini. He stood, and bowed to me, letting me bow before him in return.

  “I am Count Contarini, fellow scientist,” he said, in Latin. “It is my great pleasure to meet you, Master Kelley, late of Bohemia and England.” His eyes flashed a warning, as I bowed again, wondering, what shall I say? Clearly he wished to pretend we were unacquainted. I took my mask off.

  “My Lord Contarini,” I said, after bowing so deeply I almost rubbed my nose on my knees. “I am thankful for the chance to meet with you. This is a great honor.”

  “Let me introduce you.” Some let their masks fall, and I bent my head as each name was intoned. I recognized the cardinal, who scowled at me as before and grunted some greeting. Contarini sat in a throne-like seat at the middle of the table, and I bowed again. A servant carried over another chair, and I was encouraged to sit. The boy, darting about the room, set a goblet before me. I dared not drink, wondering at the purpose of the group.

  Contarini smiled at me. “You must be wondering what house this is.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” I allowed the wine to wet my upper lip, mimicked swallowing, and wiped my hand across my lips with every appearance of enjoyment. The boy scuttled up to me, and knelt, presenting me with a snowy napkin. I dabbed my lips with it.

  “This is the house of my mistress, Isabella. Since she holds a ball for Carnevale, she allows me to meet with my learned friends in a private chamber.”

  I looked around the apartment we were seated in with some amazement. The room, though certainly smaller than those in Marinello’s home, was painted with forest scenes and the furniture was all gilded. He smiled, the candlelight gleaming off his teeth.

  “A lovely home.” I was astonished that a whore should
live so richly.

  He laughed at my confusion. “Here women need not be confined by marriage, but play their own games. Isabella is of the cortigiana onesta, she is a free woman. I am one of her court. I am privileged to sit at her feet occasionally when she is in the mood for my games.”

  Several of the men smiled. One man’s face was still masked but he looked at me through the holes of a mask of a resplendent sun, all gilded and glittering as if it were scattered with shards of glass. His gaze was intense upon me.

  Contarini raised his goblet. “To our scientific endeavors, my friends!”

  All but the masked man drank, and a buzz of murmured conversation spread around the room.

  “Tell me, Master Kelley of England,” one man said, grinning at me. “How do you fare with the great quest?”

  I knew this meant transmutation, the very essence of alchemy, and wondered if they knew how close to success I really was. “I have some theories, of course—”

  “We all have theories!” The man leaned back in his chair, and spoke more generally. “But we hear you have succeeded in changing mercury to some degree.”

  This trick I had done in Prague, being the dissolving by alchemical means of gold dust within mercury, then using “black element” to force the gold to bubble to the surface as if being created. Indeed, the process is but a step away from the creative transformation, and I believe I make more gold than I dissolve, but the gain is so slight it is difficult to measure.

  “I am beginning to make progress,” I said, cautiously, “in the area of purification.”

  A general conversation arose, largely conducted in Latin but also in their own language. “Tell us of your experiments with silver,” one man, I forget his name, called out.

  “I have, with my colleague Dr. Dee, transmuted twelve grains of silver into gold. This was observed by the royal astronomer of the court of His Imperial Majesty Emperor Rudolph.”

  More exclamations and some disbelief. Questions about our technique, which I politely lied about.