By the time they took their leave of Michael Barker, night had fallen. Bridget struck off immediately into the backstreets of the Old City with Estée and Stephen at her side. She moved quickly, doubling back and forth so many times that it seemed as if she was leading them in circles. Estée, who knew Starberg reasonably well, was quickly lost, and she suspected Stephen had even less idea than she where they were headed. One thing was certain. Whether she liked it or not, they were now committed to accepting Bridget’s assistance. It would have taken a clear head and an excellent sense of direction to retrace their path, and at the moment Estée had neither.
The instant Estée had seen the first fireball, she had known how her father had died. That realisation had almost blotted out everything that had happened since. Someone had cornered Jonathan Merton in their squalid lodgings and thrown a fireball at him, then left him to smoulder in agony until he died. Estée found herself vehemently hoping that the man responsible had been the one whose brains had ended up on the embankment footpath. It was a pitiless thought, and unworthy of her, she knew, but there had been little of pity in whoever had killed Jonathan, and it would be a long time before she expunged the image of what had happened to him from her waking thoughts. But how had they done it? Real people could not hurl thunderbolts, or at least, until now, Estée had not thought they could. Only one word explained the things she had seen their attackers do, a word that was so incredible it was scarcely in her vocabulary.
Magic.
It was ridiculous, unbelievable, but it was the only explanation. At first Estée had thought she was hallucinating. But dreams and hallucinations, however vivid, did not throw people into the river or set them on fire. The fireball had been real. She had felt its heat and smelled its stink; it had nearly killed Stephen, but the fireball had not been the half of it. There was the fog, swift and unnatural, dissipating as quickly as it had come. And there had been her golden star. It had been in her attacker’s hand when he stepped out of the fog; he had held it up, mocking her, and then he had tossed it in the air. Like a fool Estée had dashed forward, following the flash and tinkle of gold across the pavement. At the very moment her fingers reached for it, the points of the star bent down like the legs of a beetle and it had run away from her across the filthy cobblestones.
It was then that the guardsman had seized her, his cloak reeking of the ugly smell she had first noticed on the evening of the riots. She had been trapped by a magical illusion and her own stupidity and desperation, and in the end, it had only been the intervention of others that had saved her. It was for this reason that Estée was prepared to trust Bridget Barker now. It was true she would have preferred to know exactly where they were going, but there was something about the woman that made Estée feel safe, a kind of compassion and solidity that reminded her in a strange way of her mother. Perhaps, thought Estée, they really were related after all. It was certainly encouraging to think so.
‘Nearly there,’ said Bridget, as they turned into a small side street, and a moment later they stopped at a small brown door. Bridget knocked softly, then unlocked it with a latch key and beckoned them inside. A lamp burned on a side table in the narrow hallway, as if awaiting their arrival. Bridget closed the door and bolted it shut, and a female voice called out from a doorway to their left.
‘It’s only me, Aunt Anna,’ called Bridget in Ostermarkan, and she swung open the door and led Estée and Stephen into the room beyond. It was a small parlour, unpretentious and somehow welcoming, though the furniture was old and a sharp eye would have discerned the paint was peeling on the ceiling. A stove kept the room warm, and there was a chaise longue with cushions and several high-backed chairs. A round table with curved legs stood in the centre of the room. It was covered with books and papers, and an elderly woman sat at it, one hand on the open pages of a leather-bound book, the other on the handle of a steaming cup of tea. She was small, with an upright carriage, fine bones and dark hair turning heavily to grey. Estée put her age at perhaps sixty-five. She might have been older or even younger: it was impossible to tell.
‘Bridget, my dear,’ she said, with real pleasure, taking off her spectacles and laying aside her book. ‘You found them safely, then.’
‘Michael has gone after the other girl, Aunt Anna.’ Bridget went up to the woman and they embraced in a way that made Estée suddenly feel hungry for normal familial warmth and affection. Her eyes welled and she made an involuntary noise. Bridget looked up, caught her expression, and started with dismay.
‘Leave her be, Bridget,’ said the elderly woman. ‘She has every reason to weep, and every right to do so. Perhaps you would be better occupied by finding this young man some dry clothes. His lips appear to be turning blue.’ She spoke these last sentences in accented, but surprisingly fluent English. Stephen, who had hitherto understood nothing of the conversation, relaxed at the sound of the familiar words. He glanced at Estée, as if to assure himself that she would be safe, then followed Bridget from the room.
Estée reached into her pocket, found the handkerchief, which Stephen had given her earlier, and furiously scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
Anna watched her sympathetically. ‘For what? You are grieving for your father, and it is right that you should do so. Cry as much as you wish, child, and when you are finished, I will explain to you what happened. In fact, I fear I must tell you, for it was because of you that your father was killed. Yes,’ she said, as Estée looked up, shocked. ‘It is a harsh truth, though I think perhaps you were already beginning to suspect as much. You have been in terrible danger, these last two days. My niece, Bridget, has been watching you almost without rest. I must speak with Bridget when she comes back, I can see she is concealing something. Tell me: when they found you, did her husband use force?’
‘He shot a man who tried to kidnap me,’ said Estée. ‘Mr Barker had a revolver and he shot him in the head. He was trying to save me,’ she added anxiously. ‘And Stephen—they tried to kill him. I really don’t think he had any choice.’
‘There is always a choice.’ The old woman pinched the bridge of her nose and bent her head briefly; she looked extremely upset. ‘Michael and Bridget have been watching your movements for two entire days. I can only ask myself why they left it until you were in such danger before they made their move. Of course my niece’s husband had a choice. The problem with Michael is that he chooses the easy way every time. How simple to put a bullet in a man’s head, to stop him thinking altogether, instead of out-thinking him, as he has been taught to do.’ To Estée’s astonishment, a tear appeared in the corner of Anna’s eye. ‘You wonder why I weep? It is for lost opportunities. When he made his choice, Michael should have thought that his actions were depriving others of the chance to make theirs.’
‘Well,’ said Estée, ‘all the same, I can’t be sorry to have been rescued.’ The door opened and Bridget entered, followed by Stephen with a towel around his shoulders. His black hair was tousled from being dried, and he was freshly dressed in dark trousers and a black jersey with an elaborate pattern knitted into the fabric of the wool.
‘Ah. My son Anton’s,’ said Anna. ‘I knitted it for him to wear on the water, when he was boating. I’m glad you found it, Bridget. Of course, I can see Michael’s things would be far too big.’ She saw Stephen looking confused, and switched back to English. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot you can’t understand me. As you can hear, my English is a little rusty. My husband and I lived in London for several years, but it is a long time since I have had a chance to use the language.’
‘You speak it very well,’ said Stephen. ‘In fact, you and your family are the first Ostermarkans I have met who can speak it at all.’
‘Are we? But then, I at least am not a typical Ostermarkan. If indeed, I can be said to be an Ostermarkan at all. My maiden name was Runciman, and that is, I believe, an English surname many, many generations back. And my late husband was one of the van Homrighs, who were originally Dutch. The van Homrighs and th
e Runcimans are related and much intermarried; also the Barkers, Michael’s family, and the Triers.’ She nodded at Estée’s reaction. ‘Yes. Your mother was Sophia Trier, was she not? I knew her well when she was young, and her sister Esther as well. Esther is presently the mistress of Richard Greitz, the new Procurator of the Queen’s Guard. The announcement of his appointment was in this morning’s newspapers.’
‘He came to our apartment this morning,’ said Stephen. ‘He said he was looking for my uncle, George Melhuish, but I didn’t believe him. My uncle’s the British Minister. He’s been missing since Sunday morning.’
‘You didn’t let Greitz in, did you?’ said Anna van Homrigh sharply.
‘No. Estée was with me; I didn’t want him to see her.’
The old woman breathed out. ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘If you had let him cross the threshold, it would have finished everything. Whatever hold it was Greitz had over your uncle, it evidently did not extend to you.’
‘Those men.’ Stephen leaned forward, his expression anxious. ‘They threw some sort of fireball at me and knocked me into the river. They were from the Queen’s Guard, weren’t they? Greitz’s men?’
‘Greitz has trained them in his occult arts,’ said Anna matter-of-factly. ‘Those fireballs are a favourite trick of theirs when they have no direct power over an individual.’
‘Power?’ demanded Stephen. ‘What do you mean, power?’
It was a moment before Anna answered. ‘You would like an easy explanation, but I do not have one to give you,’ she said. ‘I think in your hearts you both know what the truth is.’ She looked at Estée. The girl coloured and turned away from her gaze.
‘You used the word occult,’ said Stephen. ‘Are you talking about black magic?’
‘I do not acknowledge that there is any other type,’ said Anna. ‘All magic is ultimately about exercising control. It is about bending things in the created order—events, places, other people, even the future—to the will of the magician. When you understand that, you can see that even the most trivial fortune-telling or good-luck charm has an inbuilt capacity to turn wrong. And these men—Greitz’s followers—most assuredly do not mean anything good.’
‘My father,’ whispered Estée.
‘Yes,’ said Anna. She turned her eyes on Stephen. ‘And, I fear, your uncle, Mr Melhuish. You say it’s been over two days since you’ve seen him. I am sorry, but I see no point in holding out false hope. What I do find strange is the fact that Greitz should have found it necessary to eliminate him. I have always been under the impression that he and your uncle were accustomed to working together.’
‘You’re saying that my uncle was in league with Greitz?’ Stephen was incredulous. ‘How would you know that?’
‘My aunt makes it her business to know everyone of importance in Starberg,’ said Bridget. ‘Your uncle is the British Minister. We know a great deal about him and his habits.’
Stephen flushed an angry shade of red. ‘Are you insinuating something?’
‘Not at all,’ said Anna calmly. ‘I am merely pointing out that the relationship between your uncle and Greitz is a longstanding one. To my certain knowledge, it goes back at least sixteen years, and until now, it has been a mutually beneficial one. That would not, of course, prevent Greitz from killing George Melhuish if he had need. He is a ruthless man, wholly given over to evil, whereas your uncle was, I think, merely greedy and unfortunate.’
‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘Yes, he was—unfortunate.’ His eyes brimmed with tears. Anna looked at him sympathetically. Estée, who had been feeling increasingly out of her depth, was suddenly reassured. There was in Anna van Homrigh’s expression, such a wealth of compassion and understanding that she felt safe in a way she had not done since her arrival in Starberg. Though much of what had been said was beyond her comprehension, she did know that she trusted this woman, and that any question she asked of her would be given an honest answer.
‘You said you knew my mother,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Do you remember me, too? I was born here, in Starberg, in December 1872. My father was Jonathan Merton, an Englishman.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ said Anna. ‘I remember you being born very well.’
‘In that case,’ said Estée, ‘who is Sally Taverner? Who is she?’
Anna sighed. ‘She is you, and you are her,’ she said. ‘That is the crux of our dilemma. You are one person, who has been magically split in two.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘I must begin this story,’ said Anna van Homrigh, ‘by going back in time many years. Long before both your births, before my own, even, and I was born in the year of Waterloo. It was then that Ostermark was made a duchy, at the Congress of Vienna, in 1815. Before that, this country was a monarchy under a different branch of the same family, and it is with those kings and queens that I must first be concerned.
‘You will both know, of course, that Ostermark is considered by outsiders to be a singular place. Our people are insular; we are suspicious of foreigners; we guard our borders and keep to ourselves. Nor does our geography do anything to mitigate this: we have no valuable resources, no verdant farmland, we are not strategically located or economically desirable. And this has always been the case. Only Napoleon thought us worth the conquering, and that was sheer greed on his part, for he wanted to be master of all Europe. In a sense, Ostermark was his undoing, for in destroying its royal family, he deposed the protectors of the real powers that control the place, and those powers behind the throne would not brook his interference. There is, you see, an illegitimate line in what was the royal and is now the ducal family of Ostermark, which has wielded its influence behind the scenes for nearly two hundred years. It began with a woman called Astrid, who in the late seventeenth century became the second wife of the then King of Ostermark.
‘Yes.’ Anna turned to Estée. ‘I see you know the name, and I know why, too. I will come to the star locket in due course. In 1689 Queen Astrid fell into disgrace; she was found guilty of attempting her husband’s life by magic, and was imprisoned. She left, however, a daughter named Christina, who spent most of her youth in seclusion before being brought back to court by her half-sister, Queen Elsabetta.’
‘Ah,’ said Stephen, pleased to have found his bearings. ‘She’s the one who built the opera house. Senesino sang there, the great castrato. She’s supposed to have built it for him so he could sing the lead in Giulio Cesare.’
‘As to that, I cannot tell you,’ said Anna, looking amused. ‘However, I can tell you that, around the time of her sister’s marriage, Christina fell into disgrace and disappeared from public view. She re-emerged about ten years later with an illegitimate son, a boy named Richard who was the son of her sister’s husband, the Margrave Greitz who was Procurator of the Queen’s Guard. There was a scandal, naturally, but in those days the procurator effectively ruled Starberg. Elsabetta accepted the situation, because she had no choice, because she genuinely loved her husband, and because if she had not, she would almost certainly have been murdered.’
‘The Queen’s Guard used to have a barracks near the river,’ said Bridget. ‘They had a chute there that they used for sending bodies into the river. The cellars are still there; that is where the young men who attacked you came from. The streets of the Old City are riddled with tunnels.’
‘You mean, they came up out of the drains?’ said Stephen.
‘No. Not drains. Tunnels. We know where most of the main ones run, and where there are entrances. We also have a good idea of where they are blocked off underground,’ said Bridget. ‘We have been building up a map now for several generations. It is believed to be reasonably accurate.’
‘A map? Why?’ asked Stephen.
‘Because the Queen’s Guard is our enemy,’ said Bridget simply. ‘In order to fight against them effectively, we must understand as much about them as we can. How else would we have been able to save you this afternoon?’
‘But why are you fighting them?’ insis
ted Stephen.
‘The powers of evil are afoot in this world in ways you cannot even begin to imagine,’ said Anna. ‘If you are not fighting them, you are standing with them by default. Each one of us must make that choice, some time in our life. But the Greitzes of this world deny free will; deny choice to any but themselves. That is what magic is about: it seeks to bend events and people to the will of the magician, to cut off our right to choose. Now, think what a country would be like with a magician—a whole family of magicians—in charge. Already I think you can see something like Ostermark: closed in, suspicious, spiritually sick. For generations my family and others have fought against the use of magic, in Ostermark or elsewhere. We are the Casimirites, the four families descended from Casimir Runciman our founder, known to us as the Red Magician.’
‘I thought you said you were against the use of magic,’ said Estée.
‘Casimir Runciman’s father, Simeon, was trained as a magician in childhood,’ said Anna. ‘When he became a man, he rejected what he had been taught, and he passed on his knowledge and opinions to his son. Casimir in turn developed…strategies to defend himself, which he passed on to us, his descendents. They are chiefly obstructionist, always pacifist, and aim at stopping magical attacks before they actually happen. We try to cut the magician off from the source of his power, and to protect those under attack. That is why what happened this afternoon was so deeply regrettable.’ She looked sternly at Bridget, who lowered her eyes uncomfortably. ‘We do not condone the use of violence, or the taking of life, or the use of magic by our own people under any circumstances. Unfortunately, such rules are sometimes honoured in the breach rather than the observance.’
Anna turned to Estée. ‘You have been very patient, my dear, in listening to this long-winded answer to a simple question. But it has been necessary for me to explain all this first, in order that you might understand what is happening, and how you and the other young woman are bound up in it. Let me take you back now into more recent history, to 1871 and the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War. Do you know what happened then?’
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