The Midnight Witch (13 page)

“You must claim your title, Lilith.”

“I cannot! I have failed. Poor, dear Violet…”

“… loved you. She would not wish you to falter now. You passed the Proof of Worth.”

“I let Violet die!”

“There is more at stake here than one life, do you not see that?” she snaps. “You summoned a demon and returned it to the Darkness as required. Claim your title now, or everything will have been for nothing. The Lazarus Coven must have its leader, and that must be you!”

I struggle to make sense of what she is saying, of what has happened. How can I claim to have succeeded when I let Violet die? How can I?

You are right to doubt yourself, Daughter of the Night. You have failed, just as all the Lazarus witches will fail.

No! I cannot help Violet now, but she must not have died in vain. I will do my duty. I will be what I was born to be.

Slowly, painfully, I get to my feet. I let my gaze sweep the room, and I force my voice to be as clear and steady as I am able to make it.

“I am Morningstar,” I say, “true heiress to the title of Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven, and I claim my birthright!”

6.

The night is cloud-laden and black, the hour too late for revelers or workers to be abroad, too early even for the milk float or fish carts. Sitting at my window, watching the stillness of the city in the late hour, I go over the events of the night before last in my mind. I have scarce managed to sleep since the ceremony, and am finding it hard to think clearly. I glance back into my empty bedroom. Only two days ago, Violet would have been with me. How horribly alone I feel, and how heavy is the weight of the guilt I carry. I should have saved her. I could have saved her, I’m sure of it, had not the wicked spirit distracted and taunted me so. I allowed him to divert my attention at the crucial moment. Violet paid for my mistake with her life. I will never forgive myself.

To compound my failing, I have had to lie about her disappearance. I have concocted a story about her running off in the night with a mystery lover. Mama believes me, saying she always knew a foundling would prove unreliable and be given to curious behavior. Withers knows the truth, and he has yet again proved his loyalty to my father, and therefore to me, by doing his best to convince the other servants that he knew of Violet’s secret liaisons. It seems it is not enough that I watched her die, but I must also besmirch her reputation.

I glance down at my legs, grateful that my heavy black skirts so completely cover the scrapes and cuts I sustained in my battle with the creature in the chamber. I recall the relief I felt when the beautiful Robe of Office was finally placed about my shoulders. The Master of the Chalice had called for a cheer of assent and the assembled witches had responded loudly and with fervor. But how could I feel any happiness? It was all I could do not to weep through the remainder of the ceremony.

I had proven myself, Druscilla told me. That one of our number had lost their life in the doing of it did not, she insisted, constitute a failure. I am the rightful Head Witch. My doubters cannot argue against that anymore. I must put my personal feelings aside, for the good of the coven.

*   *   *

As Nicholas Stricklend sits by the window of his top-floor apartment in Admiralty Arch he observes how the twilight suffuses the palace at the top of Pall Mall with a rosy glow, altering it slowly from white to palest pink. Within an hour the late summer sun will have dipped beyond the horizon to the west of the city, and a flat, colorless tone will descend, to be quickly chased away by the many lamps which line the Mall, and the cheerful gleam of modern electric lights that will shine out from the windows of the Georgian facade. Prettiness rarely catches Stricklend’s attention. What interests him more is the transformation. The fleeting change in character Buckingham Palace undergoes, whether it wants to or not, the whole process controlled by celestial movements and atmospheric conditions, and influenced very little by man, be he king or commoner. For Stricklend’s whole purpose in life is control. Either fighting it, or imposing it, on his own behalf, or that of others. Behind him Westminster is being put to bed, and a peacetime government will snooze the night away safely. In front of him the glittering world of royalty will continue to exert its influence, its privileges and favors, its snubs and slights, throughout the evening.

There comes a tentative tap at the door, which is then cautiously opened by Fordingbridge.

“So sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor,” says the clerk, who is no more comfortable in the presence of his employer in the secretary’s private rooms than he is in his offices one floor below.

Stricklend shifts minutely on the leather Chesterfield. He knows who the caller will be. He also knows he will refuse to reveal his identity to Fordingbridge. It is hard to pass up the opportunity to make the little worm work for his supper.

“And who, pray, might this
visitor
be?” he asks.

“Forgive me, sir, but he refuses to give a name.” The clerk squirms and clasps his hands in front of him.

“Tell me, Fordingbridge, am I in the habit of admitting anonymous callers?”

“Why no, sir. But, well, the gentleman is quite insistent that you will want to see him. I did not want to refuse him, and risk causing offense…” Here his voice peters out.

For form’s sake, Stricklend asks, “And what does this mysterious stranger look like?”

“It is very hard to say, sir, for he is wearing dark glasses and, well, what I believe to be false whiskers.”

“Whiskers, you say?”

“Indeed, sir. A full set.”

Stricklend enjoys the pause in which he likes to think he can actually hear Fordingbridge’s heart pounding, despite the size of the room and the distance between them. At last, tiring of the pretense he says, “The gentleman is expected. He has a preference, let us say, for privacy. You may show him in.”

Relief flooding his face, the clerk backs out of the door on silent feet. A moment later the caller, precisely as Fordingbridge described him, steps into the room, and without waiting to be asked, takes a seat in a red leather winged chair opposite Stricklend. If the clerk had given the impression the man’s appearance might be in any way comical this is definitely not the case. He is dressed in expensive evening attire of top hat, tails, and a cape, using the finest silks and tailoring. His beard and mustache are abundant, but not so outlandish as to be immediately thought false. Stricklend is impressed, and suspects that had he passed his fellow Sentinel in the street, he himself would not have recognized the man who has come to be such a useful player in the push against the Lazarus Coven.

The younger man’s expression is inscrutable.

“Your servant is irritatingly loyal,” he says. “I thought for a moment that he might actually turn me away.”

Stricklend shakes his head. “His fear of doing the wrong thing surpasses all other impulses within him,” he assures his caller.

“A toothless guard dog, then.”

“I have very good teeth of my own.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“He assembles a passable gin. Can I offer you one?”

“Thank you, no. I have an appointment shortly.”

Stricklend raises his eyebrows. “I am fortunate you could fit me into your hectic list of engagements.”

“Our business is important, but will be brief. I’m certain you will agree there is little to discuss beyond confirming the facts at this point.”

“Indeed. And what interesting facts they are. Your identity, I must assume, is still a secret; your infiltration of the Lazarus Coven an ongoing success? Good. I found your report on the occasion quite illuminating.”

“The outcome was not one for which we might have hoped.”

“On the contrary.”

The visitor frowns at Stricklend. “Surely our aim had been to prevent the Montgomery girl from succeeding her father.”

“That would, indeed, have been a helpful result.”

“Instead she has shown herself to be a capable witch, no doubt garnering plaudits from many present, and winning over any doubters. I fail to see how such a conclusion to the challenge can be advantageous for our purposes.”

“Lady Lilith is the late duke’s daughter, after all. It was unlikely that she would fail the task given her.”

“You expected her to be triumphant?” The young man gives a snort. “Then I must question the wisdom of having the challenge set in the first place. All that has been achieved is to show the wretched girl in a favorable light, to strengthen her position, in fact. There is much at stake here, Stricklend. What game are you playing?”

Stricklend pauses before answering. He does not care for his visitor’s tone. He does not care to have his wisdom called into question. In truth, he does not care for the man sitting opposite him. He finds him peevish and uncooperative and a little too ready to point out the failings of others in an attempt to puff up his own importance. A habit Stricklend considers a sign of weakness, and an indication a person cannot, ultimately, be trusted. He makes a silent promise to himself that, when the moment presents itself, he will find a way to rid himself of this particular ally. One less dagger lurking in the shadows, he reasons, is one more threat to his master’s plan removed.

“Believe me,” he says at last, “I am not a man who plays games. Had the young witch failed the challenge the Lazarus Coven would, I grant you, have been thrown into disarray, a situation we might well have taken advantage of. But, in that event, there would be no guarantee her replacement would fit better with the wishes of the Sentinels. I am quite fond of the adage, ‘Better the devil you know.’ At least now we are informed of precisely whom we are dealing with. The girl has courage and not a little talent in the art of conjuring. The summoning of a demon is no easy matter.”

The visitor shakes his head. “The summoning is simple enough. It is controlling what answers the call that requires skill.”

“And the new Head Witch equipped herself admirably on that score, by your own account.”

“One of the minor witches was taken by the demon. There was a certain amount of panic and chaos.”

“Things could have been much worse.”

“They very nearly were.”

“My dear man, is that the memory of fear I detect?” Stricklend rarely smiles, and when he does so it is not a pretty sight.

The visitor shifts in his seat, tapping his cane on the polished floorboards with ill-masked agitation. “You were not there,” he says pointedly.

“To my regret. I should have liked to have witnessed the young woman at work. As it is I shall have to make do with your report. Which I’m sure is both accurate and thorough.”

“There is little I can add to it. Lilith Montgomery was shaken by the loss of the young witch, but she behaved as was expected. The inauguration was completed. The Robe of Office conferred. The vows taken. The Lazarus Coven has its new Head Witch. She was convincing in her composure, despite what had happened.” He takes out his pocket watch and checks the time. “If the girl is, as you insist, a worthy successor to her father, she will guard the Elixir with as much fervor as he did, and no doubt frustrate our plans at every turn if…”

“… if the Sentinels do not see to it that this time, things are different. That this time, the Coven of Lazarus is, once and for all, put to the sword.” Stricklend examines the fingernails of his left hand closely. “Do not lose sleep over what you saw the girl overcome in that chamber,” he says. “She may have proved herself to be a witch of note, but I intend to see to it that the most memorable thing about her tenure is that she is recorded as being the very last witch of Fitzroy Square.”

*   *   *

Two days later I find myself speeding toward Mangan’s house. I am in Charlotte’s carriage, as I accompany her on her first appointment with him. She is understandably excited at the prospect of meeting the famous artist and being sculpted by him, and she chatters on happily, requiring little from me by way of reply. I stare out at the streets. This time they are bustling with people. Ordinary people living their ordinary lives, going about their business. I find I envy them the apparent simplicity of their existence.

I become aware that Charlotte has stopped speaking and is looking at me intently.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte, what did you say?”

“My goodness, Lily, you are a thousand miles away this morning. Are you quite well?”

“Just a little tired,” I tell her, and for the hundredth time I experience the sadness of keeping such secrets from my dear friend. “I slept badly.”

“Hardly surprising. You must have all sorts of things racing around in your head, poor you. And all of it to do without your own lady’s maid. Fancy Violet bolting like that. And the way simply everyone over the age of thirty insists on droning on about war being around the corner. I mean to say, what are we supposed to do about it? And of course you must miss your papa dreadfully. And I know how you worry about your mama and Freddie. And the constant wondering about when to marry Louis…”

Despite myself, I cannot help laughing. “Charlotte, you are incorrigible.”

“No point beating about the bush. The man’s utterly in love with you, and you make such a lovely couple. A wedding would cheer us all up, you know it would.”

“Have you been talking to my mother?”

“Oh, Lily, you know how I long to help you organize your big day. Any excuse to dress up,” she says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Her words are flippant, but I know she is only trying to be cheerful, to tease me out of my melancholy.

“My family is in mourning,” I remind her. “If we did set a date it would have to be months, perhaps years from now.”

“Well, it seems a silly waste of time to me, your not starting your lives together. You have so much in common,” Charlotte points out. “Both fabulously wealthy, irritatingly good-looking, impeccable pedigrees…”

“Charlotte, I’m not a racehorse.”

“You know what I mean. You are so well suited.”

We are both witches,
I add silently to myself. I know this is the main reason my father wanted me to marry Louis. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to have such a secret casting a shadow over a marriage. With a non-witch for a husband I would never truly be able to be myself. To be totally honest. To let my guard down. And now I have the mystery challenger to think about. Someone wanted to see me fail. How can I concern myself with weddings at the moment? But, of course, I cannot make this point to Charlotte.