The Midnight Witch (31 page)

In addition, we have taken to holding regular meetings of the whole coven, in order to maintain and strengthen the bonds between witches, to cast and enforce spells of protection and incantations designed to alert us to danger. We have set up groups within the coven, working in rotation, undertaking frequent callings and summonings of spirits that may give assistance or comfort in these difficult times. Some are able to pass on specific, if fragmentary information about the forces that oppose us, whether Sentinels or foreign militia. Others suggest courses of action that might prove sensible, or warnings if certain members or their family are in particular peril. It seems our work as necromancers will become ever more important, both in the coming war abroad and our own, closer to our coven home.

The earl of Winchester has insisted one of his own guardian spirits, a fearsome Goth, accompany me when I am out after dark. This has horribly curtailed my movements. While I might persuade the spirit to wait outside Mangan’s house, he still reports back to his master regarding my whereabouts. And the earl has taken it into his head that the closer Louis is to me, the safer he becomes. Indeed he has clearly been pressuring him to redouble his efforts to press me for a date to marry, and has insisted he return to London. Last time he called at the house I felt terrible, seeing how worried he is and knowing I can only add to his difficulties now. He looked so very frightened, and yet did his best to sound cheerful and brave, that my heart went out to him.

When I am trying to be sensible I wonder, could the earl be right, perhaps? Might it be that if Louis and I were to form such an alliance, a pairing of witches and a joining of two ancient families of necromancers, might he be saved? If that is the case, it could be seen as my duty to marry him. And how happy it would make Mama. But what of Bram? What of love? There are times when it seems I must consider everyone else before myself, and Bram barely at all. If I were Mama I would know exactly what to do. I would marry Louis.

And now at last winter is fading and we are beginning to emerge from its gloom into spring. Today Freddie is expected home. Part of me longs to have him here, but I am wary. From Withers’s reports it seems he has been spending longer and longer time away from the hall. Who knows what he has been doing. I have sent a friendly spirit to watch over him, but it is a difficult task to do well. Freddie might not be a witch, but he is aware of our practices, and clever enough when it suits him. Over the years he has become quite adept at evading anyone Father or I have sent to guard him. After all, who are they guarding him from if not himself, and how can they possibly succeed in that?

*   *   *

The glorious early spring morning is too good to miss, Bram insists, and they cannot possibly pass it indoors. Besides, the portrait is finished. He is secretly delighted with it, and he senses that Lilith is, too. He knows he has captured the essence of her, and the muted hues he chose have worked better than he dared hope.

Winter has now fully relinquished its grip on London, and brave new life can be found forcing its way up from previously frozen flower beds, bare branches, and even between cobbles and paving slabs. Small birds flit to and fro gathering twigs and beakfuls of all manner of snatched materials for their nests. The sun is still low in the sky, and the days not yet lengthened into spring proper, but there is a sense of regeneration, of renewal, of hope. This rebirth of slumbering life has infected Bram with what he knows in his heart to be a misplaced optimism. He has even managed to persuade Lilith that they can venture out in public together for once.

The second he sees her slender figure standing by the entrance to the zoological gardens he knows the darkness of winter, of her time of mourning, of the most acute phase of her grief, all have passed. She is quite changed. Although still dressed in her sumptuous black woolen coat, she has chosen a hat of silver-gray, with matching gloves. He marvels at how such a tiny lifting, a minute step of barely a shade, can bring about such an alteration. Her complexion seems rosier, brighter, more alive.

For a brief moment she does not see him, so that he is free to enjoy watching her. As he does so he notices something curious. Lilith takes out a handkerchief to dab at her dust-smarted eyes. As she is putting it back into her bag she drops it. It falls to the ground, and she stoops to pick it up, but she does not reach the ground. Instead, the small square of cotton and lace appears to rise up to meet her outstretched hand. Bram marvels at what it must be like to have magic as part of one’s everyday life. At one’s disposal for things both trivial and important.

And then she looks up and spies Bram, and her green eyes shine, and the smile with which she greets him warms his heart. As soon as she reaches him he snatches up her hand and presses it to his lips. For a moment they stand close, without speaking, desire fizzing between them. At last she pulls away.

“Come along,” she says, smiling, “I want to visit the wolves.”

They walk on past the aquarium, beyond the new Mappin Terrace with its bears and arctic animals, and to the very edge of the zoological gardens where a wooded area borders Regent’s Park. Here a shaggy-pelted wolf pack have been given an unlikely home. Lilith loops her arm through Bram’s, and they watch the lupine family stretch and yawn and stir themselves for a new day.

“They don’t look at all savage,” she says.

“That’s because there is a sturdy fence between us and them.”

“No, it’s because they are never hungry. They don’t have to hunt. Everything is given to them.”

“I shouldn’t imagine they mind. Look at that one, he’s positively plump,” Bram points to a black wolf lolling beneath a silver birch.

“It isn’t right. They should be living wild, not in a park.”

But Bram is not listening. He pulls away from her, his eyes wide, his expression stricken, as he feels the weight of a terrible coldness, a dreadful dark energy, enter his body.

“My God!” he cries, struggling for air. It is as if he is being crushed from within, his lungs pressed as though in the grasp of some unseen giant, his heart constricted, unable to beat as it should.

“Oh, Bram! What is it, what’s the matter?” She gasps as Bram staggers backward, clutching at his head.

He opens his mouth to speak, to try to tell her of the fierce ringing inside his skull, of his fight to breathe, of the blackness descending upon him, but he can form no words, can make no sound.

I am dying! Dear Lord, my body surely cannot withstand …

“Bram! Listen to me. You must listen to me!”

Lilith kneels beside him as he slumps against the railings of the wolf enclosure. Behind the iron bars, the animals are suddenly awake, alert, pacing swiftly this way and that. Bram knows Lilith is talking, telling him something, but he is so very dizzy, in so much pain, it is hard to make out her words.

“It is the Dark Spirit. It is Willoughby. He caught us unawares, here, in daylight … I let down my guard. My darling, you must do what I tell you.”

“Argh!” Bram screams as a stab of pain pierces his body.

How can this be?

“I can see no one!” he gasps. “I hear no voice.”

“But I do. He is mocking me. He is … he is showing me what he is capable of. What he can do. What he will do if I refuse to give him what he wants.”

“Give him …
nothing
!” Bram insists through clenched teeth.

“Stay awake, my darling! He is trying to manipulate your mind. You must not fall unconscious. The stronger you fight him, the better able I will be to send him from you.”

Lilith leaps to her feet, oblivious to the anxious stares of passersby. A young man steps forward to offer his help, but she waves him away furiously, standing guard over Bram, trusting nobody. “Leave him be!” she cries. “He is not yours to inhabit. I command you, return to the Darkness where you belong and release this man from your grasp!”

The confused onlookers move back. They think Lilith is talking to them, and her words appear those of a madwoman. Bram knows different. He knows she is trying to control the Dark Spirit. He bends forward, clutching at his chest.

I will not be broken like some toy in this vicious game!

He forces himself upright, clinging to the railings. Behind him the black wolf also stands its ground, head low, hackles raised. He catches its eye as he hauls himself to his feet. Its teeth are bared and it emits a ferocious growl. It is the growl not of a hunter after its prey, but of an animal in terror.

Lilith has set up a chanting. The small collection of people nearby has thinned as men lead their women away from the lunatic and her ailing friend. Someone has summoned a keeper, but he stops short when he sees the wildness in Lilith’s eyes as she holds her arms wide, her voice growing ever stronger and louder. Bram is aware that he has no breath left in his body, and if he does not take in air very soon, he will pass out. Try as he might he cannot force his chest to expand, cannot overcome the force that restricts him.

The gentle morning has been transformed into an atmosphere of turmoil, with an unnatural wind stirring up dust and whipping the branches of the nearby hazel bushes and birch trees. Lilith is shouting now, her words whisked away by the swirling gusts that snatch at her clothes. Her hat flies from her head, her hair is tugged from its pins, so that it billows out and tangles about her face. Bram sees she is giving her all, but that it might not be enough. His vision is beginning to blur and dim at the edges, and unconsciousness cannot be more than seconds away.

And then what? Then what?

He staggers along the iron fence, causing the black wolf to spring toward him, barking and snarling. He knows he must do something to stop himself from falling into that darkness. Summoning his last vestige of strength, he pushes his hand through the railings directly in front of the wolf. Instinctively, the animal lunges forward and sinks its teeth into Bram’s flesh.

He screams. And that scream forces his reluctant, failing body to take a deep, life-giving gulp of air. Oxygen surges through him. And in that instant, when he is stronger, and Willoughby’s hold is weakened, Lilith works her magic, and the spirit is sent spinning away. Far away.

In the time it takes a wood pigeon to alight on a nearby branch and cease its flapping, the normality of the March morning is restored. The wind disappears. Birds take up singing once more. The wolves, puzzled, lope off to find shade. The keeper inquires after Bram’s health and, once reassured, returns Lilith’s hat to her. Lilith takes it from him and swiftly works a spell of forgetting on the keeper and the startled onlookers. She may well have been recognized, and it would not do for gossip to spread and the incident to be reported in the newspapers. She and Bram hurry down the winding path away from the scene.

Bram pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around his bleeding hand. He puts his arm around Lilith’s shoulders partly to protect her, and partly because he fears his legs might just give way beneath him without her support. They find a bench at the far side of a picnic area. It is still sufficiently early in the day so that the place is empty, so that they will not be overheard. He sits down heavily, his hair falling in his face, willing his racing heart to steady itself once more. Beside him Lilith tenderly takes his wounded hand and examines the bite.

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll have Jane find me some iodine when we return to the house. What was that …
thing
trying to do?”

“To hurt you. To frighten you. To warn me.”

“He certainly succeeded on the first two counts.”

“Oh, Bram, forgive me, it’s my fault. We are so far from the cemetery, or my home, and in a public place, in daytime … I never imagined Willoughby would be so bold, so reckless as to harm you here. I should have realized…”

“But, from what I recall, you told me the spirits are stronger at nighttime. That they cannot do a great deal alone, other than haunt and scare people, unless…”

“Unless they are being manipulated or assisted by someone in the Land of Day. Which is precisely what must have been taking place. The Sentinel was very close. I could feel him, as soon as he began to work through the Dark Spirit he revealed his presence.”

“He was here? In the crowd?”

“Possibly. Or at least, here in the gardens.”

“And he is here still?” Bram asks, looking about the flower beds and shrubbery, trying to imagine evil lurking unseen somewhere even now.

“He is not spellcasting or communing with a spirit, so he will be easily able to mask his presence.”

“Good Lord, Lilith, he could be anywhere. He could be anyone.”

“He could.”

They fall silent for a while, before Bram shakes his head. “I need to walk. I can’t sit still.”

“Do you feel quite well?”

“My heart is leaping, but don’t worry. I’m perfectly well.”

“Your poor hand,” she says, kissing his bandaged fingers gently.

“My left, fortunately, not my painting hand. It will heal soon enough.”

Lilith moves forward and slips her arms around his waist, leaning against his warm, strong chest, putting her ear against his heart so that she might listen to its uneven rhythm. It is a gesture of such affection, such intimacy, here in the open, in this public place, that Bram feels tears sting his eyes. He blinks them away and turns to enfold her in his arms.

“Perhaps we should run away to a wild place,” he says, contriving a smile. “Somewhere far away where no one knows us. Where we can just be Bram and Lilith, the disheveled painter and his beautiful muse.”

“That would be wonderful,” she agrees, but in the way a person does when they are entering into a fantasy, a dream, rather than putting a plan into action.

Bram steals a chaste kiss, meaning only to be tender, but she takes his face in her hands and holds him, returning his kiss with a passion that shocks him.

“Come away with me,” she says.

“You have a tropical island in mind?”

“No, but I could take you to Radnor Hall.”