The Midnight Witch (40 page)

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 dearly 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.

I quickly spoon food into Freedom’s dish, and notice that the twins are with him, too. They are boisterous as ever, as only small children can continue to be, whatever their circumstances. It disturbs me to realize, though, that they still seem small, as if they have not grown at a normal rate. How much must their diet have suffered to have this effect? The queue shuffles forward and the boys begin to move on. I have heard of Mangan’s stance as a conscientious objector, and I know that his refusing conscription will ultimately land him in prison. I am assailed by a combination of guilt and longing when I think of that chaotic house in Bloomsbury. I have not returned there since losing Freddie, and Mangan’s attendance at coven meetings has become less and less frequent. He has all but withdrawn from society, his pacifist beliefs and his German mistress rendering him an outcast. He knows me well enough to understand my reluctance to visit. Even so, I fear I have been a poor friend, and the sight of the children here, reduced to queuing in the soup kitchen, makes me ashamed of myself. I will call on Mangan and see if there is anything I can do to help.

I fully intended to make my visit directly after my shift at St. Mary’s, but my plans are changed by the arrival of a note, delivered by Lord Grimes’s second footman. It is short, missing some of the Master of the Chalice’s customary warmth and its tone is urgent.

Morningstar, you are needed. Please come directly. Let us meet at the north gate.

I cannot conceive of a reason Lord Grimes would ask me to meet him in secret, away from his home, unless it is on pressing coven business. Business that he does not wish to address in his home, or, it appears, with other witches present. I know at once that the north gate refers to a specific entry to the cemetery where my father’s empty grave lies.

By the time I have divested myself of my apron, donned my coat, and made my apologies for leaving early, darkness has already fallen. London is currently a place full of sorrows, and seems even more so at night with most streetlamps left unlit in an attempt to thwart the hateful zeppelins. Happily, I am comfortable in the dark and am able to employ the heightened senses of a witch to safely navigate my way through Holborn, threading nimbly between the people who find themselves compelled to be abroad, walking briskly east, beyond Fitzroy Square, skirting Regent’s Park, and on toward the graveyard. As I draw nearer to our rendezvous point, I begin to wonder if Lord Grimes has noticed the restlessness of the spirits and wishes to talk to me about it. Or could it be that he has news regarding the Sentinels? He is not a man given to panic, and I can be sure he would not have arranged such a meeting if he were not greatly concerned about something.

I am but a few paces from the tall iron gates when I sense that I am being followed. No, not followed,
pursued.
I cast about me, but there is no one else to be seen in the street. No one, that is, living. What I see looming out of the night shadows renders me unable to move. The darkness itself seems to take shape and to form into a towering figure, more than eight feet tall, its features human but blurred, its presence one of pure menace. The realization that the power of the Dark Spirit has enabled it to manifest itself in such a fearsome form astonishes me. It is as if Willoughby has been feeding upon evil energy in the years since he last stood before me. Now he is more terrifying, more powerful, and more determined upon his intended victim. And that victim is me.

The apparition bounds toward me, covering the ground with awesome speed. I have mere seconds to galvanize myself from my stupor. I fling myself through the gate and stumble onto the dusty ground of the churchyard, just as Willoughby swoops. The swiftness of my movement has saved me from his grasp. I am aware of gasps and moans all around me: a chattering of spirits disturbed from their slumbers. Spirits that are, nowadays, so easily brought forth, as if they no longer sleep deeply, but rather are waiting.

While I have evaded the phantom form of the Dark Spirit, I am not beyond the reach of his magic. Magic that has increased and intensified since our last encounter. There swirls about him a foul-smelling mist that reaches for me, filling my nose and mouth with its unearthly poison. I clamber to my feet and force myself to stand firm. Beneath the dim glow of a lone streetlamp I see a carriage drawn to a halt and two men emerge. It is clear that, with the aid of Willoughby, they mean to snatch me away, and no doubt deliver me to the waiting Sentinels, most likely Stricklend himself.