The Midnight Witch (15 page)

Bram steps toward the hall. “That was Jane, Mangan’s wife,” he explains. “She’s chaotic and harassed, but she’d give you her last bowl of stew. Around here that means something. Try not to judge her too quickly.” And without giving me a chance to reply he disappears into the dark depths of the house.

Jane marches back in from the garden dragging two small children with her.

“Bram gone? I was hoping he’d help me bathe George. Wretched dog has candyfloss in its fur as well as ice cream and Mangan won’t allow it back in the house in such a state. Can’t think why not, it’s no stickier than his offspring. Leo, stop wriggling, do. You
will
be washed,” she insists.

“Does he often do things like that? Help you give the dog a bath and … suchlike?”

“Oh, Bram is a sweetie. Couldn’t wish for nicer. I know he looks very Byronesque, and he does have a tendency to brood if he’s on his own too much, but we see to it he’s kept sociable.” She laughs. “A person does not have a choice in the matter in this house. He’s only been with us a few weeks, but he gets on famously with everyone. And the children adore him.” She shakes her head. “Do you know he had barely set foot in the door, his very first day in London, and I sent him off to retrieve Mangan from that dreadful Mr. Chow Li’s clutches? Not that you’ll know who I’m talking about. Vincent, if you try to bite your brother again there will be consequences.” She strides onward, hauling her reluctant charges with her, but has not entirely vanished into the gloom of the hallway before she calls back over her shoulder. “That’s a tremendously dear man, you know, and such a talented artist. A very rare bird indeed.”

7.

Bram regards the portrait on the easel in front of him with deepening disappointment. He has been working on it for days, now. He had taken Mangan’s advice and wandered the streets with his sketchbook, seeking inspiration. He has drawn scene after scene of the city: Oxord street shoppers, an overturned milk cart, a flower stall, the Thames at twilight. All interesting subjects, and good material to work with, but nothing that truly stirred him. He persuaded a chestnut seller to come to his studio and be painted, in the hope that a model would be more satisfying to paint directly, rather than working from sketches. The sitter had been patient and stoic, only mentioning once that, as he was still wearing his heavy coat and fingerless mittens, the studio was uncomfortably hot.

At the time Bram had been moderately pleased with the finished picture, but now, only a few days later, it fails to please.

There is a reasonable likeness and a convincing skin tone. The composition is satisfactory. The draftsmanship professional. There is, in fact, nothing technically wrong with the painting, it is just … dull. Dull and flat and lifeless. Where is the flair? The spark of life? The character in the features? The beauty? I can’t show this to Mangan.

An image of Lilith’s face, bold and graceful, springs up before his mind’s eye. His joy at seeing her again, at discovering her identity, at knowing she is not lost to him, is tempered by her reaction to him. He recalls the way she spoke to him, the way she judged him, and the memory irks him anew. She was quick to label him as contemptuous, on scant evidence.

But then, had not I formed an instant opinion of her, too? And there was sorrow behind her words. Some personal pain.

He remembers she had said it was a relative who used Mr. Chow Li’s services. He can only imagine how terrible it must be for her—for a woman like her—to have to go to such a place. It is a measure of her character that she would undertake such a mission. She cut a striking figure, tall and elegant in her hooded cape. A point of restrained glamor amid the gray, brutal surroundings of Bluegate Fields. When he was introduced to her in Mangan’s studio he found himself awkward in her company. Disturbed by being so close to her. She has a presence that is not easily ignored. Later that same day, over black tea with no sugar, the children having eaten the last of it on bitter oranges from the leavings at Brewer Street market, Jane told him more about her. The daughter of a duke, born into one of the wealthiest families in London.

No use Bram from Yorkshire filling his head with thoughts of a member of the aristocracy.

He knows how these things work. He knows how society ladies like to amuse themselves with artists who are the talk of the town. And those artists are rarely too proud to undertake their commissions. Poverty has a way of taking the edge off principles. Hunger can blunt them altogether. Mangan is no different from the many creative men who have been required to bend their talents to suit the whim of a patron. Charlotte Pilkington-Adams’s parents will pay handsomely for the sculpture. Bram will strive to produce a portrait of her in the hope they will decide to purchase it, too. The young woman would enjoy the thrill of being a muse for a short while, and then the dalliance would be over. Perhaps Lady Lilith would accompany her, if only to make certain her friend is not led into some nefarious habits. She would no doubt be polite and take a modest interest in the process. But then the artwork would be completed, and the acquaintance would be at an end.

And our paths would be unlikely ever to cross again.

The thought causes an unexpected tightness in his chest, which in turn makes him feel annoyed at his own foolishness. He snatches up a rag and dips it in turpentine. He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering above the surface of the canvas. The acrid smell of the turpentine brings him to his senses. With mounting irritation he rubs at the canvas, watching with some morbid satisfaction as the image blurs, the colors melt, and the shapes lose their definition as he works to erase the dismal painting.

*   *   *

The heat of summer fades and the year falls quietly into autumn. I find my grief for my father is also undergoing subtle transformations. The disbelief at his passing, the numbness of the early days, the gnawing ache as I adjust to life without him—all these phases come and go in such a short space of time I am only able to see them clearly with the crystal vision of hindsight. Now, just a few months after his death, and after so many mutations, my grieving has settled into a constant undertow of sadness that tugs at my mood and my thoughts seemingly without respite. The sorrow wearies me.

What must it be like for poor Mama? I am young enough to have a future to travel toward, whereas she is propelled only by her past now. Nor does she have the comfort of knowing, as I do, that dear Father is never far from us.

I cherish the all too brief moments I have been able to spend in the company of my father’s spirit. I was taught, many years ago, of the progression of the soul from the living world after a person dies. I understand that contact with a spirit in the Land of Night is easier, more vivid, more tangible almost, in those first precious weeks. Gradually the pull of the noncorporeal realm grows stronger, so that it is harder to keep that connection. And when it is possible to commune with the departed, the connection is increasingly distant, increasingly faint, increasingly tenuous.

As is my habit, once the household is abed for the night, I slip silently down the narrow wooden staircase and go out into the garden. The cool night soothes me. I am wearing a soft woolen shawl over my nightclothes and red brocade slippers, and my hair hangs in a heavy plait down my back. The night air has a freshness about it that suggests the first frost of the season might adorn the plants and lawns before morning. After such a long, airless summer in the city, I am glad of the shift in the weather. I follow the path past the now-bare magnolia tree and take a seat on the small patio in front of the summer house. From the other side of the walls that enclose the garden come sounds of London slumbering. A lone carriage makes its way around the square, the hoofbeats of the sprightly horse that pulls it dwindling as it heads east. Some ways off a dog barks a muffled warning. Through an open upstairs window of the neighboring residence drift the subsiding sobs of a new baby, shushed with a lullaby. I close my eyes. I often sit in the stillness of the night, relishing the peace, feeling the darkness easing my worries, letting my mind open and float as if in a waking dream. Father showed me that the dark was nothing to fear. It is what people imagine it hides that terrifies them. I know the shadows to be peopled with all manner of souls stepping through time, traveling lightly between this world and the next, either at their own bidding or while being summoned. This time, however, I feel apprehensive. Whereas ordinarily I am at ease calling the spirits to talk to me, I realize now that I am wary. Since the Dark Spirit began to stalk my mind and ambush my thoughts, I am loath to do anything that might reawaken him. If he is listening to me so much of the time, if he is so present, surely my communing with others from the Land of Night will provoke him into speaking once more.

Perhaps I should do just that. What manner of Lazarus witch am I if I allow such a spirit to make me a reluctant necromancer? Should I always step cautiously in fear of him? Might that not be the very thing the Sentinels want? No, better that I face him. Better that I make him see I will not be cowed. Not be frightened.

I set my feet flatly on the ground, place my hands in my lap, palms up, bow my head forward, eyes still closed, and allow my mind to quiet and settle. My breathing slows and deepens. My pulse steadies and lightens. Slowly the earthly sounds about me grow fainter and more distant until they seem to come from some far-off place and have nothing whatever to do with me. My lips move as I silently recite the common prayer for calling those who have passed on to the Land of Night. I repeat the arcane words, which are as familiar to me as the Christian prayers I was taught to say by my nanny before bed. The rhythm builds to a chant, over and over and over, until my mind has entered an altered, meditative state. At last I stop, sitting motionless, listening, waiting. Within seconds there comes the familiar chill of the cool, airless breath of the deceased upon my neck.

So close! Who is there? Who has answered my call?

There is no reply, but I know beyond doubt that I am no longer alone. The simple request has brought forth a spirit willing to talk with me. It is not my father, of that I am sure, for I spoke with him only last night in the crypt and the frequency of our meetings has begun to tire him. He would not come unless I specifically asked for him.

Who are you?

When this spirit speaks the words have no sounds as such, but feel as if they are laid, one by one, directly onto my consciousness. I understand this to be an indication that the person is very long dead. Decades at the least. Centuries, maybe. The language the deceased has chosen to communicate in is an ancient English, peppered with phrases of Latin. I sense the presence is male. I focus on what I am being told. Although the presence is strong the words are indistinct and somewhat muddled.

The challenger? Can you tell me about the challenger, Gentle Spirit?

More words form and drift through my mind, seemingly unconnected, snippets of what appear to be archaic ritual mantras or creeds. Words referring to power and strength. Words that tell of great sorrow to come.

Sorrow for whom?

The message remains unclear, though its tone, its strength of feeling, are unmistakable. And now, suddenly, I feel someone else close, someone threatening. And I know it is the Dark Spirit.

You look to the wrong people for help, Daughter of the Night.

Won’t you tell me who you are? Why you haunt me? Who is making you do this?

Your pretense at interest in me beyond what threat I pose is a thin disguise. I know all Lazarus witches dissemble when it suits them. Such sly creatures, afraid to show their true selves.

If you think that, then surely you must wish to reveal your identity to me?

A movement in the shadows startles me, making my heart leap. I am not alone, and whoever is with me in the garden now is not a visiting spirit.

“Who’s there?” I ask, my voice, though a whisper, sounding loud in the stillness that surrounds me. “Who is it?”

“Tis only I, darling sister,” says Freddie, stepping onto the patio beside me. Here the moonlight falls unimpeded by trees or foliage so that, while not strongly illuminated, my brother is plainly visible.

“What are you doing out here at this hour?” I demand, more abruptly than I had intended. My heart is still thudding from conversing with the Dark Spirit. However unnerving his presence, I need to challenge him, to show him I will not be threatened by him. To find out if he does truly act at the behest of the Sentinels. But now Freddie is here, and I must turn my attention to him.

“I might ask you the same question,” he replies, lowering himself onto a chair. “But then, I know better than to inquire after your … curious nighttime activities. Father taught me well. If I was not good enough to join your merry little band, the very least I could do was to keep its existence a secret.”

“It can’t have been easy for you,” I say, and I mean it. I myself hate the lies I have to tell to protect the coven. How much harder must such deceit be for one who feels excluded from it?

Freddie sighs and runs a hand through his sleek black hair. There are moments he so resembles Father. And yet, in truth, he is little like him. He looks heartbreakingly sad. And so very alone. What happened to that happy little boy who shared my childhood?

As if reading my thoughts, Freddie smiles suddenly. “Do you remember that very hot summer before I went off to Harrow? We spent every afternoon swimming in the lake.”

I soften at the memory. “The minute we could escape from the appalling Mr. Carstairs. Oh! Was there ever a more boring tutor?”

“Papa thought he would make us serious.”

“Mama thought his manners very fine, as I recall.”

“Plain fact is, we’d seen off so many tutors, it was hard to find one who’d take us on.”

“
You’d
seen them off. I was a ridiculously well-behaved child.”

Freddie grins. “If it pleases you to think so I won’t argue,” he says. “Let’s agree at least that you were a willing coconspirator in my adventures.”