Bones and Ashes (6 page)

“Bonjour girls,” Miss Radbone said, her voice listless.

“Bonjour madam,” they echoed back.

“Mr Grub, wait outside until I call you.” She didn’t look at the ogre as she spoke. She waited until he had left the room before she began to talk about verbs and the second participle. She never looked directly at them. Her gaze was fixed on the back of the room, above their heads. Her voice was toneless as she recited the lesson.

The bell rang. Miss Radbone broke off in the middle of her sentence. “You may go,” she said. She stared down at the table in front of her while they got up to leave.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Raiden said to Cassade.

“Raiden,” Cassade called. Raiden turned back. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t have any magic. Don’t let your grandmother tell you otherwise.”

It did matter. It mattered a great deal, especially to her grandmother and the rest of society. Instead, Raiden nodded. “I won’t be long.”

Marielle was waiting in her room, ready to help her change. She had laid out a black pinstripe hooded dress on the bed. Marielle quickly helped her into the dress. Raiden flinched at the touch of her cold fingers as she did up the buttons down the back. The ghost picked up a brush and began to brush out Raiden’s hair. Raiden winced as her hair was twisted and pulled. Marielle was usually much gentler. When she was younger, she had always known when she had been summoned to see her grandmother by how tightly Marielle had braided her hair.

Marielle held out her coat. Raiden shoved her arms into the sleeves and then pulled on her gloves and pinned on her hat. She looked in the mirror. Her face was pale, her green eyes wide with fear. She pressed her hands to her stomach and took a deep breath. She couldn’t let her grandmother see she was afraid of her. She squared her shoulders and marched out of the room.

Chapter Four

Outside the manor, Tobin waited with the carriage. He opened the door as she hurried down the steps. She smiled at the empty space where his head should have been as she climbed in.

Knightsbridge wasn’t as crowded as it usually was. The social season was over and most of the human aristocracy had left the city to spend the winter at their estates. The demon aristocracy were still in London and they were out shopping in force. Their carriages, many of them pulled by strange creatures Raiden couldn’t identify, lined the streets outside the shops.  

Her carriage moved slowly through the traffic. There were few dead here. Those that had died in this part of London had been made to move on and the ghosts that could wander freely were forced to stay away. Chalcedony had been carved and set into the stonework at the front of the shops. The milky white crystal repelled ghosts.

A lady stepped out of a shop. A zombie trailed behind her, carrying her packages. The dead were allowed into the shops as servants, but not as customers. Zombie servants seemed to be fashionable at the moment. They were cheap to buy and they never needed to eat or sleep. But there was always the risk that whoever had raised them from the dead had not done it quite right. More than one owner had been found with his head smashed open and his brain missing.

The carriage ahead of hers was pulled by six unicorns; their snowy white plumes blew in the wind. Only fairy royalty used unicorns. Their white coats gleamed in the morning sun. They shone so brightly it hurt her eyes to look at them. They stood out against the dirt and grime of the streets; nothing else in London was that white. It reminded her of the boy she had seen from her window last night. His hair had been that same brilliant white. 

The carriage pulled to a stop outside her family’s mansion. Syon Park was supposed to be her family’s ducal residence in London, but after the fire that had killed her mother, her grandmother had ordered the house shut up and she had taken a mansion in Belgrave Square. The house, like the mansions either side of it, stood four stories high, with a white façade and black wrought iron gates.

Raiden pulled the bell. Evans, her grandmother’s butler, opened the door. He was more recently dead than Peters. His clothes - a black suit and spotless white gloves - were from this century. His black hair was slicked down and he had that air of superiority that all butlers seemed to have. He stepped aside and gestured for her to come in. He said nothing. Like all the ghosts that served her family, he was forbidden to speak.

He led her down the hallway. She stopped as they passed the door to the parlour. Her aunt had redecorated again since Raiden was last here. A lush green carpet now covered the floor and the new heavy green silk curtains were half-closed, blocking out the light. An alcove in the wall was lined with shelves filled with small stone vases. There was a larger vase on the mantelpiece with two smaller ones either side of it, and more on a side table. They were urns, filled with the bones and ashes of the ghosts that served her family. There were twenty in this room alone and there were more in every room of the house.

Along the windowsill was a line of salt. It meant her cousin was here. They put salt down to keep her safe from being stolen away by fairies. It was unnecessary as Elissa was too old now to be stolen away. Raiden pushed the small grains into a straighter line. She didn’t remember ever seeing anyone put salt down to keep her safe when she was a child. 

Evans waited outside the door, his face impassive. She followed him down the hall, past the row of portraits of the previous duchesses. The family title was one of the few that could pass through the female line. Her ancestors stared down at her from the paintings. Not all of them were blonde. Roselyn, the fifth duchess, had dark hair, covered with a caul. She wore an Elizabethan dress studded with gems and a huge pleated ruff around her neck. Roberta, the seventh duchess, had a huge plumed hat crammed down on her blonde ringlets and a silver breastplate over her dress. Her hand rested on the rapier at her side. She had died fighting for the King in the Civil War. At the end of the row there was an empty space where, after her death, her grandmother’s portrait would hang. Raiden had always wondered if one day her portrait would hang here as well.

Evans walked through the closed door into the library, leaving Raiden outside. He returned a few seconds later and gestured to the chair outside the door. She sat down as he disappeared through the wall.

The chair was hard and it dug into her back. She had sat in this same chair as a child after she had been summoned by her grandmother. Her feet hadn’t quite reached the ground then. She would sit with her hands folded in her lap, sure the portraits were spying on her and would tell her grandmother if she fidgeted. She would watch them, trying to see if they moved, her head hurting where her hair was braided so tightly, trying to be quiet, to not displease her grandmother. Nothing had changed. 

“Come in, Raiden,” came a voice from the library.

Raiden stood. She hesitated at the door. She had always been afraid to open it. She had usually done something wrong. It was the only reason her grandmother would send for her.

She took a steadying breath and turned the handle. Her grandmother sat behind a large desk, her pen moving fluidly across a page. Two hard backed chairs faced the desk. Bookcases lined the room, although they weren’t filled with books. The shelves were filled with urns of every shape and size. Some were crude stone; others polished and etched with patterns. A niche had been carved for each one. It was a library of ghosts. There were more urns in this room than any other room in the mansion. Somewhere amongst them were the rest of Peters, Marielle and Tobin’s bones and ashes.

In front of the fire lay the skin of some strange creature. It was the shape of a wolf, but it had human eyes. When she was a child, she had been afraid it might suddenly come to life and eat her. Now, it looked pitiful. The black fur was matted and rubbed bare in places. It was the skin of a werewolf, although werewolves were extinct now. She had always wondered how her grandmother came to have the skin of one on the floor of her study.

Her grandmother didn’t look up from her desk. Raiden walked as quietly as she could to the centre of the room. “You’re Grace,” she said as she curtsied. 

Her grandmother continued to write. Her pen made a scratching sound as it moved across the page. She sat rigidly in her chair. Her face was deeply lined, but her eyes were still beautiful. They were a deep forest green. She wore a dark grey dress buttoned up to her neck and the cameo pin she always wore at her throat. Her hands showed her age more than her face. The network of blue veins was visible beneath the paper thin skin. The huge emerald ring on her finger hung loose and had slipped to one side. The last time Raiden had seen her it had fit snugly. Her face was gaunt, her cheekbones more pronounced. Had she been ill? And why had no one told her?

Finally, her grandmother set the pen aside and looked up. There was silence while she inspected her. “You may sit,” her grandmother eventually said.

Raiden sat down on the chair facing the desk and placed her hands in her lap. She tried to keep her back perfectly straight and her shoulders back.

“You have returned to school?” her grandmother asked.

“Yes.”

She paused. Raiden knew what she would ask her next. “The situation with your magic, it remains unchanged?”

Raiden looked down at her hands. She couldn’t meet her grandmother’s gaze. “Yes.”

“I see.”

Her grandmother lapsed into silence. She straightened the papers in front of her. “It will come.” She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to Raiden. She spoke with such certainty, as if her will alone could make it happen.

“And if it doesn’t?” Raiden’s voice was louder than she intended, but she needed to know what would happen. Everyone kept saying it would come and it hadn’t. What if it never came? She was ignored now. She spent the summers alone at the castle in Northumberland, while her grandmother and aunt spent the social season attending balls and parties. There was only one more year left of school and then she would make her own debut to society and she would be expected to find a husband. But what if she never came into her magic?

“We will deal with that when the situation arises.”  

It had already arisen. Why couldn’t she see that?

“There are doctors you can see, treatments we can try,” her grandmother continued.

Raiden looked up, unable to keep quiet. “No.”

Her grandmother regarded her. “No?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You’re a Feralis. It will come.”

“But if it doesn’t…” She needed to know what would happen. Would she be able to inherit the title, and if not, what would happen to her then? If her Aunt Sylvia inherited, she wouldn’t want Raiden living here. Where would she go?

Her grandmother’s face remained expressionless. “I will be attending a concert tomorrow.”

Her grandmother had decided the conversation was over and had changed the subject. Raiden knew it was pointless to press her further. “You are?” She didn’t see why her grandmother was telling her this. She never discussed her social outings with her.

“Xan thought that perhaps you would like to accompany me.” Xan was her godfather. “Francesco Geminiani, the violinist, is giving his last performance.”

“I didn’t know they had raised him from the dead again.” 

“This will be his last performance before they rebury him. It’s unlikely they will raise him again; the decomposition is too advanced.”

Her grandmother had never taken her anywhere in public before. Did this mean she wanted to spend time with her? “I would very much like to go,” Raiden said, trying not to sound too eager.

“Xan thought you would. He was supposed to accompany me, but he has to attend a meeting at the museum. He suggested I take you in his place.”

Raiden should have known it wouldn’t have been her grandmother’s idea.

“I will come for you at seven o’clock. You will be ready to leave at that time. I will inform your headmistress.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Her grandmother picked up her pen and went back to work. Raiden sat there awkwardly. Her grandmother looked up “You may go.” 

Raiden rose. She hesitated at the door. “Have you read the newspapers recently?” 

Her grandmother frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“There was a fire last week. A man died.”

“And why should that concern me?”

Raiden didn’t look at her. She kept her gaze on the door handle. “The door was locked from inside the room.” There was no response from her grandmother. “In the newspaper, it said the Duke of Exeter was passing at the time. He tried to save the man, but he was already dead. It’s just like how my mother died.”

Her grandmother’s pen paused above the paper in mid-stroke. For a second, Raiden thought she would say something, but then she started writing again. “I have a great deal of work to do. Shut the door behind you.” 

“You know it wasn’t an accident. You know someone killed my mother. You could summon her back. Let me speak to her for just a moment.”

Her grandmother set her pen down. “You want me to illegally raise a spirit so I can indulge your childish fantasies. You would have me risk my position. Do you want me to be locked away in a mirror for improper use of magic?”

“Of course not.”

“We will not discuss this again. You should return to school.” She picked up her pen.

Raiden left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. She stood for a moment, with her hand on the door handle. Her grandmother was the one person in the world who could have done something about her mother’s death, but she would do nothing. She never mentioned her. It was as if she had never existed.

Evans stood waiting for her. Raiden followed him back down the hall, past the portraits. As they reached the entrance hall, the front door opened and her aunt marched in. Sylvia stopped on seeing Raiden, then she ignored her and swept past her. Evans hurried to take her aunt’s coat.

Her aunt slowly loosened her gloves, a finger at a time. Under her coat, she wore a hooded black silk dress. Her golden blonde hair was pinned up under her hat, but her eyes were blue, not the Feralis green. She was in her thirties, although no lines had yet marred her flawless ivory skin. Raiden had seen the dozens of lotions and creams she applied daily to keep them away.

Sylvia wasn’t really her aunt. Her mother had been the sister of Raiden’s grandmother, which made her a cousin, although Raiden had always referred to her as her aunt.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Raiden, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“I’m just leaving.”

“Hurry along then.”

Her aunt’s dislike for her was evident, although it hadn’t always been that way. After her mother’s death, her aunt had taken care of her, at least for a while. Then she’d had her own daughter. Raiden couldn’t remember her own mother, but she could remember her aunt singing her to sleep.

“Wait,” her aunt ordered as Raiden went to leave. “What about your magic? It still hasn’t come, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t come.”