The Midnight Witch (6 page)

My father raised his eyebrows eloquently.

“I mean to say,” Louis pressed on, “the spirit might exert its own will upon the necromancer, or the gathering. He might cause harm.” Even Louis could hear the inadequacy of his response. He fell silent.

Father walked into the room, pacing slowly as he spoke.

“A Dark Spirit incompetently summoned can wreak havoc. He can inflict actual pain and injury upon not only the inadequate necromancer, but also anyone present. More than this, he may refuse to return to the Land of Night and set out on a haunting. This coven can only exist so long as its code of secrecy is observed.” He stopped close to Louis and looked at him sternly. “How long do you imagine that could continue if recklessness allowed spirits to flit hither and yon, terrifying people and muttering about being risen from the dead by members of the aristocracy?”

Louis opened his mouth to speak, but my father raised his hand to silence him.

“What is more,” he went on, “you have not touched upon the other very real danger attendant on inexpertly performed summonings.” He turned to me. “Well, Lilith, can you enlighten us?”

“Yes, Papa. The gravest outcome would be that a being from the Darkness would take advantage of the rupture brought about by the summoning…”

“The rupture in…?”

“… in the Rubicon. That is, in the divide between the Land of Night, where the deceased dwell, and the Land of Day, where the living tread the earth. The Darkness, as we know, contains those souls who are not fit to inhabit either of the other realms.”

“Such as?”

“Such as demons, warlocks, poltergeists, and many other creatures, most not human.”

“So, Louis.” My father sat on one of the tapestry-padded benches that ran along the wall of the antechamber. His momentary anger had passed, and he looked at Louis with a face that was stern but kind. “Would we want those sorts of beings abroad in the Land of Day, do you suppose?”

“No, sir. No, we would not.”

Father nodded. “And if you had any idea of how difficult it can be to retrieve a demon once he has escaped it might give you pause. You are both born witches, so have had the advantage of growing up in families who have understood and nurtured your birthright to belong to the coven and learn our spellcraft. But Lazarus witches are set apart, in that their main function is necromancy. Working with spirits from the Land of Night is a skill that must be learned. And learned well. Never forget that.” He paused, studying our faces and then suddenly slapped his knees with his palms and made his tone lighter. “Now, children, indulge your tutor. Give me the Lazarus creed, if you please. Loud enough to show you mean it, but without shouting, if you can manage that.”

Louis and I exchanged brief grins. The scolding was over. Together we recited:

“Faith in Silence:

To Protect the Great Secret,

To Preserve it for those yet to come,

To Honor those who have gone before us,

To Spare the innocent.”

He nodded, and I swear I saw a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes crinkling just the tiniest bit.

“Very good. Well now, let’s not keep Druscilla waiting any longer. I believe she is hoping you will both succeed in fully summoning a spirit without any of the mishaps you are so clearly well-versed in. Go on, she’s an old lady. Her time is more precious than most,” he said, waving us toward the Great Chamber.

And now the spirit who stands before me, as clear and vibrant as any living being, is my own dear father.

“Daughter, my darling girl,” he says softly, his voice, as is so often the case with the risen spirit, sounding thinner, lighter, less substantial than his corporeal one had been.

“Oh, Papa!” I must fight to control my tears.

“Hush now, this is not the time for weeping. We both knew this day would come. And, as you see, I am still here, am I not?”

I shake my head, digging my fingernails into my palms to force myself not to crumble. “But … Father.…”

“I know. There are … adjustments to be made.”

“And to step into your shoes, as Head Witch … will I command the respect that the leader of a coven should do?”

“You will, Lilith. In time. I grant you, it is unusual for a girl scarcely twenty-one to take on such a role. Unusual, but not unheard of. Think of all those who have stood where you now stand, doubting themselves just as you doubt yourself.”

“But what if I fail?”

“You will not fail,” he tells me. “Look at me, child.”

I do as he asks, my mouth firm with determination, but my eyes, I fear, giving away my deep anxiety.

“You will not fail because you
must
not fail. You understand, don’t you, Lilith?”

“Yes.”

Father nods slowly. “You are my daughter. You have studied hard and long for this honor. I know that you are equal to the task, my dear. And you know that you do not face what lies ahead on your own. You have the support of the coven, Lord Grimes and Druscilla in particular. And of course you have my counsel, my guidance, always.”

“Yes, Papa.” I have to be strong, not only to live up to his expectations. There is so much at stake. I force myself to take a steadying breath and stand tall. “I will not disappoint you. I promise.”

“Have all the arrangements been made for the inauguration?”

“They have, as you instructed, and as coven law dictates. Precisely one full month from the stopping of your heart, at the pinnacle of the night, we will convene here. Word has been sent out.”

“Good, good. It will be a proud day for me, daughter.” He smiles at me and then gestures toward a low bench. “Now, sit with me, and amuse me with details of the day. I want to know how quickly the earl of Winchester told you he would happily take over this onerous responsibility from you, how many times the countess of Framley called you a lamb, and how much of my second best claret was sacrificed to the occasion.”

Feeling the weight lift from my shoulders and the joy of my father’s companionship lift my mood, I sit beside him and we chat amiably about the day’s events. I consider telling him about the unknown spirit who spoke to me unbidden earlier, but hours have passed and there has been no recurrence. Perhaps I was merely overwrought. Grief, heat, and concern for my family allowing my mind to play tricks. Father and I have enjoyed fewer than ten brief minutes together before the silver bell in the corner of the chamber rings, blunted echoes of its clear notes reverberating off the low ceiling and dense walls of the cavernous space.

I spring to my feet.

“Withers! Something is wrong.”

“You must go.”

“So soon, Papa? I had wanted so much to stay with you longer tonight.”

“We will have time again. You are needed. Go now,” he says, gently but firmly, and as he speaks he moves silently backward into the shadows until the gloom swallows him entirely.

Hastening back to the house, Violet and Iago at my side, I meet our trusty butler in the hallway.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Lady Lilith, but this has just been delivered.” He holds out a note.

Taking it from him, I immediately recognize the curious hand of Mr. Chow Li.

FM he ailing. Better you come get.

My heart drops. Today of all days. But then, why not today? I am not the only one who has just inherited duty and responsibility. I am not the only one mourning Father’s passing.

“We shall need a cab, Withers.”

“I have one already waiting outside, my lady.”

“Then we should go quickly.”

“I have taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Jessop to prepare a daybed in the library, my lady. It may be we are not able to … encourage His Grace up the stairs.”

I am shocked to hear my brother referred to by his new title. Something else I shall have to come to terms with. Like it or not, things have changed forever, and now, however poorly suited he is for the role, it is Freddie who is the duke of Radnor.

*   *   *

Nicholas Stricklend finds he often does his best work in the hours of darkness, when there are fewer people likely to interrupt his thoughts. Whitehall is, of necessity, a place of bustle and busy-ness, with so very many civil servants doing their best to manage the politicians who pass through their tender care. It was to avoid the mainstream of this mayhem that he secured himself a suite of offices, and of rooms, indeed, in the newly built Admiralty Arch which spans Pall Mall on the southwest corner of Trafalgar Square. Competition for such a prestigious workplace had been fierce, but Stricklend had never been less than completely certain that he would get what he wanted. His private accommodation is on the top floor, to the rear of the main arch, at its center, so that the windows look directly up Pall Mall and give a clear view of Buckingham Palace. He selected offices on the floor below, with windows at the front, allowing him to overlook the roofs of Downing Street, and the spires of the Houses of Parliament. Never has a building been so perfectly constructed, he believes, to demonstrate the point of power in the land: the confluence of monarchy and state. The royal family to the west, solid, ancient, and privileged. The government to the east, thrusting, dangerous, and clever. Both built upon the labor of the masses. Both kept in their fortunate positions by the love of those same beasts of burden. Both served, or ruled, depending on your view, by the cunning of those who bridged the gap, much as the Marble Arch does, between the two worlds. Where birthright meets public mandate, in the tension of that connection, stand invisible men who are able to manipulate both to further their own aims. Stricklend is just such a man. Ordinarily, of course, the petty desires of these Machiavellian figures are not of great importance to anyone but themselves. The rise of a civil servant through the ranks, the acquisition of a grace and favor property, the opportunity to make money on the stock market, or mingle with aristocrats on their country estates, none of these things make the slightest difference to the man following his plow, or the schoolboy reciting his tables. National security remains secure. The order of things will continue unchallenged. Ordinarily. But Stricklend is not ordinary, and neither are his plans.

He chose to furnish his suite in a Spartan, businesslike fashion. The broad mahogany desk, shipped in from Singapore and weighing nearly as much as the four stout men who had delivered it, reflects, in both its stature and its orderliness, the workings of its owner’s mind. It is in perfect scale with the room it occupies, and yet it projects its own special importance, gravitas, and power. Its top is covered with tooled green leather, bordered with gold leaf, on which sit, in regimented lines, a spotless blotter, a heavy crystal inkwell, three fountain pens, and two evenly sharpened pencils. There is no eraser, for Stricklend will never have need of one. He is of the opinion that a thing done properly is a thing done perfectly, and will therefore require no correction. To the left-hand side of the blotter, placed at a right angle to the edge of the desk, a plain black telephone is positioned precisely at a comfortable arm’s length from the Windsor chair upon which no one, but no one, other than Stricklend is ever permitted to sit.

The desk faces the door, to meet squarely anyone who deigns to come through it. The window behind, and the inspirational view it provides, are for contemplating only when standing up. The evening finds the permanent private secretary in pensive mood. Having satisfied himself that the sixth duke of Radnor is indeed dead, he has now to decide how, and when, he should engineer a meeting with his successor. Whether or not having a woman as head of the Lazarus Coven will prove an added complication to his plans is not yet clear. The Sentinels had been about to make their move when the late duke had fallen ill. Everything has been put on hold. The death of the Head Witch has changed things, of that there is no doubt. Precisely how, and to the advantage of whom, remains to be seen.

These solitary deliberations are interrupted by the arrival of Elias Fordingbridge. The clerk is no more than five foot four, but still feels the compunction to stoop, as if he were much taller, or as if he were simply trying to avoid appearing in any way above himself. He steps across the threshold with his customary partially sideways gait, again as if he wishes to present himself as taking up even less of the world than he actually does, however slight his place in it actually is.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Stricklend, sir,” says Fordingbridge, fixing his gaze on the floor so that there will be no chance he might look his superior in the eye, “but I thought you would want to see this.” He proffers a copy of the evening paper, folded neatly to show a report on the bottom left corner of the front page.

Stricklend takes it from him. The headline reads:

SIXTH DUKE OF RADNOR BURIED TODAY

Stricklend purses his lips. It is an article of minor importance, on the face of it. A small story to fill a small place in the late edition of the London paper. Except that he knows what, in reality, the death of the duke means. And he knows that Fordingbridge knows. What bothers him now, what causes him to furrow his brow and drop the paper onto his desk, is just how careful his clerk has been to keep what he knows from anyone else. It strikes him that folding a newspaper to highlight a particular story, and hurrying along public corridors with it with all too apparent eagerness bordering on excitement, does not demonstrate an awareness of how vital, how crucial, discretion and secrecy are to the success of certain plans. He sighs. It is clear to him that diligence and caution are lessons the pathetic little amanuensis needs to be taught over and over again.

“From where did you obtain this newspaper, Fordingbridge?” he inquires, his voice, as always, soft, his words considered.

“From a stand outside the main entrance, Mr. Stricklend, sir.”

“A stand outside the main entrance. I see. And how many people, do you think, observed you making your purchase?”

“Well, sir, the street was still busy, but I don’t suppose many were interested in my actions. Sir.” The clerk clasps his hands in front of him and begins to look increasingly uneasy.