The Lady of Secrets (44 page)

“Megaera.”

The mist swirled and parted. The face that shimmered beneath the water was not that of an old beldame like Tamsin Rivers, but that of a much younger woman. Ebony hair framed porcelain skin and high cheekbones, a countenance cruel in its beauty.

“M-maman?”

Cassandra Lascelles stared back at Meg, her eyes no longer opaque with blindness as they had been in life. Her gaze was piercingly clear as though she was truly seeing her daughter for the first time.

“Meg, what madness is this? Why do you risk the dark magic to seek me here?”

Meg? Her mother had never called her that before, deploring any such gentle nickname as weakness. Neither had Meg ever seen Cassandra’s face shadowed with such a look of sorrow and regret.

“Maman, is that really you?” she whispered.

Before the specter could reply, Amy crowded up close beside Meg. “That is not my granddam. What trickery is this? You banish this creature at once and bring forth my granddam.”

Quivering with the anger of her disappointment, Amy nudged the basin. The water sloshed, the image of Cassandra wavered and nearly vanished.

“No! Amy, please,” Meg said. “It is my mother.”

As much as she had feared Cassandra and deplored her insanity, something stirred inside of Meg, that innate longing of a child for a mother’s love. Even knowing this was wrong, the dangers of what she’d conjured, for the first time Meg understood the lure of necromancy.

“Just give me one moment more,” Meg begged of Amy.

“No, get rid of her now!”

Ignoring her, Meg reached out to Cassandra, wanting so badly to touch, but fearful of disturbing the fragile link her spell had wrought.

“Maman, please speak to me again. Tell me what it is like where you are. Are you at peace? And can you ever forgive me for what happened that day on the riverbank?”

“It is not my place to offer forgiveness, but rather yours for all that I did—”

“No!” Amy yanked Meg back, thrusting her knife beneath
Meg’s chin. “You stop this and do what you promised. I want my granddam!”

In her agitation, she nicked Meg’s skin, a droplet of her blood splashing into the basin. Cassandra’s eyes flashed, and the water transformed, becoming a pool of red.

The vision of Cassandra disappeared beneath the bloody tide, but her voice boomed like a clap of thunder. “Miscreant! You dare to harm my daughter.”

The water boiled and hissed, a vapor rising from the basin in a black mist. Meg reared back and gasped as the dark haze passed through her like an icy blade, freezing her lungs. She heard Amy shriek. She released Meg, her knife falling from her hand.

Other voices were screaming, but the sound was muted as though someone had stuffed cotton in Meg’s ears. The stone walls, the candles, the pentagram—all spun before Meg’s eyes. She was dimly aware that something strange and terrible was happening to Amy Rivers. The woman collapsed on the floor. She foamed at the mouth, her body jerking spasmodically.

Meg felt herself tumbling forward and tried to catch herself before a great blackness blotted out everything. The dark was strangely cool and peaceful and rousing from it seemed far too difficult a feat. But a voice intruded upon her peace, nagging at her.

“Margaret! Margaret, sweetheart, open your eyes.”

Someone’s large, warm hand chafed her wrist and then patted her cheek with increasing insistence.

Meg tried to avert her head. “Maman, stop. Let me rest for one minute more.”

“Margaret! Damn it, woman, wake up.”

The next tap was more urgent, more forceful, almost a smack. Meg opened her eyes to peer reproachfully at the man bending over her, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes almost as wild, dark with alarm and concern.

“Thank God, she’s coming round,” he remarked, but she had no idea whom he was addressing. Mayhap the fool talked to himself.

Meg blinked, bringing him into clearer focus. “Armagil?”

“Praise heaven. You know who I am?”

“C-certainly, although it’s a wonder I had not forgotten. You stayed away so long,” she said reprovingly. “But I am glad you are here now. I was having the most terrifying dream.”

She struggled to sit up in bed, but her hand didn’t come down upon the downy softness of her mattress. As she braced herself, her palm flattened against a cold stone floor and it was wet.

Leaning against Armagil, her gaze tracked in bewilderment from her wet palm to the overturned copper basin, the black candle toppled over into a puddle of water, its wick extinguished.

She wasn’t in bed. Nor had she been dreaming. “Easy now,” Armagil crooned, wrapping his arm about her, helping her into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

Was she? Meg did not know how to answer that. She gazed wildly about her for the coven, but in the meager light left by the remaining candles, she saw no one. She would have thought herself alone with Armagil, but for the keening.

The sound was nigh inhuman in the wildness of its terrible grief and Meg longed to bury her face against Armagil’s shoulder to blot it out. But she forced herself to search for the source of it.

Her gaze alighted upon Beatrice Rivers. Hunkered down upon the floor, Bea sobbed, clutching her sister’s inert body in her arms. Amy’s head lolled back, her neck as limp as a cloth doll, her eyes glassy and unseeing, her mouth frozen in an expression of horror.

“What—what happened?” Meg faltered.

“Damned if I know. We’ll sort it out later. We’ve got to get out of here before the king’s soldiers arrive. Can you stand?” Without giving her a chance to reply, Armagil hauled her to her feet.

She was a little shaky at first, until she gained her balance. “But—but—” Meg dragged her eyes from the awful specter that was Amy Rivers to search for Seraphine. The altar was empty.

“ ’Phine?”

“I’m here, Meggie,” she replied. Seraphine had been leaning against a pillar, pressing a handkerchief to her bloodied cheek. She approached Meg on unsteady legs.

“But what … how?” Meg faltered.

“No time for questions. There is a side door behind the altar. We’ll have to go out that way.” Seizing Seraphine by the arm with one hand and Meg with the other, Armagil propelled them ruthlessly forward.

Meg hung back, her gaze drawn back to the pitiful spectacle of Beatrice wailing over her sister. “But we can’t just leave—”

“Yes, we can!” Armagil and Seraphine said in the same breath.

Armagil added, “There’s nothing you can do, Margaret. That wretched woman is dead and we may well be too if we are caught in here. Now move!”

He hauled her into the darkness of the side transept,
where a plain door was located. The next thing Meg knew, she found herself thrust out into the night. The chill blast of wind caused her to shiver, but revived her like a bath of cold water.

She caught the distant sound of shouts, as though a large force of men were descending upon the church. Taking a step forward, she stumbled over something hard and realized that it was a gravestone. The side door had led them out into the churchyard. Seraphine was still far too unsteady on her feet. Armagil swooped her up to carry her, urging Meg to follow him.

She did so in a daze, trailing after him through the cemetery, plunging into a maze of streets and alleys. She followed Armagil blindly, with no idea of where they were going. Her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened back at the church. What had she done? Had she really summoned up the spirit of her mother? What had struck down Amy Rivers in such a deadly fit? And how had Armagil come upon them so suddenly? None of it seemed real. It was like being caught up in one of her nightmares.

The only thing that reassured her she was awake was the solid presence of the man guiding her to safety. That and the sound of Seraphine hissing curses at him.

“Damn you! Put me down, you great oaf. I can walk.”

Armagil must have judged that they had put enough distance between themselves and the church. Winded from carrying Seraphine, he plunked her on her feet none too gracefully. They crouched in the shadows of a shop, pausing to catch their breath.

Meg was startled to realize that it was one of the buildings adjoining the vast rambling palace of Westminster. The night that had seemed so quiet when Amy Rivers had led her
to the church was now astir with the ringing of horses’ hooves, the tramp of booted feet.

“Have all these men been called out to hunt witches?” Meg asked Armagil in a fearful whisper.

“Not just witches,” Armagil replied tersely. “I must get you and the countess to safety and then there is something I have to do. I have to warn—” He broke off, tensing. “Damnation, I am too late.”

When Meg started to ask what he meant, he clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. Torches flared at the end of the street. She, Armagil, and Seraphine flattened themselves against the side of the building as a group of soldiers marched past, dragging someone to where another troop awaited with horses.

For a moment Meg feared their prisoner might be one of those poor deluded women who had been at the church, perhaps even the foolish little Dorcas. But then she saw that it was a tall man. Despite the fact that his hands were bound, he struggled against his captors. The torchlight briefly illuminated a face that stirred Meg’s memory.

But it was Seraphine who whispered, “It’s that Mr. Johnston who crossed with us from France.”

“No,” Armagil corrected grimly. “That’s Guido Fawkes. And if they force him to talk, there’s going to be the devil to pay.”

DAWN SPILLED ITS SOFT WHITE LIGHT OVER THE BEDCHAMBER
as Meg drew the coverlet over Seraphine. The swelling from the blow had gone down and Meg had brewed a posset to ease her headache.

She had finally adjudged it safe to allow her friend to sleep, which was just as well. Meg doubted she could have kept Seraphine awake much longer. She was exhausted, as was Meg. But with the events of last night tumbling through her mind, Meg’s nerves were far too jangled for repose.

She tucked the coverlet snugly about Seraphine’s shoulders. Her golden hair spilled across the pillow as she hugged it to her as though seeking comfort in the arms of a lover. The pose made the formidable countess appear unusually vulnerable, the sight bringing an odd lump to Meg’s throat.

Meg tenderly stroked back a tendril of Seraphine’s hair, being careful to avoid the neat line of stitching that closed the gash on her cheek. Seraphine had endured the pain stoically as Meg had sewn her up. But Meg had seen the fear in her eyes even though Seraphine had tried to jest.

“I suppose I shall have a frightful scar, which will be good. No miserable witch will ever dare trifle with me again.”

“I am so sorry, ’Phine,” Meg had replied.

“Why? It was my own stupid fault. Letting myself be tricked so easily.”

“No, it is mine for ever allowing you to come with me to England upon this mad venture in the first place.”

“And how exactly would you have prevented me? What black magic do you possess that would—” Seraphine had checked herself, looking uncomfortable. Last night Meg had displayed a dark power neither of them had ever suspected she had and Meg sensed they were both unnerved by it. Meg did not even feel up to discussing it, so she had been relieved when Seraphine had drifted off to sleep.

Meg would have to keep careful watch over her. There was always the danger of infection and fever setting in from
any wound, but for now she felt it safe to leave Seraphine to sleep.

Meg tiptoed out of the room and into the hall beyond. She still had little idea of the place that Armagil had brought them to in the dark hours of the morning. She had been too exhausted, too concerned about Seraphine to do other than note that it was some manner of alehouse.

She expected to hear sounds from belowstairs, the bustle of a business opening for the day’s custom. But all was quiet except for Armagil’s footfall as he approached from the opposite end of the hall. She rather expected that he had been waiting for her to emerge from the room.

As he drew apace with her, he looked as haggard as she felt, shadows pooling beneath his eyes.

“How fares the countess?” he asked quietly.

“Well enough, all things considered. She’s asleep.”

“And you?”

“I—I am fine.”

Armagil tipped up her face and traced the bruises that lack of sleep had formed beneath her eyes. He offered her a tired smile. “Little liar. You look as though you just clambered back from the brink of hell. Why didn’t you heed me, Margaret? I told you to remain close within doors last night.”

“You did, but you offered me no explanation.”

“And you could not simply trust me? Whatever possessed you to go to that church last night?”

Meg leaned wearily against the wall as she explained how Amy Rivers had managed to invade her lodging, the treachery of the maid, Eliza, how the coven had captured Seraphine and used her to compel Meg to enact the ritual of the dead. She trembled as she described what had happened, how her
mother’s image had appeared, how Cassandra’s voice had thundered with all the rage of an avenging spirit, how the black mist had risen to envelop Amy in a dark embrace.