The Midnight Witch (33 page)

Behind me Charlotte claps her hands with delight. “Oh, Lilith! Now I know we are going to have a simply divine evening!”

Only a few weeks ago I could not have imagined being so excited about the ball. After the Yulemass revelations the mood in the coven was dour, and the future seemed bleak. We have consulted further spirit guides, who have given us some reassurance, but the mood among my fellow witches is one of anger and fear, and many have taken practical steps to prevent tragedy if they can. While we may not avert war, we can be better prepared, and those who were singled out have begun putting plans into action to protect their sons. Some have already been shipped off abroad. Others will be given positions that keep them as out of harm’s way as is possible. Of course, those “boys” who know of the prophecy as they were present themselves, have, to their credit, refused to be shielded in such ways. They reason that it will be as much their duty to fight as anyone else’s and they must take their chances. Louis is one such stalwart youth. He has told me of heated exchanges with the earl, but he has refused to be sent away on some spurious diplomatic mission. He will stay and face what comes. He knows that I admire his courage, and I believe that gives him some comfort. It is largely because of Amelia’s revelations that I have failed to find the courage to inflict more suffering on Louis by breaking off our engagement. It feels horribly disloyal, given what lies ahead.

And of course I have Freddie to think of. Louis and he are still friends, and I know he will think I am a fool for turning away from such a match for the love of a penniless artist nobody has ever heard of. Freddie has, as yet, given me reason to hope that he may be lifting himself out of his dark troubles. I have not once, these past weeks, been summoned to Mr. Chow Li’s to rescue him, and though he is still frail and given to sleeping through whole days on occasion, he seems a little steadier. A little stronger.

But the greatest cause for my delight is Bram. When I am fearful for him, and for our future together, I hold tight to the thought that we will soon be out of London, in the comparative safety of Radnor Hall. Together at last. Bram has purchased the railway tickets, and we are to meet at St. Pancras station tomorrow, at noon. I have already told my guardians I will not be needing them. No one knows I am going yet, not even Mama, whom I will tell at the very last minute. There is really very little danger of anyone causing me harm so far from London. The Dark Spirit will not have his master to aid him, and I believe my own strength as a witch will keep us safe there.

“Yes!” Charlotte claps her hands together in delight. “Oh yes, Lilith, this is the one. This is perfect, don’t you agree?”

She looks glamorous and pretty beyond words in the dark pink velvet, and I tell her so. Iago jumps down from his chair and comes to wind himself around my legs, clearly having decided he will give his affection, albeit grudgingly. I scoop him up in my arms.

“Poor puss, to have to put up with all these women and their silliness.”

“Indeed it is not silliness,” Charlotte tells me. “This ball marks the end of a very long, dreary winter, and I for one intend to enjoy myself enormously.”

*   *   *

When Bram arrives home after a shopping errand for Jane he finds the household abuzz. Through the noise he discerns the fact that an invitation has been received for Mangan to attend the Anstruthers’ ball this very evening. Gudrun is to accompany him, and can be seen through the kitchen doorway washing her hair in a bowl, instructing Freedom to heat more water on the stove. The twins are doing their best to dance in the hallway, though they cannot decide who should lead, so keep falling over. Honesty, being the eldest of the girls, is considerably put out at not being allowed to attend and has set up a ceaseless wailing to make her point. Mangan himself can be heard roaring from the bedroom, demanding the whereabouts of his gold cuff links and accusing Jane of having taken them to the pawnshop. George has found the spot in the studio with the best echo so that his bark might be heard above the growing cacophony. Jane spies Bram and distractedly takes the bag of flour and packet of butter from him.

“Bram, dear, don’t just stand there. They are sending the carriage in an hour,” she explains, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the stairs. “Get yourself dressed, do.”

“Me? But surely I haven’t been invited?”

“‘Mangan and Friends’ the invitation read. Gudrun will go, of course, and Perry, and you, dear. Now hurry along. If Mangan’s collar studs are not found within the minute I fear blood will be shed.”

“But … what about you, Jane? Aren’t you coming?”

“Good Lord, no. Who would look after the children? Besides, I’ve nothing to wear, and haven’t the time it would require to make myself look sufficiently presentable.” She stops bustling, just for a moment, and Bram can see she is thinking about what she has just said.

“I could look after the children,” he tells her. “Really, I wouldn’t mind.”

She smiles at him. “You are a dear, sweet boy, but no, it’s better you go. Mangan will want his protégé with him.” She stands gazing into the middle distance so that he wonders if she is looking into her past, or trying to see her future. “Run upstairs, now,” she says, “I believe Perry has a spare set of evening clothes that might fit you.”

He allows himself to be propelled up the staircase, as Jane trots up the rickety wooden treads behind him in answer to Mangan’s cries for help. Before she turns on the landing she pauses, still clutching the butter and flour, and says to Bram, “There will always be sacrifices to be made, living with Mangan. I’m happy to make them, as long as I have him, d’you see?”

Her face is such a mixture of pride and sadness that Bram cannot tell which emotion wins out. He finds he is looking at her differently now, searching for something hidden. Something strange.

No, not Jane. Surely not Jane. That Mangan should be a witch is perhaps not such a surprising thing after all. But not Jane.

He heads along the passageway and knocks on Perry’s door.

“Bram, my dear fellow, not a minute to spare. Come along in.”

“Jane tells me you might be able to help with clothes. I’ve nothing even close to being suitable.”

“Fear not, I am well equipped.” He starts pulling garments from his wardrobe. “Jacket and waistcoat should fit all right, and I’ve plenty of shirt fronts and collars … here, ah yes, and here. The trousers might be a tad short, but not ridiculously so. Have you shoes? No? Not to worry. Here we are.” He loads him up with an armful of evening wear.

“Do you know them, the Anstruthers?” Bram asks.

“Me? Heavens no. Quite the aristos, madly rich. People get into fights for an invitation to one of their soirées, let alone a ball. Should be a splendid affair. And plenty of prospective clients for both of us, don’t you think?”

“I expect Mangan thinks so.”

Perry laughs. “Yes, I expect he does. Oh well, we shall know our place then, the penniless artists touting for business. Isn’t that so, Gudrun?” he calls out to her as she passes the door.

Gudrun peers into the bedroom. Her hair is wrapped in a towel, turban-style, making her look even more aloof than usual and not a little exotic.

Should I simply ask her? Simply put it to her that I know her secret and see if she, too, confesses to magical talents?

“You are brave tonight, Artist,” she tells Bram.

“Oh?”

“You must know your Beauty will be there.”

Bram experiences a shiver of excitement as he thinks of meeting Lilith, tonight, unexpectedly, no doubt looking more wonderful than ever. The thought that such an encounter might be difficult for her, for both of them, has already flitted through his mind, but he chooses to dismiss it. He finds he wants to see her, wants to observe her in her world, surrounded by her people, being the Lilith he never sees when she is huddling in her coat in his freezing attic, or hiding on a settle in the Soldiers’ Arms.

It will be a test of sorts, a test of their love for each other. He knows that Gudrun considers it will be so, and it irks him that she should find this amusing. He will not let her see that he is in any way apprehensive. Besides, tomorrow he will be on a train, with Lilith, bound for a week of just the two of them, far away from all the endless demands their London lives make upon them.

The venue for the ball is the Anstruthers’ fine, redbrick house on the edge of Hampstead Heath. By the time the Mangan entourage arrives there is already a queue of carriages and motorcars depositing guests on the broad gravel sweep that leads to the grand but understated double front doors. Smartly liveried footmen, drivers, and maids scamper to and fro, offering a hand to assist ladies from their conveyances, taking proffered hats and canes as the gentlemen enter the hallway, and whisking away empty vehicles. Sumptuously dressed women of all ages slip fur stoles gracefully from their backs to expose pale, chilly shoulders, an impressive selection of jewels, and a no-less-amazing variety of necklines. Bram is immediately conscious of the ramshackle nature of the group of which he is a part. Gudrun looks ravishing in an unconventional sort of way, which would suit the occasion and her status as Mangan’s mistress and muse perfectly well, but her hair is still wet and she is never without a cheroot in her hand, so that the effect is somewhat spoiled, and she looks to him even a little mad. Mangan gives the accurate impression that he cares nothing for clothes, and has been forced into some semblance of evening attire on the insistence of his wife. If he had come wearing a fez and a paisley silk smoking jacket he would have presented himself as most think of him—an eccentric artist. Had he found a well-fitting and elegantly cut set of tails and trousers he would have appeared successful and debonair. As it is, he sports an ancient jacket that looks what it is: a relic from the past. His shirt collar still lacks the requisite number of studs to keep it in place, so that it is already riding up at the back and sliding around at the front. His trousers are the ones he was, only yesterday, wearing to dress a piece of Portland stone, and his left shoe has a flapping sole. Bram decides he looks as if he gave up dressing halfway through and just came as he was. Which is probably almost exactly what happened. With his wild, bushy hair and abundant beard he looks not so much the artistic genius as the local lunatic. His cause is not helped by Perry, who walks beside him immaculately and expensively turned out. Bram himself was fortunate to fit into his housemate’s jacket and trousers well enough at least not to draw attention to himself.

But perhaps there are dozens of people here who know of Mangan’s other identity, and will overlook all his peculiarities because they think of him only as a witch. How many? I wonder. How many attending this elegant ball tonight are themselves witches?

Mangan pauses on the threshold. He looks about him and takes in the scene with a sweep of his arm. “We are entering into a bastion of the old order, my friends. Be vigilant. Their world is a seductive one. They will flatter and fawn and pour syrupy words in your ear. There is a danger of losing one’s self.”

“Or at least,” observes Gudrun, “one’s self-respect.”

“But nice to have some champagne,” Perry points out.

“Ah!” Mangan grips Perry’s arm. “How many great artists have sold their souls while under the spell of that golden poison, hmm?”

Bram leans closer and speaks softly. “I thought we were here to find new commissions.”

Mangan’s beetle brows wriggle in distress. “We must prostitute our art or starve, it is true, but, oh, how it pains me to do so! To think that we must display the charms of our talent as if on some street corner to attract the lustful glances of the moneyed classes.”

“Surely,” Bram says, “that money will buy us the freedom to also do our own work, our best work.”

Mangan slaps him on the back with bruising enthusiasm. “Ah-
ha,
the pragmatic optimism of youth. God bless you, young Bram. I for one will take a place in that rosy future you paint for us. Come! Let us enter the fray.” He straightens his unstraightenable tie, dusts off his sleeves, sets his shoulders back, and leads them forward.

The Anstruthers’ ballroom is grand in every sense of the word. Bram has never seen a room in a private house with such extravagant proportions, such opulent decor, or such glamorous occupants. For a moment he thinks his nerve will fail him, and he glances back at the door to see if a swift and discreet exit is a possibility. But Mangan has already been spotted by an art lover who is intent on engaging the whole of his party in conversation. The orchestra has not yet begun to play, but even so there is a surprising amount of noise. Excited chatter, cheery greetings, the clink of glasses, the stepping or striding of more than two hundred well-shod feet, all combine to form an amorphous hubbub, through which only the odd word can be understood. Bram feels unequal to the task ahead of him. How can he hope to impress people like this? He is a nobody. Mangan likes to refer to him as an “undiscovered talent,” but now he feels merely as if he is Bram from Yorkshire, in borrowed clothes, with no money and only two commissions to his name. He has none of Mangan’s flamboyance or Gudrun’s unshakable self-confidence.

And what will Lilith make of my presence here, in a place I so evidently do not belong?

He worries that his appearance among her splendid and wonderful friends will only serve to highlight the differences between them. The gulf between them. The uncrossable divide that is made up of their positions in society and her membership in the coven.

For I can no more become a duke than I can become a witch. That is the plain truth of it.

And then he sees her. The sight of her takes the breath from his body. He has never seen her properly out of mourning, and has grown accustomed to the somber clothes she was required to wear. He had always considered they suited her. And yet, now, seeing her wrapped in delicate layers of ivory chiffon, with matching silk gloves which stop at her upper arm to reveal a short, tantalizing glimpse of her winter-pale skin, he decides she has never looked more radiant, more beautiful, and if he is honest with himself, more unattainable. About her neck she wears a diamond necklace of breathtaking splendor. It seems to Bram to symbolize the glamor of her world. A world he has no place in.