The Triple Goddess (170 page)

The sounds were now those of impatient hammering.

B.J. huffed, ‘“Here’s a knocking, indeed!...Knock, knock, knock!”, as the porter in the Scottish play says. You’d better hurry, Jenny, or I wouldn’t put it past them to batter the door down.’

And before she had time to protest, he had hurried back upstairs.

Pausing to take deep breaths, Jenny muttered to herself Sir Walter Scott’s herbal couplet, ‘“Trefoil, vervain, John’s wort, dill,”—none of which she had about her person—
|
Hinders witches of their will.”’

Hastening down the corridor, Jenny noticed that the brass plates along the wall were now burnished to a gleam. Taking a moment to stoop and look more closely, she registered that, instead of being illegible as they had been when she and Jock McJoist had entered, they were now clearly etched with the names of the familiars and the witches whom they belonged to.

On the other side of the door she could hear a babel of barking, caterwauling, squalling, hissing, and spitting.

Jenny’s inclination was to run back inside and join B.J. in the turret, until it was safe to come out under escort. The prospect of confronting, not just one witch, but many at once who’d never seen her before, as well as having to deal with a lot of hysterical and unfamiliar familiars, scared her.

The situation was worsened by her not having had an opportunity to change her dress. So engrossed had she been in learning about the Ingredients, that she had forgotten Hecate’s promise to give her time to spruce up, and provide her with something more suitable to wear. But now, because Hec hadn’t reappeared in time, the witches’ first impression of her would be to see her in the same informal clothes that she had worn all day, which were dirty and creased from searching dusty rooms and being covered in loose plaster from the walls. There were several tears in her skirt, her shoes were scuffed, and the state of her hair didn’t bear thinking about.

Jenny was determined not to fail in her assignment, however, when Hecate had been kind enough to invite her to the open house. Also, as strong as the door, was there was an urgency in B.J.’s assurance that the witches would brook no impediment to their entering.

So, hastening down the passage, Jenny brushed off her jacket, smoothed her skirt, patted her hair, bent to the keyhole, said, ‘Sausages on sticks!’, and turned the handle.

Although she remembered B.J.’s advice to get back, and braced herself against the crush, a surge from the other side pinned her against the wall behind the door. She was just able to squeeze out as a crowd of witches and assorted familiars jostled and barged their way into the confined space from the landing.

The air was filled with shouted instructions to the familiars as the women, none of whom greeted or acknowledged Jenny, used their elbows and feet to dig each other in the ribs and kick enough shins until they had space enough to doff their cloaks, before joining the scrimmage of bodies that were already forging down the passage.

It all happened so quickly that Jenny caught only a glimpse here and there of a face as garments were thrust at her to be hung up, and a lot of misshapen hats. She sank to the floor under the weight of heavy wool, grateful at least that the material afforded protection against swinging fists, sharp heels, and the familiars’ teeth and claws. The cloaks were redolent of a combination of scent, toilet water, mothballs, cigarettes, gin, and fried food.

As soon as the initial assault was over, Jenny fought her way upwards, disentangled herself, and got up. Now that the first wave of witches had gone inside, it was the familiars’ turn to do battle, and dozens of them: cats, owls, a weasel, a fox, and an aggressive rabbit with feet like giant piano hammers were those she had time to identify—laid into each other with ferocity.

Finally, as if upon some signal or by common agreement, the familiars stopped scrapping, parted, and took their positions under their designated brass plates, where they settled down and went to sleep.

Jenny, heaving a sigh of relief, took the opportunity of a respite in the flow of arrivals to sort out the cloaks and coats. This was made possible by each having a tag inside embroidered with the name of both the witch and her familiar, so that she could hang it on the appropriate peg above the already slumbering helpmeet.

The names, other than those of Greymalkins Eleven, Seven, and Nineteen, were Dogbreath, Sharptooth, Familiarity, and, presumably, a relative of Familiarity named Contempt, Cat-a-Wampuss, Muzzle, Boomer, Hoot, Sirius, Plonker, Croak, Blyndazza, Scratch, Flighty, and Musk.

For the next quarter of an hour there was such a stream of witches coming in, that Jenny wondered how they were all going to fit in the living room. The women passed before her in a blur, and still she gained no more than a fleeting impression of what any of them looked like. Eventually the corridor was full of familiars sitting on the cloaks of their mistresses who weren’t senior enough to have earned a hook and brass plate. More spilled over the threshold through the open door and onto the landing, where the smaller ones were able to find space enough to make themselves comfortable, and others had to drape themselves in awkward positions on the stairs.

No more fights broke out, and, when it seemed nobody else was coming, Jenny stood in a daze and wondered what to do next. Hecate, it seemed, had either been delayed or had forgotten about her. Even without a mirror to look in, Jenny knew that only lengthy recourse to her own bathroom and wardrobe could rectify her dishevelled state, which could only have been worsened by the ruckus at the door. But there was no time, and even if there had been she’d no confidence that there would be anything to return to.

Unable to come up with a solution as to how to improve her appearance, she decided not to bother. She’d been invited to the open house, and she was going to attend it. That Hecate had overlooked the matter of her toilet was not Jenny’s fault. Although she would be embarrassed to present herself as she was, life with Lord Huntenfisch, and having to put up with the ocular criticism and rudeness of his acquaintances and those he was cultivating, had removed what vanity and capacity for embarrassment she might once have had. The only thing to do was to imagine herself perfectly coiffed and turned out, to act confidently, and to hope that an elegant deportment and polite manner would temper the witches’ censures.

So Jenny squared her shoulders, counted to three, and headed inside.

”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“

It was at this moment that what vestige of worldliness Jenny had retained throughout the course of the day vanished. For instead of leading back into Hecate’s shabby living room, the dark narrow hall opened into a black and white marble-floored vestibule with mirrored walls and a frescoed ceiling.

At the far end, on either side of a pair of high doors surrounded by gilded architrave, stood a pair of stiff-necked footmen in powdered wigs. The high nasal voice of one of them was announcing the name of the last person to have arrived. Judging from the din that was coming from within, this was no more than a formality, for it was unlikely that anyone could hear.

‘Some open house,’ breathed Jenny, stopping. But then, reminding herself that she had emerged from her quandary about whether to attend the occasion or not, she crossed the vestibule and addressed the chin of the footman on the left.

‘Lady Eugénie Beauvais Plantagenet,’ she said with a trace of defiance, hoping that her birth title would overcome any reluctance the man might have to admitting a person dressed as she was who could produce no evidence that she’d been invited. The footman’s eyes, which had closed after his previous nomenclatorial exclamation, opened fractionally and, without moving his head, he looked Jenny up and down.

Self-consciously she checked herself...and went rigid with disbelief. Gone were her corduroy jacket and cotton blouse, and gone her woollen skirt and sensible shoes; her satchel she must have left in the other room, if it still existed.

Incredulous, Jenny looked in the glass of the wall, where her reflection confirmed her perception of self-transformation. In place of her workaday clothes she was wearing a full-length gown, jet black and classically elegant, low cut, and made of samite silk. She had on elbow-length black gloves and was carrying a reticule. On her feet were black T-strap pumps with a medium heel that emphasized her already above-average height. Her hair, washed and shining, was worn up in loose coils, clasped at the back with a crystal comb, she was decked with a pair of antique gold and pearl pendant earrings, and a pearl necklace that—Jenny took a moment to consider—looked rather well against her skin. The pearls were large.

The footman must have been satisfied with his inspection, and maybe even awed, for he pivoted and, preceding the hesitant guest into the interior, bawled, ‘The Lady Eugénie Beauvais...ah...’

‘Plantagenet.’

‘Plantagenay!’

Doing her best to suppress her nervousness, Jenny found herself entering a ballroom in which, like a wire through cheese, her arrival cut the hubbub of conversation as people turned. Dazzled by the glare of the elaborate décor, and conscious that everyone was transfixed at the sight of her, she blushed and clasped both hands on her reticule to keep them from trembling.

She was standing at the top of twin balustraded steps that curved to left and right from a podium at the entrance, down to the main floor. There was a strong smell of conflicting perfumes, and sweet Turkish tobacco smoke, a cloud of which hung about the glassy fronds of five great golden chandeliers.

The eyes of every witch, and there must have been several hundred of them, were riveted to Jenny’s face, drinking in every feature as eagerly as, until a moment ago, they had been the champagne in the goblets that they were holding. Amid each cluster of people, mouths that had been open in animated conversation, or admitting a canapé plucked from one of the silver plates that the waiters were circulating, remained so.

As soon as good breeding had restored her poise, and she was able to judge her steps, with perfect carriage and a rustle of silk Jenny stepped smiling down the stairs to her right. Looking straight ahead, she walked in stately manner through the silence across the polished hardwood floor towards the middle of the ballroom. The witches who were in her path fell back to let her through.

Jenny halted at the centrepiece, which was an enormous ice sculpture of Triton, son of Poseidon, on a great round table, complete with trident and shell trumpet, and surrounded by cavorting dolphins. Beneath the Triton, a fountain was spouting a cascade of champagne into tiers of saucer glasses. The white linen cloth was set with bowls of ice that had prawns hooked over the edges by their tails, and there were dip trays of cocktail sauce, and others of wedges of lemon. There were platters of
vol-au-vents
, smoked salmon on crustless squares of brown bread,
pâté de foie gras
on thin crackers, and caviar on blinis.

Turning to face the room, Jenny noted that the savoury items being offered around were of similar quality: not the tired sausage rolls, mini pizzas, and ham and pineapple chunks on sticks that she might expect to find at a party held by the impecunious Hecate—but more delicate-looking morsels similar to those on the table.

As for the witches, they did not seem like the ones Jenny presumed herself to have admitted to the apartment, notwithstanding their concealment beneath the weathered hats and the cloaks they had foisted upon her. Although they had hastened past without giving her the opportunity to examine them, those that were before her now were dressed in colourful muslins, satins, and gauze wraps, and had lacquered hair, painted faces, and a lot of jewellery on, some of it good.

Just as suddenly as Jenny’s entrance had stalled it, movement was restored to the ballroom, as if a reel of film, frozen at a single frame, had started to spool again. The low confabulations that replaced the chatter of before sounded serious and intense; and from this, and the many haughty, inquisitive, and frankly envious glances that were being cast in her direction, it was obvious to Jenny that she was the topic of conversation.

Overlaying the atmosphere in the room was the one thing Jenny was prepared for: the easy sound of
The Essentials Swing Time Band
.

The Ingredients were positioned on a dais with a backdrop of potted palms. Their leader the rump-fed ronyon was waving his baton with panache, and, as B.J. had vouched, the sound was very impressive.

Relaxing a little, Jenny admired the vim with which Fang the wolf’s tooth applied himself to his clarinet, and how well Terence Turknose and his friend Andreas Lip-Tartar coordinated their movements, as they pointed their trumpets at the ceiling in each direction when the musicians played key phrases. She smiled at Sharkey, who was looking cool in a pair of dark glasses, and plucking his double bass so vigorously with a fin that he could have fired arrows from the strings.

The last strains of
Little Brown Jug
segued into
Moonlight Serenade
, and Dogtongue the crooner, who’d been panting in time to the introduction as he awaited his entrance, hovered over the microphone.

‘“My love, my one and only love,”’ sang Dogtongue; ‘“come to me tenderly in the June night...let me take you out under the moonlight and sing you a song; a love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade.”’

Since no one approached her and she was beginning to feel the heat of covert scrutiny—it was easier to stare than be stared at—Jenny picked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and a blinis from the table, and walked across the room towards…three huge open glass doors in the opposite long wall of the rectangular room, which was also made entirely of transparent glass.