“Don’t you see, Megaera? This is the perfect time for you to fulfill your destiny. Teach our coven your darkest magic. We women will be the conquerors of England and you shall be our queen.”
Meg stared into Amy’s glassy eyes and saw not a hint of reason remaining. The woman was insane and this gunpowder plot she had described was equally mad. Meg would have dismissed it as more of Amy’s ravings if she had not had that disturbing dream.
The powder kegs stacked in the cellar just as Amy had described, the explosion, the falling buildings, the king trapped behind the wall of fire.
But Armagil had written to Meg, assuring her that all would be well, except that the note had been so vague, explaining nothing of where he had been or what he had been doing this past week.
Now Meg remembered something that Armagil had said on the day they had parted, how reluctant he had been to intercede with Sir Patrick.
“Sending me after Graham is like sending a jackal to stop a wolf. I have no love for James Stuart either. He is a miserable excuse for both a man and a king.”
What if instead of dissuading Graham, Armagil had been persuaded to join him? No. Armagil might despise the king, but he was not a Catholic. Nor did he have any motive to seek revenge as Robert Brody did. Even if he had, Armagil would never consent to take part in a plot that would result in so much destruction, the loss of so many innocent lives.
Meg did not care what anyone said about Armagil. She might be ignorant of much of his past, what had caused the breach with his father. But in her heart, she knew Armagil Blackwood. At his inmost core, the man was like her, a healer, not a destroyer.
And yet she could not shake off the haunting image from her nightmare, Armagil drawing back his cowl to reveal himself as the sky had rained fire around them.
“Forgive me,” he’d whispered.
Meg pressed her hand to her temple, her mind reeling. She felt an urgent need to go and find him, but her first priority was to rescue Seraphine, get her away from this cluster of would-be witches.
Meg thought of the coven her mother had founded. Many had been cast off by their families, persecuted, desperate for any scrap of hope for a better life. But many more had been like Cassandra herself, dangerous, formidable, and criminally insane.
These women that the Rivers sisters had assembled were pathetic by comparison. Most of them were now looking more scared than excited. The only true fanatics in the group were Amelia and her sister Bea—
Meg tensed as she looked about her. Where was Beatrice? She whirled around, dismayed to discover that while she’d been arguing with Amy, Bea had stolen up to the altar.
She stood poised over Seraphine, fingering her knife.
“What are you doing? Get away from her,” Meg cried.
“Bea is only standing guard over the countess until you agree to lead our coven and perform the ritual,” Amy said.
“Coven?” The unexpected sound of Seraphine’s voice, as weak as it was, startled them all. She was coming more fully awake, struggling against her bonds. “Miserable excuse for a coven … need to be thirteen of you.”
“There are more of us. They will come soon,” Amy insisted.
“If anyone else was coming, they would have been here by now,” Bea retorted.
“It doesn’t matter. We have more than enough for the ritual. There are seven of us.”
“Only be six when I get my hands on the stupid witch who gave me this headache,” Seraphine muttered.
Beatrice hissed. Before Meg could prevent it, her knife flashed, slicing open Seraphine’s cheek. Seraphine cried out in shock and pain.
Meg started to launch herself at Beatrice, but the tip of Bea’s knife pressed against Seraphine’s throat.
“Come a step closer and she’s dead,” Beatrice warned.
“If you don’t put down that knife, you’ll be the one who is dead and in a way more horrible than you can imagine.” But the tremor in Meg’s voice made the threat sound hollow.
“Ease off, Bea.” Amy scowled at her sister as she took hold of Meg’s arm. “The countess won’t be harmed, I swear it. Not as long as you perform the ritual.”
Meg shook her off. “Ritual? What is this ritual you keep harping about? What the devil do you want from me?”
“The ritual of the dead. I want you to part the veil to the afterlife and summon my grandmother.”
“What!”
“Don’t do it, Meggie,” Seraphine rasped.
Don’t do it? Meg didn’t even believe that she could.
“I possess no skill in the arts of necromancy,” she protested to Amy.
“Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me. My granddam saw the spell performed many times at your house in Paris.”
“By my mother, not me!”
“You have to know how as well. Cassandra intended you to be the most powerful sorceress in the world. She would have taught you.”
“Necromancy is one of the blackest arts there is and I was terrified of it. I may have been forced to watch my mother perform the ritual, but I refused to learn.”
Amy’s mouth trembled, her eyes darkening. “So you won’t resurrect my granddam?”
“You aren’t listening to me. I can’t!”
“You had better try or—or—” Amy advanced on Meg, brandishing her own knife.
“Maybe Megaera would be inspired if she had to search for her friend the countess among the realms of the dead,” Beatrice taunted. “Should I slit her throat or just cut her apart a piece at a time?”
Bea shifted her knife so the tip was now inserted inside Seraphine’s nostril. She did not so much as whimper, but her eyes dilated with fear. Seraphine could have braved death with defiance, but she had a horror of disfigurement.
Meg had made the mistake of believing Bea to be the weaker of the two Rivers sisters, only able to vent her cruelty upon defenseless animals.
But Seraphine was as helpless as a kitten, still dazed from the blow, her hands and feet trussed. Meg could tell that the sight of the blood streaming from the gash in Seraphine’s cheek excited Beatrice, emboldened her. Amy might have been the one to commit murder, but Bea was thirsting to do likewise, if only to prove herself Amy’s equal.
How did I let this situation get so far out of control? Meg berated herself. She could try to wrestle the knife from Beatrice, but even if she could somehow overpower the stronger woman, there was Amy to deal with as well.
Meg could expect no aid from the rest of the coven. All they did was huddle together and watch like a flock of trembling sheep.
The last thing in the world Meg had ever wanted was to emulate Cassandra Lascelles’s practice of the dark arts, but as her gaze met Seraphine’s, her friend’s terror mirrored her own. Meg realized she had no choice.
“Very well,” Meg said thickly. “I will try to do it—raise the spirit of Tamsin Rivers.”
AMY CHALKED THE OUTLINE OF THE PENTAGRAM ON THE STONE floor in the center of the church. The coven gathered around Meg in a circle, each of them holding a lit candle. They had drawn their hoods forward again, perhaps to hide their fear and guilt. Or perhaps in the hope that the thin covering of cloth would somehow shield them if this dark magic they expected to witness somehow went wrong.
Meg had hoped that Bea would join the rest of the group, but she maintained her vigil by the altar, her menacing blade never more than a hairbreadth from Seraphine’s face.
Meg had to block out her fear for her friend so that she could remain calm and think. Her gaze darted desperately toward the door, praying this gathering would be stumbled upon by someone, anyone, a minister of the church or even a member of the city’s watch. Meg thought she’d rather risk being arrested for a witch than contend with the madness of the Rivers women.
But all remained silent outside these thick stone walls, as though a spell of obscurity had settled over the church, isolating them from the rest of the world.
Amy set a copper basin filled with water in the center of the pentagram. She
lit a thick black candle and positioned it so that its light flickered across the surface of the water. Tamsin Rivers had obviously fully described the details of the ritual to her granddaughter, leaving Meg little room for fakery or evasion.
When Amy motioned her to begin, Meg protested. “Is that all you have brought, only the basin and the candle? There is a potion required to enable the conjurer to reach the necessary state of trance.”
“Your mother never needed one. Granddam always said that Cassandra had a natural affinity for raising the dead.”
I am not my mother, Meg started to snap, but it was something she had been declaring for too much of her life. She was suddenly weary of protesting it.
As she stepped into the center of the pentagram, Meg made one last effort to reason with Amy. “There is a reason necromancy is an art shunned by most wise women. Not only is it wrong to disturb the realms of the dead, but by opening the portal, you risk some malcontented spirit crossing over.”
“That is exactly what I want,” Amy said. “I want my granddam back again. She should be here with us to share in our triumph tomorrow.”
“But it might not be your grandmother who emerges. It is just as possible that I may let loose something else, something dark and dangerous—”
“Stop trying to frighten me and get on with it or—” Amy did not need to complete her threat. All she had to do was gesture toward the altar where Seraphine lay helpless, Bea’s blade resting against her throat.
Meg knelt down beside the copper basin. She had spied upon her mother more than once when Cassandra had performed this terrifying rite. Meg had watched the water in the basin roil and steam, had heard the sepulchral voices that cursed Cassandra for disturbing their peace. But her mother had never made any effort to teach Meg the arts of necromancy. Cassandra had not believed she had the gift.
As Meg peered into the water, she saw her reflection dance in the flickering candlelight. The soft brown hair, the green eyes were her father’s, but the pallor of her skin, the intensity of her expression belonged to Cassandra Lascelles.
Meg feared that her mother was right. She did not have the gift for summoning the dead. But as she noted the traces of Cassandra mirrored back in her own features, Meg was even more afraid that she did.
She did not want the ritual to succeed, but she had to produce enough of an effect to save Seraphine’s life and very likely her own. As she knelt over the basin, she noted that she was not the only one who trembled with apprehension. The candlelight wavered because most of the women who surrounded her, clutching their candles, shook with fear.
It would not take much of a supernatural display to alarm these pitiful creatures, send them shrieking from the church in terror. With luck, that might draw the attention of the watch or bring one of the church wardens to come and investigate. Or if Meg created enough chaos, perhaps she could manage to free Seraphine and spirit her out of there. It was a slim hope, but the only one she had.
She sent up a silent prayer to the heavens and the good mother earth for forgiveness of the profanity she was about to attempt. Then Meg closed her eyes, delving deep down into her soul for that whisper of her mother’s darkness that she’d always feared lurked within her, and had done her best to suppress.
As she intoned the words of an incantation in an ancient tongue long forgotten, Meg stared into the basin, allowing the gleam of the copper, the candlelight shimmering in the water to mesmerize her.
Meg waved her hands over the basin and swayed. The incantation might have been her mother’s, but she knew she owed her performing skills to her father. Among the motley assortment of professions he had pursued, Martin Wolfe had once been an actor upon the London stage.
Meg tossed her head and moaned, summoning every bit of drama she could into her movements, her voice echoing eerily off the church rafters. She had no intention of rousing anyone from the dead, but she had to find some way to convince Amelia Rivers that she had, that the shade of her grandmother was present.
Meg repeated the incantation again, allowing her voice to reach a feverish pitch as she cried, “Tamsin Rivers! I charge you to reach out to us from the realms of the dead. Your beloved granddaughters Amelia and Beatrice are waiting.”
A hiss escaped from one of the women, or so Meg thought until she realized the sound came from the basin. The water began to roil, vapor rising until the surface of the bowl was shrouded in mist.
Meg’s heart beat wildly in her chest. Her hands froze in midair and she was unable to make another sound until Amy prodded her sharply in the back.
“It’s working,” Amy said excitedly. “Don’t stop. Go on.”
Meg moistened her lips, forcing herself to continue. “Tamsin Rivers. C-come to us. Part the veil between our worlds and speak to us. I, Megaera, summon you. Obey me.”
The mist swirled and to Meg’s horror, a shape began to emerge, like that of a woman groping her way through a fog.
“Megaera.” The ghostly voice was no more than a whisper and yet it seemed to fill the entire church.
Someone shrieked and dropped her candle to flee. Meg thought perhaps it was young Dorcas. The others leapt back from the pentagram. Meg’s breath escaped in a terrified rush. She needed to stop this now, break the spell before it was too late, but she was not certain she could. She could not even avert her eyes as the emerging figure called to her again in a voice that was chillingly familiar.
“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 throug
h 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?”