The Cathedral of Lost Souls, page 18
“It may be that all the Resurgent Spirits have now found hosts. And that Embodied Spirits have a resistance to the spells, or at least have to be in closer proximity to the spell casting.”
“Which is as good as saying the book is useless, for we could hardly drag them all into the cathedral, and we know the book has no power at all if removed from the close influence of the map.”
“Might we be able to move the map?”
She shook her head. “I cannot risk it again. Not after so nearly losing it in the fire. And besides, we could hardly hawk it hither and yon, ghost hunting. We don’t know where all the spirits, Resurgent or Embodied, are. In addition, what if your first hypothesis is correct? What if Embodied Spirits are too fixed for the enchantment to work?”
“In that case,” he said slowly, “we are too late.”
Hecate banged a fist against the tree trunk, causing the hound to step forward and lick her other hand. “No! No, that can’t be right, Father. Think of the abbey at Piedmont. Mr. Sadiki said his ancestors, and my predecessor, worked together to rid the town of the spirits. Some fled, but the rest returned to their rightful place among the deceased. That tells us Embodied Spirits can be flushed out of their host bodies. All is not lost, only…”
“What? What is your thinking, daughter?”
“The words in the banned book alone are insufficient. Yes, that is the only explanation. My predecessor and her allies must have used something else, something in addition. Some other enchantment.”
“But what? And if so, why has Mr. Sadiki not told you of it, or directed you to it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her mind whirring with thoughts and ideas. She remembered then how long it had taken Mr. Sadiki to trust her with the magic key; she had to prove herself first. Was there some other, stronger magic yet to come? Magic he would not reveal to her until she had proved herself further? Or was it the goddess who was waiting to see that her child was truly able and ready to wield greater power? Was Hekate holding back the final piece of the puzzle?
She turned to her father. “I must return to him. There is something he is holding back from me still. I know it. Now that the returning spell has failed. Now that I have failed…”
“Daughter, it is a setback. Nothing more.”
“You say that to ward off despair. The truth is, I need stronger magic if I am to defeat the Essedenes. And Mr. Sadiki knows where such powers reside, I’m convinced of it.”
“He must have his reasons for withholding something from you. It could be he seeks only to protect you.”
“If the Resurgent Spirits are not stopped, the city will be lost, Father. None of us is safe. I must make him see there is no choice but to use whatever we can, whatever will be effective.”
“However great the risk?”
“However great.”
“Then let us go to him now. Together.” Taking her arm, he wheeled her about, both of them glancing up at the window of the orangery before striding across the lawns of the little park and back toward East Street.
Not surprisingly, the shop was in darkness, the door locked and bolted. Hecate knocked.
“Mr. Sadiki? Please, open the door. We need to speak with you,” she called out.
They waited, listening, but no sound came from within.
“He will be sleeping,” she muttered.
Edward stepped forward and hammered on the door.
“He must hear that,” he said.
The hound, growing tired of standing still, took it upon himself to bark. It was a deep, rough sound, as if drawn from deep inside the magical dog, the notes of it rattling off the windows of the street. There were shouts from one or two houses, curses and entreaties to cease making such noise. In a moment, they could hear bolts being drawn and a key turned. The door opened. Mr. Sadiki did not look surprised to see him.
“The returning spell was not sufficient,” he said, a statement rather than a question.
“It was not,” Hecate confirmed. “I need something more, Mr. Sadiki.” She paused and then added, “There has to be another way.”
The old man nodded, turned, and led them to the room at the back of his shop. No one sat. This was not a social visit. Instead, they stood in front of the dying embers of the fire in the open range, its low glow their only illumination.
“Did you think there was even a chance I would succeed?” Hecate asked him.
“I hoped,” he replied.
“There is something else, I know it,” she said. “Something my predecessor used in Piedmont, didn’t she?”
He looked at her then, his eyes sad, his expression doleful.
“You know she did not survive the battle,” he said.
“I know I cannot win it without the powerful words she used. It is our only hope.”
“Come now, Mr. Sadiki.” Edward stepped forward. “The time for riddles is past. Let’s have it. Where might we find what we need?”
The old man moved stiffly to the small table and opened a drawer. Taking out a sheet of paper and pencil, he wrote an address on it and handed it to Hecate.
“You may discover what you need here.”
She held the paper nearer the fire, squinting in the poor light.
“A bookshop. In London. And the name of the book?”
“Is not for me to give,” he told her. “Go there. If you are meant to have it, you will find it.”
Edward struggled to hide his exasperation.
“You mean to make us search the shelves? Surely—”
“I cannot say more!” Mr. Sadiki spoke with uncharacteristic force in a tone that would brook no argument.
Hecate put a hand on his arm.
“We will press you no further,” she said. “I know this was not what you wished for me. Please, do not concern yourself on my behalf. My path is clear to me.” She held up the address. “This is all I need, and I am grateful to you, truly.”
She leaned forward and embraced him, his body feeling heartbreakingly frail in her arms. When she released him, he turned away, gesturing that they should leave. She signaled to her father and they made their way to the front door. As she turned the handle, Mr. Sadiki called after her.
“May the goddess protect you!”
“And you,” she called back softly. “And you.”
13
Having sent a note to Reverend Thomas declaring herself indisposed and apologizing for her absence for the day, Hecate went downstairs to meet her father, who had booked tickets on the half past nine train to London. Her discomfort at lying to her employer was eased somewhat by her knowing her trip was vitally important. In the hallway, she encountered her mother putting on her gloves.
“Going out so early, Mother?”
“I am attending a meeting of the Hereford Literary Society. We have an upcoming event to arrange and are all being called upon to do our bit.”
“Gracious, I didn’t know the society committee kept such hours.”
“It is to be a prestigious occasion and the speaker has only recently become available so there is a great deal to be done. Miss Burton-Gore is in high demand.”
“Daphne Burton-Gore, the poetess?”
Beatrice paused in adjusting her hat to look at her daughter.
“You surprise me, Hecate. I had thought you only interested in ancient books written by people long departed. I cannot imagine you sitting down with a book of verse, concerning yourself with matters of romance or beauty or such emotions as move poets. Have you time in your busy life for poetry?”
Hecate gave a small smile at her mother’s teasing. The Literary Society had been an enjoyable part of her mother’s life for years, but it only struck her at that moment how little interest she herself had shown in it. Was that the way of parenthood, she wondered. Were mothers and fathers expected to enthuse about their children’s activities, however little they themselves cared for them, but that support was never returned? Now that she was an adult, surely she should be encouraging her mother in her pursuits. But then these were not ordinary times. How could she be anything but concerned for her mother and her brother? She wanted to tell her to stay at home. She wanted to call on their gardener to work an extra day so that he might be keeping watch on the house.
She experienced, in that moment, the breeze from the open back door drifting through the hallway bearing the scent of peonies from the garden, what life must be like for her mother. Hecate had taken up employment when her mother had disapproved. She rode a bicycle, which made her mother fear for her safety. She refused to look for a husband, even though Beatrice insisted this would provide security and happiness for her. She dressed in a way her mother believed would earn her scorn and derision from society. She lost every battle with Edward and Hecate when they stood together and insisted Charlie was well enough for outings, even though he had a dangerously fragile heart. What Hecate took for old-fashioned values, for nagging, for unnecessary restrictions and criticism on the part of her mother were all the same thing: care. Love. And fear of what might happen to those she loved. Then again, a life lived in fear was a life half lived. She was doing what needed to be done to remove the threat from her family, and she would leave the hound to mind Charlie in their absence.
She stepped forward and put her arms around Beatrice, drawing her into a warm embrace.
Her mother gave a little laugh.
“Goodness, Hecate…” she said, standing stiffly for a moment before allowing herself to relax, to accept the hug, to return it, holding her daughter close.
Hecate at last pulled back, smiling at her mother.
“Have an excellent day,” she told her. “Father and I shall be home on the four o’clock train.”
Beatrice nodded, picking up her bag.
“See that your father does not overindulge at lunchtime,” she said as she walked toward the front door. “He may have London appetites, but we have a provincial budget, and he has a constitution to match. Too much port in the daytime never sits well with him.”
Hecate watched her go out of the house. They could not live their lives in fear. To love was to risk the agony of loss. No amount of worry and fuss could quell that restless concern. How much better to take action to limit that risk, to protect without restricting, to confront and remove the danger.
Her father’s footsteps on the stairs broke her reverie.
“Here we are, daughter, ready to be off?” he asked, checking his pocket watch.
“Ready indeed, Father,” she said.
* * *
The train journey to the capital gave Hecate time to reflect on Mr. Sadiki’s reluctance to tell her about this other book of spells. She believed that the other child of Hekate, the girl who had defeated almost all the Embodied Spirits in Piedmont, must have had access to the words in it, and it would make sense for the book containing this vital magic to be kept with or at least near the banned book, the map, and the book that lifted the guarding spell. But London was hardly nearby. And why had Mr. Sadiki not wished her to have it? Regarding the large magic key, he had told her she had to prove herself, to show that she was ready for the responsibility of it. However much she told herself this was the reason he had held back information regarding the book from her, she knew in her heart there was something more. He had said he hoped this day would never come. He had mentioned the danger of the words. Danger not only to those around her, but to herself. He seemed to be saying that it was not the Essedenes who had killed that earlier follower of the goddess; it was the magic she had been compelled to use. The magic within the very book Hecate was now going to seek out.
As the fields and woodlands of the countryside gave way to the factories and houses of the city, they passed close by an imposing church with a spire and splendid stained glass in its windows. Instantly, her mind was turned to thoughts of Gil. Since their last meeting, since his revelation, she had not had an opportunity to seek him out. She dearly wanted to talk to him further, now that she knew he, too, could see and converse with lost souls. Was he aware of those she counted as her friends in the cathedral? Did he perhaps see others she did not? Indeed, she wanted to ask Brother Michael if he could tell that Gil had her gift, and even that she had had no time to do. Although she had informed her father of what she had learned about Gil, they had not returned to the subject. She felt as if they now shared a deep and meaningful bond, and yet she knew him so little. To talk more about such a powerful, singular connection would be to leap to a level of intimacy their new friendship had not yet reached. She resolved to make time to find him. She wished to apprise him of the Essedenes and the threat they presented. He had made no mention of being connected to a goddess or any other spiritual element to his gift, only that he believed his mother had passed it to him. How much common ground did they share, she wondered. How many questions she had for him, and he, no doubt, had for her.
On arriving at Paddington, she and her father took a hansom cab and made their way from the workaday west of the city, through the leafy streets and fine houses of Mayfair, up Shaftesbury Avenue with its theaters and music halls, until they came to Charing Cross Road. Alighting from the little closed carriage, Hecate took a moment to adjust to the crowds, the noise, and the smell of the busy heart of London. It was in such contrast to her own sleepy, provincial town. She allowed herself to imagine what havoc and mayhem the Essedenes might unleash on a place of such scale, should they succeed in moving beyond the boundaries of Hereford. She checked the address on the piece of paper Mr. Sadiki had given her and looked up and down the broad, busy road.
“It actually says ‘off Charing Cross Road.’ There must be a side street.”
Together they walked north, peering down every alleyway and narrow run of shops they passed. They were nearing the halfway point when she spied a small sign on a lamppost situated at the entrance to a tiny walkway. The word was plainly written and simply said BOOKSHOP with an arrow underneath.
“Look there,” she said.
Edward peered past her into the gloomy alley.
“Can’t imagine they get much trade, hidden down there,” he said.
“This is definitely it. There’s the sign,” she told him, striding ahead.
There were no other stores or even doorways set into the drab walls of the route, and it was too narrow for any sort of cart. The far end was in complete darkness, but, set to one side, light seeming to shine out of it more brightly as they approached, was the cheerful window of RARE AND ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS. PROPRIETOR WILLIAM J MORRIS ESQUIRE. The woodwork was smartly painted pale green, the glass panes spotlessly clean, all the better to display the beautifully bound books. Edward held open the door for Hecate, a brass bell chiming brightly as they entered.
Inside was well lit, orderly, and smartly furnished with shelves and bookcases. Hecate had half expected somewhere dusty and a little drab, filled with forgotten volumes and piles of books from house clearances and suchlike. Instead she found herself in a pleasant, welcoming store smelling of beeswax furniture polish and lavender.
The second surprise was that, despite the wording of the sign above the shop, they were not greeted by a man, but two middle-aged women. They were both neat, trim, modestly dressed, and so similar in their looks that they could only be sisters.
“Good morning,” said the first of the pair, her words carried upon a warm smile. “Were you in search of something in particular?”
“Or are you perhaps happy to drift among the tomes and see what you can find?” the second suggested. “Imelda, dear, there are those who prefer to browse and submit themselves to chance and serendipity.”
It was then that they both properly saw Hecate. The smaller of the two gasped, her hands flying to her face, earning a sharp look from Imelda, who did better at controlling her surprise. She stepped forward, offering a hand.
“Imelda Muldoon, delighted to offer you any help you might require. And this is my sister, Maureen.”
Hecate found herself the subject of intense scrutiny. Both the women moved closer, peering at her with intelligent brown eyes. She glanced at her father and saw that he, too, had noticed the curious behavior of the shopkeepers.
“The proprietor himself is not here today, I take it?” he asked in an attempt to relieve Hecate of some of the attention.
“Oh, Mr. Morris is rarely seen in the shop,” Maureen informed him. “He is content to leave the collection in our care.”
“I can see everything is in excellent hands,” he said, indicating the beautifully ordered books that surrounded them.
Imelda explained further. “He travels widely in search of rare treasures. For this shop and his other business interests.”
“We were wondering,” Hecate said, “if you might have any texts regarding the goddess Hekate?”
“And perhaps something on religious practices of the ancient peoples of Mesopotamia? I am an archeologist, and—” her father added.
Both sisters smiled.
“I can certainly assist you with the latter,” Maureen said to Edward. “If you would follow me, there are some excellent books on your subject over here,” she told him, leading him to the far side of the shop, gently engaging him in a discussion about a recent dig she had read of in Egypt.
Imelda stepped closer to Hecate.
“That is a charming brooch you are wearing,” she said. “I believe you are already knowledgeable in the history of the goddess. Hekate is such a fascinating deity, is she not?”
“I have an interest,” she replied. “And now a … a wish to obtain a particular text.”
Imelda nodded.
“We have a special place for special things,” she said. “Come.”
She turned and walked toward a door at the back of the shop. Hecate followed and soon found herself in a narrow corridor. Gaslights on the walls appeared to light up as they reached them. The passageway was long for such a modestly proportioned building, so that she began to think they would soon emerge out of the rear of the building, perhaps into a parallel street. Instead they came to a low, heavy wooden door. Imelda took a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. She pushed the door open and stood to one side.
