Waking the Witch, page 14
“Do you take this gift I have offered you freely?”
“Yes, Emerson. I take it freely. Thank you so much.”
“I am so proud of you. Now go back upstairs and hide these things from our boy-king. And remember, you must do everything as I’ve told you, to the letter.”
“Yes, Emerson.”
She turned and skipped up the stairs, smiling with glee as she clutched the box to her chest.
When she was gone and the clunk as her bedroom door closed echoed down from above, Emerson made another gesture and George came bounding down the stairs with his own carved box.
“Here you are.” He passed it to Margrave.
Margrave opened the box and took out the torc. She had no direct proof, but she was certain it was the one Margrave gave Mick.
“Excellent, my boy.” The old sorcerer turned it around in his hands to inspect it before returning it to the box.
“My father was so powerful. The entire house shook. How was that little thing able to protect me from him?”
“Influence is a power of the soul, my boy, and this, I am told, stimulates and harvests enough of it to act as an invincible surrogate. When your father turned his power against you, it met the Influence stored within the bracelet, enough Influence to match that of any saint. Your father’s power became locked in a battle he couldn’t win, leaving you free to take his life.”
He tapped a fingernail against it.
“And spent though it may be, it is still dangerous, if only that it might give away to the other spheres what you’ve done. Succession by murder, no matter how necessary and just, is frowned upon by the Convocation of Saints.”
Margrave put it into the box and slipped the box into his jacket.
“I fear I must leave you. I have more converts to initiate into the mysteries, for which I have you to thank. You are my greatest recruiter.”
“It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”
George is providing victims for Margrave to prey upon! This must be how Mick got caught in his clutches.
“Emerson, I still hear him,” said George as he walked Margrave to the door.
“Who, your Lord, the Emperor?
George nodded.
“That, I fear, is the price we pay for power, one your followers will never have to suffer. He will always be with you, nagging at the corners of your awareness. Sometimes he’ll demand to be heard no matter how much you try to block him out, and sometimes you will be grateful for his counsel, but in time you will learn to manage him. Don’t worry. I will be here to guide you.”
They embraced. It would have been a touching scene were it not that people had died to make it happen.
Cressida was in league with Margrave. That changed Gosha’s plans. The girl wouldn’t go willingly, and Gosha had no way to force her. Could she somehow steal the torc Margrave gave her? Margrave would presumably give her another, but maybe it would delay their plans long enough for Gosha to figure out how to stop them from killing George.
No, Miranda had to come first. She was innocent in all this. Gosha had to get her away from Margrave’s clutches.
Out in the foyer, George closed the front door. She had only seconds to act. One command from him and she’d lose time again. She tiptoed to the counter in search of anything she could use to get herself out of the house.
Mrs. Dearing told her to think what her mother would do. Gosha remembered the cellar in Poland and her mother coming down the steps to get her, bedraggled, bruised, and bloody. She never discovered what happened to the witch hunter.
“Gosha,” said George from the hall. “Where did you go?”
She grabbed a bag of flour from the counter and ripped off the top. As he walked in from the hallway, she snatched a skillet off a hook on the wall and ran at him, screaming. She threw the flour at him, a cloud of white exploding in his face, and swung the skillet with all her might. He raised his arms in time to shield himself from the blow, but the skillet still thudded into his skull and he went down, groaning.
Without a second look, she ran from the kitchen and snatched up her keys and handbag on the way out. She was in the car within thirty seconds. When the engine started up on the first try, she whispered a thanks to whatever power might be watching. Without looking back, she tore away onto Manor Road.
25
Adrenaline pushed her forward, her foot heavy on the gas pedal, but London traffic refused to cooperate. At the other end of Manor Road, traffic ground to a halt. An unruly crowd flooded the street carrying a confusing mixture of placards protesting nuclear proliferation, discrimination against gay people, and animal testing. She pressed hard on the horn for the crowd to let her through, but the raucous cheers of the protesters drowned out the blare.
With no sign of George at her back, the knot in her stomach unraveled. The car immobilized by the crush of people, she buried her head in her arms over the steering wheel as the events of the past couple of hours played in her head on a loop. Most of it was meaningless to her. Lords and saints and spheres? She was so out of her depth.
One thing was clear: George was a murderer. He killed his father with the help of Mick’s life force. How could the handsome charmer she married have done such a thing? If she had never told him what her curse had shown her about his father, would it ever have come to this? Everything touched by her mother’s secret world of Craft and Influence became tainted. How could she explain all this to Miranda to get her away from Margrave’s group? And Margrave’s power? How could she stand up against that? She needed help from someone who knew their way around Influence. Perhaps the witch, Rosamund, would.
The protest thinned to nothing, and the traffic began to move. She had overshot the bookshop by a quarter of a mile. The short route back would take her past the end of Canterbury Gardens. The memory of the thunk and crunch of the skillet slamming into him reverberated through her. She didn’t dare get that close to the house and George.
Oh, God. I left that poor, stupid girl alone in there.
Margrave was setting Cressida up for a terrifying death all to depose George and steal his power, whatever that meant. Did no laws govern these people? Cressida may be having an affair with her husband, may have been complicit in the murder of George’s father and Mick Trash, but she had no idea she was about to die. She was still a victim.
Car horns honking behind Gosha jolted her back to the present. She could go the long way round to the bookshop and keep the market between her and George.
Miranda. She turned a sharp left at the next intersection, cutting off several annoyed drivers and almost running over an unsuspecting cyclist. I have to focus on what’s most important. I need to get Miranda to safety. Then George and Margrave can go at each other with abandon, for all I care.
The streetlights came on as she parked a few doors down from the bookstore. The gate was down, the shop inside dark.
“Hello, Auntie Rosamund!”
She hammered on the gate with no response. The painted sign on the window was gone. She looked up at the two-story building to see if a light was on in the windows and peered in closer through the shadows beyond the grill of the gate. The shop was empty. All the books, all the shelves that were there only a few hours ago were gone, all trace of Rosamund’s business scrubbed from the premises.
Gosha shook the gate and screamed her frustration, creating an almighty racket, until a window opened across the street.
“Oy!” A woman stuck her head out. “I’ve got a sleeping baby in here. Knock it off.”
“Sorry.” Gosha walked over to the window and looked up at the woman, feeling sheepish. She gestured behind her. “Did you see what happened to the bookshop?”
“What are you on about?”
“I was here this afternoon at the shop and now everything’s gone. Do you know what happened?”
“You’re a nutter.” The woman pulled back inside and reached up for the window. “That shop’s been closed for years. Make any more noise and I’ll call the police.”
She slammed the window shut and the plaintive wail of a fussy baby wafted down at Gosha from within.
Gone, right when I could have used her help. Seems par for the course for a witch.
She leaned her back against the gate of the shop and slid down onto her haunches. She’d danced around this since Mick’s death, but now there was nowhere else to go and no one else to whom she could turn. Her mother was the only one she knew who could help, assuming she’d deign to come down off her high horse and get her hands dirty.
A wave of desperation crashed down upon her. The breeze blowing down the quiet, empty street echoed the hollowness she felt inside. She’d worked so hard to forge a life away from Craft and Influence, and all for nothing. She pulled herself up on the gate and brushed off her hands on her jeans. Auntie Rosamund had been her one glimmer of hope, a witch who had offered to help, expecting nothing in return. She didn’t dare imagine the price her mother would demand for getting involved, but Miranda needed Gosha’s help. Cressida, too. No one else should die at the hands of Margrave and George.
Agnieszka Mierzejewska lived in a two-bedroom semi-detached house on Alder Lane, a quiet residential street dotted with parked cars on the other side of the heath, as far away from Canterbury Gardens as both Gosha and Agnieszka could arrange. The heath was the second largest park in London north of the river. Only the combined expanse of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens was larger.
The lights were on behind her mother’s curtains. As she rang the doorbell, she could hear chatter and clinking china.
“Mrs. Armitage,” said Mrs. Dearing in her bright singsong as she opened the door. “I knew you’d make it. Come in, come in. The boys had their tea. They’re upstairs playing quietly like little angels. Do you want to see them?”
“In a second.” She followed Mrs. Dearing into the house. “I need to talk to my mother first.”
Raucous laughter came from the living room.
“We’re playing éclat.” Mrs. Dearing came up behind her and placed a hand on her back. “Do you play? Agnieszka, look who’s here!”
The housekeeper opened the living room door and threw her arms up in the air with joy to usher Gosha into the room.
Inside, around a large collapsible card table, sat four women of different ages and varied ethnicities playing cards. At the head sat her mother. In her sixties, she was a striking woman, with a round, full face beneath medium length, carefully coiffed and bone-white hair that framed sharp eyes that missed nothing.
She regarded Gosha with smug confidence as she took a deep drag of her cigarette, a queen presiding over her court, a look Gosha remembered well from her childhood in Poland when the extended family assembled for feast days. They may not have been religious when Gosha was a child, but the family gathered for every major festival on the calendar. Until they fled.
What happened to them all?
Her mother blew out a long trail of smoke without taking her eyes off Gosha.
“Ladies, my daughter, Małgorzata. Wasn’t I just telling you about her?”
Her Polish accent, though still thick, had softened after years living in Britain.
“Children can be so disappointing,” said an Asian woman in her fifties with close-cropped hair in a button-down shirt seated to her mother’s left. She took a swig from a glass of whiskey and lay down a spread of cards. “Ha!”
The other ladies groaned as Gosha’s mother picked them up for inspection.
“How did you do that?” She consulted her own fan of cards. “Look. Here’s the three of sorrows.”
She pulled out a three of clubs.
“Your stories are too long and involved, Agnieszka,” said the Asian woman. “You lose track and make mistakes.”
“You’re a cheat, Mei!” Her mother stabbed at the Asian woman’s cards with her finger. “A dirty, dirty cheat. I curse you. May the rice in your bowl turn to maggots and your kimchi curdle in its pot.”
The other women exchanged looks in stunned silence. Then they all broke out into peals of laughter. Her mother sat back, as pleased with herself as she could be.
“Can you believe the stupid thing said that?” The Asian woman wiped tears from her eyes. “I’m fucking Chinese, not Korean.”
“She’ll get a shock when she next drops her knickers.” Her mother laughed as she gathered up the cards.
“You bet she will. She’ll be begging for my fucking kimchi then.”
“A pleasure as always, ladies.” Her mother pushed back from the table. “But I fear I must end our evening early. I understand my daughter has got herself into an almighty mess, and it falls to me to get her out.”
“Thus is the nature of daughters.” Another of her mother’s friends, a gray-haired South Asian woman in a blue sari, popped a piece of cheese from a platter on the table into her mouth. “But at least she has given you grandsons. They are delightful young boys. I’m glad we got to meet them at last.”
“Aren’t they?” Her mother beamed with pride. “Just the sweetest things. With luck they will grow up to be nothing like their father.”
“Which, sadly, they always do,” said another, a middle-class English woman with dark brown hair in a bob who could only have been in her early twenties, far too young to know about grown children.
They burst into laughter once again.
This kind of knowing talk from her mother always incensed Gosha, and now it was reflected fivefold by her mother’s friends, witches every one. She could tell by the attitude, the confidence and swagger. They came from different backgrounds, but were all alike. She dug her fingers into her palms to hold back her irritation as if she were sixteen again in her mother’s kitchen.
The young witch took out a short, leafy twig from the breast pocket of her tailored navy blue blazer and inspected Gosha with a queer look in her eye. “A winter garden lives for love, but never claims the responsibility of a monarch.”
The Chinese witch covered her eyes with one hand in exasperation.
“Lady preserve me, she’s off again. Eleanor, I can’t take any more of your rot!”
“Hush, beta.” The South Asian witch put a hot pink handbag of the kind favored by Queen Elizabeth on the table in front of her, took out a small, thin stick like a miniature rolling pin, and held it in one hand. “That new pillow I bought has given me a terrible crick in my neck. I do love cards, but the pain has made me play quite badly. I should have seen that jack in Agnieszka’s hand coming a mile off.”
The Chinese witch dropped the hand covering her eyes, saw the rolling pin, and took from her pocket a porcelain thimble. She looked Gosha up and down.
“You’d be better off having a pint of Guinness,” she said. “Nothing like a good head of froth for back trouble.”
As strange as this odd way of talking was, Gosha recognized its cadence. Her mother and aunts would chatter on like this all the time, innocuous words with a deeper meaning Gosha could never decipher.
“Back trouble!” said Gosha’s mother. “I can give you a poultice—”
When she saw the other witches holding their strange objects, she touched the acorn pendant she always wore over her blouse and squinted at Gosha.
“Elsie! You never told me—”
Mrs. Dearing, with a loud titter that made her seem a little mad, began clearing up.
“Oh my, it is getting late. I should see to the dishes.”
“Wincing thrushes are best left to their own devices,” said the young witch.
“Not now, beta,” said the South Asian witch. “Agnieszka needs help with the housework and you’re not yourself at the moment.”
“No,” said Gosha’s mother. “In my house I will do the cleaning myself.”
“Agnieszka,” said the South Asian witch. “Someone’s made a terrible mess, and it wouldn’t be fair of us to leave you alone to clear it up.”
Gosha’s mother pushed back from the table and stood.
“Thank you for your kind offer, Shreya, but It will take some time to get those stains out and I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the rain.”
The South Asian witch sighed, returned her mini rolling pin to her handbag, and helped the young witch up.
“As you wish, dear. Come, Mei. I’ll drive you home.”
“I quite agree.” Mrs. Dearing put down the stack of plates she’d gathered and headed for the door. “I’ve been working on a lovely blend of tea that will do wonders for you, Eleanor. Want to come with me?”
“You, Elsie, may stay.” Gosha’s mother caught the housekeeper’s arm before she could get away. “The mess isn’t entirely mine to clean, is it?”
“You will call us if you need us?” said the South Asian witch as they departed.
“Of course, my dear. I always value your input, but this is a family matter.”
As Gosha’s mother saw the women out, Mrs. Dearing returned to her manic tidying.
“Elsie,” said her mother. “Put those down. You needn’t clean up after me. You’re not in my daughter’s house now.”
Gosha winced inside at yet another dig. Her mother couldn’t say anything that didn’t come with barbs attached.
“Let me do it, let me do it,” said Mrs. Dearing, whose name was, apparently, Elsie. Gosha felt a pang of shame that the woman had worked for her for five years and Gosha hadn’t thought to ask. But then, she hadn’t known she was a witch, either. “You two have much to talk about. I’ll get the little dears into bed.”
“Thank you, Elsie,” said her mother to Mrs. Dearing’s back as she vanished into the kitchen. “I treasure your help, but you and I will have words about this.”
Gosha had never seen her mother among equals. Growing up there was always a strict hierarchy within the family, her mother claiming the top spot once Gosha’s grandmother died. It was jarring to see her be so unguarded and affectionate with her peers.
The affection didn’t last. Her mother turned back, eyes hard and judging once more.
“It’s nice to see you, Małgorzata. You are looking well.”
