Chapter 9
Miriam had left Cybil alone for long enough. It had been three nights since they had met on the rooftop; since then, she had been in Ipswich, passing the time with deals. Now she bid the town farewell, soaring through a flurry of snow.
As she flew, Miriam passed over the village next to the Hall.
It was exactly the same as all English villages were, as far as she was concerned: squat hovels, a Norman church, and a square at the centre that sometimes contained a market or maypole.
Typically, the square was empty at this time of year; Miriam was surprised to see that, this evening, it was populated.
A small group of men had gathered, some on horses, some not.
They had torches and dogs and weapons, as if they were going to hunt.
It was clear enough what their prey would be.
Henry Martingale stood at the centre of them.
Beside him was a nervous-looking Peter Oswyn, twisting the hem of his tunic in his fists, expression pale and reluctant.
Miriam swooped in closer, alighting on the roof of a nearby cottage.
‘… northwards,’ Martingale was saying. ‘We must be cautious. We are given permission to search, nothing more.’
‘And if you find something?’ Peter asked him.
‘Then she shall be arrested.’
Peter looked queasy. ‘I see.’
Miriam made herself intangible, slipping into shadows. She slid to the ground and edged closer.
‘Men, to me!’ Martingale said, and the hunting party turned to look at him.
He had his head lifted, imperious, lip half-raised like a dog about to snarl.
‘Listen and listen well. We seek a witch, and thus we must harden our hearts and our resolve. If she is innocent, let her come quietly and prove herself so; and if she is not, we must prepare ourselves for resistance. For although we see a face of a woman, it is not a woman who we fight on this day. It is the devil, and we must cast him out.’
As the men cheered, flailing their torches, a triumphant Miriam pulled the shadows around her and returned to the air. How thankful she was for the cruelties of men; they often outstripped her own. Few of her deals would come to fruition if her victims had not before suffered at humanity’s hands.
She flew north, until Harding Hall rose up in the distance: a vast cage of lead and brick, the lines of dead bushes in its gardens making a spiderweb-pattern of dark over the pale frosted grass.
It was an impressive edifice, but in the night it lacked grace, finesse—its bulk, its symmetry and harsh angles, seemed in contention with the nature around it.
It occurred to Miriam now that its presence, in its sombre squareness, recalled nothing so much as a tombstone: a memorial for some unnamed tragedy.
Mayhap it was fitting for such a family, doomed as they were.
The weather had remained clear the past few days, and the night was silent and still. The moon had been made into a multitude, reflected dozens of times over by the glass panes of the building’s enormous windows. Most of the Hall’s interior was dark, save a few rooms on the upper floors.
There was a light on in Cybil’s bedroom.
As a crow, Miriam landed on the windowsill outside and peered within.
Cybil was sitting at the mirror, combing her hair.
It fell down to her elbows, and there was something suddenly violent about the vividness of its colour; it was bloody, woundlike, as if each stroke of the comb was slicing into flesh.
She was singing as she worked at the tangles, terribly out of tune as always, some ballad about lovers and false promises.
Her voice was muffled by the glass of the window.
She was only half dressed, in a white chemise and scarlet kirtle.
As she sang, her chemise sleeve slipped partly down her shoulder, and Miriam felt a hunger that was different in character to any she had felt before.
It was softer this time, a whisper rather than a howl.
Miriam hopped closer to the glass. She wanted to be nearer to Cybil, to feel the light of her, rather than consume it.
It was an unnerving impulse, largely alien to her, and she knew not how to resist it.
The shadows that had gathered to form her feathers were reverent and afraid; they shivered as if they could somehow feel the winter cold.
Miriam melded into the darkness, slipped through the window, and stood, invisible, behind Cybil.
The room smelt of the sweet oils she had applied to the comb.
Miriam could see a droplet of the tincture beading at her hairline where she had swept the locks aside.
It trailed downwards and then paused, caught in the short, downy hairs at the nape of her neck.
For a moment, Miriam watched. Then, a woman once more, she allowed her image to appear in the mirror’s reflection. It took a few moments before Cybil noticed her; as she went to put her comb down, her eyes met Miriam’s within the glass, and she shrieked.
‘Forgive me,’ Miriam said. ‘I frightened you.’
Cybil was clutching the comb with both hands as if it were a weapon. Trembling slightly, she dropped it into her lap. ‘Are you truly there?’ she asked. ‘Or merely an illusion?’
Miriam stepped forward and laid a hand on her bare shoulder. Her reflection did the same. Cybil could clearly feel the touch, because her head whipped around to look behind her, but Miriam was still invisible outside of the glass; there was nothing there for Cybil to see except darkness.
Her skin was warm and soft beneath Miriam’s hand. Miriam could feel Cybil trembling beneath her touch—muscles tensing as she prepared to bolt away—and so she released her, dropping her arm.
‘I came here to warn you,’ Miriam said.
‘… Warn me? You already told me that Martingale—’
‘He is coming now,’ Miriam said. ‘Tonight. To search the Hall for evidence.’
Cybil shook her head. ‘Now? But—I received no notice of the charges.’
‘Why would he forewarn a witch?’
Cybil laughed bitterly, throwing the comb aside. ‘Yes, why would he?’ she said, standing. She pulled up the sleeve of her chemise so it covered her shoulder. ‘You had better not be deceiving me.’
‘Why would I?’
‘To convince me to make a deal with you.’
‘Well, I do intend to do that,’ Miriam admitted, ‘but no need for deceit, not when Martingale and his men are so near. Wait, if you wish, until they arrive; we can negotiate then.’
Cybil gave her a long, searching look, brown eyes flickering in the dim light of the candles. She said nothing.
Miriam sighed. ‘You know as well as I do, my dear, that this house is teeming with evidence. Unless you intend to raze it to the ground…’
Cybil pushed past her and left the room. Miriam followed.
‘I suppose I cannot convince you to leave,’ Cybil said, as they walked.
‘No,’ Miriam replied.
Harding Hall was in disarray, furniture knocked over, paintings pulled from their hooks. Several of the windows were smashed, but Cybil seemed neither to care nor notice.
Miriam was impressed. ‘You have been taking this place apart.’
‘My father left much evidence,’ Cybil said.
‘You will not flee, then?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘My mother. I will not leave her. But’—she squared her shoulders—‘I will do all I can to save us. I will hide the grimoires and return to them once this matter with Martingale is finished.’
‘You believe he will show you mercy?’ Miriam asked her with derision, voice lilting. ‘That you can survive Oswyn’s accusations?’
‘I could not say,’ she said. ‘If I die because of him—because of you—then so be it. Many women better than I have done the same.’
‘And what of the curse?’
‘What of it?’ Cybil snapped. ‘It will not matter if I am dead.’
‘I saw the way you reacted when I promised to remove it. I know how desperately you wish that you might someday be free.’
‘That wish was foolish. I see that now.’
‘I do not believe you,’ Miriam said. ‘I have watched you, Cybil Harding, since the moment your father died. I have seen you study his books and mix his potions.’
‘That was mandrake tincture, for my mother.’
‘The fact remains, my dear. You have hope, still—and how beautiful that is. How tragic.’
Cybil sneered at her and turned away.
They stopped in front of a door. It was Christopher Harding’s study, where Miriam had first seen her, weeks ago.
Cybil touched the wood. It was carved with markings: a grid of strange, curling letters, clearly designed to keep demons at bay.
With their creator dead, the markings had lost all their power, but it was still with some irony that Miriam crossed the threshold.
‘You may leave,’ Cybil said, as she began to scan the study’s shelves, selecting books and making a pile of them in the centre of the room. ‘I will never make a deal with you, Miriam Richter. If my hope is foolish, yours is even more so.’
Ignoring this, Miriam peered more closely at the books.
They were mostly grimoires and alchemist tomes.
She opened one to find a ritual inscribed on the very first page, incantations and a circle already drawn.
‘What will you do?’ she asked, dropping the book dismissively back onto the pile.
The curiosity in her expression was clinical, disinterested—a physician observing a wound. ‘Burn them?’
‘Some of them. But most are too valuable.’ Finished, Cybil went over to the books she had selected.
She hefted a stack of them into her arms, and looked down, grimacing, at the substantial pile that remained.
For a moment, she pondered in silence, and then she sighed.
‘If I cannot be rid of you, you might as well help. Take the rest.’
Miriam had never been ordered to do anything before—not without the parameters of a deal—and she smiled at the novelty as she took the rest of the books, tucking them under one arm.