Page 121

‘Christ,’ he mutters, taking the page from her.

Letters have appeared beneath a few of the central symbols: an N, an O, a P, a Q. Francis Fielding had mentioned this once – steganography he called it, a way of hiding messages within an object.

Blood could not do this. Julian must have used a special kind of ink.

‘These aren’t symbols,’ Linette whispers. ‘This is an alphabet.’

‘Quick,’ Henry says, moving toward the fireplace. ‘We must light the fire.’

It takes some minutes to produce a decent flame, but soon the fire is roaring, and very carefully Henry leans into the grate, holding the page above the flames.

‘Be careful,’ Rowena whispers, but there is no need; already the fire is doing its job, and soon the letters appear beneath their corresponding symbols, clear now as day:

‘Get paper, quill,’ Henry tells Linette, but she does not need telling twice. Already she has pulled her desk drawers open, laying paper and ink next to the torn page, diligently dips the nib.

He watches as Linette makes fast work of the symbols, their corresponding letters, and when she has finished neither of them speak for some moments. Henry tries to deny what is before them, tries to convince himself Linette has mistranslated, that what he sees is nothing more than a trick of the eye.

‘This can’t be right,’ he finally manages.

Linette too is staring at the page before them, looking as shocked as he feels.

Their names. The symbols spell out her and Henry’s names.

‘Why would Julian have written our names in the grimoire?’ Linette whispers.

With a shaking finger Henry pulls Linette’s translation toward him.

This cannot be possible. It cannot be possible!

‘Our names,’ Linette cries as if he cannot see. ‘These are our names!’

But he does see. He sees and is just as baffled as she is, looks between the pages in confusion. Linette chews her lip.

‘You said the grimoire was ritualistic, did you not?’ she asks, and Henry nods, lowers his eyes once more to read the passage below their names:

To ensure salvation the bargain must be struck with the sacrifice of one’s own ancestral lifeblood, the bond of two united.

It means nothing to him. He continues to stare at the page, the strange lines of Julian’s handwriting turning themselves over in his mind: Ensure salvation. Bargain struck. Sacrifice. Ancestral blood. Two united. The answer is there, but Henry cannot see it. What, what, is he missing?

Next to him Linette is reading the passage too, mouthing the words under her breath. Three times she does this until she falls silent, eyes following the words now rather than her tongue. Then, suddenly, she draws in her breath.

‘No.’

‘Linette?’

But she has started to shake her head in dismay.

‘No,’ she whispers again. ‘How? How?’

‘Linette, what is it?’

‘It can’t be. It can’t.’

‘What?’

She reaches for one of the chairs at the table and sits down, weakly looks up at him, scarce able, it seems, to form the words.

‘Think of your childhood, Henry,’ Linette whispers. ‘You were a Foundling, yes? You never knew your parents. The watch. Your token. What was supposed to happen to it?’