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But how?

Henry opens the door of the gatehouse, wonders if perhaps they are outside, but the path lies empty. What he does mark is that the sky is not the pitch black of night but a lighter shade of indigo, already turning itself over to morning. Within the deep canopy of trees he hears an owl screech. What time is it? Henry wonders. Three? Four?

Behind him, Rowena sucks in her breath. ‘Look.’

‘What?’ Henry asks, turning away, and she points in the direction of the sitting room.

It is exactly how it was earlier that evening – not one piece of furniture out of place, nothing to raise alarm; except for a strange light at the far end of the room. Henry moves closer, toward the library door standing ajar, and slowly pushes it fully open.

A door is set within the bookshelves. Beyond it, a passageway lit brightly with thick pillar candles set in ornamental sconces, row upon row of them leading down to the end.

‘Rowena,’ he says quietly, gathering her close. ‘Promise to keep behind me. Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

He looks at her. Her face is frightened-pale, those amber eyes muted beneath the dark fan of her lashes, but Henry is not afraid. The anger he did not feel before – the anger that belonged so completely to Linette – begins to spiral in the pit of his stomach, a righteous tug of injustice pulling on his insides. That Julian would dare do this, that he would lure Henry to him in this childish way, is beyond reprehensible. Did he truly believe that he could get away with it?

At the bottom of the staircase there is a rush of air, that putrid smell of sulphur mixing with the dankness of earth and wet stone. Henry grips the iron banister. Another passage stands before them running in a different direction, lined with torches attached to intricately wrought braziers, rust thickly cloaking the filigree shapes. The chanting is much louder now, as if carried along on their echo; Henry can hear words repeated in a language he does not understand. What was it Mr Dee said? Hebrew, Theban?

Gripping Rowena’s small hand, Henry continues on.

It is cold. So cold, Henry can see his breath cloud in the air before him. At one point the dirt floor rises upward, down, then up again. Behind him Rowena stumbles; he stops, must press against the damp wall to steady her. It is only as he is turning to continue, only when he wipes his wet hand against his thigh, that there is another rush of sulphur-infused air, and Henry realises where they are. Underground, yes. That much is obvious. But not just any place underground. They are somewhere very specific.

‘Of course,’ he mutters, and Rowena presses his fingers between hers.

‘What is it?’

‘We’re in the mines.’

Henry remembers the blocked-off tunnels when he visited the mine that first time, thinks of why the mines are so close to the house in the first place; the Order could not meet in Plas Helyg itself, they needed somewhere else, somewhere private. Somewhere hidden, yet easily accessible.

There are tunnels under this house.

‘Henry,’ Rowena whispers. ‘Look.’

Ahead of them is a cavernous entryway, glowing eerily orange. On the cusp of that dreadful sulphuric odour Henry detects another smell, the sweet and woody scent of frankincense.

‘Come on. And remember, Rowena – when I tell you to run you do it.’

She nods but does not answer. Taking a deep breath, Henry continues on to the end of the passage.

It is as they draw closer that Henry glimpses through the arched entrance a pair of stone pillars, what he thinks might be – bizarrely – a strangely shaped throne. The chanting is monstrous loud now, compounded by the echoes that fill the cavern like an unholy choir, and just as he and Rowena reach the arch, a figure steps into view.

Despite his earlier resolve, Henry feels his chest tighten with unease.

The figure before them wears a crimson floor-length hooded cloak, its golden embroidery glistening in the lowlight. Whoever it is has their back to him, but Henry sees clearly what the person holds in each hand, and it is this that has given him pause.

In the left hand, the limp body of a black hen held by its clawed feet. In the right, the ceremonial dagger, its tip dripping a glistening red.

Henry realises then that he recognises the words, those words repeated over and over, again and again, in a sibilant haunting chant:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith. Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith …

Enough, he thinks. Enough now.

Henry steps into the room. The chanting stops. As one, the Order turn to greet him.

He is in what looks to be a temple. Two pillars stand at the far end flanking the throne Henry glimpsed just moments before. They appear to be of natural formation, as if belonging to the mountain itself rather than a man-made creation, but the throne has carved into it symbols from Julian’s grimoire. A black curtain hangs behind it and above, suspended from chains in the ceiling, hangs a large sigil of Berith made from pure gold. Torches are set high into the walls which are, strangely, patterned with lush green moss. At the sound of trickling water Henry realises why; a stream runs along the length of the room, and from the direction of the flow he deduces it must be the same one that runs along the back of the gatehouse.