Page 137

‘Are you all right?’ Henry murmurs.

She nods, opens her mouth to reassure him, but he does not look at Linette. Instead his eyes are darting beyond the circle as if looking for someone, and suddenly Linette sees her – Miss Carew – pressed against the wall as if frozen in fear. But then her view is obscured by Julian, who has stepped up to a large stone lectern. She can see the pages of his grimoire fluttering in the cold breeze, the ceremonial dagger resting by its side.

‘Where are we?’

‘The mine,’ Henry whispers back, and it becomes clear to her – the towering stone walls, the cathedral-like ceiling. The cold. The wet ground beneath her. The smell of sulphur.

Linette swallows. Almost lovingly Julian turns a page of the grimoire, raises his arms to the air as if in prayer.

‘Thee I invoke, the Boneless one, who dwellest in the Void Place of the Spirit! At this most sacred solstice we offer you the souls of my own kin, the blood of twins, as pledged to you years afore.’

Her cousin’s voice echoes through the large chamber. The torches flicker in their sconces, beating a deadly pulse against the stone walls. Beside her, Henry shakes his head.

‘He’s mad. All of them are.’

As if in reply the circle of robed figures raise their clasped hands, their painted arms creating a fleshy barrier.

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

‘In return,’ Julian intones over the din, ‘you will grant us riches on this earth, renewed health and vigour, and when our time to pass the veil arrives, you, Almighty Berith, will bestow upon us the greatest seats beside your unholy lord and master.’

Linette stares. Henry is right. Julian is mad, and it is clear there can be no dissuading him from his course. She looks at the ceremonial blade. If she can only finish what she intended! If only she can reach it! Pressing Henry’s hand she flings herself at Sir John, tries to break the barrier of the Order’s arms but they stand fast, continue their sonorous chant:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

‘Hear me!’ Julian cries, his arms once more held aloft. ‘Hear our call!’

Suddenly the torches dim, dipping the temple into an eerie semi-dark. The smell of sulphur grows stronger now, as if it comes from directly beneath her, and Linette lowers her eyes, looks at the dead hen at her feet and swallows.

Surely not, she thinks. It cannot be possible.

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

She clutches Henry’s hand tighter, slips her free one into the pocket of her dressing gown, reaches for the sprig of gorse Enaid gave her. ‘I know you do not believe in its protective powers,’ the old woman had said, but Linette crushes the needle-like stem in her fist and does not care that it hurts.

There is a rumble deep within the cavern. The chanting grows louder. Fearfully Linette watches Lady Pennant, Mr Lambeth, Dr Beddoe, the rest, and she realises then that they no longer look like themselves; there is a wildness about them now, a cruel and manic presence as if they have been transformed, each one of them in the throes of those terrible words:

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

At the lectern Julian throws off the cloak, revealing his elaborate robes beneath.

The portrait, Linette thinks. It is the costume from the portrait!

‘Hear us!’ Julian shouts now into the din. ‘Hear us, Almighty Berith! I invoke thee! I invoke thee!’

It seems impossible that the torches should go out, but in that moment the temple is plunged into darkness. Only the candles from the passageway highlight the room, the Order in their circle and Julian, Julian who has stepped down from the lectern, walking toward them with slow and measured steps.

‘Henry,’ Linette whispers, her fear now as sure as breath. ‘Henry!’

There is another rumble. A knock. Stone on stone. Something else. Something that cannot be described, only, somehow, felt – there is a hunger to it, a dark and savage hunger that resonates in the hollow of Linette’s chest like liquid fire. The fine hairs on her arms stand up, her breath catches in her throat. And sulphur, that dreadful stench of sulphur, so strong it makes her nostrils burn!

‘Keep hold of my hand, Linette,’ Henry tells her, voice urgent, and within it she can hear his own fear reflected back at her. ‘When I run you follow. Don’t look back, do not let go of my hand, do you hear me?’

Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith!

The circle parts then. Julian steps into it, the ceremonial dagger held high in his hand.

‘I surrender you both in the name of Almighty Berith,’ he whispers. His dark eyes are frenzied in his pale face, and Linette stares at him in horror. ‘May this sacrifice which we find it proper to offer unto you be agreeable and pleasing unto your desires. May you be ready to obey us.’