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Six

It was a cold, bleak morning, and Lydia was sleeping on the floor.

She’d been scouring Isadora’s private library for days, searching for anything about the Grimorium Bellum —what it was capable of, where it came from, how she could find it.

Sometimes she was sure she heard the sound of ticking, like that of some monstrous clock, counting down the seconds until the next full moon, to the moment when she would be able to track the book again.

She dared not think about what would happen if the Nazis found it first. Lingering on it too long made her despondent, and so she pushed her feelings aside and carried on.

She’d started with Isadora’s Encyclopedia of Magical Objects , which made a single, fleeting reference to the Grimorium Bellum in only the vaguest possible terms. Lydia had tossed the useless thing into the corner in a fit of rage, and there it had stayed ever since, pages splayed and spine broken.

There were other possible leads—murky references woven into texts like tangled threads.

One story spoke of a living book that whispered lies into the ear of its unwitting host, until eventually the poor soul went mad.

Another told the legend of the Witch of Bath, who carried a grimoire written in a dead language only she could read, and who committed atrocities before eventually being burned alive by her own coven.

Before her execution, the repentant witch claimed it was the book itself that made her carry out these abominations.

The witch was burned just the same, and the book was lost.

Then there was the witch who had murdered Kitty and Isadora.

Lydia had become obsessed with her too. She read ferociously, learning anything she could about German witches—books on runes, Germanic lore, one book titled Magical Traditions of the Black Forest , with pages so brittle they crackled like dry leaves under her touch.

There were ancient texts that described shadowy Germanic covens of myth— The Daughters of Freyja .

The Cult of the Valkyries . All those groups were long dead and gone, with no ties to any modern coven that Lydia could find, and she was forced to give up, falling asleep in a fog of despair and frustration.

That morning Lydia woke gasping, a copy of Warp & Weft: Advanced Warding for Magical Spaces clutched to her breast like a shield. Her mouth tasted sour, and she was shivering in her thin silk dressing gown and bare feet.

There was a horrible buzzing sound in the air. The doorbell . Lydia winced. She was certain it was Sybil. Samhain was coming, after all, and with it, the selection ceremony for the new grand mistress of the academy. Sybil would be wanting her answer.

Lydia stood on wobbly legs, cursing her aching body as she roused herself from the floor.

“Coming.”

She didn’t bother making herself decent before answering the door. Sybil would understand.

It wasn’t until she had opened the door to reveal Mistress Vivian standing before her that Lydia realized her error.

She quickly arranged her glamour, but could do nothing about the fact that she was still in her dressing gown.

She pulled the neck closed tight against her chest and stood as tall as she could manage.

“Miss Polk.” Vivian’s eyes flicked down, then up again.

“Vivian,” Lydia said, abandoning the honorific mistress. Vivian’s mouth puckered at the slight. Lydia let her stand there in the doorway until the cold and the weight of Vivian’s gaze became more than she could bear. Only then did she step away from the door. “Won’t you come in?”

···

Mistress Vivian looked altogether out of place inside Isadora’s richly decorated flat.

Lydia noticed how the color seemed to drain away around her, as if only the room was real and Vivian was some flickering image, captured on film in shades of gray.

Lydia realized that this was the first time they had ever been alone together.

Lydia allowed a beat to pass. “It seems everyone knew about this place. Not so secret after all, I suppose.”

“I’m a Seer, Miss Polk.” Vivian stood in front of one of Isadora’s framed portraits—a vibrant, dreamy nude, wreathed in gold. She curled her lip. “There are no secrets from me inside the academy.”

“Except one.” Lydia spoke the words before she could stop herself.

Vivian turned on her. “I beg your pardon?”

Lydia raised her chin. “How did an enemy witch get inside the academy?”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Polk, I don’t think I care for your tone—”

Lydia cut her off. “I see only two options. Either this enemy witch, and by extension, her coven , is in possession of some great, unforeseen power, strong enough to bypass dozens of layers of our own warding magic—”

“Miss Polk—”

“ Or ,” Lydia continued, “the witches of the high council were powerless to protect against an enemy attack inside our own walls, which would make you lot no better than a bunch of half-rate parlor magicians. Frankly, I can’t quite decide which option is more unsettling.”

Vivian stared, stunned to silence. It felt good, offending her, after the way she’d spoken that night in the ceremonial chamber. The way Vivian had disparaged the grand mistress before the Great Mother herself not an hour after her death and felt not an ounce of shame.

Vivian screwed up her mouth before speaking. “You always have had a bloody cheek.”

“So I’m told.”

Vivian huffed. “I didn’t come to quarrel. I’m here to offer you an olive branch, if you will cease your insolence long enough for me to do so.”

Lydia waited.

“Sybil tells me you are considering accepting her nomination for grand mistress.”

“It would be my right, as Isadora’s apprentice.”

“The position of grand mistress is no one’s right ,” Vivian snapped. “It is a grave responsibility, too heavy for most elder witches to carry, and you are a moody, ill-bred child.”

“Is this your olive branch?”

Vivian glared. “Do you plan on accepting the nomination?”

Lydia considered lying, if only to see the look on Vivian’s face. Instead, she opted for the truth.

“I haven’t decided. Do you plan to challenge me if I say yes?”

Vivian cast her cloudy gaze over Isadora’s paintings and baubles, her collection of books, which now lay strewn across the floor. She studied Lydia, barefoot and half-mad with loss, standing in the middle of Isadora’s parlor.

“I never liked Isadora. She was… showy. Arrogant. She saw tradition as something to be challenged, rather than respected. You , I trust even less. You’ve been under her influence for too long. You are rash. Obstinate. And you lack judgment.”

Lydia considered a thousand bitter words to fling at Vivian but held her tongue.

“I am eighty-seven years old. Too old, if you ask me. I have no interest in glory, and I have no desire to be grand mistress. What for? I’ll be dead soon enough.

” Vivian paused, as if waiting to see if Lydia would offer any clever remarks.

When she didn’t, Vivian went on. “You have a reasonable claim to Isadora’s seat, I’ll give you that.

But if I were to challenge you, you would undoubtedly lose. ”

Lydia knew it was true. Vivian had been on the high council for sixty years, with strong alliances inside the academy.

And while no one could accuse Vivian of having charm, she did possess a certain gravitas that made others sit up and take note when she spoke.

A challenge from Vivian would mean Lydia’s inevitable loss.

“Why challenge me at all if you don’t want it?”

“Because I want what’s best for the academy.

If you were to become grand mistress, I have no doubt you would carry on in Isadora’s footsteps—sending witches gallivanting across Europe on these ridiculous treasure hunts.

Playing at being soldiers and assassins.

And for what? A country that would just as soon see us all hanged. ” She scowled. “I can’t allow it.”

“You talk as if we were still in the Middle Ages. The world has changed, Vivian.”

“Has it?” Vivian’s tone was mocking. “Show me a world that does not hate a powerful woman, and I’ll show you a world without men.” She held Lydia in her gaze. “This institution was founded for us , Miss Polk. Entire generations of witches were orphaned during the trials—”

“I remember your history lessons, Vivian, there’s no need—”

“Their mothers and grandmothers hanged or drowned. Their daughters left untrained. The academy was founded in the midst of that tragedy, Miss Polk, to ensure that our knowledge could never be lost. To ensure that our own would be protected. Not so we could fight and die on behalf of a country that has always despised us.” She pursed her lips.

“Why should witches care about Britain’s war, when Britain has never cared for us? ”

Lydia felt her anger rising. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“The pontifications of a child,” Vivian sneered. “You’d think losing your friend and your grand mistress in a single night would have taught you better, but—”

“Shut your mouth.” Lydia was shocked by Vivian’s cruelty. She felt as if she’d been slashed open with a knife, and all of her fury and grief and loneliness were spilling onto the floor.

Vivian offered a pitying glance. “There is only one way you will ever succeed in becoming grand mistress of the academy, and that is with my support. Sybil has been campaigning on your behalf, and currently you have five members of the high council on your side. Three others are undecided. The rest firmly oppose your nomination. One can hardly blame them after that ugly spectacle you created. But…” Vivian smiled.

“One word from me, and you will have the full support of the entire council.”

“And why would you do that?” But even as Lydia spoke the words, she already knew the answer.

“Because you are going to withdraw the academy from the war effort. You will shut down Project Diana, and we will return to a proud tradition of secrecy that has lasted for five hundred years. You will do this, and you will keep me as your closest adviser. I will shape you into a witch worthy of your title, and you will reign as grand mistress for the rest of your days, with the full backing of the high council.”

“And if I refuse?” But then, of course, she knew that, too.

“Then I will take it from you. I will challenge your nomination, and I will become grand mistress. I will withdraw the academy from the war effort, just as I have instructed you to do. And then, I will cast you out of the academy as punishment for your insolence, and you can spend the rest of your days just like your mother, reading fortunes and selling tea in that dirty little flat in Hackney.”

Lydia was reeling with rage but could not think of a single thing to say.

“It will bring me no joy to do this. I’d much prefer to spend my remaining years in relative peace and quiet. But I will do as my duty demands. I will do what is best for the academy. The choice is yours.”

It took Lydia a long moment to find her voice. “What about the Grimorium Bellum ?”

“What about it?”

She did her best to remain calm. Rational. “You’re a Seer, Vivian. You must know the Nazis have formed their own coven. You know that if they find that book, the war will be lost.”

Vivian scowled. “I know no such thing.”

Lydia carried on without pausing. “Hitler doesn’t just want Poland or France, or even Britain. He wants the whole world , and with the Grimorium Bellum , he can have it. How can you not see that we have to stop him?”

Vivian didn’t respond right away. When she did, she spoke slowly, as if addressing a particularly dim student.

“Miss Polk, may I offer you your first lesson on leadership?” She did not wait for an answer.

“True leadership is knowing the difference between the things that concern you, and the things that don’t.

You would do very well to remember that. ”

Lydia did not think she could be shocked by Vivian’s coldness any longer. Now she realized she’d been wrong.

“I want you out ,” she hissed.

Vivian smirked. “As you wish.” She made her way laboriously to the door, and Lydia found herself wondering if it was age or spite that made the woman move so slowly. When she had nearly reached it, Lydia spoke again.

“Vivian.”

She turned.

“Great Seer that you are, I have to wonder. How is it that you never saw this assassin in any of your visions?”

Vivian’s smug face collapsed, leaving only a deep frown in its place.

Lydia held her head high. “I look forward to seeing you at Samhain.”