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Twenty-Three

Lydia sat up and immediately felt lightheaded.

She breathed deeply, waiting for the feeling to pass, and planted both feet firmly on the ground.

She chose a spot on the wall and allowed her eyes to relax.

She pictured herself standing in the kitchen.

She could conjure up the room in her mind’s eye with no effort at all; every copper pot and faded teacup, the earthy, musty smell of Evelyn’s jars of assorted herbs and potions.

Just on the other side of this wall , she told herself.

She waited for the familiar sensation, the feeling of sinking into the floor that always came just before she left her body. But the feeling never came.

She’d been back in London for three weeks.

The first week she barely remembered, just a jumble of visions and voices—Fiona McGann’s pretty face hovering over her: Bloody hell, girl.

What have you got yourself into? Lying half-conscious in the infirmary while Helena worked her magic, fighting to keep her alive.

Sybil, asleep by her bedside, a book open in her lap.

Her mother, such an incongruous sight in the halls of the academy that Lydia was certain she must have dreamed it.

And all the while, Lydia, half-dead and half-delirious, trying and failing to say the words: The book.

I left the book. By the time she’d regained her senses, the terrible mistake had been realized, but it was too late.

Fiona returned to the chateau to search for it, but the book was nowhere to be found.

When she was able to speak, Lydia demanded to know if there had been any news of Rebecca or Henry.

No sign of them at the chateau, Fiona reported.

However, there had been quite a lot of blood.

After a week, Lydia was strong enough to leave the infirmary, albeit barely. Standing for even short periods of time left her dizzy. Her hands trembled, and she was terrifyingly thin. Worst of all, she found herself incapable of doing even the simplest magic.

“Worry about walking to the loo by yourself, then we can talk about spellwork,” Evelyn chided her.

But Lydia felt caged. Rebecca and Henry were in danger, maybe dead, and it was her fault.

The book was gone, and the next full moon was only one week away.

In seven days, the Witches of the Third Reich would have all they needed to find the Grimorium Bellum , if they hadn’t found it already.

At full power Lydia could have tracked the book herself, with no need for full moons or ceremony now that she’d held the thing in her hands.

As it stood, she barely had the strength to walk into the next room, let alone project there.

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and Evelyn’s face appeared before Lydia had a chance to answer—a habit that had always driven her mad, even as a girl.

“Visitor for you, love. Sybil. Again.”

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair in a feeble attempt to make herself presentable. She felt naked without her glamour, sallow and homely. The room seemed to swim, and Evelyn reached out to steady her.

“I’m fine,” Lydia said, even as the room continued to sway.

Sybil looked altogether out of place in Evelyn’s shabby sitting room. Her dress was aubergine silk, with shoes and a bag in matching suede. A silver crescent moon pendant hung around her neck, and her gold and silver hair was pinned up and away from her face.

“Grand Mistress,” Lydia said as Evelyn helped her into her chair.

“Oh, darling, I told you before, none of that.” Sybil smiled up at Evelyn. “I do apologize for dropping in uninvited again, Mrs. Polk.”

“Tea, Grand Mistress?” Evelyn’s mouth twisted into a tight scowl.

Lydia sighed. Evelyn had been simmering for weeks. She suspected her mother blamed Sybil for her misadventures in France, even though Lydia had acted alone.

“That would be lovely.” Sybil looked at Lydia. “Coffee for you, darling?”

Evelyn frowned. “I’m afraid not. She’s finished the bag you brought last time.”

“Tea is fine,” Lydia said.

Evelyn made a small clicking sound, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Sybil smiled apologetically. “I don’t think she cares for me.”

“You’re in good company,” Lydia said. “She didn’t care for Isadora either.”

Sybil’s smile faltered, as if the mere mention of Isadora’s name was too painful for her, then soldiered on. “How are you feeling?”

“How do I look?”

“Honestly? Ghastly. Are you eating?”

“When I can.”

“And your powers?”

At that moment, Evelyn returned. They sat in silence as she laid out tea and biscuits, carefully avoiding Sybil’s gaze.

“Thank you,” Sybil murmured, and Evelyn excused herself. She looked at Lydia, who stared into her teacup and said nothing.

“Give it time,” said Sybil.

Lydia sipped her tea. The cup shook in her hand. “We don’t have time,” she whispered.

Sybil leaned closer and took the teacup from Lydia, setting it on the table. “Darling, you’ve done so much. You’ve given everything you have to this cause. Please, let me take this burden from you so you can focus on getting well.”

Lydia felt as if there were a clock hanging above her head, ticking down to catastrophe. Seven days.

“You have to find it.” Lydia’s voice was thin and brittle. “Please, promise me you’ll find it.”

Sybil nodded, but then her face fell just a little. She fussed with her jewelry, spinning one of her rings on her finger.

“What is it?”

Sybil huffed. “It’s Vivian. She’s vehemently opposed to any further efforts to retrieve the Grimorium Bellum .

She claims that you were operating under my orders in France, and that I should be removed as Grand Mistress as punishment.

Of course, she’s after your head as well.

But don’t you worry about that. I have it all in hand.

It will take a stronger witch than Vivian Osborne to stop me. ”

Vivian . Everywhere Lydia looked, there she was, standing in their way, moving the Grimorium Bellum even farther out of reach, with no one to stop her, and no one the wiser.

Lydia felt like the world was turning sideways around her. “Sybil, I’m so sorry for everything….”

“None of that! I’ll not have you apologizing for doing what’s right. Not after you were the only one of us with the courage to do it. We’ll find the book. That’s all that matters now.”

Lydia took a stuttering breath. She ducked her head to hide the tears that gathered in her eyes, but it was no use.

“Lydia? What’s wrong?” Sybil clucked over her, taking her by the hand. “Are you worried about your companions from the chateau? Is that it?”

Lydia could feel her pulse ticking ever upward, an unnerving sensation that had plagued her ever since she’d returned home, brought on by even the most minor excitement.

“I…yes. They were holding off the Gestapo when I lost consciousness. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

Sybil tsked sympathetically and refilled Lydia’s teacup.

“It must be very difficult for you, not being able to reach them. But, darling, your friends would want you to recover from your ordeal. I know how you are when you set your mind to a thing, but you’re only doing yourself more harm by not allowing yourself to rest.”

“But if I could just project, I would know where to find the Grimorium Bellum ….” Her voice was rising, her heart beating too fast.

“There are other ways.”

Lydia couldn’t seem to get enough air. Her pulse raced, irregular and stumbling over itself. “I can’t just give up, I can’t….”

Sybil came off the couch and knelt by her side, holding her hand firmly.

“You mustn’t overexcite yourself, darling.

” She brushed the damp hair from Lydia’s forehead and smoothed her curls with her fingers.

Lydia felt panicky and feverish. She knew Sybil was right, that she was only prolonging her recovery by pushing herself too hard, but she couldn’t bear the thought of simply handing over responsibility for the Grimorium Bellum to someone else.

She couldn’t explain the things she imagined every time she closed her eyes, what she knew would come to pass if she failed.

Millions dead—of disease, madness, starvation, consumed alive by magic and turned to ash.

The book had shown her. She had seen it.

“Drink your tea.” Sybil examined her with motherly care. Lydia looked up and saw Evelyn standing in the doorway, watching.

“Her heart’s been weakened, Grand Mistress. Too much excitement isn’t good for her.”

“Of course.” Sybil stood. “I should be going, then.”

“But you’ve only just arrived!” Lydia protested.

“And I’ve upset you terribly, so now I’m off again. I’ll come by soon. I promise. Here.” She took a brown paper package from inside her purse and handed it to Lydia. The dark, earthy smell of coffee rose to meet Lydia’s nostrils as she crinkled the paper.

“Oh, bless you, Sybil.” She clutched the precious cargo to her chest and inhaled deeply.

Sybil winked. “Can’t have you running out again.”

Evelyn retrieved Sybil’s coat and offered a stiff curtsy. To Lydia’s great surprise, Sybil took Evelyn by both shoulders and embraced her warmly, planting a kiss on each of her cheeks. Evelyn allowed it but did not return the gesture.

“Grand Mistress.”

Evelyn waited until the sound of Sybil’s footsteps in the stairwell faded, then turned her attention back to her daughter.

“Come on, love. Back to bed with you.”

Lydia stood and braced herself against the wall, resisting her mother’s outstretched hand. “Is she at least more tolerable to you than Isadora?”

Evelyn frowned. “I had no quarrel with Isadora.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t lie.”

Evelyn made a face, and Lydia knew she was doing it again—biting her tongue. Minding her mouth.

“I won’t fight with you, Lydia. It’s not good for your heart.” She took Lydia by the arm and escorted her back to her bed. Even the short trip left Lydia gasping, her pulse skittering in her throat.

“Broth for supper, I think.” Evelyn tucked her into bed, wrapping the blankets around her tightly, just like she had when Lydia was a little girl. “Do you think you can stomach it?”

Lydia nodded, too winded to speak.

“Right, then. Can I bring you anything for now, love?”

Lydia shook her head. Evelyn got up to leave, but just as she reached the door, Lydia spoke.

“Mum.”

“Yes, pet?”

Lydia thought that Evelyn looked smaller than she’d remembered. Older.

“I liked that tea you fixed me yesterday. With the chamomile. Do you think I could have that again?”

Evelyn looked genuinely surprised. “Of course, pet. Won’t take but a moment.”

She closed the door, and Lydia felt her pulse slow.

She listened to the sounds of Evelyn opening jars and putting on the kettle, and fixed her eyes on a single point on the ceiling.

She focused all of her attention, this time not on a place, but a person.

She reached out with her mind, searching, imagining green woods, and old books, and joyful, singing voices.

Henry , she thought.

Henry, Henry, Henry.

···

Lydia woke with a start. It was dark in her bedroom, the furniture nothing more than spectral shapes in a deep gray void. A cup of chamomile tea sat on the bedside table, stone cold and untouched.

She couldn’t catch her breath. This had happened every so often since she’d returned.

She would wake in the night gasping, with her heart racing in her chest. She would wait for her pulse to slow, but instead it would only quicken, faster and faster, until she was sure she would die.

Now she sat up in bed with one hand on her chest, waiting and praying for the frantic rhythm to calm.

Her eyes began to adjust to the dark, flicking over the dim shapes: the chest of drawers, the writing desk, her coat tossed across a chair, conspiring to look just enough like a person in the darkness. And there, in the corner, something that didn’t belong. A hazy outline, tall and slim.

She stared at the shape in the shadows, her heart humming like a motor, no hope of slowing it down now. She blinked, willing her eyes to bring the thing into focus, but it remained maddeningly intangible, the edges blurring into the surrounding darkness.

She had played this trick on herself as a girl, inventing monsters and evil men from shadows and imagination.

She knew how this would end. She would stare into the darkness for several minutes, an hour, maybe.

Then the light would change, and she would realize that there had never been anything there at all, and she would go back to sleep feeling childish and stupid.

She knew because she had done it a hundred times.

Still.

“I see you.” She expected to feel foolish as soon as the words left her mouth, but hearing herself speak into the darkness, she didn’t feel foolish at all.

She felt frightened. She strained her eyes, but the figure did not take form.

The humming in her heart crept ever upward, threatening to explode.

“You won’t find it,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

There was a sound, she was sure of it, too faint to name. A low, soft whisper.

Laughter.