Page 8

Lydia wanted a hot bath and a long, hard cry. She couldn’t understand why she had been brought back to the ceremonial chamber. Her own room was no longer an option, of course, but there were other places she could go. Even her mother’s flat would do, under the circumstances.

One fat, silent tear fell from Lydia’s face onto her shaking hands as all around her, council members spoke among themselves about what to do next—protection circles, funeral rites, the proper way to cleanse the ceremonial chamber after the violence of the past few hours.

“We need to find the book,” Lydia said. The chatter in the room carried on uninterrupted.

“What?” Sybil paused in her conversation with Mistress Josephine. “What did you say, darling?”

“The Grimorium Bellum . We must find it before the Nazis do.”

“One thing at a time, my dear,” said Mistress Josephine. “I’m sure the Nazis are nowhere close to finding the Grimorium Bellum. ”

Lydia felt her agitation rising. “Of course they are. She took the piece of the book from the altar. At the next full moon, they can use it to track—”

“Are you sure it wasn’t lost in the commotion?”

“I’m certain. I saw her—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mistress Jacqueline chimed in. “Even if the Nazis did find the Grimorium Bellum, it would require a full coven of witches to wield it. The Nazis have no such coven.”

“How can you possibly say that?” Lydia’s voice broke, and she despised herself for it. Around her, conversation began to fall silent. “If they have one witch, why is it so impossible to believe they have twelve? Why would they go to the trouble otherwise?”

“It’s been a difficult night. Let’s discuss this in the morning,” Sybil said reasonably.

“Agreed,” said Mistress Jacqueline.

“There is one other piece of pressing business before we retire.” Mistress Alba stood, polishing her spectacles. The room fell silent. “That is, the selection of the new grand mistress.”

Lydia looked up sharply. “What? Tonight?”

“Of course. The academy cannot be without a grand mistress. A successor must be chosen.”

Lydia could not hide her contempt. Isadora had bled to death hardly an hour before, and now here they were, discussing her replacement. She stood. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Sybil caught her by the arm. “Oh no, Lydia, you must stay as well. After all, as Isadora’s apprentice, you are the obvious choice to succeed her.” Sybil turned and addressed the room. “I nominate Lydia Polk for grand mistress of the Royal Academy of Witches.”

Lydia stared at Sybil in disbelief. She can’t possibly be serious , she thought.

Mistress Phillipa stood. “Seconded.”

“With all due respect,” Mistress Jacqueline said, “I believe the academy requires a seasoned leader to steer her through these trying times. Miss Polk is young and untested.”

Sybil smiled mildly. “Isadora was nearly the same age when she became grand mistress.”

“And look where that got us,” grumbled a voice in the back of the room.

“What was that?” The words struck Lydia like a hammer, shaking her from her stupor. “Speak. Answer for yourself.”

Mistress Vivian stood and met Lydia’s gaze.

Vivian was the eldest witch on the council, an imposing, broad-shouldered woman, even in her old age.

Lydia had always known her to be dour and humorless, and no friend of Isadora’s.

Still, she had never dreamed that Vivian could be so tactless, so unfeeling as to speak ill of Isadora while her blood still cooled on the chamber floor.

“I said what I meant. It was Isadora who insisted that the academy join the war effort. Isadora who broke a tradition of centuries of secrecy by revealing us to that pompous windbag, Churchill. Isadora wanted to join the war, and war was what she got. And for what? Britain is no closer to victory, the academy has been infiltrated, and Isadora is dead. I’m only glad it was her and not one of us. ”

Lydia’s rage overwhelmed all sense or restraint. “Evil, poisonous, vicious-minded hag ,” she seethed. “Your grand mistress lies dead, and you dare to speak ill of her? I should bind your tongue before you speak her name again.”

Now it was Helena who spoke. “Lydia, darling, all Vivian meant was that—”

“Not a word from you, you useless cow.” Helena’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp. “Isadora lay bleeding to death in front of you, and you did nothing. I begged you to help her, and you let her die.”

The council was stunned to silence. Lydia stood before them, fury making her pulse race, blood rushing in her ears. She had never spoken so to anyone, let alone a witch of the high council. Any one of them could have silenced her forever with a word, but Lydia was beyond caring.

“Have any of you even stopped to wonder how this witch got inside ? How she could have possibly bypassed the warding?” The council only looked at her, dumbstruck and silent.

“The academy is vulnerable !” Lydia stared, disbelieving, at their blank faces.

“Great Mother! The most feared witches in all of Britain. An enemy witch desecrates your home and murders your mistress before your very eyes, and none of you lifts a finger. Weeping, cowardly hens, the lot of you. You don’t deserve your gifts. I am ashamed to be among you.”

Lydia waited to be turned to stone. Moments passed, and the silence seemed to extend forever, heavy and bottomless.

Slowly, she realized that she would not be struck down.

Not tonight, at least. Perhaps they’ve forgotten how , she thought bitterly.

She turned her back on the council, unwilling to look at their astonished faces for one second longer, and slowly walked toward the chamber door, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

Sybil stepped forward. “Lydia—”

Lydia did not look back as the door swung closed behind her.

···

She burst onto the street, gulping night air as if she had been held underwater. London stretched out before her, streetlights extinguished, draped in darkness.

Soldiers stood on street corners, smoking and talking to one another.

Americans , she thought dully. They watched her as she passed, and Lydia realized that she was still covered in blood.

She considered a glamour but couldn’t muster the energy.

One American approached her, calling her sweetheart , but recoiled when she looked into his eyes. After that, no one came near.

Slowly, she returned to herself. She was cold and disoriented, and her feet were beginning to blister. The air was damp, making the hairs rise on her flesh.

She looked up. Row after row of darkened windows looked down on her like glassy eyes, black curtains drawn tight.

Across the way stood a park, its trees stripped half-bare.

She was in Grosvenor Square, where Isadora had her secret flat.

Lydia had been a regular visitor, had even been given her own key.

She rummaged blindly through her handbag until her fingers closed around the familiar shape.

The silence inside the flat was thick as fog, as if the place already knew it was home to a dead woman.

Lydia left her shoes by the front door and made her way on tender feet through the darkened foyer.

Isadora had loved this flat, had carefully curated every detail.

The walls were papered in deep, rich florals in shades of purple and gold, and paintings hung on every wall—portraits, landscapes, vibrant modern works, pieces Isadora had lovingly selected and brought back with her from Berlin and Paris before the war.

The drapes were gold and violet brocade, and were pulled back to reveal the full moon, impossibly huge and shining like a coin in the night sky.

Lydia made her way to the bathroom in the dark, leaving the sconces unlit as she crouched on the marble tile and filled the copper standing tub all the way to the top, as hot as it would go.

She left her bloody dress on the floor and sat in the water, letting it scald her.

She sat until the water turned cold and a sliver of pewter-colored sunlight crept over the horizon.

Then she wrapped herself in a towel and crawled into the guest room bed.

She stayed there for hours, dreaming fitfully, until she was startled awake, hungry, wet haired, and heart racing, to a harsh afternoon light coming through the window, and the sound of someone at the front door.