The next morning, bad weather threatened and Hannah’s mother declared her intention to sit out in the garden. Or the damnable Amazonian wilds, as her father called it. Hannah trailed a hand over foliage as she followed her father through the trees, her mother in his arms.
Seraphina had a particular affinity for nature and in their time at the house, she had encouraged trees to soar on the bare plot. Now the house looked as though it had been built in the depths of a forest hundreds of years ago. Branches laced overhead to filter out the sunlight. Ferns and flowering ground cover scrambled among trunks and roots. Hannah had loved to explore the undergrowth as a child, and spent many a happy hour pretending she was an explorer lost in a strange world. Now she saw the large trees as offering sanctuary from all that happened in London.
Lady Gabriella was welcome to her lush parlour. In spring, Hannah preferred to be surrounded by delicate, lace-like ferns.
By the stream that ran down one side of the property was a sweep of lawn that brushed the sides of the water. A wooden bower, its back to the trees, was covered in damask roses, magically encouraged to bloom almost continuously and their greenery sheltered a cushioned bench. On the other bank of the stream, a laurel hedge almost looked civilised as it bounded the side they shared with a neighbour.
Her father fussed and arranged the cushions behind her mother. “It is going to rain. Sera, are you sure this is wise?”
“You know I adore the rain. Now, off to your laboratory with you, Hugh. Hannah and I need some womanly time alone.” She pushed him away with a laugh.
“Enough said. I’ll leave you to it.” He kissed his wife’s cheek through the veil and then saluted before disappearing through the trees.
Hannah sat on a blanket at her mother’s feet. Overhead, she watched clouds gather and crash into one another. Judging by the darkening grey above, her mother would not have to wait long for the rain. Hannah tried to find shapes and objects in the clouds, but there were too many devouring each other and she could only conjure Viscount Wycliff’s frown.
The laurel hedge rustled and shook and attracted Hannah’s curiosity. When she turned her head, the row of clipped branches undulated as though a sea monster skimmed beneath the greenery. Branches sprouted up and sideways until they reformed into a unicorn. Opposite, a dragon grew from the greenery and flapped its twiggy wings. The unicorn bowed its head and used its horn to parry the dragon.
Hannah watched the two shrubbery actors, but the swirling storm above called her more. She heaved a sigh as a particularly dark cloud enveloped its neighbours.
Seraphina lowered her hands and the unicorn and dragon sank back into the hedge. “You used to find great amusement in my cavorting topiary.”
Hannah tipped back her head to bestow an upside-down smile on her mother. “I’m sorry, Mother. I find I have too much on my mind.”
Her mother picked a dusky yellow rose and twirled it between her fingers. “Such as a gruesome murder?”
“Yes. The circumstances bother me and are a constant niggle in my mind.” Hannah lived with death and helped her father put it under a microscope in his laboratory, but this particular instance haunted her waking moments.
“Well, it certainly put a dampener on Lizzie’s grand engagement ball. It took some work to ensure it didn’t reach the newspapers.” Seraphina tucked the rose behind a veiled ear.
Hannah watched one dark grey cloud crash into another and swallow it to produce a larger and angrier-looking cloud. “That timing indeed bothers me. Who would do such a thing to Lizzie? But it is more—” How to give voice to the growing unease within her?
“Pick a point at which to begin unravelling your thoughts, dearest.” Her mother’s voice was soothing, like the babble of the river.
It was indeed a slight to Lizzie, to mar her engagement ball in such a fashion, but had that been the primary goal of the murderer or an unintended consequence?
“Why commit such a crime at a ball with two hundred people in attendance? The risk of discovery was high. Revellers were roaming the house, as were the staff.” How was it no one had seen anything? Or perhaps the activity was the perfect mask; with so many people bustling around the house it was impossible to pinpoint who, if any, had done something criminal.
“Perhaps it was a crime of great impulse. A moment glimpsed and seized.” Seraphina stroked a hand through the air and the laurel hedge trimmed itself with a neat line along the top.
“That is Viscount Wycliff’s theory. That one of the Afflicted committed the murder while in the grips of a great hunger. Unfortunately, we did see two such murders when the curse first struck. Yet, we know that an Afflicted in such an extreme state would be agitated and incoherent. What some would call raving mad. This murderer moved undetected among those present and committed their crime in a place where they found one person alone. While it might have been opportunistic, it shows some presence of mind. A starving Afflicted would have leapt upon someone in the ballroom.”
That was what worried at Hannah. The explanation seemed plausible, yet it didn’t fit with the behaviour of those at the ball. Were they missing something and an Afflicted had become capable of such a heinous crime for some other reason than an overriding hunger? Was this little more than an old-fashioned murder performed by an Afflicted…lashing out when something was spilled on her dress or in frustration at the cruel actions of a former husband?
“An interesting observation, Miss Miles.”
Hannah sat up to find the dark cloud had dropped from the sky to ruin her enjoyment of the garden.
“Lord Wycliff,” Seraphina said.
He inclined his head, apparently locating his manners in the presence of a mage. “Forgive me, the maid said you were in the garden and I offered to find my own way.” He placed his hands in the small of his back, an action often done unconsciously by men who had spent a lifetime in the military.
Hannah realised her hair had pulled free of its knot and she gathered up the loose strands, searching to find the pins to secure them. “Shall I fetch Papa to carry you in, Mother?”
Her mother waved a gloved hand. “No, thank you, dear. You know how much I enjoy it when nature puts on a tempestuous display. I shall stay here awhile longer.”
A few minutes earlier…
Wycliff glared at the maid and said he would find Miss Miles himself. How difficult would it be to walk through to the garden? As it turned out, it was no garden, but an untamed forest. Trees crowded the space and obscured the open paddocks beyond. The forest could have hidden a multitude of the enemy waiting to ambush the unwary. He trod with light feet on the winding path and wished he had a sword in his hand.
A rustling made him stop, his senses alert to danger. A peacock appeared from under a bush and crossed his path, dragging its train. One feather snagged on the undergrowth and the unblinking luminous eye stared at him. He shouldn’t be surprised to see the bird here. Peacocks were much favoured by mages in the casting of their spells. Sir Manly had commissioned a crest for the Ministry of Unnaturals that would feature the all-seeing eye.
He continued on and the path opened out by the river with a narrow ribbon of lawn. The younger woman, the one with a pulse, lay on the grass staring at the clouds. Her mother sat in a bower and resembled a marble bust draped in linen that had been left on a bench, instead of placed atop a plinth.
He paused before he burst out of the undergrowth, as Miss Miles’s voice drifted through the ferns and shrubs.
“—a starving Afflicted would have leapt upon someone in the ballroom.”
As an investigator for the Ministry of Unnaturals, he was privy to confidential information about the undead women, such as their indelicate and inhumane appetite for human brains. His files contained notes about how such creatures acted when hungry, but he had not considered it relevant to his investigation. He had thought the nature of their craving sufficient. Now Miss Miles’s comment made him consider events in a new light.
“An interesting observation, Miss Miles,” he said as he stepped into the thick grass.
“Lord Wycliff,” Lady Miles said.
He inclined his head to what had once been the most revered mage in England. Being in the presence of what was left of the woman made his hackles rise. It was unnerving to be unable to see her face. The hairs on his body lifted in response to being near her, just as when he stepped outside in the depths of winter without a thick overcoat.
Miss Miles sat up, her long, dark hair pulling free of a careless knot at the crown of her head. Strands brushed her skin and his hand itched to discover if they were as smooth as the silk they resembled. A foolish notion. He was simply overtired from conducting his enquiries all night and for most of the morning.
“Shall I fetch Papa to carry you in, Mother?”
Lady Miles waved a gloved hand. “No, thank you, dear. You know how much I enjoy it when nature puts on a tempestuous display. I shall stay here awhile longer.”
Miss Miles glanced at him, then away, as she gathered up her hair and pushed pins through loose locks. “Are you so sure it was one of the Afflicted and not some person with a personal motive against the unfortunate footman?”
He bit back his initial retort. Or course he had investigated the personal life of the unremarkable footman, one Roger Dunn—that was what had occupied him for the last several hours. As it transpired, the dead man’s life made a particularly boring book to read. “Personal grudges usually result in a quick knife to the back in a darkened alley. Scooping out Dunn’s brains seems rather unnecessary if he had gambling debts or had dallied with another man’s wife.”
“A starving Afflicted wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to lie in wait in a secluded area of the house.” For a moment, those coffee-coloured eyes rested on him and a flare of rebellion made them come alive.
He stared at her, trying to uncover some fault to dampen his growing fascination, until she looked away and broke his fixed gaze. “I wish to conduct more interviews this afternoon. We are nearly through the list and once we are, we can be done with one another. I particularly want to find Miss Emma Knightley.”
Miss Miles rose and brushed out her skirts. “Of course. I shall fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
Wycliff took a step to the side to allow her to pass and her form was soon swallowed by the forest. That left him alone with the undead mage. Social conversation was never his strong suit, so he watched the ripples of water passing over the rocks instead.
“I think Hannah needs a dog for company. What do you think, Lord Wycliff? I hear dogs offer unswerving loyalty.”
“If you deserve such devotion, then yes, canines are loyal until death.” He didn’t like the topic of conversation and instead kept his attention on the stream. Were there any fish? Then a rock wriggled and jumped, as though it were a fish trying to make its way upstream.
Mage trickery. He snorted.
“There are those who believe I lost my powers when my pulse stopped.”
He had never spared much thought for the ways of mages, apart from wishing they acted faster in the heat of battle. Nor were they ever around when you truly needed them, when your men were being slaughtered in the dark by otherworldly assailants. “England has always had twelve mages. When one dies, their power is transferred to another. On your death, a boy was born, in Norfolk I believe, with your mage powers.”
The rock kept leaping upstream, playing leapfrog with the other rocks until it came to settle in a wide, flat area.
“England now has thirteen mages,” she said pleasantly. “An unprecedented situation.”
He stared at the rock, waiting to see what it would do next. Why were they having this conversation? Events had drawn him into working for the Ministry of Unnaturals. That didn’t mean he wanted to be intimately acquainted with such creatures. “England only has twelve who possess a pulse.”
Birdsong came from above. A single high note trilled and then fell silent.
“Quite. I found on my death that my power had made a similar transition.”
That made him turn and his own pulse raced faster. Did a dead mage wield powers given by death? Was it possible she knew something of Hell and how to escape its clutches? “Do you cast your magic from an evil place?”
The head on the statue tilted briefly to one side and the veil swung with the movement. “A dark place, most certainly, but that does not mean it is evil. As you said, there is a transference of magic upon the death of a mage to a newborn babe. Yet I possess power of a different sort that cannot be wielded by those who live.”
Lady Gabriella’s words from the previous day came back to him. The woman had commented on how the Miles family had fallen with the mage’s death. That woman saw only the removal of society’s privileges. What she did not see was how it also removed its strictures. The mage was no longer bound to work for the benefit of England. He found society’s expectations could wrap a man in gilded chains. What would it be like to shake them off and stand free?
“Do you no longer serve England?” he asked.
“I serve a greater purpose in finding the French mage who created this curse. My Afflicted sisters only want their lives back, and yet you consider one of us capable of this terrible crime.” The voice seemed to ride the undulations of the water and drift past him.
“I do not know what your sort are capable of. I only know what you require to sustain your Unnatural state.” The Afflicted feasted on human brains. Once having overcome that taboo, who knew what other disgusting acts they were capable of committing?
“Hannah is a most able assistant to her father. I’m sure that if you asked, she would tell you what we have learned so far. Not all of it is detailed in reports sent to the Ministry of Unnaturals.” Now she used a bird, flitting from tree to tree, to project her words.
Wycliff was forced to raise his head to find where it perched high above. It was difficult to reconcile the veiled creature speaking through a sparrow with the fierce mage who had once split the ground under a charging French regiment and sent more than a hundred men plunging straight to Hell. He could still hear the shrill cries of their horses, taken down with the riders.
He turned to regard her still form. What could such a creature do? “How can we ascertain what an Afflicted would do in a situation, when you hide behind veils and masks?”
The statue didn’t move, even when she spoke. “The veil only obscures my physical appearance. It does not hide who I am. Shouldn’t a person be judged on their actions, rather than on their name or outward appearance?”
He dug his short nails into his palms behind his back. He knew what they were. Dead. Abominations that should have been forcibly interred in graves and mausoleums. Some had the faint sweet scent of decay about them, or used cloves to mask the rot, but no such aromas wafted from Lady Miles. There was no quiet thud of a heart or inhalation of breath. She was invisible to his senses even though he saw her before him.
Until she turned her attention to him and the prickle raced over his skin.
She picked at the bleached linen of her skirt. It tumbled to the ground, even though her legs stopped above the knee. “I am fascinated that a man such as yourself should fall victim to the trap of perception. I expected more of you.”
He stiffened. Talking to the dead mage was like making your way across a ravine via tightrope. One misstep and he would plunge to his death. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She huffed a gentle laugh that caused the gauzy veil to shiver. “You know exactly what I mean. We all have secrets, but the day approaches when you will have to confront yours.”
He froze. She couldn’t possibly know. No one did. He barely understood it himself, and he would not crawl on his belly to seek the help of those who could make sense of it. To do that, he would have to admit his greatest shame.
Lady Miles clasped white-gloved hands on her lap. From veil to dress and gloves, she was clothed in white. The rose behind her ear was the only touch of colour about her. She could have been a ghost, sent to torment him. “Your secret is yours to hide or reveal. But you are adrift on an unfamiliar ocean. You need to find an anchor before you are lost without hope of salvage.”
“You mock me, Lady Miles.” He let out a long, slow breath through his nose. Was she a mind reader? He fully intended to bury his secrets in the deepest, darkest pit he could find and ensure they never saw the light of day. He refused to use them even to speed his investigation, for to do that, he would have to unmask himself to all of society.
The bird fluttered down from the trees and rested on her outstretched hand. “On the contrary. I am trying to help another tortured soul through the long night we both must endure.”
“I do not require any help, and I prefer that my secrets lie undisturbed.”
“And does that help you sleep at night?” Both bird and mage seemed to peer through him.
“I shall await Miss Miles in the carriage. Good day, Lady Miles.” He nodded and left, brushing foliage out of the way as he traversed the jungle back to the house.