Hannah sat in the window seat of the library. She had removed her shoes and sat cross-legged with a large ledger open before her. The book was ensorcelled so that entries made in its twin kept by Unwin and Alder would appear on the pages of the volume held by Hannah.
Sir Manly Powers had granted them permission to study the effects, if any, of the type of sustenance the Afflicted consumed. When she visited the premises of Unwin and Alder, she had been met with a most enthusiastic response. The owners were delighted to fully cooperate in the study.
New procedures were set in motion at the resurrectionists’ and her mother had worked an enchantment on the ledgers. Employees at Unwin and Alder recorded the details of each donor—name, date of birth, gender, and date of donation. Each entry was then assigned a number, which would be used to identify and track whose brains were delivered to whom.
Seated at the library desk, Seraphina studied the enormous tome that contained the mage genealogies. Each double-page spread recorded a mage’s seven generations, the names appearing with each birth until the magic trace was exhausted. The mage was counted as generation one. The second generation were devoid of magic, like Hannah. While she could feel magic, she had no ability of her own. The third generation were the most powerful aftermages. Generations four through seven possessed an ever more diluted form of magical ability. Some seventh-generation aftermages could only tell if it was going to rain or someone was about to knock on the door.
Hannah called out each name from her ledger and her mother scoured the genealogies to see if the person appeared. If so, Hannah wrote down A, for aftermage, and then a number to correspond to their generation.
For the two hours they had laboured, they had very few As to show for their work and the column was filling up with Os, for ordinary.
“We may struggle to conduct a viable study, there are so few aftermages among the donors.” Hannah called the next name, a Stephen Connors who had died aged twenty-four. As she read each name, she wondered at the life they had led. Who had they loved and what made them laugh?
Seraphina ran a gloved hand over a row of names, searching for Stephen Connors. “For all our magical abilities, mages are particularly inept at reproducing. Did you know that during medieval times, it was decreed that all mages had a duty to produce as many children as possible? Those kings wanted to swell their armies with powerful third-generation aftermage troops to defeat their enemies, so they ensured that each mage had a harem of women to impregnate.” Pages were flicked over and scanned before she announced, “There’s no Stephen Connors here.”
Hannah marked an O in the column for Type next to the man’s name. “That was rather foolish of those kings. Just as many girls are born as boys. You cannot decide the gender of your child.”
Seraphina turned over a few pages. “Ah. A woman with power—there is something to give men nightmares. The Middle Ages were our dark times, and a sad chapter in the history of womankind. Female aftermages were considered ungodly, and many a child was smothered at birth. A girl was no safer once she grew to womanhood, as many of our sisters were burned at the stake as witches.”
Hannah placed the pen down on a tray and pulled her knees to her chest. “Why did they fear us so?”
“Because they cannot control us. Only weak men fear strong women. Even female mages were not exempt from the orders of kings.” Her mother flicked pages back to near the beginning of the genealogy. Many pages were practically blank, with only a single name inscribed at the top.
“No,” Hannah gasped. There were only ever a dozen mages at any one time in all of England, Scotland, and Wales. Each one was valued for their skills, regardless of their gender. “But you are the first female mage in over five hundred years.”
More pages were turned until Seraphina stopped at one in particular. “No, I am not. Sadly I am merely the first in five hundred years to live to maturity. Those archaic men of God thought a girl must have stolen a mage’s power, and that if they smothered her, the power would be reborn in the rightful male body. Only one female mage escaped those dark days, aided by a mage who gave his life to protect her and the Unnatural creature men sent to kill her.”
A wistful smile touched Hannah’s lips. She loved that story with its fairy-tale elements. From death and tragedy had arisen a love so strong that the mage had been able to defy man and nature, and gave her lover the only known magically gifted second-generation children—three girls known as the Crows.
“I am glad we live in more enlightened times.” A vision of Viscount Wycliff’s angry face appeared in the thick glass beside Hannah. To give him his due, while he might not be enlightened, as least he disapproved of men and women equally.
“Even when monarchies and governments stay out of our private business, we still bear very few children. As though magic knows how to restrain itself. She cannot be compelled to create too many of us.”
Hannah crept over to her mother and peered over her shoulder. The page she lingered over had the name Seraphina Elizabeth Winyard inscribed at the top. A line connected her name to that of Sir Hugh Joseph Miles and the year 1790—the year they married. A short downward stroke ended in the name Hannah Elspeth Miles and the year 1794.
Her mother rested a finger under her name and the two dates in brackets: 1770–1813.
The year she died.
Her mother’s page in the genealogy was destined to remain empty space.
A soft knock came at the library door and then it was pushed open by Mary. She held out a hand toward Hannah. “Letter for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” Hannah took the slim envelope. When Lizzie wrote to her, the envelopes were normally much fatter as she detailed all the London gossip that had happened that week. She unfolded the single sheet to find a solitary line:
Your assistance is no longer required.
Viscount Wycliff
“I have been dismissed. Horrid man—he is convinced Miss Emma Knightley is the murderer.” She tossed the letter to the desk.
Her mother took the discarded letter and read the scant missive. “Viscount Wycliff might be unpleasant, but I did not think him unreasonable. He must surely have a reason for suspecting the young woman?”
Hannah bit back her retort. He did have a reason, but that didn’t mean she had to agree with him. He was wrong and she would prove him so, if only she could figure out who had committed the crimes.
Seraphina reached out and took Hannah’s hand. “You are always seeing the best in people, Hannah, and the viscount sees the worst. What a shame you could not meet somewhere in the middle and share your views.”
Hannah frowned at her mother. She didn’t want anything to do with the man. By dismissing her, he had removed himself from the chessboard of whatever game her mother had foreseen. “I do not want to meet him at all. I am glad our association is ended. The interviews were terrible to suffer through.”
“But you were there to ensure propriety was maintained. Was he really so rude to the unfortunate ladies?” Seraphina folded up the letter and placed it on the edge of the desk.
He was rude, but the fault had not been his alone. Hannah had betrayed Miss Knightley’s confidence. And then there was Lady Gabriella Ridlington, who treated Hannah as though she were a member of staff.
She brushed a hand over the cotton apron that protected her day dress, plucking at the durable fabric. “He was not the worst of it. Lady Gabriella made cruel remarks about my wardrobe.”
Pages in the large book turned as her mother returned to the more current generations. “Let her obsess over fripperies. We both know there are more important things in life than a frock.”
Hannah left her mother’s side to stare out the window. From up here, she could see the stream flowing down the side of their property. Willows dipped their graceful limbs and trailed tips that created small eddies. Beyond, like flecks of cream, sheep grazed in the meadows.
A sigh ran through her body as hot tears pricked at her eyes. Why did she always have to concentrate on the important things in life? Was she never to be allowed a few moments to skim the shallower waters?
“It’s not like you to get upset over a dress, Hannah. Will you tell me what truly pained you about her words?” The wheels of the bath chair squeaked as her mother turned the contraption to face her daughter.
She fisted her hands in the apron. “Is it so wrong to want a beautiful dress? There are many women like me, plain creatures who will never bask in the light of adoration. But we still yearn to know, if only fleetingly, what it feels like to think ourselves beautiful. When you spend your entire life on the edge of the shadows, all you can think of is one glorious moment to feel the warm caress of the sun.”
She closed her eyes and willed away the tears. Silly to want something so far out of reach. But wasn’t that the way of life? People always coveted what they lacked.
“Hannah.” Her mother spoke her name with such a mingling of love and pain. “Do you know how it grieves a mother to not be able to soothe every pain her child suffers?”
“I am sorry, Mother. I did not mean to trouble you.” Hannah tried to smile as she threw herself down where her mother’s feet should have rested.
“Beauty is not found in a pretty dress, but in the reflection in the eyes of those who love you.” Seraphina lifted her veil, like the bride at the end of the marriage ceremony who anticipates the groom’s kiss. She flicked the muslin over her head and her gloved hands raised Hannah’s face. “What do you see when you look upon me?”
Hannah clasped her hands tight as she knelt before her mother, but she didn’t flinch or look away. “I see the powerful mage who gave me life, the mother who loves me unconditionally, and the woman who would do anything for her family.”
A smile pulled on thin grey lips. “You don’t see the rotting cadaver, then? Perhaps you need spectacles, my dear. My flesh is separating from the bone around my eye sockets and there is blue putrefaction spreading across my cheeks.”
Hannah placed one hand on the arm of the bath chair. “You are my mother and I love you.”
“Exactly my point, dearest. While others would look at me and recoil in horror, you do not. Your father looks at me and sees the woman in the bloom of youth, with dewy skin and sparkling eyes, who stormed the court and demanded her full due as a mage. Ask me how I know that.” The smile broadened on her mother’s face. Hannah almost forgot that no blood pulsed through her body, as mischief gave her mother another sort of life.
“How do you know that is what he sees?” Hannah whispered.
“Because that is the reflection I see in his gaze. True beauty is in how others see you, not in a garment you wear.” Having said her piece, Seraphina pulled the veil over her dead face. “We simply need to find a man intelligent enough to see that you are beautiful on both the inside and the outside.”
“I’d rather talk about puppies. Having given it some thought, if possible I would like a spaniel with long, silky ears and a chocolate and white coat.” A dog would love unconditionally. It didn’t matter if she were short or tall, voluptuous or thin. A dog’s reflection would show her what her mother spoke of.
Seraphina tapped the end of her daughter’s nose. “You can thumb your nose at love, but it might just creep up on you one day.”
“Set a puppy behind me and it will. Now, enough talk of irrelevant things—we have work to do.”
The day progressed as Hannah worked through the names in the book. Less than one name in ten proved to be that of an aftermage. They had enough to commence their study, but it would be a very small group with no more than five. They would need to hold some aftermages’ brains in reserve if Unwin and Alder obtained fewer than ten a month.
As Hannah separated the names into groups, another part of her mind gnawed over numbers. Her father had taught her to ask the questions that nibbled in the shadows of thoughts. That often her subconscious mind had seen something that had not yet occurred to her conscious self.
Two hundred people had attended Lizzie’s ball. The ton comprised the upper ten thousand peers. Three hundred pots of face powder had been sold to nobles. Two hundred women relied on Unwin and Alder to fulfil their needs.
Her concern finally took shape and allowed her to voice it aloud. “The numbers don’t add up. Where are the missing Afflicted?”
“What do you mean, dearest?” Her mother closed the enormous genealogy tome.
Hannah had learned much on her visit to the resurrectionists. “Unwin and Alder have two hundred Afflicted as clients. We know that there were three hundred containers of face powder sold to members of the ton, of which Father has five locked up in his laboratory. That leaves us with ninety-five unaccounted for.”
Her mother drummed her fingers above the book as though she counted in the air. “There will be a number of Afflicted who do not rely upon the services of Unwin and Alder. Some people may have shared a pot. I believe there are sisters who were both infected from the same container of powder. Then there will be some containers that were never used and so no one was ever struck down. Like the container that languished on a courtesan’s dressing table.”
Even assuming some pots remained unopened and others were responsible for multiple infections, the available facts still didn’t add up. “I cannot imagine that so many would go unused when it was an expensive and sought-after luxury. Nor was a double infection commonplace.”
Her mother’s hands stilled. “Your father and I believe there are others who were buried before the extent of the contamination was known. Then, for whatever reason, they were not dug up.”
Hannah shivered as she imagined the women waking, only to find themselves imprisoned in coffins. Dead, yet still conscious and abandoned to a terrible fate by their families. How long did they fight to escape before the rot or hunger overcame them?
An idea too horrifying to contemplate wormed its way to the front of Hannah’s thoughts. What if they were dealing with an unidentified Afflicted who was feeding on Londoners? A madwoman, or madman, who could strike at any time at any one? A murderer who could not be stopped by normal means? Hannah did know where a few of the unaccounted-for Afflicted resided: in an undisclosed location her father travelled to once a week, to check on those who were interred. Knowing their numbers might allay her growing fear. “How many are held for the safety of England?”
Seraphina held up one hand and wriggled each covered digit. “Two committed murder and another three were identified as being unsafe, and removed. That gave us three men and two women who could not control their hunger and who had to be interred. Then there were another five women who could not reconcile what they had become with their religious beliefs. They have refused to allow any brain matter to pass their lips and your father closely monitors their condition.”
“Only three men infected, and they were all unable to control themselves. What does that say about us?” Ten in total and still short of the ninety-odd who were ghosts in her thoughts. Her father had always denied her requests to study them, but she would ask again, as they had much to learn. She was no delicate gentlewoman, and the more they learned the more they would have to analyse.
“We women have always been better at ignoring our needs and moderating our appetites,” Seraphina mused. “It is no easy thing to do what we must, to keep ourselves ambulatory. Each individual must decide for themselves if they can consume the brain of another. For myself, I find comfort in knowing a donor lived their allotted years on this earth and have no further use for their mind. Unwin and Alder see to it that their families receive payment for what we need and for some, that coin might save the entire family from starving and meeting a too early end.”
Hannah steeled her spine. “Then we have two extremes. Those who refuse the slivers of matter and those who cannot devour enough. Yet both types have met the same end. Father has long denied my request to study them, but I will not be protected any longer.” For too long Hannah had lived a quiet life, doing as instructed. No longer would she be blown by the winds of fate; she would navigate her own course. She tried to pierce the veil covering her mother’s face to gauge whether she would agree with her request or not.
“It would seem some of Viscount Wycliff’s rebelliousness has rubbed off on you. But I agree with you, Hannah. We have protected you and tried to shield you from the worst of life, for that is what a parent does. But you are a child no longer and deserve to be a full partner in this endeavour.” Seraphina reached out and stroked the side of Hannah’s face.
“A child no more,” Hannah murmured. What would Viscount Wycliff think of that? “But may I still have a puppy?”