Were it not for the nightmares, the following week would have been the happiest of Tiffany’s life.
She woke in Santiago’s arms, breakfasted with him and went about the business of running a house that was half medieval castle. Then she would dress for dinner, taking extra care over her appearance, just to see his look of appreciation when she joined him. And all throughout dinner, as they told each other about their days, she anticipated the night ahead.
He did not disappoint her.
Tiffany wondered if this overwhelming physical joy was something all married ladies experienced, and then wondered why they would lie about it to unmarried girls. She wanted to shout about it from the rooftops.
Every night she fell asleep in his arms, satiated and happy, and every night she dreamed of the tower.
Of the chain chafing her ankle raw. Of the howling gale that screamed through the narrow window. Of the manger in the corner that held some unknown terror. Every night she fought and screamed, and woke up sobbing in Santiago’s arms. He always soothed her back to sleep, but she knew it distressed him, and she thought the bruises forming on his body might be her work, too.
She took the powders Madhu had given her, terrified of the manger in her dream. She tried to stay awake, but Santiago’s lovemaking was thorough and left her exhausted. She spent more time on her appearance, minimising the dark shadows under her eyes. But it wasn’t enough.
‘Mi amor,’ said Santiago one evening, as they neared the top of the stairs. ‘If you would like to sleep in your own bed, I will not mind. I know I am keeping you up at night.’
His kindness overwhelmed her. ‘You know full well it is me keeping you up,’ she said.
He cupped her cheek. ‘The nightmares keep returning. Is it my presence?’
‘No!’ She felt so very safe and cherished in his arms. How could he be giving her nightmares? ‘I don’t know what it is. Perhaps I will see if there is a book of dreams in the library.’
There was not, the old duke having been an excessively rational man who did not believe in such folderol. It did not matter. This sort of dream was probably something all witches went through. If Aunt Esme were here…
Tiffany told herself that when she had a half hour to spare, she would write her a letter, but even that took some time. She had afternoon calls to make to anybody noteworthy in the area—to leave it too late would look like a snub—and various charities kept asking her to be their patron. Added to which, Billy was at a loss in the vastness of the countryside and had decided he would better serve his beloved guv’nor if he could learn to read and write, so she was arranging time at a local school for him.
She finally found time, on a rainy afternoon after the sleepless nights had begun extracting their toll in the form of a headache, to sit down in the small sitting room where she liked to deal with her correspondence, and began to write.
About three minutes later, the door opened, and Gwen stood there, looking somewhat startled.
Not half as startled as Tiffany herself, whose pen scratched a thick black line of ink across the paper. ‘Gwen! What are you— I was just writing to Esme…’
‘Are you? Bugger,’ said Gwen, shutting the door and moving across to take the nearest seat. ‘Esme ain’t home, maid. I read your letter.’
Tiffany glanced at the paper, which bore Esme’s name and nothing else. ‘But I haven’t written it yet.’
‘I know,’ said Gwen, as if this was a minor detail. ‘I read it next week. That doesn’t matter. Tiffany, your dreams ain’t about you.’
‘But— Yes, they are, I can see myself in them.’
‘No. No witch ever has prophecies about herself. Not even me. You been dreaming about someone else.’
Tiffany stared wildly at her. ‘But … she looks like me. Do I have a sister?’
‘I don’t think so, maid. But you got a mother.’
At that point the door opened again and Santiago came in, attractively dishevelled from riding. He immediately said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.’
Tiffany gazed up at him, thunderstruck. ‘Gwen says I’m dreaming about my mother.’
‘Maybe,’ Gwen said, making a rocking motion with her hand. ‘But so is Esme, I reckon. Very quiet about it. But off she goes to France—’
‘France? But … we are at war with France.’ Tiffany glanced at Santiago. They got the London papers a day or two late here, but at least she was allowed to read them now. ‘We have just signed a treaty in Vienna, promising to force Bonaparte from his throne. They say a battle is imminent.’
‘Or maybe Flanders. Begins with an F. Esme is the one with the knowing of places. But you are right about a battle, maid. ’Twill be the biggest seen for a hundred years. There will be songs about it.’
Tiffany didn’t really like to think of what such a battle might entail, and made a mental note to pray for Henry Proudbody.
‘But why is Mistress Blackmantle in Flanders?’ said Santiago. ‘Or France.’
‘She seeks Amelia,’ said Gwen.
Tiffany actually felt her face change at the mention of her mother’s name. ‘Aunt Esme said she knew her,’ she said. ‘But she would say nothing else.’
‘No. There is little to be said,’ said Gwen. ‘But she has been agitated lately. Off to Kent and now overseas. And now she is in trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ Tiffany couldn’t imagine her aunt in any sort of trouble. She seemed far too capable for that.
‘Yes. ’Tis the beasty.’ She looked at Santiago.
‘The one that attacked me? And the Thames?’
‘Aye. With the squirmers. You ain’t the only one has dreams, my fine lady. I come to fetch you to help her.’
‘Me?’ said Tiffany. ‘But—what can I do? I draw things. I make dresses look a bit nicer. How can I help?’
‘You helped with Father Thames,’ said Santiago.
‘But we had Esme and Nora too,’ Tiffany said, and trailed off as she realised they would probably be collecting Nora and Madhu too, now. ‘I don’t know what to—’ She looked around helplessly. She had invitations to write and respond to. Mrs Langham’s records to look over. Billy’s schooling to arrange. ‘I have things to do. I am a duchess now,’ she wailed.
Gwen gave her a very old-fashioned look. ‘You are a witch first,’ she said. She stood. ‘Come, maid. ’Twill take me time to work the door again, so get changed. Something practical.’
Tiffany had thought her day gown was practical, but she allowed Santiago to tow her from the room and up the stairs. ‘I will help you,’ he said. ‘We cannot explain this to the staff.’
‘Oh! No.’ There was a maid and two footmen in hearing distance already. Tiffany thought fast, and then she swung herself into Santiago’s embrace and giggled. ‘Your Grace! In the middle of the day? How very wicked!’
His eyes darkened, and he muttered something in Spanish. ‘Do not tempt me,’ he said.
‘It will explain why we are gone for a few hours,’ said Tiffany, as she led him up the stairs.
‘A few hours? My lady wife is ambitious,’ said Santiago.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ she replied.
He helped her change into the most practical gown she had, a dress she wore to walk in the gardens and inspect the roses, and put her sturdiest boots on. She did not have the time to change her stays for something that allowed easier movement, so the reinforced busk would have to remain. He fetched her his riding cloak while she filled her satchel with drawing materials, candles, and jewellery.
‘The necklace you wore for our wedding?’ he said, watching her slip the opals in.
‘Esme gave it to me. It might help us find her.’ She hesitated. ‘You still have the pendant I gave you?’
‘I will never lose it. It helped me find you,’ Santiago said simply.
She slipped her arm around his neck and kissed him then. He was a good, kind and clever man, and if she had to be married to anyone, she was glad it was him.
‘I will go then,’ she said, and he frowned.
‘We will go,’ he corrected.
‘No, I will go. I am the witch.’
‘Tiffany, last time you went somewhere alone to do witching things you ended up unconscious and nearly drowning. And I won’t—’ He broke off, and turned his head. ‘I can’t lose you,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t.’
Her heart turned over. This man, who she’d only come to know because she thought he’d blackmailed her, and who she’d only married because Society had forced them to, this man—she couldn’t lose him, either.
She touched his face, luxuriating in the feel of his skin against hers. ‘All right,’ she said, stepping back and picking up her satchel. ‘You can come. But no heroics, you understand? This is witch business. You’re coming purely as a … a…’
‘Consider me your personal guard,’ he said, and bowed with a flourish that made her smile.
They made it back downstairs with the help of Tiffany’s invisibility spell, and found Gwen where they’d left her, staring at the door.
‘Back to the house ain’t the problem,’ she said, staring at the iron key in her hand. ‘It remembers home. It wants to go home. Getting to Esme, now…’
‘One step at a time,’ said Tiffany, and Gwen stepped forward and muttered something to the closed door. She inserted the key, turned it, and Tiffany held her breath.
The door opened into the upstairs hall of Esme’s London townhouse, with the Queen Anne table and the painting that was probably a Reynolds. Gwen let out a small sigh of relief, and sniffed the air.
‘Mutton curry,’ she said. ‘But Madhu does make that a lot.’
Before Tiffany could ask what that meant, Nora and Madhu’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.
‘Oh, there you are, Your Graces,’ said Nora, sweeping into a curtsey.
‘Barely half an hour has passed,’ said Madhu. ‘Are we ready?’
Both of them were dressed in sturdy outdoor clothing. Nora, Tiffany was shocked to see, wore breeches.
‘Are we all going?’
‘To rescue Esme? Of course.’ Madhu flipped her hood up. ‘We apologise for interrupting your honeymoon, Your Grace—’
‘No, you apologise,’ muttered Nora.
‘Please don’t Your Grace me,’ said Tiffany. ‘Esme says all witches are equal, so I am just Tiffany.’
‘Right then, Just Tiffany,’ said Nora. ‘We need to get this door open, and find Esme. It took all three of us to get Gwen to you, and I reckon a fourth won’t hurt. You’ll need something of Esme’s—’
‘I have this,’ said Tiffany, taking out the opal necklace.
‘Of course you do, Your Grace.’ Nora put her hand on the door, and said to Santiago, ‘You can stay here, Your Grace. There’s newspapers downstairs. Bonaparte has left Paris.’
Santiago looked outraged. ‘Well, I will not be leaving my wife. I am coming with you. You may be in need of…’
Four female faces looked back at him with varying degrees of politeness.
‘Er, sailing?’ he said hopefully.
‘We might as well take him,’ said Tiffany. ‘He’ll only pine if we don’t.’
He rolled his eyes at her, but stood back and let the witches work their magic.
‘We wants the door to open to wherever Esme is,’ said Gwen, as they each placed one hand on the door and held a token of Esme’s in the other. A ribbon, a hatpin, a pocket watch, and the opals.
‘Do we know where that is?’ said Nora.
‘Flanders. Or France.’
‘You said there was a big battle coming,’ said Tiffany. ‘Would it help us to focus on that?’
‘We don’t want to come out in the middle of a battle!’ said Nora.
‘You won’t,’ said Santiago, from behind them. ‘Battles don’t usually feature doors.’
‘He has a point,’ said Tiffany. ‘So. Esme, war … oh, and a tower.’
‘I seen the tower too,’ said Gwen. She wrapped the pocket watch chain around her fingers and held the key ready.
‘There was a bright light outside it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Flashing somewhat.’
‘Esme, war, flashing light, tower,’ repeated Nora impatiently. ‘Now: concentrate.’
Tiffany did her best to, but her mind kept straying to her mother. Was it really her in the tower? Had Esme gone to rescue her and been captured? What was in that basin in the corner?
Concentrate, Tiffany. Esme war, flashing light, tower. Esme, war…
The door clicked open.
A torrent of noise assaulted them. The loudest Tiffany had ever heard. It was like the firing of the pistol that had shot Santiago, magnified by a thousand, and never-ending.
They were on a bleak spit of land extending into the sea, the land merely piles of shingle, and across that shingle raced men in strange clothing, carrying strange muskets. In the water floated craft the like of which she’d never seen before, huge and angular with no sails. As she stood staring, one of them beached itself and from it, more men began to run towards them.
Around them, a light flashed, and she looked up to see a lighthouse, red and white, shining a light brighter than she’d ever seen. The tower. The flashing light. And yet…
‘What is this place?’ Tiffany gasped. Santiago wrapped his arm around her and held her firm against him.
‘Get inside,’ said Nora, and opened the door they’d just come through, only now it led inside the lighthouse. Inside it was full of yet more men in those strange clothes, and lit more brightly than a summer’s day.
‘What the hell?’ one of them shouted, and then the muskets were all pointed at them.
‘Put your hands up,’ suggested Santiago, as one of the soldiers—surely these were soldiers?—bawled at them to do the same.
‘What the hell are civilians doing in here?’ shouted one of them.
‘Are you USO?’ asked one.
‘No, son, we’re—’ began Gwen, and Tiffany hurriedly spoke over her.
‘Lost,’ she said. ‘Very lost.’
The soldier who had last spoken shook his head. ‘I’ll say. You British? You sound British.’
‘Yes?’ she said. They were speaking English, but with an accent she didn’t recognise.
‘British beaches are that-a-way.’ He pointed. ‘But what the hell you doing here? And … what the hell you wearing?’
He did not apologise for swearing in front of the ladies. Perhaps soldiers didn’t.
Tiffany didn’t know how to answer that, but thankfully Santiago stepped forward, his hands still raised.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, smiling. ‘There appears to have been some confusion here.’
‘The hell you say. What the hell are you, Shakespeare in the Park? This is an invasion, buddy. You hear those guns?’
Those were guns? How could they fire so fast? How many of them were there?
‘It is all I hear,’ Santiago agreed.
‘Well, you get hit by one of those, there ain’t nothing to send home to your mama, you hear what I’m saying?’ He shook his head. ‘Corporal, get these people somewhere secure, huh? Away from operations. And pat ’em down. You armed?’
There was a pause. Santiago cleared his throat. ‘I have a pistol,’ he said.
They allowed him to reach for it, slowly, but when he brought it out the soldiers stared, and then laughed.
‘Are you kidding?’
‘That’s an antique!’
Santiago looked hurt. ‘I assure you, it is quite new. One of Manton’s finest.’
‘Who?’
Tiffany was taken aback. Everyone knew Manton was the finest gunsmith in London.
The soldier with the stripes on his arm took the pistol gingerly. ‘You know, last time I saw something like that was on a grade school trip to Colonial Williamsburg.’
Tiffany glanced at her husband, who looked as blank as the rest of them.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, we are not intending to cause any harm; we are, as my wife says, merely lost. So, if you could hand that back to me, we will be on our way.’
He spoke very reasonably, but the soldier was shaking his head.
‘Can’t do that, buddy. Who else is armed? Hey, you, lady, what you got in that bag there?’
Tiffany clutched her satchel closer to her side. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just drawing materials.’
Santiago winced.
‘Drawing, huh? So you can make sketches of our defences?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know who you’re working for, but hand it over.’
‘I’m afraid I shall have to decline your request,’ said Tiffany, in her best duchess voice.
The soldier gave her a weary look. ‘And I’m afraid I’m gonna have to bust a cap in your ass if you don’t do what I say. Hand it over. Fellas, pat ’em down.’
To Tiffany’s horror, the soldiers advanced, hands outstretched.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Nora, squaring her shoulders.
‘I do not permit this,’ said Madhu nervously.
‘I do,’ said Gwen wistfully, eyeing the young soldiers.
Tiffany tried to move closer to Santiago, but the nearest soldier waved his gun between them. He grinned at Tiffany and held out his hands.
‘You will not touch my wife,’ Santiago hissed.
‘Buddy, no disrespect but I gotta know what she’s hiding in that corset.’
Tiffany’s outraged gasp did nothing to stop him touching her. His hands ran lewdly over her body, beneath her cloak.
‘What’s this?’ he said, finding the opals clutched in her hand. ‘Hey, that’s pretty.’
‘You can’t have it,’ she said.
‘Lady, I ain’t a thief. Here, hands up while I search the rest of you.’
‘Take your hands off me,’ she said, backing away.
‘Do not touch her!’ growled Santiago.
‘Sorry lady, gotta check you’re not hiding anything.’
‘I give you my word as a lady.’ She had backed against the wall now.
‘Unhand my wife,’ snarled Santiago. When she glanced over, there were two soldiers holding on to him as he struggled towards her.
‘I’d do as he says,’ Nora said. ‘He’s known as a brawler.’
‘She is mine,’ he shouted, as the soldiers held him down. ‘She belongs to me!’
Tiffany flinched, but not because of the soldier’s touch.
She belongs to me.
With some detachment, she saw a soldier punch Santiago hard on the jaw, and he went down like a puppet with the strings cut.
She belongs to me.
She allowed the men to paw through her bag and take away the sketchbook and pencils, and watched as Nora easily lifted Santiago over her shoulder to carry up the narrow, winding stairs as they were directed.
She belongs to me.
He had promised her, mere hours after their marriage, that she belonged to no one but herself. That she would have her own life. That she was no possession.
She watched Nora set him down, not particularly gently, on the hard stone floor of the circular tower. The room was sparsely filled with some kind of machinery and equipment she didn’t understand, and there was a rusted metal ring in the centre of the floor. The light coming from a strange lantern on the ceiling was so bright it was giving her a headache. There were men running up and down the narrow spiral stairs, shouting unintelligible things to each other, and all of them had those huge, terrifying guns. The witches were ordered to sit on the floor until the CO—whatever that was—could work out what to do with them.
Santiago began to wake, and Tiffany stared away from him as she sat on the cold, hard floor.
She’d been a fool.
He’d said all those things to reassure her, but had he actually meant them? Of course he wanted an obedient duchess who would bear him heirs. All that talk of travel—she knew perfectly well men didn’t take their wives with them when they went off on their grand adventures. Look at her own father. Look at her mother, who she might never find now.
It was all an illusion, as real as one of her drawings.
Was this why her mother had run away? Was this why Elinor and Cornforth had such a cold marriage? Was this all there could ever be? What a fool she had been to believe she could have anything else. What a jingle-brained, mutton-pated fool.
‘Your Grace?’ murmured Madhu, and Tiffany flinched. At least when she was Lady Tiffany she’d had her own name—even if no one ever used it. Now she was Your Grace, the Duchess of St James. No name. Just his wife.
She was her father’s daughter. Her brother’s sister. And now she was her husband’s wife. She had lost her chance to ever be a person in her own right.
‘I have some remedies in my pockets. I can help His Grace, but we may need to distract the soldiers.’
‘He’s fine,’ said Tiffany, because Santiago was clearly awake now, massaging his jaw and wincing. She wanted to punch him again. Harder. Maybe get Nora to do it.
She wanted to cry. But crying would achieve nothing. Tiffany let fury build in its place.
‘We need to work out how to get out of here,’ said Nora.
Madhu considered. ‘I could perhaps formulate an explosive,’ she said.
‘I could punch a lot of people,’ said Nora, who looked as if this was her preferred option.
Starting with my husband. ‘I could draw us a door,’ Tiffany said. They had taken her satchel but she might have some chalk in her pockets.
‘We’re halfway up the tower. Must’ve climbed a hundred feet.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ There was a pain in her chest. It might be her heart breaking.
‘And there are a great many men with guns,’ Nora pointed out.
‘And punching them will help?’
‘Ladies—’ began Santiago, and Tiffany turned cold fury on him.
‘No. Not you. You’ve helped enough. This is witch business.’
He blinked at her in confusion. ‘I… Yes. Of course.’
‘Gwen, do you have any ideas?’ Tiffany asked.
Gwen stared at nothing. ‘The sergeant will die in a village crossed by a river,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s helpful, thank you.’
Anger boiled in her. They were trapped here, in this tower, with these men carrying guns the like of which she’d never seen, and all Santiago had done to help was get himself punched in the face.
She tried to think. An explosion in so small a space would probably do more harm than good, and like her idea of drawing a door, still had the problem of being many feet above the ground. In fact, the lighthouse had been perched on a rocky promontory, so there was every chance they would fall into the sea and be dashed to death on the rocks.
If only Esme—
Wait. She wasn’t thinking right at all!
‘We only need a door,’ she said.