Witchfog Read online

  The day after my eighteenth birthday, when I had recovered from the excesses of champagne and dancing and laughter, I hailed a private cab to take me into one of the rougher parts of the city. This wasn’t somewhere I could take my own carriage with its gaudy coat of arms. This business needed to remain secret.

  I gave the cabbie an address on a scrap of paper. He raised an eyebrow at it, but I was a regular customer and he knew better than to ask questions. The streets we drove through became narrower and narrower, the broad mansions giving way to tall merchants’ houses, and cramped shops, then to rickety tenement buildings and dingy inns. I had visited unpleasant neighbourhoods before in the name of science, but this was one of the worst.

  When we pulled to a halt outside a rough, ramshackle little building in a road so narrow that the cab practically scraped the wall of the house opposite, I felt my stomach drop. I trusted Monsieur Lavelle, but I had not expected something quite this disgusting. I squeezed out of the cab, thankful for the unpadded skirts of my old work dress. The cabbie set off again at my signal, payment having been arranged in advance. I was left alone in the foul, smoky air of industrial London, in a street so poor and ugly that even my oldest dress attracted stares from dirt-encrusted passers-by. I banged heavily on the door, hoping that Monsieur Lavelle was waiting for me.

  He must have been, because I had barely lifted my hand from the wood when the door swung open and a hand reached out to yank me inside. I tumbled into the arms of Monsieur Lavelle, who spun me around and then set me on my feet to admire the most spectacular laboratory I had ever seen. It made my own effort, modern and advanced though I had thought it, look like a child’s playroom. I drifted from bench to bench, admiring the gleaming equipment, some of which was unknown even to me, and marvelling at the sheer quantity of herbs and artifacts of power he had managed to acquire. This was truly a haven of knowledge. With the door closed behind me, I could forget the dirt and squalor outside, and focus only on higher things.

  It was in that laboratory that my master taught me the deepest powers of life science. I learned that my earlier lessons were only the beginnings of my education. They were preparation for the incredible knowledge that awaited me.

  For the first few months, however, one room remained that he would not permit me to enter. I begged and cajoled, but although Monsieur Lavelle laughed, and stroked my cheek affectionately, he would not open those doors. I knew better than to go against his express wishes. My master might be kindness itself, but he was also danger.

  These were secrets to be revealed gradually. I learnt poisons, some natural, and others carefully concocted by other life scientists. I learnt other ways to kill in secret - the use of special devices that could affect the very air around the victim, choking him to death, or poison his water from a distance. These were all theoretical lessons, of course; Monsieur Lavelle was keen to impress upon me that no life must ever be taken lightly.

  Finally, after six months of studying the boundaries of life and death, Monsieur Lavelle let me into the final room of his magnificent laboratory. Here, he kept the cadavers. After all, how could he capture the essence of life without fully exploring the many facets of death?

  At first, that room seemed like a chamber of horrors. Each carefully preserved corpse (another one of his many arts) had died in a different way. My master painstakingly examined each body, dissecting and repairing it to the fullest extent of his considerable ability. To a girl whose experience of death had been distant and formal, the sight of these bodies and their many pieces came as something of a shock. I was sick - physically sick, pouring the contents of my stomach into a bucket already prepared for the occasion. It was a normal reaction, he assured me, nothing to be ashamed of. I would build a more comfortable relationship with death, in time.

  And so I did. I was determined that no squeamishness would stand between me and science. I dedicated myself to the study of anatomy. Women were banned from the Royal College of Surgeons, but I found that a heavy veil and an even heavier bribe allowed me to visit whichever operation I wished. I became something of an expert on the human body. Then Monsieur Lavelle permitted me to begin assisting in his experiments.

  He had collected a variety of scientific formulae and rituals that others before him had claimed would bring back the dead. The intention was to methodically test each one on numerous corpses, and to examine their effects. Most, we dismissed as entirely ineffective, but some appeared to have some small influence on the corpse. When we detected any tiny suggestion of efficacy, we would separate out each component of the formula. Then we assessed the strength and abilities of each individual part. In this way, we hoped to create our own version, formed from all the strongest parts of past research. We would build upon the work of our forebears and finally cheat death.

  Witches in the Garden

  My eighth day at Killston Hall dawned grey and dreary. Fog lingered around the dark hedges that edged the gardens. I couldn’t help but shiver as I saw those soft tendrils, even though I was safe on the other side of the glass. How ridiculous, to fear a straightforward meteorological phenomenon.

  Mr Amberson had joined us for breakfast again and was happily working his way through a plate piled high with bacon and sausages. I helped myself to a slice of toast and set about buttering it with no conversation other than a brief, polite, good morning. I sneaked glances at him though, over my toast. He seemed oblivious to my presence as he looked out of the window, gazing at the fog. I refused to look at it any more myself, but I wondered somewhat at his fascination. I had begun to feel something was happening at Killston Hall that I did not understand. The fog, this man, the house itself, the light on the moor. I had fallen into a far deeper mystery than I anticipated when I set off from London to find a valuable treasure left lying about in an elderly relative’s house.

  I barely bothered searching the house that day. Instead, I drifted from room to room, trailing my fingers over ancient ornaments and gilded picture frames. I felt both restless and lost; full of purpose and yet strangely irresolute. For perhaps the first time in my life, I had no idea what to do next. This fog, now thick outside the windows, seemed to sap my energy and strength. I didn’t see Mr Amberson for the rest of the day. I wondered where he was. Theodoric. What a strange name.

  Dinner passed in the same blur. I could not have said what Sir Philip and I spoke about. No doubt the same meaningless topics as every night since my arrival. I do remember looking up at that great, dark tapestry of Wayland Smith, gentle fear simmering inside me.

  I woke up just past midnight. I slipped from my bed and looked out of the window. The fog had vanished. Tired though I was, I felt my energy returning, filling me up with brightness. There was something unnatural about that fog. Perhaps Mr Amberson had been right. Still, it was gone for now. I decided that I would have one more attempt at getting into the abandoned wing before I saw no option but to think of a more drastic technique.

  Of course, the door from the great hall was locked. By now, that did not come as a surprise. I contemplated going outside, but I wasn’t keen on ruining another pair of slippers. I drifted into the library anyway, thinking I might read another few pages of More’s Utopia before I returned to bed. Settling myself in the chair by the hearth, I picked up the book I had discarded the day before - and then glanced out of the window. A faint patch of light shone on the grass. From where I sat, it looked as if it came from the abandoned wing. Someone was in there.

  I dumped poor Utopia back where I had found it and ran out of the library, skidding to a halt by the door to the back porch. The bolts were stiff and heavy, but quiet enough as I slipped them open and let myself out into the garden. It was freezing cold, and the cloudy air was damp, soaking my nightdress in seconds so it clung to me in icy folds. I walked a short way across the garden, so as not to be too close to the house, and I looked up at the abandoned wing. A light shone in one of the ground-floor windows, as bright and warm as if the entire room was full of candles. I
waited for a moment, watching the window. Two women moved to stand beside it, vividly outlined by the golden brightness behind them. They were silhouetted, so I could not see their faces, or any detail at all, just that they were both female and probably quite tall. They seemed to be looking directly at me. Surely they could not see me with the garden in such darkness.

  I looked about nervously and realised that the square of grass was edged by fog, so white it almost seemed to glow. This was no natural mist. How could it come on so fast? Had I lost track of time again, like on the first day? The women in the windows had their hands raised now, and they definitely stared down at me. Pointed at me.

  “Sister.”

  They were here, all around me, half-hidden by the fog.

  I spun around, seeing their dark silhouettes mingled with the shape of the hedge. Slender arms reached for me, thin fingers grasping at the insubstantial fog. The tendrils moved towards me as the figures did, closing in on me. The fog was all around me now, the women mere feet away, gliding gently forwards as if they did not need legs to move. My sense of hopelessness returned, even deeper than before. I could not run.

  “Lily!”

  Theo’s voice, faint but not too far away, cut through my despair. I jolted awake, with only seconds before the first hand grabbed me, and threw myself backwards, scrabbling on the wet grass as I ran for the house. I stumbled into the back porch and grabbed at the door, but it did not budge. Someone had locked me out. I ran back out into the garden, the fog brushing against the hem of my nightdress, and raced towards the corner of the house. There must be another door close by.

  “Get inside!”

  The locked door suddenly flew open, and Theodoric emerged. I swung round in surprise, slipped on the wet grass and fell face first onto the damp ground, mud and grass in my mouth. Strong hands gripped me around the waist, lifting me to my feet and half-carrying me to the door. The fog surrounded us now. Without putting me down, Theodoric began to chant low, harsh words in a language I did not, at first, recognise. He did not stumble or hesitate, his voice getting louder and louder until he shouted at the fog. Gradually, it withdrew, shrinking back into the hedges it came from. The women vanished as if they had never been in the garden at all.

  Theodoric brought his chant to a close and loosened his grip on me, nudging me inside and closing the door. Sliding the bolts home, he collapsed against the door with a groan of relief. I leaned against the wall in a similar position, trying to get my heart back to a normal speed.

  “How did you learn so much Old English, Mr Amberson?” I asked, once I recovered my breath. “Pardon me, but you don’t look like you had a university education.”

  “I learnt some bits and pieces from my grandfather,” he said. “Now, I suggest that you go straight back to bed and don’t try wandering around at night any more. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I know that it’s not worth the risk. Good night. Oh, and you might as well call me Theo.”

  He marched off before I had a chance to reply, and I did not feel inclined to run after him. Indeed, even walking back up the stairs seemed a daunting task. I spent a few more minutes collecting my shattered nerves. Then, unusually, I did as I was told, and went to bed.

  Such A Fog

  I awoke late the next morning. By the time I made it down to the library, Sir Philip and Mr Amberson - Theo - had already finished and left. I settled into the chair by the hearth, some lukewarm tea and a slice of toast on the table beside me. The day was bright and clear, a welcome surprise after last night. I wondered whether I would ever again face fog without a glimmer of fear.

  I took my time over breakfast, although I would have enjoyed my food a little warmer. After the experiences of the night before, it seemed reasonable to take the morning off from my own quest. Monsieur Lavelle would have more than understood. He had rather enjoyed lazy, leisurely mornings himself. He would spend them relaxing in the sunlight in the spacious apartment he kept in a much nicer part of town than his laboratory, languorous and supple as a cat. I missed those lazy mornings.

  After I finished my tea, I sat a while longer, gazing out into the garden and thinking over what had happened. Somehow, I was no closer to my goal, and all I seemed to find was more mystery and further questions. Something here was out of my grasp and past my understanding. Even after all the wonders and marvels I had seen in London, I never once imagined that magic might be real. I had never considered that old folk tales of witches and demons might contain even a scrap of truth. My experiences here in Yorkshire confounded all the rules of science. How could those women conjure up fog and appear so suddenly? What did they do to strike such total and utter terror into me that I lost scraps of memory?

  Perhaps in some ways I was just another spoilt society heiress, but I had seen danger before. I had faced down armed robbers, fought fires and survived terrifying storms at sea. Nothing had affected me like the women Theodoric called witches. Increasingly, I felt that this house was the focus - more specifically, the abandoned wing. Perhaps it would also be the key to my own quest. I had already known that Killston Hall held old secrets; it appeared they went far deeper than I could ever have imagined. Someone weaker might have fled in fear, but I was stubborn, and my mission was too important to abandon.

  Mrs Pender was bustling around the kitchen when I finally left the library. I still had little energy for resuming my search, so I decided to ask a few questions instead.

  “I missed most of the hot tea, Mrs Pender. Would you mind making me another pot?”

  “Of course, dear. You sit down there and I’ll get one ready in a moment.”

  I sank into the bench by the fire, appreciating the warmth. I hadn’t realised how cold the library was until I started to warm up.

  “It looks like winter is here to stay,” Mrs Pender said as she put the kettle on the stove. “Everyone hoped that autumn would last longer, but it needed to finish sooner or later. Will you be aiming to return to London before it gets too cold?”

  “Oh, I think I have some time yet,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “There should be weeks until the first snow, if not months. I thought I would stay here for a little longer. I find the country air rather refreshing.”

  “We have air of a special quality here, that’s for sure.”

  I almost laughed. Special air quality indeed.

  “Perhaps you could continue your history of the Hall for me,” I suggested. “You mentioned that the empty wing is the newest part.”

  “Yes, I did,” Mrs Pender said. “It was built just a year or two after I started work here. It was the old master’s last addition to Killston Hall. He wanted to turn this funny old house into a great home, and that was to be the beginning. Of course, the foolish man didn’t know what he was doing. The family are damned lucky that wing has stood for a single day, let alone all this time. Such a mistake.”

  I was a little taken aback at her vicious tone.

  “So, it was poorly built then, to be in such a terrible condition?”

  “Ill-advised from start to finish,” Mrs Pender said, dropping the tea tray in front of me slightly too forcibly.

  “Perhaps the ground was not suitable?” I suggested, more intrigued than I had expected. Construction had never much interested me, but there was something about this house that I found fascinating.

  “Nothing wrong with the ground here,” Mrs Pender snapped, her warm and friendly facade slipping. “He should never have even tried to build it. Idiot of a man.”

  I stared at her in surprise. I had never heard a servant speak that way of their employer, even a long-dead one.

  She seemed to realise what she had said.

  “Begging your pardon milady. I didn’t mean to speak ill of the family. But that wing has caused nothing but trouble for everyone involved. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid there’s a lot of work to be done and I can’t trust those foolish maids to manage it all.”

  She vanished from the kitchen, skirts swirling
as she practically ran out into the hallway, leaving me still open-mouthed. What a strange conversation. I was more determined than ever to get into that abandoned wing. Could it hide the stone I would stop at nothing to find?

  Rosa

  By the end of the week, I had searched every accessible part of the house. I had been careful and thorough, putting to work all of the observational skills (and, quite frankly, burglary skills) taught by my mentors in London. If only I was better at picking locks. I cursed myself for leaving Daniel back in London. How could I have possibly expected to operate efficiently on my own? I had the greater scientific accomplishments, true, but he was the retired gentleman thief.

  I could no longer do this alone. It was vital I find that stone as quickly as possible. Some of our rarest ingredients would not last much longer and a significant time delay now might set our experiment back by years. I was not prepared to wait years for Monsieur Lavelle's return. Explaining my entire mission was impossible, but perhaps I could appeal to Sir Philip for help. He might be keeping entirely different secrets and be more than willing to assist me. The experiment shouldn’t cause any permanent damage to the stone; we just needed it as a conduit. Besides, what use could he have for it himself? I would ask to borrow the stone, not permanently remove it.

  So, I steeled myself to approach my uncle. I rehearsed a vague story about a geological exhibition in London. Perhaps I would say that I hoped to enter alongside my guardian.

  I got as far as standing outside Sir Philip’s study door, taking a deep breath as I prepared to knock. Then I heard a voice inside, so soft and low I barely made out the words. It was a woman’s voice. She sounded urgent, but I still could not hear properly. Thankfully, I was prepared for this. I fumbled in my pocket for a tiny bottle, made of a blue glass so deep that it almost looked black. I poured out a drop of the thick, slimy liquid and dabbed it into my ear, as far as it would go. In about a minute, the medicine would wear off. For now, though, I heard everything.