The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

Every question I asked and objection I raised and suggestion I made to offer was met with the same easy conviction by this assemblage. For them the battle had been fought and won. All that remained was the celebration that would take place in the morning.

The boys were crying in their chambers, true, but they would recover. And there was nothing to fear from Deborah, for if her demon were strong enough to free her he would have done so by now. And was it not so with all witches? Once they were in chains, the devil left them to their fate.

"But this woman has not confessed," I declared, "and her husband fell from his horse in the forest, by his own admission. Surely you cannot convict on the evidence of a feverish and dying man!"

It was as if I were flinging dry leaves into their faces, for all the effect it had upon them.

"I loved my son before all things in this world," said the old Comtesse, her small black eyes hard and her mouth ugly. Then as if thinking the better of her tone, she said with complete hypocrisy, "Poor Deborah, have I ever said that I did not love Deborah, that I did not forgive Deborah a thousand things?"

"You say too much!" declared Louvier very sanctimoniously, and with an exaggerated gesture as he was drunk, the fiend.

"I don't speak of witchcraft," said the old woman, quite unperturbed by his manner, "I speak of my daughter-in-law and all her weaknesses and secrets, for who in this town does not know that Charlotte was born too soon after the wedding, yet my son was so blind to the charms of this woman, and so adoring of Charlotte, and so grateful to Deborah for her dowry and so much a fool in all respects ... "

"Must we speak of it!" whispered the Comtesse de Chamillart, who appeared to tremble. "Charlotte is gone from our midst."

"She will be found and burnt like her mother," declared Louvier, and there were nods and assents all around.

And they went to talking amongst themselves about how very content they would all be after the executions, and as I sought to question them, they merely gestured for me to be quiet, to drink, not to concern myself.

It was horrible the manner in which they then ignored me, like beings in a dream who cannot hear our screams. Yet I persisted that they had no evidence of night flying, of Sabbats, of intercourse with demons, and all the other foolish evidence which elsewhere sends these creatures to the stake. As for the healing, what was this but the skill of the cunning woman, and why convict for that? The doll might not have been anything more than an instrument of healing.

To no avail!

How convivial and calm they were as they dined at the table, which had been her table, and on silver which had been her silver, and she in that wretched cell.

At last I pleaded that she should be allowed to die by strangulation before the burning. "How many of you have seen for yourselves a person die by fire!" But this was met with the weariest of dismissals.

"The witch is unrepentant," said the Comtesse de Chamillart, the only one of them who seemed sober and even touched with a slight fear.

"She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most?" the inquisitor asked, wiping his mouth with his filthy napkin. "What is that to the eternal fires of hell!"

At last I went out and back through the crowded square where it seemed a drunken revel was being held around all the little fires burning, and I stood looking at the grim pyre, and the stake high above with its iron manacles, and then by chance I found myself looking to the left of it at the triple arches of the church doors. And there in the crude carving of ages past were the imps of hell being driven down into the flames by St. Michael the Archangel with his trident through the fiend's belly.

The words of the inquisitor rang in my ears as I looked at this ugly thing in the firelight. "She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most? And what is that to the eternal fires of hell?"

Oh, Deborah, who never willfully harmed anyone, and had brought her healing arts to the poorest and the richest, and been so unwise!

And where was her vengeful spirit, her Lasher, who sought to save her grief by striking down her husband, and had brought her to that miserable cell? Was he with her, as she had told me? It was not his name she had cried out when she was tortured, it was my name, and the name of her old and kindly husband Roelant.

Stefan, I have written this tonight as much to stave off madness, as to make the record. I am weary now. I have packed my valise, and I am ready to leave this town when I have seen this bitter story to the end. I will seal this letter and put it in my valise with the customary note affixed to it, that in the event of my death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.

For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.

The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.

Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,

Petyr van Abel

Montcleve

Michaelmas, 1689

Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment, his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.

Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.

"That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt," he said, "do you still have it?"

"Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I've already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It's going to take a little time."

"Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald--that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher ... Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat."

"But you do not actually remember it?"

"No, but I'm sure ... And Aaron--"

"Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn't much time."

"I need a pen and paper to take notes."

"What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions."

"Exactly, I wish I'd been keeping a notebook all along."

"I'll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There'll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring."

"That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things ... "

"I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read."

Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.

At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.

The kindly woman he'd seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.

He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:

"After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.

"And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don't really remember this. I simply know it.

"And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I've been doing, but to touch something specific ...