The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

It struck me stupidly that it would be sweet to press my thumbs into the softness of her arms. And it did seem to me that she regarded me very much as her mother had regarded me many year ago, when in the Scottish inn I had fought the devil of her beauty not to ravage her there.

"Ah, so, Petyr van Abel," she said to me in English and with a touch of the Scottish to it, "you have come." I swear to you, Stefan, it was Deborah's youthful voice. How much they must have spoken together in English, why, it might have been a secret language for them.

"My child," I answered, in the same language, "thank you for receiving me. I have made a long journey to see you, but nothing could have kept me away."

But all the while she was coldly taking my measure, as surely as if I were a slave on the auction block, not disguising her appraisal as I had taken pains to disguise mine. And I was shocked by what I saw in her face, a thin nose and deep-set eyes, for all their size very like my own. Cheeks a little low and full, very like my own. And her hair, though it was a glorious mane of pale gold, brushed straight back from her forehead and held in place by a great jeweled comb, in color and texture very like my own.

A great sadness consumed me. She was my daughter. I knew that she was. And there came to me again that terrible regret I had known in Montcleve. I saw my Deborah, a broken puppet of white wax on the stones before the church of Saint-Michel.

Perhaps my sadness was felt by Charlotte, for a shadow fell over her countenance, and she seemed determined to defy this feeling as she spoke:

"You are as handsome as my mother told me," she said, half musing, and half under her breath and with a slight raise of one eyebrow. "You are tall and straight and strong, and in the fullness of health, are you not?"

"Mon Dieu, madam. What strange words," I said. I laughed uneasily. "I do not know whether you flatter me or not."

"I like the look of you," she said. And the strangest smile spread over her face, very clever and disdaining, yet at the same time childishly sweet. She gave a little bitter stretch to her lips as a child might do it, almost to a pout, it seemed, and I found this unspeakably charming. Then she seemed lost in contemplating me, and said finally: "Come with me, Petyr van Abel. Tell me what you know of my mother. Tell me what you know of her death. And whatever your purpose do not lie to me."

And there seemed in her then a great vulnerability as if I might hurt her suddenly and she knew it, and was afraid.

I felt such tenderness for her. "No, I haven't come to tell lies," I said. "Have you heard nothing at all?"

She was silent, and then coldly she said: "Nothing," as if she were lying. I saw that she was scanning me in the very way that I have scanned others when trying to pry loose their secret thoughts.

She led me towards the house, bowing her head ever so slightly as she took my arm. Even the grace of her movements distracted me, and the brush of her skirts against my leg. She did not even look at the slaves who flanked the path, a very regiment of them, all holding lanterns to light our way. Beyond lay the flowers glimmering in the darkness, and the massive trees before the house.

We had all but reached the front steps when we turned and followed the flags into the trees, and there sought out a wooden bench.

I was seated at her behest. Darkness came fast around us, and the lanterns strung here and there burned bright and yellow, and the house itself gave forth an even greater dazzle of light.

"Tell me how I shall begin, madam," I said. "I am your servant. How would you hear it?"

"Straight out," she answered, her eyes fixing on me again. She sat composed, turned slightly towards me, her hands in her lap.

"She did not die in the flames. She threw herself from the church tower, and died when she struck the stones."

"Ah, thank God!" she whispered. "To hear it from human lips."

I pondered these words for a moment. Did she mean the spirit Lasher had already told her this, and she had not believed it? She was most dejected and I was not sure I should say more.

Yet I continued. "A great storm hit Montcleve," I said, "called down by your mother. Your brothers died. So did the old Comtesse."

She said nothing, but looked straight forward, heavy with sadness, and perhaps despair. Girlish she looked, not a woman at all.

I continued, only now I took several steps backwards in my account and told her how I had come to the town, how I had met with her mother, and all the things which her mother had said to me about the spirit Lasher, that he had caused the death of the Comte, unbeknownst to Deborah, and how she had upbraided him for this, and what the spirit had said to her in his defense. And how Deborah would have her know and be warned.

Her face grew dark as she listened; still she looked away from me. I explained what I thought was the meaning of her mother's warnings, and then what were my thoughts on this spirit and how no magician had ever written of a spirit that could learn.

Still she did not move or speak. Her face was so dark now she seemed in a pure rage. Finally, when I sought to resume on this subject, saying that I knew something of spirits, she interrupted me: "Don't speak of this anymore," she said. "And never speak of it to anyone here."

"No, I would not," I hastened to answer. I proceeded to explain what followed my meeting with Deborah, and then to describe the day of her death in great detail, leaving out only that I had thrown Louvier from the roof. I said merely that he had died.

But here she turned to me, and with a dark smile she asked:

"How died, Petyr van Abe

l? Did you not push him off the roof?"

Her smile was cold and full of anger, though I did not know whether it was against me or all that had taken place. It did seem that she was defending her daimon, that she felt I had insulted him, and this was her loyalty, for surely he had told her what I had done. But I do not know if I am right in this conjecture. I know only that to think she knew of my crime frightened me a little, and perhaps more than I cared to say.

I didn't answer her question. She fell silent for a long time. It seemed she would cry but then she did not. Finally:

"They believed I deserted my mother," she whispered. "You know I did not!"

"I know this, madam," I said to her. "Your mother sent you here."

"Ordered me to leave!" she said, imploring me. "Ordered me." She stopped only to catch her breath. " 'Go, Charlotte,' she said, 'for if I must see you die before me or with me, my life is nothing. I will not have you here, Charlotte. If I am burnt I cannot bear it that you should see it, or suffer the same.' And so I did what she told me to do." Her mouth gave that little twist again, that pout, and it seemed again she would cry. But she ground her teeth, and widened her eyes, considering all of it, and then fell into her anger again.

"I loved your mother," I said to her.

"Aye, I know that you did," she said. "They turned against her, her husband and my brothers."

I noticed that she did not speak of this man as her father, but I said nothing. I did not know whether I should ever say anything on this account or not.

"What can I say to soothe your heart?" I asked her. "They are punished. They do not enjoy the life which they took from Deborah."

"Ah, you put it well." And here she smiled bitterly at me, and she bit her lip, and her little face looked so tender and so soft to me, so like something which could be hurt, that I leant over and kissed her and this she allowed, with her eyes downcast.