He held up the keys. “I encountered him and persuaded him to let me help you secure the library.” He paused and then asked, “Is there something amiss?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, feeling like a child caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen.
The vicar took a step closer to her. “I mean that your face shines with excitement, there is a light that fills you that is uncommon to say the least, and this is not the first time you have given me cause to think you involved in some … unusual activity.”
“Truly, I do not know to what you can be referring.”
“Do you not? Wouldn’t you care to share with me whatever fascinating secret I believe you to be holding on to so tight that you might extinguish it? I grant you have not known me long, Miss Cavendish, but I promise you, I would be a trustworthy confidante. Wait”—he held up a hand—“before you answer, please consider this: I have devoted my life to the study and worship of something unseen, unknowable, unproven, intangible. I spend my days raising my voice in song to the glory of an invisible God, and I believe he hears me. I pray with the faithful, and I trust he listens to those prayers. In addition, one of my duties here at the cathedral is that of diocesan exorcist. As such I have witnessed the extraordinary. Believe me when I tell you, I am a man you may speak to of the … unusual.”
Hecate hesitated. It seemed that, like her father, Reverend Forsyth was indeed someone who might understand, or at least accept, her gift. How pleasant, how reassuring, it would be to have an ally among the living at the cathedral. But she had known him such a short time. She was a newcomer, her place in the library recently won, and she would not risk it. The fact was that she did not know this man well enough to be able to trust him with her secret. Not yet.
She smiled, keeping her voice light. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Reverend Forsyth, but I am simply engaged in the menial tasks the master of the library sees fit to trust me with. My aim is never to disappoint him. To which end, I should be grateful for your help in turning off the gasoliers and securing the library for the night.”
He seemed about to press her further but relented, smiling, his blue eyes remaining watchful.
“As you wish, though please do grant me one thing.”
“What would that be?”
“If we are to work together, and become the firm friends I am certain we will be, please, call me John.”
She turned away from him to straighten books on her desk, determined to be as casual as possible when she replied, “Of course, that seems sensible. And you must call me Hecate.”
“Hecate,” he repeated, his smile showing in his voice now. “Here, let me help you with that.”
He reached up and turned off the gaslight behind her desk before moving on to extinguish the others along the far wall.
Hecate gently nudged the griffin off her shoulder, gesturing at him to retake his place on the map. She watched as it flapped its wings, shrinking down to size as it did so, fitting neatly back into position, claw raised, beak open. From the corner of her eye she saw Brother Michael drift away down the furthest row of shelves.
“Well then,” she said, clapping her hands together as if at a job well done. “Time for home.” Her casual demeanor was not, however, entirely honest, for she felt herself unsettled by John’s presence in a way that was new and not, she had to admit to herself, unpleasant.
8
It was a space that, in the deep, still-water hours of the night, should have been devoid of movement, of sound, of life. It should have been filled with nothing more than the slumbering souls of those long passed to another realm. But on this night, someone disturbed that quiet. They broke it turning the key in the ancient lock, pushing open that groaning door on its heavy hinges, moving on hasty feet across the worn flagstones, and unpacking a bag of curious items onto the bare, disused altar. A candle. A mirror. A bone. A flower. A book. Had anyone been observing, they would have seen the figure hunch over this disparate collection, place the lit candle upon the mirror, position the bone just so, lay the book open at a certain page, and hold the petals of the bloom in the flame. But there was no one to witness these potent rituals. No one to hear the hissing of the flower as it burned, or the popping of the seeds inside it as they cracked and jumped in the heat. No one to smell the smoke of the flower’s death. No one to hear the mumbled words read from that book. Words that had hardly been spoken for nearly half a century. The figure worked unobserved, as was his wish. But that was not to say he was undetected, for those words had great power when used with skill. And those to whom they are directed cannot resist them, so that when the dead are called, they answer.
Hecate pushed her bicycle out of the stable, pausing to feed a remnant of toast to Peggy in her stall. The sound of the pony chomping followed her out into the spring sunshine. Stella had done an excellent job of neatening her shortened dress, and Hecate had purchased a fine pair of long brown boots from the outfitters in Widemarsh Street. It had given her no small satisfaction to be able to do so with her own money. A fact that had gone some way to silencing her mother’s protests at her new outfit, along with, of course, the matter of her daughter’s safety.
“Truly, Mother,” she had told her, “it is the coming thing for young independent ladies to travel in such a way. We will set the trend in Hereford, just you wait and see.”
“I remain to be convinced. And that hat…”
“Stella helped me steam it. I believe it has regained its shape quite well.”
“That’s as may be, but it has a habit of being blown askew as you ride so that you arrive at your destination with the appearance of someone who has fled danger. Let me reposition that pin.” Beatrice had wrestled with the straw boater and the inadequate fixing for a moment before instructing Hecate to wait while she fetched a longer one from her own collection. “Here,” she said upon returning, “this will serve our purposes better.”
Hecate had taken it from her with a small exclamation of surprise. “Oh, it is very fine, Mother. Are you sure you want me to use it?” The pin was fashioned from high-quality silver, long and strong, its finial formed of curving plant tendrils into which was set a large, lustrous, lapis lazuli stone. “Would you not rather keep it for occasions?”
Beatrice took it from her. “I would rather my daughter did not go about looking like a scarecrow,” she muttered, fixing the hat securely this time.
Hecate smiled at her, leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Thank you!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried on her way.
Now, as she jumped up onto the saddle of her bicycle and pedalled off, she delighted in the manner in which she was now able to risk even greater speeds. Her ultimate goal was to own a pair of cycling knickerbockers or culottes, but she recognized her mother was not yet prepared for such a concession.
Her progress through the city was rapid as she was practiced in avoiding the heaviest of traffic, taking a route to High Town that was too twisty for carriages or carts. The wind tugged at her straw boater, testing her expertly positioned pin. The newspaperboy waved as she passed him. The grocer at the bottom of Church Street threw her an apple, which she deftly caught with one hand, throwing a “thank you, Mr. Preece!” over her shoulder as she went. At last she reached the Cathedral Green and dismounted. The sight of the ancient house of worship never failed to move her. If anything, now that it was her place of work and home to her phantom family, she loved the place even more, and could never imagine a time when it would not be at the center of her life.
She parked her bicycle at the entrance to the cloisters and went in through the south door, stooping to make a fuss of the cat as she did so.
“Good morning, Solomon. Your coat is looking particularly fine today,” she told him.
Inside, the temperature was still cool, the year not yet sufficiently advanced for the sun’s rays to have warmed the thick stone walls. The dean was taking morning prayers, the vicars choral in good voice. Hecate noticed Lady Rathbone sitting alone in the Lady Chapel and paused to whisper hello to her.
“Oh, good morning to you, Hecate,” she whispered in reply. “Tell me, is the sun shining outside? And has the apple tree by the west gate yet bloomed?”
“It has, my lady. And indeed it looks splendid in the sunlight today.”
Lady Rathbone nodded and smiled, seeming to take comfort in this.
Hecate hurried on. As the choir sang their answers to Dean Chalmers’ lines of a psalm, she saw Mrs. Nugent, diligent as ever, her rotund body in no way inhibiting vigorous movement as, cotton duster in hand, she polished the brass on the rail to the chapel.
“Good morning, Mrs. Nugent!” Hecate whispered as she trotted past. “You’ve brought up a tremendous shine there.”
“Must have everything looking its best for the king’s visit!” she replied, not for one moment pausing in her energetic polishing. “Must keep going. Must have everything just so!”
“I am certain His Majesty will be impressed,” Hecate assured her before turning to push open the low, arched door and step through the narrow entrance to the twisting stone stairs that would take her up to the library. She had learned the little woman’s story. She had been employed to clean the cathedral in the late eighteenth century. When a royal visit was announced she worked tirelessly to ensure everything was looking its best. On the day King George was expected she set off from home early to be at the front of the cheering crowds to welcome him. Sadly, she was so distracted by her excitement that she stepped in front of the London stagecoach. After all her hard work she never did get to see the king admire the results of her labors.
Hecate was so taken up with her exchange with Mrs. Nugent that she had failed to notice she was observed. As she turned the corner of the transept into the north aisle she saw that John, from his position in the choir stalls, had been watching her. He must have seen her pause and apparently conduct a conversation with herself. His bright blue eyes met her own gaze and for a moment held her there. She found herself flustered beneath such scrutiny and moved quickly to the staircase doorway.
Hecate found Reverend Thomas on the point of lowering himself onto his chair. The two exchanged their customarily brief greeting and she went to the hatstand in the far corner to hang up her coat. She took her woolen shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, crossing it over to tie tightly at the back so that there were no loose ends to interfere with her work. She liked the routine that had been established. There was comfort to be had in the rhythm it provided, the solid nature of the expected and the manageable. Of having a place and a set of duties and knowing how to perform them well. The master of the library had begun to entrust her with more valuable items to clean or restore, and to approve her attempts at more delicate and challenging work. She had shown herself to be a diligent worker, quick to learn, eager to please, and he had, somewhat grudgingly she felt, been known to compliment her on the standard of that work. He had yet to entrust her with the keys to the chained books or the library itself, however, a fact that continued to irk her.
