Hecate so admired her mother’s stoicism and strength. She knew her heart was filled with fear and yet she would not be pitied, would not turn attention to herself. Her son’s well-being was all that mattered.
“I can stay longer, Mother, if you’d like to sleep. While he is resting…”
“No. No, thank you, Hecate. You can go now,” she said, attempting a softness though her words were blunt.
Hecate nodded, got up, and left, closing the door quietly so as not to wake Charlie. Once in her own room, though tired from her long day and from her concern for her brother, she did not feel in the least bit sleepy. She found herself pacing the floor, thoughts swirling in her head, chasing one another like will-o’-the-wisps.
“This will not do at all,” she told herself firmly. If she was not to sleep, then she must put her time to good use. She fetched paper, a pencil, and a stack of books from her desk and put them on the Persian rug in the center of the room. Pausing to unlace her boots and kick them off, she then knelt down and took up the pencil. On the first sheet of paper she wrote the word “Essedenes” in large letters and sketched a basic but adequate copy of the image from the map. She set the page aside, propped up against a small stack of books, and picked up another. On this one she wrote a list of all the people she now believed to be hosts to Embodied Spirits. So far this was Viscount Eckley, Veronique Fletcher, and the constable whose name she recalled was Mitchell. She put a date on this, and placed it on the floor beside the first sheet. Next she wrote a list of questions. How many spirits emerged from the crypt? Where were the missing Resurgent Spirits? What was the significance of the strange symbols in the gatehouse at Brockhampton Manor? How did the bodies entombed beneath the cathedral connect with those escaped from the abbey in France, or with the original Essedenes in Mesopotamia? Another list contained the names of those dead as a result of the Resurgent Spirits: Sir Richard, Mrs. Colwall, and Joe Colwall. She wondered how soon that list would grow. She wondered, also, how many there were she did not yet know about.
One of the most worrying things she had been forced to face was that the spirits could, if threatened or trapped, move from one host to another. The death of Joe Colwall and the sudden disappearance of the young constable whom she then saw at Brockhampton seemed to confirm this beyond any doubt she might have clung to. This meant that the spirit would be doubly difficult to contain or, if it came to it, kill.
It also meant that anyone who confronted an Embodied Spirit put themselves at risk of becoming its next host. The idea made her shudder.
Sitting back on her heels she sighed, pushing stray strands of hair from her face. There was so much still to make sense of. So much still to be done.
Her journey to work the next day—an uncommon working Saturday, as she was keen to make up for her absence—was beneath a canopy of dark cloud. Gone was the spring sunshine, replaced by a stiff breeze and the threat of rain. She was compelled to wear her buff-colored Mackintosh over her blue dress and abandon her boater in favor of a mulberry wool hat which would better withstand getting wet. She had secured it as best she could with her mother’s hatpin, but still she felt it unequal to the task of staying in place upon her abundant hair, tested by the bicycle ride and the wind. When she reached the cathedral she took it off, leaving it in the basket, annoyed that her bun had already begun to collapse. She began to unbutton her coat, and had not gone two strides further before John found her. He appeared so suddenly she was certain he had been waiting for her just inside the door.
“Are you well?” he asked, searching her face. “I confess I slept little myself last night, after what we saw at Brockhampton.…”
“We had a great deal to think about,” she agreed. “I find the best cure for worry is action. And to that end I have been drawing up a plan.”
He smiled at her. “Of course you have.” When she made to continue on her way he put a hand on her arm. “Hecate, may I speak with you in private? It will only take a moment.”
She hesitated only briefly before smiling at him. “Well then, to the tower?”
He nodded, holding up the key he had obtained in anticipation. “To the tower.”
The wind that had been moderate at ground level was markedly stronger at the top of the cathedral. Her unbuttoned raincoat flapped behind her as her hair fell from the grip of its pins, both caught by the turbulent air. The metal-gray sky seemed to press down upon them. The city below was not a pretty scene of miniature houses but a series of dark channels and lines, with roofs slickened by the increasing moisture in the wind. Hecate stumbled as she walked toward the balustrades. John caught her about the waist, steadying her. She saw that he would have been happy to remain holding her, but she twisted free, gently loosening his grip to stand a pace away, smiling at him.
“What is it that you wished to discuss, John?” she asked, having to raise her voice a little above the sounds of the weather.
He hesitated before speaking as if ordering his thoughts. It was unlike him, ordinarily so articulate, to falter. When he did speak, his voice was low, his words sometimes snatched by the wind so that Hecate had to step closer to hear what he was saying.
“Ours is a new friendship, and yet I believe we have come to know each other better than many who might have enjoyed years of acquaintance. I had thought myself content here, engaged in work of value, granted liberty to celebrate and enjoy the music I love. I believed myself fortunate and happy. Until the moment you strode into my life, a person of such energy, such verve, such life! Your presence has transformed me. I have discovered a new level of existence, a new way of experiencing the world, seen not through my own eyes, but through your restless, beautiful, reckless vision. The moments I spend in your company are the ones that fill me with joy. Time spent away from you is merely ground to be trodden on my journey back to your side.”
He took her hand then.
Hecate looked at him, finding herself fascinated by the intensity of his gaze. The stormy light behind him put him almost in silhouette save for the paleness of his eyes and his blond hair bright against the backdrop of gray.
“When we were at Brockhampton,” he continued, “even though I do not have your gift, I experienced such a great … weight. My work as an exorcist has informed my opinion of this feeling, and I recognize what it means. What prompts it. And that is a dark presence and a danger. To see you so close to danger … I have never endured such apprehension. I was not afraid for myself. I was terrified that I might fail to protect you.”
“I know there was danger, and yet, here we both are,” she said.
“I knew then that my life without you would be meaningless. No, not that.” He glanced upward, as if appealing to the God to whom he had dedicated his life to forgive him, to understand him. “It would be torment. I wish, more than anything, to be always at your side.” He held her hand tight, moving a little closer to her. He nodded at the streets below them. “Hecate, I cannot give you the city, I cannot give you a life of ease, but I can promise you my heart. Always. I am yours, mind, body, and soul. Marry me, Hecate. Be my wife.”
His words moved her. She had never been the subject of such intense longing, such heartfelt sentiments, and she could not fail to be deeply touched.
“John, you have caught me by surprise.…”
“I know, and I am sorry for it, but I could not wait. I felt compelled to speak out. Who can say what perilous times lie ahead for us? For any of us? These are strange days, my darling, and I would not have you face them without me, not for one second.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a lingering kiss upon her fingers.
A scintilla of excitement ran through her body.
“I cannot give you my answer now,” she told him. “Will you allow me a little time?”
“Of course! Of course.” He smiled then. “I am only relieved you have not turned me down flat. You have given me hope.” He pulled her into his arms, looking deep into her eyes. She could feel his heart beating against hers. Her hair, free of its bonds, whipped around them as he stroked her cheek. The threatening rain began to fall, driven by the wind, so that water ran down their faces as they stood holding one another, both caught in the moment. And then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. It was not a tentative, questioning kiss, but one filled with desire, with yearning, with passion, and she found herself responding to it. Even as the rain beat against them, they stayed as they were, drawing back only a fraction from that kiss, kept warm by that heartfelt embrace.
It was Hecate who at last broke the moment.
“I must go,” she said simply.
He nodded, releasing her but keeping hold of her hand, leading her off that windswept aerie and down the twisting turret stairs.
26
Still reeling from John’s proposal, she was glad of her desk and her work to settle her. So much was happening, and so many things demanded her attention. As she worked she planned the order in which she would address things, so that by the time Reverend Thomas went for his luncheon, she was clearer in her mind. She took up pen and paper to write a letter. She had spent some time going over its composition in her mind the previous night while sleep eluded her. Now that she came to write it, however, she was less certain that her words held weight. She reread it to herself.
My dear Inspector Winter,
I am writing to inform you that I have discovered the whereabouts of your errant constable.
If you will agree to come to our home this evening, around eight, I will furnish you with the full details. Forgive me for not simply revealing his current location here in this note, but there is much I need to make clear, and I must be certain that I have passed onto you all that I have learned in regards to this matter in a way which is both complete and sensible. Furthermore, there are details in connection with the constable’s present home that I would not wish to commit to paper, lest it fell into the wrong hands.
Please believe me when I say I remain your friend in this and all matters where I might be of service to you, the cathedral, or the city,
Hecate Cavendish
