She heard a small movement and looked up to see the griffin perched on one of the rafters that had been exposed in the fire-damaged part of the ceiling.
“Hello, little one. Do you like it up there? A new place for you. Do not grow accustomed to such a lofty perch. I intend returning this room to its original state, and that includes replacing the ceiling.” When the creature made no response she became worried that it might be fearful of her after what had happened under her care. She held up her arm. “Come along. We have work to do. Won’t you help me?”
The griffin tilted his head, lifting one foot and then another to move sideways along the beam. And then, its decision made, it swooped down, ignoring her arm, and landed directly on her shoulder. It immediately set about nibbling her ear, its phantom beak applying only the very lightest, tickling touch.
“Well then,” she murmured, stroking its puffed-up chest.
And so she set to work. Mr. Gould and two of the vicars choral had earlier lifted the heavy cases and shelves and set them into their rightful positions. The chained books they had slid back into place. Most were unharmed save for some smoke marks, one or two were torn or had broken spines, but there was nothing beyond repair. Hecate considered calling Brother Michael but decided against. She did not want to put him under pressure to help her again so soon after such a terrifying night. He had warned her against opening the cabinet of banned books and she had ignored his warnings and his beloved library had nearly been lost because of her actions. Better that she let him come to her in his own time.
She knelt on the floor and began sifting through the fragments of paper, scrolls and small maps and drawings that lay scattered about. They were none of them of any great significance, but she was sad to see that some had been too badly burned to be saved. She fetched a wooden crate and began to fill it with the ruined scraps. As she did so, one snagged her attention. It was among a stack of loose leaves that had once been secured by a ribbon at one corner. There was some writing, very faded, possibly in Old English, and then line drawings. Something about them caused a jolt of recognition to awaken her interest. She looked more closely at the curious, simple shapes. And then it came to her; these were the same symbols she had seen burned into the mysterious gatehouse at the Brockhampton estate. The same ones she had seen in Father Ignatius’s letter.
“Well, look at these!” she said to the griffin. “Perhaps now I can find out exactly what they mean and why the Brockhampton estate is so important to the Essedenes.”
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket.
A shadow filled the doorway. Her father entered the room.
“Goodness, Hecate, the dean was not letting you off lightly, was he?”
“Have you finished your conversation with him so soon?”
“He was eager to inspect the new damage in the crypt. I shall speak with him later.”
“I am fortunate he has allowed me to keep my post as assistant here, but oh, Papa, look at it all.…”
He took in the sorry scene. “Indeed, it will not be the work of a moment to make sense of this muddle. As luck would have it, I am not required at home and do not have an appointment until this afternoon so I am at your disposal.”
She smiled at him as he reached over and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.
“You are not on your own, my little Hecate,” he told her.
“No, you are right about that, Father,” she agreed, the griffin tightening his whispery grip on her shoulder. “Here, I am never alone.”
It was gone six by the time Hecate stepped out of the south door and retrieved her bicycle. Edward, true to his word, had stayed to help until four o’clock when an appointment at the museum called him away. Together they had made good progress on restoring order to the library. There would be days of work ahead, a glazier to mend the hole in the window and workmen to repair the ceiling. Her father had promised to purchase a new desk. Most other things could be restored, and at least now it all seemed manageable.
A gentle purring alerted her to Solomon’s presence.
“Hello, little cat,” she said, bending down to stroke him. “No ill effects after the other night? Not much more than a few singed whiskers, I see. I think you may have used up one of your nine lives though.” On impulse, she picked him up and gave him a tight embrace. His purr increased in volume. The comfort of him brought her close to weeping for John, making her wonder how much she would have to harden herself against such simple sources of solace if she was not to be often overwhelmed by grief. She kissed Solomon and let him go again, watching him trot off toward the vicars’ vegetable patch in search of mice. There was a bloodred sunset in the west, the sky blazing above the walls of the Lady Arbor. Rooks circled the beech trees prior to roosting for the night. A pair of turtle doves, high in the eaves of the cathedral tower, cooed as they nestled up together. Hecate breathed in the sweet evening air which carried on it the scent of early roses from the cloister gardens. She looked up at the mighty building beside her, watching for a moment as its ancient stones took on the glow of the sunset. At one of the windows in the tower she glimpsed the figure of Lady Rathbone and imagined her wandering wistfully among the bell ropes. Corporal Gregory would no doubt be back at his post, his endless vigil continuing. Mrs. Nugent was most likely at that very moment fussing and fretting over some of Solomon’s sooty paw prints. She hoped that Brother Michael would emerge to inspect her work in the library and approve of her efforts so far.
She gave a deep sigh. At that moment, the collection was secure. As was the Mappa Mundi. The cathedral, and the lost souls it was home to, was safe. For now. She had witnessed destruction come so very close but had withstood the assault. There would be danger ahead, she knew that. John had paid the highest price as his part in protecting her. Her punishment for having put him in peril was to carry the pain of his loss in her heart.
The Essedenes’ plan to stop her and destroy the book had been thwarted, if only temporarily. Where their greater goals were concerned they would not be easily defeated. She was heartened to think that she now had the help of both Inspector Winter and the mysterious Mr. Sadiki. She would not face the battles to come without assistance. She had her phantom friends to watch over her, too. And she had the map itself, with its strange, magical beasts. She knew its creatures would protect her if they could and it struck her afresh how singular a blessing it was to be able to communicate with them. Her connection with the ancient treasure would have its further part to play in the battle that lay ahead, of that she had no doubt.
She accepted that she had put herself at the center of the fight. She remained the greatest threat to the Essedenes’ success, and the ambitions of Lord Brocket and his family. They would not suffer her to live. It was as simple as that. A scintilla of fear shot through her. She allowed herself to experience it without giving way to panic. She was right to be afraid. Her adversaries were powerful and wicked. She must grasp that fear and turn it first into courage and then action. John had been tested and had not faltered. She would always be in his debt. She owed it to him to prevail. All those she loved would be in danger until she had defeated the Resurgent Spirits and their ruthless masters. She would not fail them.
“Well then,” she said aloud, to herself, to any of her ghostly friends who might hear her, and to those foes who even now lurked in the shadows waiting for the moment her guard was down. She turned her head quickly, thinking to catch whatever it was that moved in the periphery of her vision, beneath the arch of the cloister doorway. There was nothing to be seen, but that did not mean that there was nothing there.
Hecate felt a fierce determination take hold. She would not give in to sadness or self-doubt. She would serve her namesake and do what was required of her. She was no fragile woman to be frightened or turned from her mission by wicked creatures. They did not, she concluded, truly know with whom they were dealing. She had the Goddess of Witches leading her, her phantom friends watching over her, and her earthly team at her side. There was work to be done.
On impulse, she removed her hat, took out her pins, and shook her hair free of its plait before mounting her bicycle and pedalling away across the Cathedral Green. As her hair flowed behind her in the wind it was as vibrant and as wild as the sun-streaked, darkening sky above.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In writing this book I have been so fortunate in receiving tremendous support from people connected to Hereford Cathedral. My thanks go to Rosemary Firman, who was the cathedral librarian at the time of my research and assisted me in finding all sorts of wonderful books. I am indebted to Chancellor Canon Chris Pullin, now retired, for the time he took to answer my many questions. Special thanks go to the archivist at the cathedral, Elizabeth Semper O’Keefe, who has taken up my quest for facts with such enthusiasm. She provided a wealth of information, gained access for me to fascinating areas in the cathedral, delved deep into the archives for details regarding clergy and interesting characters long gone, and generally made the whole process of research for this book so much fun. Thank you!
My gratitude also to John Marshall, Mayor’s Officer at the Town Hall, for his time, knowledgeable talk, and for access to Lord Owain’s sword. That story line has been saved for a later book in the series.
I would like to point out that, even after all this wonderful assistance toward historical accuracy, I am a writer of stories, and this is a work of fiction. As such, it contains liberties taken with the facts, and mistakes borne of creative endeavor, all of which I claim as my own.
As always, my heartfelt thanks to my editor, Peter Wolverton, for his tireless efforts to help me find the best way to tell my story. As the first book in a new series we faced very specific challenges, and I would not have risen to them half so well without him, or without his editorial assistant, Claire Cheek. Thanks to you both. We got there in the end!
There is one character in this book who carries a special significance. A dear reader lost three family members tragically and approached me to see if her nephew (who was only a small boy at the time of his death) could be memorialized as a character in one of my stories. I was pleased to be able to do this, and he now has a small but important part in the series, the cathedral cat bearing his name; Solomon.
ALSO BY PAULA BRACKSTON
The Garden of Promises and Lies
Secrets of the Chocolate House
