Part 14 (1/2)

Gaynor murmured, ”s.h.i.+t,” which was out of character.

Ragginbone contented himself with one of those glowing looks from beneath the overhang of his eyebrows.

Luc demanded: ”Does that include me?”

”Not this time. You're coming with me-to Wrokeby. We need a fast car, and you're a banker. You've got a Porsche or two.”

”Porsche and cla.s.sic Jag,” said Luc. ”But I think I can do better than that. I've got a bike as well.”

”A Harley?” Will was distracted.

”I'm scared of bikes,” Fern said.

”Good,” said Ragginbone. ”That way we get to share the fear around. You'll need Lucas at Wrokeby: as her close kin, he could be the only one who can restore Dana to herself. Even if her spirit is released, without the Gift she may be unable to find her own way back.”

”Can you tell me what to do?” asked Luc.

”Later. Tell us your plan, Fernanda.”

She told them.

”You were right,” said Ragginbone. ”It isn't a good plan. But it will have to do. Were you thinking of drawing the circle here?”

”You know the room's not big enough, and the vibes are wrong. We'll have to use the bas.e.m.e.nt again.”

”Moonspittle won't like it,” Ragginbone said. ”Whatever you offer him won't be enough.”

”You'll have to twist his arm. You've done it before. The point is, will it work?”

”Sorcery always attracts attention,” the Watcher conceded. ”The elementals are certain to be still around, and the eyes of Oedaphor miss little. Once she's found you, there's no doubt that Morgus will come. Whether we can divert her for long enough . . . well, that is a matter for us. But creeping around a witch's lair in her absence is hardly a safe option.”

”I'll walk on tiptoe,” Fern said. ”And I'll put spells of protection around you, especially Gaynor. I'm sorry, but you're the weakest, and my friend; she's bound to target you. She already thinks you're a reincarnation of Guinevere.”

”Maybe I could use that,” Gaynor heard herself saying, surprised to find her voice unshaken. ”I know all the legends.”

”Legends only tell you what's legendary,” Ragginbone said. ”We don't know the truth, or what memories we might reawaken. That could be the most dangerous game of all.”

”It's worth a try,” Gaynor insisted valiantly.

”Definitely not,” said Fern. ”Just keep her talking for a while. When she gets angry, tell her where I've gone. That'll make her so mad she should forget about you immediately. Broomsticks are out this year: she'll have to get back to Wrokeby by car. With luck, we'll be away before then.”

”You are relying too much on luck,” said Ragginbone.

”You mean we're we're relying on it,” said Will. ”You'll be in the firing line, too. No more simply the observer.” relying on it,” said Will. ”You'll be in the firing line, too. No more simply the observer.”

Ragginbone made no answer, and his eyes were hooded.

”Are we agreed?” asked Fern.

The response came in nods and whispers.

”When do we do it?” Gaynor inquired tentatively.

”Friday,” said Fern. ”I won't wait for the moon; I don't want to run the risk of the circles intersecting again. Morgus will have to get to London by some normal means of transport, probably a car. That's vital for the time factor.” She did not add: I don't want to leave myself leisure to think. There was a darkness in her head that might have been mere dread or genuine premonition, but now that she had told the others of the plan-now that she had their agreement-she knew there was no going back. She glanced at Luc's face: the geometry of his bones, the straight bar of his brow, the clamped mouth. He would be with her. On some instinctive level, he believed in her-in her power, in her ability to help. Suddenly, it mattered to Fern very much that he did not see her fear or fail. Whoever he was.

”We'll be lucky,” she said.

In her gut, she thought her luck had run out.

VIII.

It was daylight in the backstreets and alleyways of Soho, but beneath the shop that never opened the bas.e.m.e.nt was dark. The window slot was screened; lumpen candles guttered in a phantom draft but did not quite go out. Moonspittle quaked in a chair, his head retreating between rounded shoulders like a tortoise into its sh.e.l.l. On his lap, a restless Mogwit unraveled layers of cardigan with a kneading of claws. ”I won't do it,” Moonspittle muttered, over and over. ”My place. My secret place. Intruders. Danger . . .” Ragginbone did what he could to soothe him. He was uncharacteristically gentle, but it had little effect. Fern, now that the initial arguments had ended, paid no further attention. She was walking the perimeter of the circle, spellpowder dribbling through her fingers, and chanting in a voice so soft that no individual words could be distinguished. The shadow of impending danger was not gone from her mind, but she had been able to thrust it aside, immersing herself in the present moment. For this little s.p.a.ce she felt in control, sure of herself and her actions.

Will and Gaynor stood back from the circle. Luc remained near the door. Earlier that day, Gaynor had bought a style magazine and a quant.i.ty of makeup, darkening her eyes to smoky slits, hollowing her cheeks with blusher, painting her lips the color of black plums. Strands of her long hair were braided and twisted with glittering threads. ”Gwennifer,” she had told herself, gazing in the mirror; but the transformation didn't work, she simply looked like a Gaynor whose face-like so many of her clothes-didn't quite fit. ”A change of image,” she excused herself to the others. Will glared somberly at her from time to time. In the flicker of the candlelight, forgetful of her appearance, she did indeed look different, as if the memory of another face played over hers, someone more beautiful and more alien, a stranger whose specter had returned courtesy of Chanel and Aveda to haunt her features.

Under the influence of magic, the room began its usual antics, stretching and bending away from the circle. Luc, unprepared and unaccustomed, stared around him wildly, but seeing his companions apparently indifferent, forced himself to stay calm. Fern completed the perimeter, drew the runes of protection outside. Then she commenced a new incantation, a s.h.i.+elding spell to cover Will, Ragginbone, and Moonspittle, and most of all Gaynor. She was not certain of the wording, only that she must call on a power long gone, but as she spoke her vocal cords were seized with paralysis and her lips moved without feeling, and another voice vibrated through her, one deeper than hers and wilder, startling even Moonspittle from his fog of private terrors. Man or woman, spirit or witchkind, Fern could not tell, but the voice filled her like wind in the trees, like rain on the sea, and the spell rang out strong and sure. For an instant they all saw it, glittering in the air around them, and then it was set, and the vision vanished with the words, and Fern was silent a long minute till her own voice returned.

”What was that that?” asked Will.

”You are meddling with powers that should not be disturbed,” Ragginbone said predictably.

Fern did not deign to answer. She was carried along by the momentum of the enchantment, not oblivious to distractions but unaffected by them. ”Nya.s.se!” ”Nya.s.se!” she commanded. The candles flared upward. The circle became a ring of pale flame. Luc saw the shadows fragmented, swirling around the room, swarming like flies against a ceiling that seemed to arch away from the potency of the magic. He thought: She she commanded. The candles flared upward. The circle became a ring of pale flame. Luc saw the shadows fragmented, swirling around the room, swarming like flies against a ceiling that seemed to arch away from the potency of the magic. He thought: She is is a witch; and his heart s.h.i.+vered, but not with fear. She spoke words that he knew somehow were those of summoning, though he could not understand them. In the background, Moonspittle whimpered in protest. ”Eriost Idunor!” Fern cried, and at the circle's hub a stunted column of smoke appeared, condensing swiftly into a fair, slight form. The Child. Luc tried in vain to discern its s.e.x. It was leaf crowned, flaxen curled, and its eyes were old. a witch; and his heart s.h.i.+vered, but not with fear. She spoke words that he knew somehow were those of summoning, though he could not understand them. In the background, Moonspittle whimpered in protest. ”Eriost Idunor!” Fern cried, and at the circle's hub a stunted column of smoke appeared, condensing swiftly into a fair, slight form. The Child. Luc tried in vain to discern its s.e.x. It was leaf crowned, flaxen curled, and its eyes were old.

”You summon me again, Morcadis,” it said. ”You are profligate with your Gift, calling on ancient spirits so often and so carelessly. I thought you had mortal friends to bear you company.”

”I am never careless,” said Fern. ”Tell me about the Tree.”

”The Tree?”

”You know to what I refer. Morgus has brought a sapling of the Eternal One into this world and planted it. Even as I speak she watches it grow. Does it bear fruit?”

”I have no knowledge of such things,” Eriost replied. ”I am not a seer-or a gardener. Ask elsewhere.”

”You are one of the first Spirits,” Fern insisted. ”You see far. Tell me what you see.”

The Child tilted its head to one side and gazed mockingly at her.

”Maere, Maere, witch of FaeryHow does your garden grow?With gallows tree and nooses threeAnd pretty heads all in a row.”

”Riddles and rhymes,” said Fern. ”A fit pastime for a child.”

”I know another.” Eriost laughed an infant's laugh tainted with mischief-or malevolence.

”Little Miss Capel sat at a tableUnder the apple tree,Along came a spider and sat down beside herAnd ate up Miss Capel for tea.”

The Child faded as it spoke, vanis.h.i.+ng into a giggle and a puff of vapor.