Page 135 of The Shadow Key

All this Henry takes in within the space of a few seconds, for his attention is soon drawn to the circle set within the middle of the room and those standing around it, hand in hand.

He is looking upon the same image from the grimoire, brought to life with frightening accuracy. In what looks like blood, a circle has been drawn upon the stone floor, a circle filled with those same strange symbols. At the top a skull has been placed, just as the image in The Shadow Key depicted, but one thing is different: lying in the middle of the circle is a body, and Henry feels the first stab of true fear run through him like a sword.

It is Linette who lies in the circle, her skin as pale as death.

‘Welcome, Henry,’ a voice says softly. ‘We have been waiting for you.’

Pulling his gaze away from Linette, Henry looks into the faces of the Order one by one: Lord Pennant. Lady Anne. Sir John Selwyn. Lady Selwyn. Matthew Lambeth. Elis Beddoe … And, of course, Julian Tresilian.

‘Rowena,’ Henry whispers. ‘Run now. Go to Plas Helyg, fetch Powell.’

‘Oh no,’ Julian says, a hoarse catch in his throat. ‘Our little hedgewitch stays here.’

Henry senses rather than sees Rowena press herself against the stone wall. Julian smiles.

‘Your sister is still alive, by the way,’ he adds conversationally. He places the dead hen at the foot of the circle, the south to the skull’s north, and as he moves Henry realises Julian is wearing an elaborate headdress made of ivory and feathers, and an ornate costume beneath the cloak. In the spaces where his flesh shows he sees that his skin too is marked with those strange archaic symbols. Henry swallows, glances at the others forming the outer circle, and sees that they are clothed and marked the same way.

‘What have you done to her?’

‘A little sedative,’ Julian answers, tapping the tip of the bloodied blade against the cushion of his palm. ‘She’ll wake soon enough. We need you both awake, when Berith comes.’

Henry shakes his head. ‘You’re mad.’ He looks to the rest. ‘You all are.’

Beneath her hood Lady Pennant gives a little laugh. ‘Dear Sir Henry! You cannot be more wrong.’

‘Can’t I?’ he shoots back, his anger returning. ‘You believe in something that doesn’t exist. All this –’ Henry gestures to the pillars, the throne, the skull, all of it – ‘is just a way to play make-believe. It’s all in your heads.’

The Order of Berith chuckle, an irritating laugh that echoes round the circle like the fall of a domino line, and Henry clenches his fists. Seeing it, Julian shakes his head with amusement.

‘I felt as you did, once. But then I discovered my books and the world opened up to me, blessed me in ways I never thought possible.’ He steps forward, a look of urgency on his face. ‘But it was possible, Henry! The things I’ve seen! The treasures I’ve possessed, the pleasures I’ve tasted! All because of this.’ He gestures to The Shadow Key set open on a stone lectern, Berith’s sigil carved on its base. ‘I brought the secrets of Solomon home, persuaded others of their merits. So many riches we’ve received! As long as we honoured Berith, our wealth was secure.’

‘Your wealth?’ Henry shoots back. In turn he looks from Lord Pennant to Sir John, back again to Julian. ‘It came from slaves in Jamaica, from shipbuilding and horses, from the yield of Welsh mines, not from this.’ Henry gestures at the hen bleeding into the circle, staining the hem of Linette’s nightgown red.

‘But you are wrong, Henry! What more proof could there have been of Berith’s magic than you yourself?’ Julian’s words are strangled now on the edge of a cough. ‘You and Linette,’ the robed man continues, glancing at her prostrate body in the circle, ‘were a miracle. Gwen and Hugh could not have children until we evoked Berith’s power.’

He does cough now, a violent expulsion into his hand, and Henry marks the blood that fills the palm, blood which Julian shakes onto the stone floor. Henry shakes his head in disgust.

‘They could not conceive for other reasons that have nothing to do with your so-called demon. Sometimes such matters take time. Believe me, as a man of medicine I should know. It was a coincidence, nothing more.’

Julian turns, his cloak whispering on the stone floor, begins to pace.

‘That is just what your father said. Coincidence. But it was Berith who brought you into this world and it is Berith who will take you from it.’ He stops, smiles again. ‘Your mother’s attempt to save you was all for naught. Despite her best efforts, we found you at last.’

Henry hesitates. ‘How did you find me?’

‘With difficulty,’ Julian replies softly. ‘I searched London high and low for you, paid handsomely for others to do the same, but it wasn’t until a year later I discovered you’d been taken to the Foundling Hospital. A lot of beggars sleep near the gates – some coins loosened one of their tongues, described your father perfectly. Of course, by then, I had no way of knowing which child you were. Names are changed, origins kept secret, the infants taken to the country until they reach the age of four. I thought my name and pocketbook would work in my favour but it seems they had already been warned someone might come. I had no idea what token was left, if any. So there you stayed. The only thing I had to go on was your birthmark.’

He points at the purple stain on Henry’s collarbone, peeking through from the open neck of his shirt.

‘Of course, with it being hidden you would be impossible to find unless I searched every boy in London. Impractical to do such a thing, but I did discover that all Foundlings are taught a trade, packed off as apprentices at the age of fourteen. I tried to find you that way – tracked down all manner of tradesmen: tailors, bookbinders, printers, goldsmiths, had all their lads checked for a mark. Nothing. The years slipped by. Our London friends found their homes in debtors’ prisons or early graves. The mines ceased adequate yield; the money dried up. Pennant’s slaves and ships, John’s horses. It wasn’t enough. We needed more. And then …’

Julian raises his bloodied hand.

‘The canker is deep-rooted, as I told you. The growth spread slowly but steadily until it was clear that only divine intervention could save me.’ The older man nods, as if to assure himself of the fact. ‘This was Berith’s punishment for not fulfilling my promise to him. I was at my wits’ end until providence led me to you, when I happened to attend a lecture on lesions in the brain last summer. You demonstrated on a live patient, do you recall?’

Something shifts in Henry’s mind.

‘You asked a question about the temporal lobe, its effects on memory …’

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