Page 31 of As Many Souls as Stars
In the distance, someone screamed.
Both women froze; then Cybil said, confused, ‘Mother?’ and shoved Miriam away.
The shriek sounded again. Cybil turned to Miriam, eyes flickering back and forth like flames, hands reflexively plucking at her skirts; the wildness in her face, the panic, was utterly breathtaking. ‘What is happening?’ she demanded. ‘Did you do this?’
Miriam shrugged. ‘It must be something to do with the witchfinder. Does it matter?’
Cybil looked aghast. Then, taking her skirts in her hands, she turned and ran towards the Hall.
Miriam groaned in frustration. ‘Cybil!’ she cried, exasperated. ‘Cybil, wait!’
But Cybil was not listening. She continued to run. Her mother’s screams were a constant wail now—almost musical in pitch, a melismatic song.
Miriam picked up the spade and followed her. As they ran, Harding Hall rose before them: its hill a grave-mound beneath it, and its windows laid out like an epitaph.
10
Cybil could hear Bess wailing, could hear the baying of dogs and the shouts of strangers. As she approached Harding Hall, she saw a throng of people outside the front door: men with pikes and chest plates and gravelly voices. Some were entering the building, and some were exiting it, bearing books and bottles, one even carrying her father’s desk. Peter, Martingale, and all of Martingale’s men were there, as well as the servants, who huddled in the corner, hissing to one another in urgent tones.
And on the rooftop, a gargoyle balanced on the balustrade—Bess Harding.
Cybil’s heart stuttered. She whispered, ‘Mother,’ to herself, dropping the grimoire to the ground. But as she was about to rush forward, and reveal herself to everyone, someone placed a hand on her shoulder. Cybil gasped in fright, spinning around to shove them away. It was Richter, still holding the spade; Cybil’s shove met her sternum, but it did nothing more to her than it might have done to a tombstone.
‘Cybil,’ Richter said, urgently, ‘if they see you, they will—’
Cybil wrenched the spade from her hands. ‘I care not what they do. My mother is up there, and if I do not act—’
‘You are endangering yourself,’ Richter interrupted. ‘You need my help.’
‘I do notwantyour help. I do not belong to you. My life is my own.’
Richter made a snarl of frustration, a sound so removed from humanity in its bared-teeth viciousness that Cybil almost flinched. ‘A mere moment ago, you were prepared to agree to a deal.’
‘And that would have been a mistake; we both know that. You bring nothing but destruction, Miriam Richter. I do not need you. I never shall.’
Richter’s expression went cold and slack, and she took a step back. In her expression, Cybil suddenly saw a great, yawning emptiness, a darkness as vast as all the skies and all the seas the world had ever known. It made the hairs on her arms stand on end, her chest constrict.
‘Go, then,’ Richter said. ‘Bury yourself with your pride. I will not give aid until you are willing to surrender.’
Terrified, furious, Cybil turned and ran towards the Hall. Richter did not call after her. Cybil peered back over her shoulder to see her still lingering by a tree, shadows gathering around her.
Approaching the crowd in front of the door, Cybil wielded the spade in two hands like a polearm. Peter was the first to notice her. When he saw the fury on her face, he stumbled backwards into Martingale, his mouth hanging slack in dismay.
Martingale pushed him aside and took a step forwards, clearing his throat. ‘Lady Harding,’ he said. ‘I am Henry Martingale.’
‘Yes, I recall.’
‘Good. I have come upon the authority of the Council to arrest you upon suspicion of—’
Cybil ignored him, craning her neck to look at Bess on the roof. She was pressed against the balustrade, fingers curled over its stone edge; Bess was a tall woman, and the barrier hardly reached her hips. Harding Hall, three-storeyed and stoic, stood between Cybil and her mother with the silent grimness of a gaoler. Cybil pressed her hand against one of the Doric columns that framed the front steps, as if she might somehow push the house away.
‘Mother, I am here!’ she shouted. ‘Come down, I beg you, before you hurt yourself!’
Bess swayed in the wind, a dandelion tuft in her white nightdress. Her red hair, the same vibrant shade as Cybil’s own, swarmed aroundher shoulders; she was lit solely by the torches below, and ghoulish shadows seeped around her brows and jaw.
‘It is finished!’ she shrieked, clawing at her arms. ‘It isallfinished!’
‘Mother, please—!’
