Page 4 of As Many Souls as Stars
She used two more drops, just in case. When she stood from the mirror, and turned to the door, there was a human-shaped shadow on the wall watching her, cocking its head at an impossible angle.
‘Leave,’ Cybil snarled. ‘I do not want you here.’
It turned its head to the other side.
‘Leave,’ she said again. She took a pot of cochineal from the dressing table and threw it at the shadow. The pot shattered against the wall, flinging red paint across the tapestry there: a peaceful garden scene of a lady riding a unicorn. The lady now appeared to have suffered a terrible accident.
The shadow, with a distinct petulance, faded away. Shuddering, Cybil left the room.
She had to fetch her mother, had to prepare her for the visitor. But when she knocked on Lady Harding’s door, no response came. This was typical. Cybil had had the lock of the door removed years ago, and so it was no trouble to enter the room.
Bess was sitting up on the bed, staring out of the window, the virginal on the mattress in front of her. She was dressed—unusual—and she had even applied paint to her face: a thick layer of white lead, cracking in the creases of her forehead like the impasto of a painting.
‘Mother,’ Cybil said, ‘someone has come calling.’
Bess plucked a discordant note on the virginal.
‘Mother,’ Cybil said again.
‘Yes, I am coming,’ Bess told her, pushing the virginal away. She slipped off the mattress—Cybil lurched forward to steady her—and together, they left the room and descended the steps to the foyer.
Her father was standing by the front door, already in conversation with their visitor. He was a tall man, pinch-faced, with dark, greasy hair, and deep lines carved into his forehead—somewhat younger, mayhap, than Cybil’s parents. There was something vaguely familiar in his countenance; Cybil had the impression they might have met when she was young.
The stranger paused in his speaking to watch them as they approached. ‘Ah. Bess. It has been years, has it not?’
Bess gave him the same distant sort of smile she always used—as if he were standing very far away, a dot on the horizon. ‘Gilbert.’
The man’s gaze then fixed on Cybil. He had the same gold-brown eyes as her and her father.
He said, ‘This is the girl.’
‘Yes,’ her father replied. ‘Cybil, this is Sir Gilbert Harding, your uncle.’
Cybil dropped into a curtsey to hide her confusion. She had known that her father had a younger brother who had taken a position at Court; but she could not recall Gilbert ever visiting the Hall or taking an interest in their affairs.
Sir Gilbert swept her a stiff bow. Afterwards, there was an awkward, expectant silence, which was interrupted only by the bell ringing for supper.
That night, for the first time in years, Cybil ate at the same table as her parents. The cook had reacted to the prospect of visitors with excitement, and there was a vast array of dishes, far more than the four of them could eat: chicken stewed with plums and carawayseeds; red wine spiced with cinnamon; candied roses, so delicate they crumbled to powder when pressed with the blade of a knife. Her parents had known, clearly, that Gilbert was coming. And yet Cybil had not been informed. She did not know if that was a result of ignorance or malice.
Once the plates were cleared and the servants gone, Gilbert said, ‘There has been a witch trial in Ipswich.’
Cybil’s father looked mildly betrayed. ‘This is the reason you came?’
‘A witchfinder came to investigate the accusations and found them credible. Four women have been accused of maleficium.’
Maleficium: the legal term for witchcraft. Cybil knew, now, why Gilbert had come. For all his insistence on an angelic origin for his gifts, her father’s work often resembled the satanic. Cybil had seen Christopher break the neck of a rabbit then bring it back to life, had watched him stir water and whisper over it until it thickened and reddened into blood. When he had tried to teach Cybil the same, she had felt the darkness reach for her and pushed it away. The rabbit remained dead, and the water remained water.
‘These are peasants,’ her father said to Gilbert. ‘Women, as you say.’
Gilbert replied, ‘They had formed a coven. I heard they killed almost an entire herd of cattle. The cows grew great buboes on their feet and could not walk.’
‘What a pointless curse,’ Cybil said. ‘For what cause would anyone bother?’
Bess flinched at the wordcurse, crushing her napkin in her fist.
Gilbert looked at her archly, his face that of a stranger’s still, but his familiar eyes as cold as her father’s. He replied, ‘According to the prosecution, merely for mischief. The farmer said he saw them digging in the field, laying down charms for their magic.’
‘So they were judged guilty?’
