Modern Magick

Royalty and Ruin: 12

I couldn't leave Whitmore again without checking on Zareen. So while Jay went off to coax Millie into an imminent departure and the baro— prince — went to consult with Melmidoc, I made my way down onto the wide beach beneath the Whitmore cliff where Ashdown Castle had settled itself. The poor old place looked the worse for wear. It was too ancient, too delicate and too run-down to be dragged the length and breadth of Britain and beyond; a part of its roof had caved in during the journey (to Val's cost), and, robbed of the foundations it was used to, it had... shifted, in places. The effect was a general sagging, as of a crestfallen building enjoying a lengthy sulk.

I felt rather sorry for it. You'd think Fenella would be more careful with her family's ancestral home.

Inside, the air was much colder than the sun-drenched outdoors. That's the way with old buildings: all that brick and stone and none of the insulation, double-glazing and so on that characterises more modern structures. But there was something unearthly about the chill in the great, shadowy hall, and I moved with caution. Last time I had set foot in there, the walls had been weeping great, salt tears. The ten or so enslaved Waymasters who'd moved the place had not been at all happy about it.

Was Zareen even still there? I wandered down a corridor or two, feeling like the only moving object for about twelve miles. The castle had the hushed, too-still air of total desertion. 'Zar?' I called, though not very loudly. I had the irrational feeling that a loud noise might bring the rest of the roof down.

Miranda popped into my thoughts. I'd last seen her somewhere in these castle halls, too. She couldn't still be here — surely she had been dispatched back to our own Britain with the rest of her new colleagues. But when I came to consider the idea, I found I was not entirely sure. Distracted, exhausted and confused, I hadn't thought to make certain that she was among the throng we had crammed into Millie's parlours a few days before. 'Mir?' I called.

No response. My footsteps made discouraging dull, ringing sounds on the tiled floors, and the echoes they sent up told me clearly enough that I was alone.

Which is why I nearly died of fright when a voice abruptly screamed: 'Is someone there?'

'Argh!' I said, and fell against the nearest wall. I regretted this at once, for it oozed a freezing chill which went straight to my bones. I hurriedly leapt away again. 'Er. It's only me,' I said, squinting into the pervasive gloom. I saw no one. 'Ves of the Society. No threat to you whatsoever.'

'You should not be here,' said the voice. 'The ghost witch promised no one would come in.'

Ghost witch? 'You mean Zareen?'

'Yes.'

'I came to visit the ghost witch. I'm a friend. Do you know where she is?'

'She is engaged at present and cannot receive visitors.'

'You mean she isn't here?'

'Oh, she is,' said the disembodied voice, a note of disgust creeping in. 'She is busy. With the man.'

I was not altogether surprised to hear that George Mercer was not making himself popular. 'Can you tell me where she is?' I persevered.

'Northwest tower,' the voice snapped.

'Ah. And where is—'

'Up the stairs.'

My enquiries for more specific directions went unanswered, so with a sigh I toiled up the first flight of stairs I came to, their simple design and shabby state informing me that I had wandered into the servants' quarters. I toddled down passages uncounted, through drawing-rooms and bedchambers and parlours, aided only by an occasional snappish interjection from my bad-tempered guide: 'Not that way. The other door!' At length, a promisingly spiralling stairwell together with the low murmur of voices (hopefully the living variety) told me I had come to the right place.