At his age, and at his health, and at his level of relative respectability in the community, and at his distance from the supernatural and paranormal community both physically and temporally, it ought to have taken him longer to get everything he needs for this together. However, Alastair still has a sharp mind, even if his body is beginning to catch up with him, and he still knows people. Not many, but some. All right…two. And he wasn’t about to ask Gertrude for help. Not about this.
Pulling Mikaele Salesa’s strings shouldn’t have been this easy, but then, with Kieran likely gone forever, there was no way invoking Martin wouldn’t stir something in the old reprobate, Alastair thinks as if he’s not at least a decade Salesa’s senior. The man is a lot of things that drive Alastair to despair—cunning, devious, too cautious by half in some ways and too reckless by far in others—but he’s also honest, and generous, and apparently sentimental. Alastair definitely got something of a discount, or at the very least a fair price, and he knows it’s only because of what this is for.
“Should’ve done this years ago,” he murmurs, surveying the array spread out across the worktable in the cellar.
And he would have, too. If only she had trusted him sooner.
He knows that’s being a bit unfair. If she hasn’t told him everything, it has nothing to do with trust and everything to do with wanting to protect him. He’s heard enough through the grapevine, from those who don’t realize he knows her, to know that she walks a dangerous path and has for thirty years. And he certainly knows enough to know that if anyone or anything out there knows she has anything that can be used as leverage, they will, without hesitation. It was bad enough when it was just him and Liliana, but…now there’s Martin to consider.
Martin, whom Gertrude hadn’t known existed until the night of the ballet.
I never knew you were a dance lover, Alastair. Anyone else would have heard her usual dry, humorless voice, but Alastair knows her better than anyone living, knows the subtleties of her moods, and if she had been anyone else she would have been batting her eyelashes and cooing.
Is this your way of asking why I never took you to the theater? he shot back, and was rewarded with the soft, low laugh she so rarely shared with anyone.
They hadn’t had long, only a few minutes while the children were using the restroom—but he knew she had spotted him, knew she would come up, and that was why he sent them away—but it would have been enough for him. Maybe for her, too, if he hadn’t said exactly that. She’d been surprised at first, then thoughtful, then agreed she should go and slipped out. Thankfully, Martin knows he’s had a cough that’s been getting persistently worse lately, so he was able to cover up the tears at her departure. He contrived to enjoy the ballet for Melanie’s sake, even managed to persuade the usher to pass the message along to Marie-Claude Guichon that Amy Yuen’s daughter said hello and stood by delighted when she burst out of the dressing room to sweep Melanie up in a torrent of shrieks, tulle, tears, and perfume. He took the children for ice cream, managed—just—to participate in the conversation about the music and dancing, and got them all safely home before returning to the little house that had never seemed so dark and lonely.
He hadn’t been prepared to find Gertrude sitting at his kitchen table with two cups of tea steeping in front of her.
It would be a lie to say he wasn’t glad to see her. He was. He knows she was glad to see him, too, or she wouldn’t have come. He would have preferred a more personal—or more strictly personal, anyway—conversation, but he can’t say he’s upset she told him everything, either. Or at least, he amends, everything she’s willing to share.
Still…he knows the truth behind what she’s been up to now. He knows about the rituals. He knows about the dangers she faces. He knows about the preparations she’s making, the worries she has, the risks she takes. He knows about the bond she has with Agnes Montague, the Messiah of the Lightless Flame, and it’s this that scares him most of all. To bind oneself to another is bad enough, but a being of utter devastation like that…and if the Cult knows about it, which they seem to, Alastair wonders what’s keeping them from coming after Gertrude.
She wonders that, too.
I have to keep everyone believing there’s nothing worth destroying, she told him, staring into the depths of her tea as if reading the leaves. They have to think I would gladly sacrifice anything to stop them, and then maybe they won’t try.
He tried to persuade her to stay the night. He knew he would never succeed. He did, at least, manage to convince her that even if Wright tries to see through the picture’s eyes he won’t know what’s on it, so she at least has one picture of her—their—grandson. It’s not his formal school portrait, nor the carefully posed photograph Alastair persuaded someone to take of the four of them on the stairs of the Royal Festival Hall, but a candid photograph of Martin and Melanie attempting, with the combination of awkwardness and utter lack of self-consciousness that characterizes the young, to learn the polonaise. The joy on Martin’s face in that moment is unfeigned and complete, and Alastair wants Gertrude to have it. The picture and the joy.
Alone in his bedroom that night, the music of the ballet playing in his mind and Gertrude’s words tying knots in his stomach, he knew there had to be something more he could do for her, something beyond just giving her another reason to fight to save the world. There had to be something he could do to help her to survive her battles.
Then he remembered the book. The one he salvaged from a box Diana Caxton was prepared to throw out as beyond repair even for them, the one he’s had squirreled away since before Liliana was born, the book he’s been extra careful to be sure Martin never finds, especially with how quickly the boy picks up languages. Alastair doesn’t think he reads Belarusian, not yet anyway, but one can never be sure.
He unearthed it, and found his memory had not failed him. He began his preparations immediately, and now here he is. He fishes the book out of his jacket and mutters to himself as he compares the instructions with the spread on his table.
Herbs, easy enough; it may be winter, but there’s one of those occult shops in the village that sells everything imaginable all year round, and the young lady behind the counter isn’t the kind to ask prying questions about her customers, even if it’s clearly their first visit. Same with the candles. The fine-spun ball of silk he set aside for Martin to knit something special with will work well enough for this. The other components were the hard ones, but Alastair meticulously confirms that everything is present, then gets to work.
The sigils are quite complex, and it takes him some time to lay them out properly, especially since he has to make sure the lines are as clean as possible. He checks to make sure that he’s used the correct herbs in the correct places, then places a shallow clay dish at the head of each and sets a different colored beeswax candle in each—thirteen in total, one for each full moon of the year. Into the top of each candle, next to the wick, he presses a small object—some mundane, some precious, some powerful, but each with a reason according to the book. The string he sets to one side, next to the brass lighter with the spiderweb design he’s had as long as he can remember and the ancient and solidly carved hunting knife, the one with the handle of bone and the delicate pattern of knots and whorls above the sharp edge of the blade, that even Mikaele Salesa is surprised he was allowed to obtain. He’ll need those later, during the actual working.
But there are two things he places in the center. The first is, perhaps, not what the original writer of the spell had in mind—no matter how remarkable a person they may have been, no lightly educated peasant from the thirteenth century could have foreseen the existence of such a thing. But these are modern times, and modern solutions are called for, and a pen is only as good as the paper it writes on when it comes to being a way to observe and record. Alastair knows Gertrude has been committing her statements to tape for close to twenty-five years now, so a magnetic tape recorder seems to him the perfect choice to protect her.
The other is a plain gold band, and Alastair feels naked without it on his hand.
Right. Everything is as set as it’s going to be. Time to begin.
Alastair hesitates, then decides, to hell with it. It can’t hurt, and it might be the only record of this there is. He leans over, careful not to disturb the sigils, and presses the RECORD button.
“Test, test…one two, one two…” He straightens up and huffs through his mustache. “Right. Here we go.”
He takes a deep breath. “Trudy, I hope you’re the one listening to this. If you’re not…well, means this likely didn’t go the way I intended it to. Because if it does, I’m either going to destroy this tape or hand it to you personally, so nobody else should hear it. But if the person listening to this tape is not Gertrude Robinson…I suppose some explanations are in order. My name is Alastair Koskiewicz, son of Teodor and Jadwiga Koskiewicz, and I once worked in the Library at the Magnus Institute in London. I am also—and if you’re listening to this, it’s because she is…not able to, so I don’t feel too bad about telling you this—Gertrude Robinson’s husband.” He sighs. “We’ve not lived together for…quite some time, but we never did get divorced, what?
“If you’re not Trudy…I hope you know what kind of danger you’re in. Being the Archivist isn’t generally a job with a long lifespan, I’ve found. Few last more than a decade. I’m recording this approximately thirty-two years, nine months, and seven days after Gertrude took the job, so I daresay she’s got the all-time Institute record, but you’d need to confirm that with personnel records, assuming Wright…or whoever is in charge at this point…lets you get that close. Irrelevant, I suppose.”
Alastair swallows, and softens his voice. “I’m going to record the rest of this with the idea that you’re the one listening, Trudy, so if I’m wrong…well, indulge an old man. So then. It’s been about a month since we saw each other last, and I’ve not been able to stop thinking about what you said about the Rituals. I’m as glad as you are that Coppélia wasn’t the linchpin of the Stranger’s, but it strikes me that you’re going to be neck-deep in whatever ones are still to come. And it strikes me they’re not going to go down easy, whatever you think. You’re smart. You’re capable. You can look after yourself. But…you can’t be everywhere.
“I’ve found a ritual of my own that ought to help. With this, I can…watch over you. Protect you some, I think. Give you a bit of a barrier between you and the Fourteen.” He huffs a small laugh. “It’s likely to backfire. When have we ever been this lucky? But if I’m right, it won’t just protect you. The wording of the ritual…well, I’ll leave this tape going, so hopefully you’ll be able to follow. I wouldn’t try replicating it if I were you. Bit difficult without the book, and I intend to burn it when I’m done here. Just in case you do find a copy, though, it’s called Zachavaĺnik Mahii, Dakladčyk Mifaŭ—in English, Magic Keeper, Myth Speaker. I doubt you speak Belarusian, but I suppose if the nosy bastard wants you to understand, you will. Just please be careful with it.”
He pauses, staring at the wedding ring on the table. Softly, he says, “You have the picture, Trudy. You know what else I’m doing this for—what we’re both doing this for. You’ve said what you do is worth it to keep us safe. Well…so is this. If you’re listening to this, and I didn’t hand it to you…it was worth it. As long as it works.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I love you, Trudy. Never forget that.”
Several seconds tick by while Alastair struggles to maintain his composure. Finally, he takes another deep breath, squares his shoulders, turns the page in the book, and begins to read.
The best one can say about his Belarusian is that it’s…fine. Trying to speak it aloud, he has a tendency if he’s not concentrating everything he has to slip and use the Polish pronunciation, or the Russian one, instead. Fortunately, however, the actual language isn’t important, so he translates it into English as he goes.
“Spirits of Wind and Spirits of Wave, Spirits of Sun and Spirits of Stars, I demand your attention and ask what is mine.” He picks up the lighter, flicks it on, and touches it to each candle in order, reciting as he does so. “I call upon the Wolf Moon for satiation of hunger and satisfaction of old debts. I call upon the Snow Moon for covering of what is harsh and preserving of what is yet to grow. I call upon the Sap Moon for flowing sweet and clear. I call upon the Egg Moon for the beginning of new life. I call upon the Hare Moon for swift passage and green grass. I call upon the Rose Moon for beauty and kindness. I call upon the Thunder Moon for power and cleansing. I call upon the Red Moon for portents and passion. I call upon the Harvest Moon for the end of the year’s labors and the beginning of the rest. I call upon the Hunter’s Moon for passage through the wood and safety for those who would venture beyond this night. I call upon the Frost Moon for resetting and resettling. I call upon the Cold Moon for proof that all things must come to an end. I call upon the Blue Moon for special insight into that which would be missed otherwise. Hear me, O lord of the skies, and grant what I ask in the name of what I do.”
He sets the lighter down, picks up the knife, and slices the palm of his hand with a quick, clean cut. The knife is sharp, and blood wells up in the cut immediately.
“Will,” he says.
He turns his hand over, lets it drip onto the recorder for a second, then lowers his hand to press and smear it against the top of the recorder.
“Way.”
He reaches for the end of the string, lays it across his bleeding palm, and drags it through the clenched fist, then begins winding it around the lit candles. This is the tricky part—to do this without disturbing the sigils or toppling the candles—but he works as quickly as he can, drawing the silk through his bloody hand and stringing it in a complicated web that leaves an arcane pattern, one that thankfully looks exactly like the one in the book.
“Weave.”
He claps his hands together twice, as hard as he can, then presses them to the table just on the outside of the sigils and traces a bloody circle around the outside edge. By some miracle, he keeps bleeding long enough to complete the circle.
“Ward.”
Alastair reaches deftly through the small hole in the center of the string, just big enough for his hand, and extracts the ring. He grips it tightly in his hand, coating it with blood, and then holds it up high. “By rock and rill, by wood and hill, by mountain, lake, and sky, I hereby cast a binding of protection around Gertrude Ann Robinson, the Archivist, and all her line. May they be safe from that which stalks in the darkness. May they be guarded at all times by a record that keeps them known and keeps them company. May the Doors of Death welcome them as friends but prevent them from crossing before their due time. May the light of the dawn be ever their promise and the glow of evening ever their friend. And may they always know that I am with them and watching over them, no matter where they go or what they do.”
The flames on the candles stand perfectly still, not even the faintest flicker, and the blood-soaked string begins to glow a delicate, luminous blue. There’s a heart woven into the pattern—how did he not notice that?—and a series of concentric circles that never touch. No spiral, no web—no true web, anyway—no eye. Only love and a target, a desire to protect. It hums faintly, too, a song he can only just make out.
Alastair grips his ring for a moment and listens to the humming, then, without really thinking about it, begins to sing. The words are familiar, a sea shanty Kieran sang often enough with him and Martin when the lad was small, a simple and plaintive song about pulling for home and finding love there. When he finishes, he raises the ring higher, then slams his hand abruptly through the center of the woven string. It slips through without touching the string and traps the ring between the wood of the table and the flat of his palm as he shouts four words that are older than time itself.
“Allay fortission! Fortissio roa!”
The sigils erupt. The candles shoot their flames almost to the ceiling. The string glows a bright, hot blue that nearly sears the hair from Alastair’s arm, and something he can only call electric in the same way Terry Pratchett describes the color of magic as a kind of disappointing purple-green—a description that will do for now because there is no true way to describe the sensation—rockets from the center of his hand and roils through his entire body, with particular focus, it seems, on his brain and heart. A high, almost whining squeal whips around his head, seems to go through his head, loops back past him and is gone. There is a blinding flash, and his vision goes white, and then there is only a ringing, echoing silence.
Alastair’s head swims. His breathing feels labored and shallow, and his vision is blurry. Slowly, he curls his hand around the ring and manages to work it back onto his finger, then closes his eyes tightly, hoping to clear it. He’s hearing…all sorts of strange things. Whirs, clicks, pops. Footsteps, which makes no sense, as he’s alone and he knows he’s alone. A seeming cacophony of voices all talking at once, weaving in and out, voices familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time. He shakes his head to clear it and feels as if his brain is sloshing out his ears.
Oh. All right, that’s not good.
He forces his eyes open. His vision is still severely blurred, but if he didn’t know better, he would swear the table has been…cleared. Not just cleared but cleaned, scrubbed of herbs and blood alike and wiped to a bright polish. The only thing left on it—and the only thing he can see clearly—is the tape recorder, still spinning away.
He focuses on it, concentrates. He hears a voice, one he can’t quite place, and it seems to be…narrating his actions? Is that right? Yes, it just whispered exactly what he’s thinking, it’s still doing that, why is it doing that…
“Wait, can he hear you?” Another voice speaks, deeper and a bit louder, though still faint and tinny and crackling as if through the tannoy at a supermarket…or as if, he realizes, it’s coming through the filter of a tape recorder. “Wait, can he hear me?”
“Yes,” Alastair says, or tries to. It feels as though there is a thick paddle in his mouth, and he isn’t sure he trusts himself to move away from this table.
“Good Lord,” says a different voice, this one sounding strained and as though he is ready to collapse.
Alastair tries to speak, but can’t make the words come. But if the first voice is telling the others his thoughts and actions, maybe he doesn’t need to. He concentrates on the tape as hard as he can and thinks, with some difficulty, Who are you?
There’s a pause before yet another voice speaks, this one gentle and calm and bringing tears to Alastair’s eyes, because he knows this voice, knows it even if he hasn’t heard it exactly before. “It worked, Granddad. I’m listening to the tape now, and they’ve been…i-it worked.”
“M—” Alastair struggles. He will not think this one, he won’t. He needs to get the word out. “M—Ma’in?”
“Yes, Granddad, it’s me. I—” There’s a quick intake of breath, and then Martin’s voice, a much older Martin’s voice, speaks more strongly. “Call 999, Granddad. You’ve had a stroke, or at least that’s what they’re going to assume. Mum will bring me up to see you next week. And we’ll…you’ll hear from me again, I guess, the more I use the tapes.”
Alastair nods slowly. Yes, he supposes, in absence of any evidence to the contrary, this likely does look like a stroke. A sort of calm steals over him as he realizes that he likely won’t survive very long. He hopes Martin, future Martin, doesn’t try to tell him how long he has left, he doesn’t want to know.
He reaches out with a shaking, trembling hand and touches the recorder, then forces out another word. “Tru…?”
“She—she never heard this tape. Hears.” Martin’s voice is soft and regretful. “At least I don’t think so. I—we can’t hear our end of the conversation coming out of the tape, just yours. Maybe she listened and kept her mouth shut, but somehow, I doubt it. Someone tried to keep anyone from hearing it, it’s a miracle it’s in a playable condition.”
Alastair wishes he could reach through the tape and hug his grandson. But tape recorders don’t have arms, so he simply thinks that he really hopes at least one of the people belonging to the voices he can hear will give Martin a hug in his stead. There’s a soft, almost broken laugh.
“We’ve got him, Granddad,” a new voice says, this one female, and Alastair supposes it must be Melanie. “Yeah, it’s me. Gertrude Robinson is…she’s dead now, but it was from something you really couldn’t have protected her from, and there’s probably a tape somewhere. I…I hope wherever you are, you’re with her.”
Alastair smiles, or tries to smile, or at least thinks a smile; he isn’t entirely sure his face responds appropriately. Slowly and deliberately, he taps the recorder with a forefinger twice. He isn’t with Gertrude, not yet. He’s here, in the tapes. With them. Watching over them.
That’s been the whole point, after all.
He needs to crawl upstairs, needs to call an ambulance so he lasts long enough for Martin to visit in the present. He’s reluctant to leave, but at the same time, he knows now that he will hear Martin’s voice again. For now, he can rest content. It worked. It worked.
He takes a deep breath, focuses his entire force of will on the tape, and manages a single, clear word that he hopes conveys exactly what he’s thinking to all three of his grandchildren, because instinct tells him Gerard is there too.
“Love.”
Click.