Naturally I felt a little queasy, but experience had taught me that while ghosts might look dangerous and utter nasty threats, as a rule, they couldn’t touch and move anything, not even a breath of air. And I very much hoped that this Berith was nothing but a ghost, a copy of the real demon trapped between the covers of this book, and the real demon, as it was also to be hoped, wasn’t around anymore.
So I said politely, but unimpressed, “No one summoned you.”
“Berith, demon of lies, Grand Duke of Hell,” Berith introduced himself in a ringing voice. “Otherwise known as Bolfri.”
“Yes, that’s what it says here,” I agreed, looking at the book again. “You also improve the voices of singers.” A nice gift, that one. However, once you’d summoned him with an invocation (which looked tricky, since it was obviously written in ancient Babylonian), if you wanted him to improve your voice, you had to make him assorted sacrifices, including aborted monstrosities, preferably still alive. And that was nothing compared with what you had to do to get him to turn other metals into gold, which he could also do. As a result, the Sichemites—whoever they were—had worshipped Berith. Until Jacob and his sons came along and “put all the men of Sichem to death by the sword, torturing them most horribly.” So far, so good.
“Berith commands twenty-six legions,” he announced grandly.
But he hadn’t done anything to me so far, and I felt even braver. “I think people who talk about themselves in the third person are peculiar,” I said, and turned the page. Just as I’d hoped, Berith disappeared back into the book like smoke blown away by the wind. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“An interesting choice of reading matter,” said a quiet voice behind me. I spun around. Count Saint-Germain, unnoticed, had entered the room. He was leaning on a stick with an elaborately carved handle, his tall, lean figure was as impressive as ever, and his dark eyes were bright and watchful.
“Yes, very interesting,” I murmured rather uncertainly. But then I pulled myself together, shut the book, and sank into a deep curtsey. When I emerged from my huge skirts again, the count was smiling.
“I’m glad you have come,” he said, taking my hand and raising it to his lips. I could hardly feel their touch. “It seems to me advisable for us to get to know each other better, for our first meeting was a little … unfortunate, was it not?”
I said nothing. At our first meeting I’d concentrated mainly on singing all the verses of the national anthem in my head, the count had made some offensive remarks about the low IQ of women in general and me in particular, and finally he had half strangled me and threatened me in a distinctly unconventional way. He was dead right: the whole thing had been more than a little unfortunate.
“How cold your hand is,” he said. “Come along, sit down. I am an old man. I can’t spend a long time standing.” He smiled, let go of my hand, and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Against the background of all those bookshelves, he once again looked like his own portrait, an ageless man with distinguished features, lively eyes, and a white wig, surrounded by an unmistakable aura of mystery and danger. I had no option but to sit down on the other chair.
“Are you interested in magic?” he asked, pointing to the stack of books.
I shook my head. “Not at all until last Monday, to be honest.”
“Yes, the situation is rather strange, don’t you agree? All these years, your mother has kept you thinking of yourself as an ordinary girl. And from now on, you have to remember that you play an important part in the history of one of the greatest secrets of mankind. Can you imagine why she did it?”
“Because she loves me.” I meant it to sound like a question, but it came out as a firm statement.
The count laughed. “Yes, that’s the way women think! Love! The fair sex really does overwork that word. Love is the answer—I am always moved to hear that reply. Or amused, depending on circumstances. What women will never understand is that they and men have entirely different notions of love.”
I didn’t reply.
The count tilted his head slightly to one side. “Without a woman’s wholehearted commitment to love, it would be far more difficult for her to subordinate herself to a man in every respect.”
I tried to keep my expression neutral. “In fact, that’s kind of changed in my own time.” (And thank goodness, I thought.) “In the twenty-first century, men and women have equal rights. No one has to feel worth less than anyone else.”
The count laughed again, this time at some length, as if I’d told a really funny joke. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I’ve been told that before. But believe me, whatever rights women may be granted, it makes no difference to human nature.”
What could I say to that? Nothing would probably be best. As the count had just acknowledged, it’s hard to change human nature. That might easily apply to his own nature, as well.
He went on looking at me for some time, his mouth curving in amusement. Then he said, suddenly, “But magic … according to the prophesies, you ought to know something about that. Ruby red, with G major, the magic of the raven, brings the Circle of Twelve home into safe haven.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that several times before,” I said. “But no one has been able to tell me what the magic of the raven really is.”
“The raven red, on ruby pinions winging its way between the worlds, hears dead men singing. It scarce knows its strength, the price it scarce knows, but its power will arise and the Circle will close.”
I shrugged my shoulders. No one could make head or tail of these cryptic lines of verse.
“It’s only a prophesy of dubious origin,” said the count. “It isn’t necessarily accurate.” He leaned back and went on scrutinizing me intently. “Tell me something about your parents and your home.”
“My parents?” I was rather surprised. “There isn’t really much to tell. My father died of leukemia when I was seven. Before he fell sick, he was a lecturer at Durham University. We lived in Durham until he died. Then my mum moved back to my grandparents’ house in London, with my little brother and sister and me. We live there with my aunt and my cousin and our great-aunt Maddy. My mother works as a hospital administrator.”
“And she has red hair, like all the Montrose girls, doesn’t she? Like your brother and sister, am I right?”
“Yes, they all have red hair except me.” Why was he harping on that? “My father had dark hair.”
“All the other women in the Circle of Twelve are red-haired. Did you know that? Until not so long ago, hair of that color was enough to get you burnt as a witch in many countries. At all times, and in all cultures, people have found magic both fascinating and threatening. That is also why I have studied it in such depth. Once you know about something, there is no reason to fear it.” He leaned forward and placed his fingertips together. “In particular, I take a burning interest in the magic of Far Eastern cultures. On my travels in India and China, I was fortunate enough to meet many teachers who were prepared to pass on their knowledge. I was initiated into the mysteries of the Akasha Chronicle and learnt much that would be beyond the intellectual capacity of most Western cultures. Knowledge that would drive the Inquisition, even today, to take violent action. There is nothing the Church fears more than the discovery by human beings that God is not sitting far away in heaven, determining our fate, but is within us.” He looked at me hard and then smiled. “It is always refreshing to discuss such blasphemous notions with you children of the twenty-first century, who do not bat an eyelash at the thought of heresy.”
Well, I don’t expect we would, even if we knew exactly what it was.
“The Asiatic masters are far ahead of us on the path of spiritual development,” said the count. “It is from them that I learned many small … abilities such as the one I demonstrated to you last time we met. My teacher was a monk, a member of a secret order in the distant Himalayas. He and his monastic brothers communicate without using their vocal cords, and they can defeat their enemies without lifting a finger, so strong is the power and imagination of their minds.”
“That must be useful,” I said cautiously. I didn’t want him thinking he’d like to show me all over again. “I think you were trying out that ability on Lord Alastair at yesterday evening’s soirée.”
“Ah, the soirée.” He smiled again. “From my point of view, it won’t take place until tomorrow. How delightful to know that we shall really be meeting Lord Alastair there. Does he appreciate my little performance?”
“He seemed impressed, anyway,” I replied. “But not really intimidated. He said he was going to see to it that Gideon and I were never born at all. And he called us these creatures.”
“Yes, he has an unfortunate tendency to make uncivil remarks,” said the count. “Although in that he can’t compete with his ancestor, the Conte di Madrone. I should have killed the conte when I had the chance. However, I was young at the time, and regrettably naive.… Well, that’s not a mistake I’ll make a second time. Even if I cannot lay him low with my own hands, Lord Alastair’s days are numbered, however many men he gathers around him for protection, and however expert his swordplay. If I were a young man, I would challenge him myself. But now my descendant can take over that role. Gideon’s skill at fencing is considerable.”
At the mention of Gideon’s name, I felt warm all over, as usual. I thought of what he had said a little while ago, and felt even warmer.
Instinctively, I looked at the door. “Where has Gideon gone?”
“Oh, for a little outing, I expect,” said the count casually. “He has enough time to pay a call on a charming young woman of my acquaintance. She lives quite close, and if he takes the coach, he can be with her in a few minutes.”
What?
“Does he do that often?”
The count smiled again, a warm, friendly smile, but there was something else lurking in it. Something that I couldn’t interpret. “He hasn’t known her very long. It was only recently that I introduced them. She is a clever and very attractive young widow, and I am of the opinion that it does a young man no harm to spend a little time in the company of … well, let’s call her an experienced woman.”
I was unable to say a word to that, but obviously I wasn’t expected to.
“Lavinia Rutland is one of those delightful women who enjoy passing on the benefit of their experience to the opposite sex,” said the count.
You bet she did. I’d thought so myself. Upset, I stared at my hands, which had clenched into fists entirely of their own accord. Lavinia Rutland, the lady in the green dress. So that’s why they’d seemed so much at ease with each other yesterday evening.
“I have an impression that you do not quite like the idea,” said the count in a soft voice.
He was dead right. I didn’t like it one little bit. It took me a great effort to look the count in the eye again.
