Page 12 of A Resistance of Witches
Lydia sat inthe ceremonial chamber, staring at the blood under her nails as the council spoke in hushed tones around her. Someone had managed to get her to her feet and wipe most of the blood from her hands, but streaks of it remained on her neck and chest, and her dress was stiff with it. The rainstorm smell had dissipated, replaced by the tang of copper.
“Arrangements must be made,” Lydia heard someone say. “…announce it to the academy. It must be handled delicately.”
Lydia’s gaze fell on the place where Isadora had died. The body had been taken away, but the blood remained.
“…how much to say about what happened?” someone whispered.
“Why say anything at all?”
Murmurs of agreement filled the room.
Lydia wanted a hot bath and a long, hard cry. She couldn’t understand why she had been brought back to the ceremonial chamber. Her own room was no longer an option, of course, but there were other places she could go. Even her mother’s flat would do, under the circumstances.
One fat, silent tear fell from Lydia’s face onto her shaking hands as all around her, council members spoke among themselves about what to do next—protection circles, funeral rites, the proper way to cleanse the ceremonial chamber after the violence of the past few hours.
“We need to find the book,” Lydia said. The chatter in the room carried on uninterrupted.
“What?” Sybil paused in her conversation with Mistress Josephine. “What did you say, darling?”
“TheGrimorium Bellum. We must find it before the Nazis do.”
“One thing at a time, my dear,” said Mistress Josephine. “I’m sure the Nazis are nowhere close to finding theGrimorium Bellum.”
Lydia felt her agitation rising. “Of course they are. She took the piece of the book from the altar. At the next full moon, they can use it to track—”
“Are you sure it wasn’t lost in the commotion?”
“I’m certain. I saw her—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mistress Jacqueline chimed in. “Even if the Nazis did find theGrimorium Bellum,it would require a full coven of witches to wield it. The Nazis have no such coven.”
“How can you possibly say that?” Lydia’s voice broke, and she despised herself for it. Around her, conversation began to fall silent. “If they have one witch, why is it so impossible to believe they have twelve? Why would they go to the trouble otherwise?”
“It’s been a difficult night. Let’s discuss this in the morning,” Sybil said reasonably.
“Agreed,” said Mistress Jacqueline.
“There is one other piece of pressing business before we retire.” Mistress Alba stood, polishing her spectacles. The room fell silent. “That is, the selection of the new grand mistress.”
Lydia looked up sharply. “What? Tonight?”
“Of course. The academy cannot be without a grand mistress. A successor must be chosen.”
Lydia could not hide her contempt. Isadora had bled to death hardly an hour before, and now here they were, discussing her replacement. She stood. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Sybil caught her by the arm. “Oh no, Lydia, you must stay as well. After all, as Isadora’s apprentice, you are the obvious choice to succeed her.” Sybil turned and addressed the room. “I nominate Lydia Polk for grand mistress of the Royal Academy of Witches.”
Lydia stared at Sybil in disbelief.She can’t possibly be serious, she thought.
Mistress Phillipa stood. “Seconded.”
“With all due respect,” Mistress Jacqueline said, “I believe the academy requires a seasoned leader to steer her through these trying times. Miss Polk is young and untested.”
Sybil smiled mildly. “Isadora was nearly the same age when she became grand mistress.”
“And look where that got us,” grumbled a voice in the back of the room.
“What was that?” The words struck Lydia like a hammer, shaking her from her stupor. “Speak. Answer for yourself.”
