Page 13 of A Resistance of Witches
Mistress Vivian stood and met Lydia’s gaze. Vivian was the eldest witch on the council, an imposing, broad-shouldered woman, even in her old age. Lydia had always known her to be dour and humorless, and no friend of Isadora’s. Still, she had never dreamed that Vivian could be so tactless, so unfeeling as to speak ill of Isadora while her blood still cooled on the chamber floor.
“I said what I meant. It was Isadora who insisted that the academy join the war effort. Isadora who broke a tradition of centuries of secrecy by revealing us to that pompous windbag, Churchill. Isadora wanted to join the war, and war was what she got. And for what? Britain is no closer to victory, the academy has been infiltrated, and Isadora is dead. I’m only glad it was her and not one of us.”
Lydia’s rage overwhelmed all sense or restraint. “Evil, poisonous, vicious-mindedhag,” she seethed. “Your grand mistress lies dead, and you dare to speak ill of her? I should bind your tongue before you speak her name again.”
Now it was Helena who spoke. “Lydia, darling, all Vivian meant was that—”
“Not a word from you, you useless cow.” Helena’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp. “Isadora lay bleeding to death in front of you, and you did nothing. I begged you to help her, and you let her die.”
The council was stunned to silence. Lydia stood before them, furymaking her pulse race, blood rushing in her ears. She had never spoken so to anyone, let alone a witch of the high council. Any one of them could have silenced her forever with a word, but Lydia was beyond caring.
“Have any of you even stopped to wonder how this witch gotinside? How she could have possibly bypassed the warding?” The council only looked at her, dumbstruck and silent. “The academy isvulnerable!” Lydia stared, disbelieving, at their blank faces. “Great Mother! The most feared witches in all of Britain. An enemy witch desecrates your home and murders your mistress before your very eyes, and none of you lifts a finger. Weeping, cowardly hens, the lot of you. You don’t deserve your gifts. I am ashamed to be among you.”
Lydia waited to be turned to stone. Moments passed, and the silence seemed to extend forever, heavy and bottomless. Slowly, she realized that she would not be struck down. Not tonight, at least.Perhaps they’ve forgotten how, she thought bitterly. She turned her back on the council, unwilling to look at their astonished faces for one second longer, and slowly walked toward the chamber door, her footsteps echoing in the silence.
Sybil stepped forward. “Lydia—”
Lydia did not look back as the door swung closed behind her.
•••
She burst onto the street,gulping night air as if she had been held underwater. London stretched out before her, streetlights extinguished, draped in darkness.
Soldiers stood on street corners, smoking and talking to one another.Americans, she thought dully. They watched her as she passed, and Lydia realized that she was still covered in blood. She considered a glamour but couldn’t muster the energy. One American approached her, calling hersweetheart, but recoiled when she looked into his eyes. After that, no one came near.
Slowly, she returned to herself. She was cold and disoriented, and her feet were beginning to blister. The air was damp, making the hairs rise on her flesh.
She looked up. Row after row of darkened windows looked down on her like glassy eyes, black curtains drawn tight. Across the way stood a park, its trees stripped half-bare. She was in Grosvenor Square, where Isadora had her secret flat. Lydia had been a regular visitor, had even been given her own key. She rummaged blindly through her handbag until her fingers closed around the familiar shape.
The silence inside the flat was thick as fog, as if the place already knew it was home to a dead woman. Lydia left her shoes by the front door and made her way on tender feet through the darkened foyer. Isadora had loved this flat, had carefully curated every detail. The walls were papered in deep, rich florals in shades of purple and gold, and paintings hung on every wall—portraits, landscapes, vibrant modern works, pieces Isadora had lovingly selected and brought back with her from Berlin and Paris before the war. The drapes were gold and violet brocade, and were pulled back to reveal the full moon, impossibly huge and shining like a coin in the night sky.
Lydia made her way to the bathroom in the dark, leaving the sconces unlit as she crouched on the marble tile and filled the copper standing tub all the way to the top, as hot as it would go. She left her bloody dress on the floor and sat in the water, letting it scald her. She sat until the water turned cold and a sliver of pewter-colored sunlight crept over the horizon. Then she wrapped herself in a towel and crawled into the guest room bed.
She stayed there for hours, dreaming fitfully, until she was startled awake, hungry, wet haired, and heart racing, to a harsh afternoon light coming through the window, and the sound of someone at the front door.
Five
“I didn’t think anyone knew about this place.”
Sybil set down a pot of tea for herself, and a cup of coffee for Lydia, already prepared with milk and two sugars. “Oh, darling. You’ll find that each of us has our own little hideaways. Why, I have a lovely cottage in Surrey with a garden full of roses, and a gardener who looks like Errol Flynn.” Sybil smiled a sly, private smile. “This place wasn’t much of a secret.”
Lydia took a sip of her coffee. A hollow, unsteady feeling still clung to her like wet clothes, and she found herself unable to stomach small talk, even with Sybil.
“I assume you’ve come to tell me I’ve been dismissed from the academy.” She set down her cup to keep it from shaking in her hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous. If that mouth of yours was enough to get you tossed out, you wouldn’t have made it past your first year. Besides…” Sybil grew more somber. “Your delivery may have been a bit dramatic,but…I do believe your message was spot on.” Lydia watched as Sybil’s eyes filled with tears. “We all let her down, didn’t we?”
Lydia had to take a breath to keep her own composure. “We did the best we could.” It was a lie, of course. A kindness. Sybil shook her head.
“Youdid the best you could. You were the only one of us worth her training last night. You were courageous and clearheaded. A credit to the academy.”
Lydia felt the shame rise in her throat, hot and wet and hateful. “I failed her.” A sob burst through her chest, and she hung her head, unable to look Sybil in the eye. Sybil offered a lace-edged handkerchief, which Lydia took without looking up.
“No, my darling. You made her proud. You mademeproud. Why do you think I nominated you for grand mistress?”
“Honestly, Sybil, I can’t imagine. How could you possibly think I would be the right choice?” Lydia looked up, dabbing away her tears.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. You must have known you would be the obvious candidate to succeed Isadora when she passed.”
