VIII

hear that your spies are giving you such good service. Sometime I must remember to find out who they are and punish them. In the meantime, I would advise you to close your eyes, madam, as your betters have done before you. Remember, I have elevated you – and I can humble you again in an instant.”
    I turn to go – and get as far as the door before fists pummel my back.
    “Why are you cruel to me? You love me!”
    I turn, and in one quick movement catch her wrists, and jerk them up, together, in front of her face. “Sweetheart, I really cannot imagine…” She has lowered her head; I dip mine, to meet her eyes, “… what I ever saw in you.” She struggles; I tighten my grip and she stares at me, shocked and defiant, refusing to cry out in pain.
    She struggles again. I transfer her wrists to one hand and, with the other, take hold of her hair and drag her head back. The throat is exposed, the ridges of the windpipe stand out beneath the pale smooth flesh. It reminds me of a hunted beast at the kill; this is what the dogs would want to bite.
    Pulling her about behind me, I walk across the room. There are noises from her, but not many. She stumbles and struggles – not to get away, but simply to keep her feet and take the weight, dragging, off her hair.
    It is when I turn towards the door again that I see, in the corner by the fireplace, the boy. He is crouching on a stool, his knees wide, his hands between, gripping the stool’s front edge. His cheeks are hollow, his eyes glittering in the deep shadows beneath his brows; he is watching with avid interest.
    My grip loosens and I am vaguely aware of a thudding sound as Anne’s head hits the floor.
    ♦   ♦   ♦
     
    I reach my bedchamber; I don’t even remember leaving Anne’s room.
    Servants hover – bowing, frightened, writhing like maggots in fancy dress.
    “Clear the room. Go! ”
    I lean over a chair – my hands on its arms. Beyond the sound of my own breathing, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
    There are no stairs.
    But, then… this time it is not Jane who is coming for me.
    I draw my sword and set about methodically, energetically checking the room – batting at tapestries, slashing down bed curtains. I see figures in every fold of the hangings. Surely that one covers a face? Surely there a hand is gripping?
    I find nothing. But still there is a sense of menace, of something behind me that swings round behind me again each time I move, something that can see me, and is studying me intently – but I can’t see it. I turn and turn like a baited animal.
    At last I stand in the centre of the room, holding my sword before me.
    I think: Come – I am ready. Let me confront you properly now .
    My empty left hand is extended, palm down, fingers spread. And that is where I see it first: a mist running from my fingers’ ends. I drop my sword and hold out both hands. Like sand running in the wind over the surface of a beach it comes: something vaporous from my fingers, something that pours out of me to fill an unseen form, like liquid that reveals a bottle’s shape by filling it.
    The shape in front of me is quickly filled. It is him. As if I am standing with my fingertips touching a mirror, his shape mirrors mine: his fingertips seem to touch mine, though I cannot feel them. And just as quickly as the vapours fill his shape, so I am filled with horror. I called him, and he has come. I have conjured him, as they say a witch can conjure the Devil.
    He is rattlingly thin, his clothes ragged; he looks squalid, contemptible. His eyes have the cold gleam of a wild beast, his fingers are sharp like claws. Aged and ageless at once, his face bears deep lines now, but they seem more like the lines of a malnourished child than the wrinkles of an old man.
    I stare at him, aghast. I say, “Who are you? What are you?”
    The boy drops his hands; our link is severed. Then a voice speaks, close in my head.
    You tell me .
    I think: You look like a creature of hell . I say, “Are you a ghost?”
    Slowly, he shakes his head.
    “Then I believe you are Lucifer.”
    A soft, horrible smile curls the edges of his mouth.
    Oh, come. Don’t be dramatic .
    He blinks at me. He is still waiting.
    So I say, “One of Lucifer’s servants, then? Some lower class of fallen angel?”
    This causes him genuine merriment; he throws back his head, his mouth gaping, a black hole of mirth. And as he laughs, rage shoots through me. I think: This thing, this hellish vision,