‘Do you mark my warning? If you desire this war, then so be it, the challenge is accepted. But know this – to the death shall the campaign be waged. The Mistresses of Doom and Destiny will conquer even you in the end.’
No answer came to Miss Ursula as she stood, dignified and grave upon the step. Before she had time to wonder if her adversary had heard her words, she became aware of a forlorn snivelling behind her and she turned archly.
Into the main hall, a bundle of dirty washing seemed to be making its clumsy, faltering way down the wide staircase. It paused next to a rusted suit of armour; the pale light which flickered from a small oil lamp lapped over the ragged form for a moment, before the hobbling gait continued.
Swaddled in a grubby nightgown that was fringed with filthy lace, Miss Celandine Webster stumbled on. She who was once Skuld of the Royal House of Askar was now an old woman. Her face, which normally resembled an over-ripe apple, was wrung into a wizened prune and in her large hands she clutched a mildew-speckled handkerchief.
‘Oh Ursula!’ she blubbered. ‘Don’t leave me all on my own. I can’t bear it – I can’t!’
The figure in the entrance regarded her coldly, her face betraying none of the emotions which churned within her.
‘Control yourself,’ she instructed. ‘Histrionics won’t bring her back.’
Miss Celandine staggered forward, her grimy feet slapping over the polished parquet floor of the hallway. ‘Make it better!’ she beseeched. ‘Bring Veronica back to us. How can she be killed? We don’t die – we can’t! I won’t believe it – I won’t, I won’t!’
The eldest of the Websters recoiled from this infantile display and returned her attention to the alleyway outside, completely ignoring Miss Celandine’s heart-rending pleas.
‘Oh help me, Ursula!’ she wept, dragging the handkerchief over her face and twisting it into her wrinkled eyes. ‘I’m frightened. What’s happening to us? Why did Veronica run away? My heart hurts me so. Please hold me. Make me feel safe.’
But Miss Ursula had no comfort to spare for her sister. Like a house of cards demolished in the draught, Miss Celandine crumpled to the floor. There she stayed, weeping and sobbing until her voice cracked and the spring of her tears ran dry.
For an hour they held their positions, one rigid and silent, the other a quivering heap of choking despair, and neither of them could give solace to the other.
Eventually, the sound of an approaching engine roused Miss Celandine from her pit of grief. Raising her head from the crook of her elbow where she had sniffed and whimpered away the dawn, she saw her sister move on to the middle step as the sound grew closer. Throwing her two plaits of corn-coloured hair over her shoulders, she rose and crept forward – her dry bones crackling in complaint.
‘What is it, Ursula?’ she cooed with a fearful voice. ‘Who is it?’
Pressing close to her sister, she tried to venture on to the topmost step to peer out, but Miss Ursula barred the way and propelled her back into the museum.
‘Stay in there,’ she rapped severely. ‘Veronica is returned to us.’
Rumbling into the alley came an unmarked ambulance with dark, tinted windows. Lumbering as close to the entrance as possible, the vehicle braked in front of the bollards which barricaded one end of the alleyway and the doors opened slowly.
Clambering from the passenger seat, Neil alighted upon the cobbles – with Quoth in his usual place upon the boy’s shoulder.
It had been a dismal journey in which few words had been exchanged. Neil had given Chief Inspector Hargreaves a sketchy account of all that had happened on Glastonbury Tor, but soon lapsed into weary silence, snatching occasional moments of much-needed sleep. The eyes he turned to The Wyrd Museum were ringed with grey and he ached for his bed. There was, however, one more duty to be done before then and he gazed at the man who was already closing the driver’s door.
Chief Inspector Hargreaves stood solemnly before that ugly building to which he and the other remaining descendants of Askar made their annual pilgrimage. For as long as he could remember he had come to this place, to lay an offering of flowers about the drinking fountain in the yard. It was a demonstration of fealty to those who lived within, yet never once had he or any of the others caught so much as a glimpse of the three undying Fates.
In all his imaginings he had not dreamed that he would ever meet the Handmaidens of the Loom. Now here he was, burdened with this most dreadful of errands – delivering the corpse of the youngest to her sisters, and his soul quailed inside him.
In sombre silence, he stared across to where Miss Ursula waited upon the steps and bowed reverently. The woman’s thin lips twitched with agitation, but she inclined her head in acknowledgement and gestured for the man to complete the grim task he had undertaken.
Turning on his heel, Hargreaves led Neil to the rear of the ambulance and pulled open the large double doors. Presently they emerged, bearing between them the stretcher upon which lay the body of Miss Veronica Webster.
Throughout the journey, Edie Dorkins had clung to the dead woman’s hand and now, as she walked alongside this melancholy procession, she held it still.
A blanket had been wrapped about the girl’s shoulders during the long drive from Somerset but it fell to the ground as she traipsed alongside the stretcher. Distractedly, she wiped her nose upon the sleeve of her coat.
Seeing the frail body of her sister, looking so shrivelled and old, Miss Ursula drew herself up to her full height and bit the inside of her cheek. She must not allow herself to weaken now. There must be no betrayal.
‘Take her within,’ she uttered thickly, standing back to allow them entry. ‘Place her over there, upon the floor.’
With bulging eyes, Miss Celandine watched as the litter carrying her younger sister passed under the archway and she yelped shrilly at the awful sight.
Miss Ursula knew it was pointless trying to stop her and so, with Miss Celandine’s ghastly squeals echoing about the hallway, she patiently waited until the stretcher had been gently placed where she had directed.
‘My family is in your debt,’ she informed the Chief Inspector. ‘I thank you for returning our sister to us.’
Hargreaves could only stare at his feet, suddenly speechless at this meeting.
‘You have risked everything to bring her here,’ Miss Ursula continued. ‘Your career, possibly even your freedom. If there was anything in my power to give you, it would be yours. The children of Askar are loyal indeed.’
The Chief Inspector shook his head and found his voice at last. ‘It is enough to have served,’ he muttered.
‘Then leave us now,’ she told him. ‘But do not stray far. In the dark days to come, Urdr may have need of you again.’
Hargreaves returned to the entrance and, with her taffeta gown rustling like dry grass as it swept across the floor, Miss Ursula Webster brushed him outside, closing the door in his face.
Upon the steps the Chief Inspector drew his breath and shook his head. The death of Miss Veronica had altered everything. His thoughts in turmoil, he hurried from the alleyway with a hideous dread gnawing at his spirit.
Something terrible was about to befall the world and, as he climbed back into the ambulance, he determined to summon as many of the descendants of Askar as possible.
‘The children of they who were there at the beginning,’ he told himself darkly, ‘should be here to witness the end.’