Margaret leaned back on the headboard next to her brother and ran her hand wearily across her forehead. She did not know how to heal with the laying on of hands, like Valentina, and therefore the treatment took a lot of her time and energy. Joe Jr. shifted impatiently in bed, feeling his throat.
"Lie still, toadstool," the girl said. "You're not as healthy as you think you are."
"Wow," her brother hissed admiringly. "Almost like new!"
"Yeah, use it carefully, otherwise you will break it."
"Peggy," Mom called. She stopped at the open door, as if hesitated to approach her daughter.
"Mom!" Joe Jr. started up. "Look what Peg did!" he lifted his head and poked himself in the throat.
"Yes, I see. Peggy, can we leave this varmint alone?"
"If you get violent – I'll put you to sleep," Margaret said, got up and swayed. She had to grab onto the headboard to wait out the dizziness attack. Mrs. Sheridan looked at her daughter without crossing the threshold.
"Well, you have to be more careful," the witch said, appearing behind her mother. Mrs. Sheridan drew back and pressed herself against the doorframe. "And then so you die quickly! Missis and Mister van Allen are driving your son home, ma'am."
"Y-yes, good. Thank you," her mother whispered and moved away from Jen as far as possible. The witch made a short, mocking bow to her and stepped aside.
"Who is it?" Mrs. Sheridan asked her daughter, barely audibly, as they walked to the younger's bedroom.
"Mister Longsdale's butler."
"Oh my God!" the mistress of the house breathed out. The girl touched her elbow, but her mother pulled her hand away.
The father and older brother were already in the younger Sheridan's bedroom. Robbie and Georgie finally fell asleep, with the help of charms and valerian. Dad, tired and emaciated, hugged the girl tightly, hugged her so strongly, as if he was still afraid. Margaret clung to him and buried her forehead on his shoulder.
"Oh Peggy, Peggy," he whispered. "What is it?"
"Yes," Mrs. Sheridan said, closing the door. "What is all this? What did you do there in the study and with Joseph and here?"
"Magic," Margaret muttered into her father's chest, "it's just magic..."
"Magic?" Mom repeated shrilly. "And you tell us about it as if... as if... where did you learn all this?!"
"Peg," Dad said quietly, "you... did you sell your soul to the devil?"
"Oh, father!" Edwin cried. "Well, what other devil, what are you talking about!"
"Be silent," Mrs. Sheridan ordered. "I want to hear her. Look at me, miss, and answer the question!"
"Martha," her father reprimanded, "think about what would have happened to us if not for Peggy."
Margaret stepped back from him and dodged Eddie's outstretched hand.
"Nothing would have happened to you if not for me," she muttered dully. "This woman, Pauline Defoe, has come to you to get me. Because I look like her late daughter, and she..." The girl bit her lip. "You still won't believe it."
"Did she pursue you?" Edwin asked. Margaret nodded. "And this... what she did here... is that also m... magic?" he seemed to choke on the last word. The girl pointed to the cushion and whispered "Motus". The pillow flew up to the ceiling and flopped to the floor. Edwin recoiled.
"Who," the mother hissed, "taught you this rubbish?! Where did you meet him? Answer me!"
Margaret heard tears in her voice and turned to the window.
"Peggy," Edwin said, "are you a witch?"
A short sobbing laugh escaped her.
"Witch? No!"
"And who?" Dad asked. Margaret pressed her temple against the cold glass and looked at them. After all, it will get worse. Who else would come after her if she continues? The further, the closer she will have to approach things and creatures that are dangerous even for those who are armed and prepared for a meeting. And if she stops, how will she protect them from the world she knows about? Who can guarantee that one day some hungry creature from the other side or a damned soul that has become undead, prowling the world in search of prey, will not enter their house? What if there is no consultant nearby? Oh, of course, he can hunt down and destroy the toad - then, when it's too late.
I can't stay, Margaret thought. Better to let her never be allowed on the threshold again - but she will know that not a single creature on this or other side will cross it either.
"Oh God," her mother suddenly sobbed, "what have I done! It's me, I cut him! Oh my God!"
Dad grabbed her arm and sat her on the sofa. Mrs. Sheridan dropped her head on her husband's shoulder and shivered.
"Not only you," his father whispered, "not only you, Martha..."
"We're all good," Eddie muttered.
Margaret closed her eyes. Father's hands, squeezing Joe Jr.'s neck - and dad himself, emaciated, gray-haired, adding ten years in one day... Lord, this is all because of her!
"It's not you. You couldn't resist magical compulsion."
"Will you ever be able to compulsion like that?" Edwin asked unkindly.
"No. But I can break the neck to whoever tries."
"Peg!" the brother choked. A long shadow flickered outside the window, and Edwin staggered back to his parents, covering them with his body. Margaret saw the long tail of the kelpie and rushed out of the room. She swept through the unlit hallway, down the dark staircase, the chilled living room and flung open the front door.
"Aren't you coming in?" she heard her uncle's voice. "At least show yourself to Peggy."
"What for?" Redfern responded indifferently. "She is already at home, with her family, and finally safe."
"Angel!" Margaret shouted and a bullet flew off the porch. The Commissar and Redfern turned to shout; the kelpie twitched her ear, not looking up from eating the snow.
"Oh, uncle!" The girl gasped, grabbing Brannon by his arms. "You're all right! Angel!" she rushed to the mentor and threw herself on his neck, so that he staggered and grabbed the saddle with one hand, and wrapped around her waist with the other.
"Well, I was looked after, if anyone is interested," the Commissar said. "However, who is really interested in this... Unless you, horse."
The Kelpie snorted.
"Yes," Margaret whispered in Angel's ear.
"What "yes"?" He asked warily.
"I want to stay with you."
His hand tightened around her waist so that the girl gasped. Angel loosened his grip and stared into her eyes with a piercing hard look. Margaret trembled, but did not look away and timidly touched the mentor's skin near the burn with her finger.
"God, your face..."
"To hell with the face," Angel snapped and pressed his lips to the girl's lips. The hard, hooked nose buried on her cheek again, and Margaret was rolled back with heat from head to toe.
"Hey!!" The commissar barked. Redfern released her; Margaret, still trembling, suddenly realized that she had thrust both hands into his hair, and the brown curls curled around her fingers as if alive.
"Go, tell them," the mentor whispered; near the velvet warm eyes wrinkles from a smile gathered like rays. "I'll pack your things."
The girl went to the house, barely feeling her uncle grab her by the elbow and follow her, saying something indignantly to her. Her heart was pounding as if it wanted to break her ribs, and behind the violent beating she hardly heard her uncle's words. Angel's gaze, suddenly so soft and tender, stung Margaret so hard that it stabbed in her chest. No one has ever looked at her like that, except... except that other one... But how is that? What would she do about it now?
"Do you even realize that this is completely wild and unacceptable for a young lady?" her uncle asked sternly, opening the door for her.
"Yes," the girl answered mechanically.
"You're not even listening to me," Brannon grumbled. "Here father will talk to you!"
As if half asleep, she went up to the second floor, entered the younger's room and sank into a chair by the door, where the nanny usually sat. Mom with a crying rushed to the uncle, Edwin was saying something, uncle was hugging Mom and Dad at the same time, Robbie and Georgie were snoring softly in their sleep. The witch came, reported on the imminent arrival of the van Allen with Danny, the uncle started talking about how they were all safe, because the criminal was neutralized. Margaret closed her eyes and squeezed her temples. Go away! If only Angel understood what it means to leave home! Leave them all - mom, dad, uncle and brothers and... and... but God, what eyes he had...
"This is a police carriage, sir," the witch said unexpectedly loudly; Margaret jerked awake. Jen stood in the doorway, very close. "They're driving Missis van Allen with your nephew. I'll meet them, sir."
"Come on," the Commissar nodded. "If you have no one to send for a servant, then I will send someone from the police."
The witch went out; Margaret rose, leaning on the back of the chair.
"Mom, dad, uncle," she said; her teeth chattered and she tried to speak harder. "You're all safe now."
"Yes," the commissar answered a little surprised. "Pauline Defoe is dead. I will send for your servants, the house needs to be heated, the bath heated, the food prepared..."
"So I can leave."
"Leave?" Dad asked. "Of course, you can go to your room, but your bedroom is not yet heated, you will freeze..."
"No, I have to leave, because this all happened to you because of me. And it will happen again. So I'm leaving."
"Oh my God, Peggy, don't be silly!" mom cried, wiped her eyes and nose with a huge uncle's handkerchief. "Who are you going to go to, you fool? Walk to Uncle Ben in the village?"
"I'll protect you," Margaret said. "I promise."
"Wheesh," the commissar said through set teeth, stepping up to her from the side. "You will not go to anyone, you brainless girl! Moreover, to this..."
"Stet adhuc et videre," Margaret whispered. Brannon froze; his eyes glazed over, the hand stretched out towards her froze, his mouth half-opened senselessly.
"What did you do to him?!" Edwin shouted.
"Goodbye," the girl managed to squeeze out, backed up to the door and jumped out. The corridor blurred before her eyes as she ran to her room, and her throat hurt from the inside. Shouts from her brother and parents were heard from behind, but Margaret cut them off, slamming the door to her room.
It turned out to be surprisingly empty. Even the plaid from the chair and the emBroydery from the bedside table have disappeared. The bookshelves and dressing table were also empty. Only the dressing room was open, in which not a single thing remained - and Angel was waiting in front of the mirror. The mirror-like surface had already become dark blue, a diamond scattering of stars and lights from other doors flickered in it. Margaret, stepping unsteadily, approached the mentor. Her knees suddenly gave way, and with a plaintive sob she fell into his arms. Angel grabbed her, she hid her face on his chest, and when the bedroom door burst open, slamming against the wall, Redfern stepped over the mirror frame. The mirror snapped loudly behind him.
***
Brannon sat with his head in his hands over the case report. Signed murder warrant laid on the report - the only epitaph for Pauline Defoe. It was still necessary to puzzle over how to present all this to the court, if the truth is excluded...
The commissar got up, took his raincoat, hat, report, and left the office. He locked the door, went up to Broyd and knocked. The police chief opened in person.
"You were right," Brannon handed him the report. "I should have told everything to her family, right away, and not wait for the natural ending."
"I'm sorry, Nathan," Broyd said. "I'm very sorry. But we will look for her and find her, I give my word."
"Yes, sir. Thank you," the Commissar took a petition from his inner pocket and gave it to the chief. He shuddered strongly, read the first lines and took a deep breath with relief.
"While I'm on vacation," Brennon added, "detective Byrne will take over my duties."
"Do you intend to search for her alone?"
"Not only her," the commissar said through set teeth. "Good night, sir. I'll hand over the weapon downstairs."
By the time he left the department, it was already dark. The February blizzard gave way to March rain, and the snow turned into mud. Nathan crossed the street and entered the cafe. He took his favorite table in the corner by the window, and soon they brought him coffee, rolls and plum jam, although he did not order. However, Valentina knew his tastes anyway. Soon she sat down opposite, and Nathan again felt a gap in the bitterness.
"What are you going to do?" The widow asked. Brannon sighed, winced, and took the cup.
"I'll go somewhere, look around at some addresses here and there, write a dozen letters."
"You can talk to your family..."
"I don't have her family anymore," the commissar muttered bitterly. "Marta doesn't want to know me. I had to tell her everything as soon as I found out! And I was silent. And that's how it ended. He stole her daughter! Stole! From under my nose!"
"Sorry," Valentina bowed her head, "I tried to dissuade you. If you hadn't listened to me..."
"I would have screwed up anyway. I didn't want to worry them so much!" Brannon sipped his coffee. Even the consultant could not help them - when Nathan led him to the shattered mirror, Longsdale only shook his head. The hound and the witch were also powerless. The pyromaniac's trail was lost in god knows where.
"You will return?" Mrs. van Allen asked, nodding towards the department.
"Of cause" the commissar grunted. "Where else can I go now. How is Victor?"
Valentina turned away with a sigh.
"Doesn't want to talk to me. But he's still here." She smiled faintly. "He loves The Shell, and we'll talk... over time. Not now. What is it?" She pointed to a bundle of books, which the Commissar carefully brought with him under his cloak.
"So, I borrowed Longsdale's to read in my spare time." Brennon rubbed a finger on the spine with the gilded inscription "Classification of the Undead Vol. 1". "Well, I need to keep myself busy."
"A fascinating reading," the widow remarked, and the Commissar was not even surprised that she read the title upside down. "Satisfying curiosity?"
"Uh-huh," Nathan looked grim. They must decide how to live with it. Intervention consultants - this is clearly not enough to get a good night's sleep.
"Come back," Valentina said and touched his arm. "We will be waiting for you here."
Nathan swallowed. This, too, had to think hard.
"Yes," he said. "Thanks. I'll take it into account."
***
Margaret lay on the sofa, wrapped in a plaid. Outside the window, everywhere, wherever you glanced, a dark wall of spruce forest rose. In the bedroom, study, dressing room and bathroom, the girl's things were scattered, but she could not find the strength to get up, put things in order and look around. She could only lie, curled up in a ball, and not think about anything. At least she tried.
Miss Sheridan wiped her eyes with her hand. Angel delicately left her alone, and she was even able to take a little nap. Under the cuff of her sleeve, a piece of paper that she had picked up when she sent Pauline Defoe to Edmure still pricked her skin. Margaret pulled the sheet out into the light of God and unfolded it. It turned out to be a page of an old book, torn from the spine, and the girl winced indignantly.
A mixture of Latin, Elladian, Riadian and some other incomprehensible language distracted her from her bitter thoughts. Of course, dictionaries are needed to make out everything, but ... Margaret frowned. In what she managed to understand, there was not a word about necromagy, necromorphs, or dead flesh in general. The compact, dense text described some properties of the spell, which was somehow connected with the Transmigration of souls. Several times were mentioned "bodies recreated from the dust and living blood", but this has nothing to do with the dead!
"But then why on earth would the necromancer drag it along?"
"Margaret," Angel's voice said from outside the door. "You are not asleep? May I come in?"
"Yes," the girl answered and thrust the sheet of paper behind the fastener of her dress. She will ask Angel later, now she did not want to talk to him about all this.
Angel, standing at the door, walked over to Margaret and examined her worriedly.
"Are you unwell?"
"No. I just... I just... just..."
He bent down to her carefully, and the girl threw her arms around him with a soft sigh. Angel sat down on the sofa next to her, hugged her, smoothed her hair, and then took her hand and slipped a thin openwork ring of white gold onto her finger.
"What is it?"
"Protection," he showed her the same ring on his hand. "You need it."
"Angel," said Margaret after a pause, "give me your word."
"What?"
"That my family will always be protected too."
"Yes," he replied after a short silence, "good. I promise."
Margaret dropped her head on his chest again and muttered awkwardly:
"Sorry for this seizure, well, when you had to unsolder me after a tantrum. This will not happen again."
"It's not a seizure, Margaret. It's... kind of a family trait. The rage that you feel at times and which then devastates you. You will get used to it over time."
"How do you know? We didn't have that in our family. Well, on my mother's side for sure."
"What about daddy's?"
"I don't know," Margaret winced. "They don't communicate with us. Papa, you see, married the wrong woman. The village blacksmith's daughter is no match for them."
"Unequal marriage. It's amazing how everyone still cares about it," Angel chuckled. "You don't know anything about the Sheridans at all?"
"No. Only Brannons communicate with us, everyone, all, as many as there are," Margaret smiled faintly. "And since there are quite a few of them, we have so many relatives even without the Sheridans that they can't fit in the house at Christmas."
"Well, you promised me something that evening, too, and now you'll have a hard time," Angel warned with a grin. "You will study very, very much, as you wanted. Much more than before."
"It would be good. That's why I came. It wasn't much sense that study."
"The sense is not from study, but from how you use your knowledge. I like the way you do it, but I won't let you shirk. Physics, chemistry, alchemy, mathematics, geometry, the theory of constructing spells are waiting for you."
"Okay, agreed," Margaret paused, sighed and asked: "Stay with me a little more, can you?"
"Yes," Angel said quietly, - of course..."
He made the girl more comfortable in his arms and touched her forehead with his lips. Margaret closed her eyes. The tension from which every muscle ached finally began to release her. Angel smelled faintly of herbs and odeoclone, his breathing was measured and soothingly calm, and she felt so warm and safe in his arms that she finally allowed herself to slip into deep sleep.
THE END
But to be continued…