Witchfall by Victoria Lamb Read Free Book Online

possessed such power and she is dead.’
    ‘So I heard. Burnt at the stake by Marcus Dent, a man at whose name every English witch must tremble.’ His eyes narrowed on my face. ‘Yet somehow you escaped him.’
    ‘I was lucky,’ I lied.
    ‘Some might call it destiny, not luck. The celestial spirits wished you to live. But for what purpose?’
    I did not like his searching gaze. ‘I should go.’
    He called after me. ‘Before you leave, Meg Lytton, do you wish to see your aunt again? To speak with her as I am speaking with you? For I can bring her spirit to face you in this godforsaken cell – even poor as I am, stripped of my books and instruments. This is my power, and I wield it whenever and wherever I choose.’
    He held out both hands towards me in a dramatic gesture, his long thin fingers pale in the candlelight.
    ‘To summon spirits is a power you too could possess, if only you would drop your girlish fears and learn from a master.’
    I stared at the man, deeply shocked by his offer. ‘My aunt is dead. It is not possible.’
    ‘Anything is possible.’
    ‘I would not see her peace disturbed.’
    ‘The dead have no thought of life or death, of peace or disruption. Your aunt would be here with us, but not of this world.’
    Dee took my hand and began to stroke my palm, watching me. I did not resist, for to own the truth I was curious tosee the extent of his power. I did not believe he could summon my aunt from the grave, nor did I wish him to try. But his power fascinated me, made it hard to deny him.
    His gaze fixed on my face. ‘What was your aunt’s name?’
    I hesitated, then whispered, ‘Jane Canley.’
    He closed his eyes and spoke in Latin, muttering under his breath, and I heard him weave my aunt’s name into the spell. His fingers continued to squeeze and stroke my hand as he spoke. Suddenly his eyes snapped open and his narrowed gaze lifted to stare over my shoulder. His lips twitched as he glanced down at me.
    ‘Look behind you, Meg,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Slowly, slowly! Show neither fear nor surprise.’
    My skin prickled. Following his instructions, I turned my head with exquisite slowness and looked over my left shoulder. There in the darkness stood Aunt Jane. Not as I remembered her in those last terrible moments as she slumped against the village stake – a smoking husk of blackened skin and bones – but as she had looked in her younger years, when I was but a child. My dearest Aunt Jane, her skin smooth again, her fair hair rich and glossy under her white cap, dressed in a simple gown and apron.
    Terrified as I was, I found myself smiling at her instinctively. My lips opened to speak her name. ‘Aunt Jane!’
    But my aunt did not reply, nor did she smile back at me. She stood – or possibly floated, for I could not see if her feet were touching the dank floor – in perfect stillness, staring ata point beyond us in the dark cell as though not even aware of our presence. Her mouth remained level and closed, her blue eyes tranquil and empty of all emotion.
    Staring, I was suddenly aware that I could see through my aunt’s body to the filthy wall beyond. There was her gown of coarse linen, yes, but through it I could see the wall’s roughcast stones glistening with water. It was as though Aunt Jane had performed the spell of invisibility on herself, and it had only partially worked.
    I could not stand it. My heart rebelled, knowing this was not my aunt as she had been in life, but a shadow of her soul, a phantom that could never replace the woman I had known and loved.
    ‘Begone, spirit!’ I cried, wrenching my hands from John Dee’s grasp and pointing at the wavering vision.
    And we were alone again in the prison cell.
    John Dee looked at me oddly. ‘Impressive,’ he said, commenting on my ability as a witch. ‘Though your aunt would have spoken, if you had waited to question her.’
    ‘That was not my aunt.’
    ‘No,’ he agreed mildly. ‘But it was as close an