sweat rolled down from under his hair and the pain ate into him. Eventually, he wiped the paste off with a rag of old curtain and daubed the wound with another rag soaked in saliva, which was the only moisture available. Then he repeated the whole process, slightly higher up on his brow. Not only would the rune of Agares find him for Morgus, but for anyone who knew the spell; it was more efficient than an electronic tag. With it, even beyond the prison, he would never be free.
In the evening, the hag came from the kitchen, bringing him a plate of food, the reward for his service. Switching on the single naked lightbulb, she did not seem to notice the acid mark on the floor. After she had gone, he peered at his reflection in the window, lifting the swatch of hair with which he concealed his brow. It was difficult to see clearly under the overhead light, but he was almost sure the fresh burns had begun to obliterate the brand.
Down in the basement, where Morgus kept her phials and philters, the head of Sysselore sat in a pickle jar, mouthing furiously.
“I will take you out when you are ready to be polite,” Morgus said, smiling to herself as she moved from bottle to bottle, preparing another potion in a basin of stone. She had found little to please her since her aborted encounter with Fern and Gaynor, but now she smiled with genuine satisfaction.
She too had friends.
Fern felt she needed Sunday to herself, if only to think. But her thoughts went around and around like rats in a barrel, going nowhere, straying off at tangents concerning Luc or Kal and returning always to the place where she had started: the impossibility of destroying Morgus. She met Luc on Monday, this time at his own flat, situated in a mews over a two-Porsche garage. “Bankers measure their success in Porsches,” he told Fern without visible humor. “I know someone with four. One for each suit.”
“He only has four suits?” Fern said.
“Oh, yes. And one of them’s Chinese red.”
The interior of the flat was a surprise: its white-walled minimalism was negated by overcrowded bookshelves and unlikely paintings, including a huge grayish abstract resembling an enlargement of the cerebral cortex, a snowscape clearly influenced by Caspar David Friedrich, and some original architectural drawings of what seemed to be a chapel. The latest technology was slotted into designer units: widescreen TV, DVD player, and a music center with strategic speakers. There was a wafer-thin sofa with stick-insect arms, one armchair of the same design, two others from the Edwardian smoking-room era. A half-full ashtray and unwashed glasses evidently awaited the attention of a maid. Sleek glass lamps dispensed a slightly chilly light that made the apartment feel colder than it was. Luc switched on a fake fire with gas-powered flames that gave out no heat. “This place is a bit of a mess,” he apologized. “I used to be tidy, but lately I haven’t bothered.”
“It isn’t a mess,” Fern said. “It’s just—lived in. Not enough, perhaps.”
“I prefer the hermit’s cell,” he explained. “Bare, uncluttered—but clutter always creeps in somehow. I grew up in nouveau riche luxury—my mother had no taste, my father no time—but Westminster and Oxford turned me from tough into toff, at least on the surface.”
“How often have you used that line?” Fern inquired.
“Once or twice.”
“It’s quite good,” she affirmed. “But the tough shows through. Sometimes.”
He had removed his tie and poured her a G and T, himself a whiskey. “Like you,” he said. “The witch shows through—sometimes. You said you were going to find things out.”
“I saw your sister.” The words were out before she had time to doubt their wisdom.
He turned his back on the liquor cabinet, giving her a long, still look. “You mean—not in the hospital?” The tone was muted, but she detected his reservations.
“Last seen wearing a long floating dress, many-layered, probably chiffon, and lots of hair, presumably false. The lost spirit tends to retain its latest physical appearance, clothes and all. I shouldn’t think she understands what’s happened to her. Even if she does, it’s all dreamlike, unreal . . .”
“Where is she?”
“If I tell you,” Fern said, “you must promise me not to rush into anything. One wrong move, and she might be lost forever. You have to believe me. I know what I’m doing.” I think.
“You described her costume accurately,” Luc said. “There’s no way you could have known .