A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(30)



That would take some time; six months and as many moon-dark major rituals, in fact, with additional minor rituals as he got the components and time to do them.

The clock on the mantle ticked loudly, one second for every step he took. It was exactly eight steps across his sitting room in front of the fireplace. He thought by now he must have measured out several miles. What could be keeping the man?

But then he heard footfalls on the steps, and ran to open the door. “Did you—”

Alf held up a basket. Alexandre frowned. “But that—”

“Ye said a virgin, an’ Oi thought, on’y way to be sure is t’get one too young t’hev been interfered with.” Alf pushed past him and headed for the cellar stairs. “Le’s get down afore it wakes up and starts cryin’. Oi give it some whiskey-milk t’shut it up, but Oi dunno how long thet’ll last.”

Alf hurried down the stairs ahead of him; Alexandre made sure the heavy cellar door was firmly closed. Now he was worried. It wasn’t that he objected to sacrificing a baby—but would the entity accept a baby?

By the time he got downstairs, Alf had already put the baby, closed basket and all, on the altar stone in the middle of the basement floor. Fortunately the altar stone he was already using had been acceptable according to The Book. It was just a good thing he knew so many artists. It hadn’t been that difficult for him to get hold of a proper sized piece of black marble, and the way he kept enthusing about the bust of Prince Albert he was going to make it into had kept the workmen who brought it here properly incurious. Getting the top polished had been the hardest work he’d ever done in his life.

“It’s awfully quiet in that basket,” he said, doubtfully, as he descended the last couple of stairs. “Is it even still alive?”

Alf looked in the basket. “Jes’ sleepin’.” He turned to his master. “Look, ye tol’ me it was most important fer it t’be a virgin. There hain’t a lot of virgins on the market, not ones with gar-an-tees, an’ Oi figgered if it was thet important for it t’be a virgin, there was a damn good reason. We didn’ ’ave a lot uv time t’get one, neither. Them as goes about buyin’ virgins gets attention, an’ Oi reckoned ye didn’ want that.”

Well, all that was true. That just hadn’t occurred to him, and it probably should have; would have, if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard on The Book. Still . . .

The Book didn’t specify age, or even sex, he reminded himself. Just that it be a virgin.

But that brought up another question. How on earth had Alf gotten a baby? Had he bought it? Wasn’t buying a baby likely to bring questions? A new set of anxieties assailed him, “Where did you get it?” he asked.

Alf chuckled. “Roight orf th’ steps uv a Foundlin’ ’Ome. Oi’d reckoned t’see if I could slip in an’ take one, but there was a girl leavin’ one jest as Oi gets there. Oi nips in an’ snatches the basket an Oi’m ’round th’ corner afore anyone comes t’answer th’bell.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Oi dunno if ye’ve iver seed th’ inside uv one uv them ’Omes, guv. Nobody minds th’ back door, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ t’steal. Babies is all in one big room, loik, all wrapped up like sausages, six, eight uv ’em to a bed. Nobody comes if they cries, so they gets useta not cryin’, cause it don’t get ’em nothin’. Mebbe one nurse t’the room, an she’s likely drunk. If babies die i’ th’ night, they jest put ’em in a shed ’til ground thaws, an’ buries ’em wholesale. Ain’t nobody gonna notice if one goes missin’. If this works, I c’n get more, easy-peasy.”

Alexandre nodded, mollified. “Damn good work, Alf,” he said, and fished out the gold sovereigns he’d put in his vest pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing all three of them to Alf, who caught them out of the air, deftly. “Get us some girls so we can celebrate after, and keep the rest for yourself. Is there anything I should do about—” he nodded at the basket.

Alf looked in again, and shook his head. “Nay. ’S warm enuff, sleepin’ hard, an’ Oi reckon th’ whiskey’ll keep it quiet till midnight. Anythin’ more, guv?”

Alexandre shook his head. Alf grinned.

“Oi’ll get me somethin’ t’eat then, an’ get them girls. Ye ain’t gonna need ’em till arter midnight?”

“I’m sure you can find something to keep you, and them, occupied until then,” he replied dryly. Alf grinned again, tugged at his cap, and went back up the stairs, closing the door firmly behind him.

And Alexandre got to work.

He’d removed every trace of magical work he had done here before, scouring the room down to the stone floor and walls. For now, he needed light, and plenty of it, so he lit the lamps he had hung from the beams of the ceiling and got his paint and brush and, of course, The Book.

Using a stiff, fine brush, he painted a circle around the altar stone, then a larger one outside of that. With The Book in one hand and the brush in the other, using the paint that had been made of very specific ingredients—none of them, oddly, blood—he wrote words in a language he had been completely unable to identify. When they were painted, starting in the north, he walked three times counterclockwise, slowly, intoning a sequence of syllables that had been very carefully denoted in The Book.

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