them with a mortar and pestle, the leaves released the bittersweet aroma she recalled so clearly from her studies. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘If not for you, I’d feel so alone.’
Niamh traced her fingers down the nape of Sophie’s neck, releasing a shiver of pleasure. ‘I told you,’ Niamh breathed into her ear, ‘I am here for you, always.’
Once the balm was complete, they returned to the bed. There was a moment of shyness as Sophie eyed Niamh, but the goddess simply leaned forward and kissed Sophie gently on the lips. Slowly, she undid Sophie’s dress and eased it over her head. When Sophie was naked, Niamh pressed her to the bed, easing a pillow under the small of her back.
‘People talk of witches riding broomsticks.’ Sophie’s breaths were short, her eyes closed. ‘They don’t realise it’s just a misunderstanding of the word “riding”.’ She giggled, embarrassment and anticipation stirring her feelings. ‘The wise women used their broomsticks to apply the balm to the vaginal walls so it was absorbed into the bloodstream quickly. But the flight part, that wasn’t a metaphor. It was true.’
Niamh traced circles on Sophie’s belly, bringing shivers of satisfaction. From the bedside cabinet, Sophie removed a spindle used to wrap parchment. Niamh whispered, ‘Let me.’
Sophie acquiesced without a second thought. Niamh applied the balm to the spindle and then with her free hand stroked Sophie’s pubic hair. Barely touching at all, she continued down between Sophie’s legs, along her lips and back.
‘Are you ready?’ she breathed.
‘Yes,’ Sophie moaned.
Niamh kissed Sophie’s pubic mound before easing one finger in to open her up. Sophie moaned louder and arched her back. Once she was lubricated, Niamh gently inserted the tip of the spindle and applied the balm.
Sophie was overcome with the most intense sexual desires. She had always found the ritual stimulating, but there was something in the atmosphere in the room, or in Niamh’s company, or in the oddly heady wine that Niamh had encouraged Sophie to drink, that drove her instantly to the brink of orgasm.
As the balm entered her blood, the erotic charge retreated. Sophie felt her consciousness falling back into her head, into the soothing dark where the trapdoor of reality lay.
There was a rush like the most exciting fairground ride, and then she was out of her body and soaring up to the ornate ceiling. Looking down, she saw herself writhing in pleasure as Niamh ran a finger around her clitoris, still barely touching. In her pure state, a pang of guilt ran through her. It was ritual, but from her new perspective it appeared to be so much more.
Without a backward glance, she rose through the ceiling and the rooms above until she emerged from the blue-tiled roof into the smell of ashes and the night breeze, and to the sight of the Burning Man high on the horizon.
Exhilarated, she took a deep breath. She was a ghost. Nothing could touch her, but she could see, smell and hear as clearly as if she had substance.
Arching her back, she flew down the side of the palace and across the jumbled rooftops, faster and faster still. And then she dived down into the streets and alleys, flying inches above the cobbles at breakneck speed, shrieking with wild laughter before rising up sharply across a roof and down again. The court passed in a blur. Through windows, she fleetingly saw the occupants going about their private business. She flew with the owls and the bats, and drifted with the smoke rising from the chimneys, and then floated on her back to watch the stars. And then, finally, she was at the Hunter’s Moon.
Her exhilaration faded rapidly. Slow-burning anger rose up from the fire that Niamh had stoked, and she knew that she couldn’t rest until she had discovered if her suspicions were true. She eased through the tiles into an attic room where a man with scales and a forked tongue and a woman covered with fur were engaged in rough sex; down winding stairs, along twisting, claustrophobic corridors to the room that lay behind a door that resembled a painting of a door.
The instant she saw Caitlin and Mallory a jolt struck her heart, for everything she feared was laid bare in the subtlest of details: the arch of the neck, a look held a fraction of a second too long, the brushing of bodies standing slightly too close. They stood over Rhiannon with their arms almost touching, at an angle so they could look into each other’s faces, occasionally glancing down at Rhiannon when she moaned and writhed feverishly.
Sophie ignored the possibility that the goddess might finally be waking. Her attention was held by Mallory and Caitlin; they may as well have been making love before her. Her anger flared as Caitlin touched Mallory’s arm to point out some detail of Rhiannon’s state. Her anger roared as Mallory whispered a response in Caitlin’s ear, his cheek brushing her hair. Her anger became a conflagration as words broke through the dense fury surrounding her brain: ‘We …’, ‘… together …’, ‘… nobody must know …’ The rest of it didn’t matter; the truth was plain: she had been betrayed by the two people closest to her. She was alone. Except for Niamh, who had been right all along but had never come out and said it for fear of hurting Sophie’s feelings.
As the blaze consumed her, she rushed up through the building and into the night sky, driving higher and higher, a burning woman, as isolated as a star.
Gradually, her rage was dampened by a rising sadness, and that was when she looked down at the court far below and saw something that brought her to a sudden halt.
At ground level, the Court of the Soaring Spirit was such a sprawling, jumbled, incoherent city that it was impossible to guess its layout. But high overhead, all was clear.
The court was a perfect circle divided into clearly delineated and equal sectors. She had seen it before. From the air, the Court of the Soaring Spirit was a representation of the Coligny Calendar down to the smallest detail.
‘MAT,’ she mouthed, transfixed. ‘ANM.’
3
The rains started soon after, sheeting from the heavens to cascade off the roofs and gutters, gushing from the mouths of gargoyles and spewing from rusty pipes until the winding, cobbled streets became streams rushing down towards the main gates.
Mallory and Caitlin emerged from the comforting light and warmth of the Hunter’s Moon to find Sophie waiting beneath a leaking porch over the dark doorway across the street. She was wrapped in a sodden cloak with scant regard for the downpour.
Happy to see her, Mallory ran across the street and took her in his arms, and if there was a moment of stiffness, he didn’t notice it. ‘Why didn’t you come in?’ he asked, giving her a discreet kiss on the forehead.
Sophie eyed Caitlin waiting uncomfortably beneath the Hunter’s Moon’s front porch. ‘I thought I was followed. I didn’t want to lead anyone to you.’
‘Smart move. From now on, we’ve got to be even more cautious.’ He told her what Rhiannon had said. ‘I reckon we’re getting close to something.’
Sophie responded with her own observation of the court from on high. ‘I don’t know if the court is based on the calendar or vice versa, but it can’t be a coincidence. It has to be what Math was leading us towards.’
‘It fits. Switching the seasons. The Gateway to Winter has got to lead somewhere.’ Mallory peered into Sophie’s face. ‘Is something wrong? You seem-’
‘Just cold.’ She pulled her cloak tighter as Caitlin crossed the road.
‘Brigid says someone’s coming.’ She glanced up the slope where the street wound away into the dark. ‘We need to hide.’
The sound of marching feet rose up above the driving rain. Mallory herded Sophie and Caitlin into an alley where they pressed themselves against a wall in the dark.
With torches sizzling in the rain, Evgen led an armed guard of twenty men, and in their midst was Jerzy, badly beaten and bound with chains that made him repeatedly fall into the gushing rainwater. Jerzy shrieked loudly, tears running down his cheeks.
As Mallory went for his sword, Caitlin grabbed his arm and pressed her body against him to stop him moving. Behind them, there was a cold, hard sound that could have been the wind.
Once the guards had passed, Mallory said, ‘Niamh’s given up pretending. Jerzy was the easy target. She’ll
