A Dance in Blood Velvet by Freda Warrington Page B

one of her psychic flashes, soon confirmed by a letter from his parents’ solicitors. Ben tried to attend the funeral, but his father, unrepentant, drove him away in a rage. That was Ben’s last attempt to contact him. His father lived alone at Grey Crags now and could rot there for all he cared.
    However, it was Lancelyn’s utter indifference to their bereavement that crystallised Ben’s frustration. As Ben grew into his own power, he began to resent Lancelyn’s authority, his casual assumption that Ben and Holly were his protégés, eternal assistants. That was why Ben built his own temple. Working alone, he entered Raqia with increasing ease to soar through the ethereal mountains of the astral world. No esoteric words or symbols were needed; only the force of his own will. He saw wonders and sensed dark-winged creatures around him, beings who were frustratingly oblivious, untouchable.
    If Lancelyn communicates with them, he thought, he is either infinitely more adept than me - or he’s hallucinating - or telling lies! Ha, heresy!
    The brothers were growing apart, though neither dared admit it. The process began even before they discovered the Book, long before the deaths of James and Deirdre. Ben finally acknowledged the schism as he walked along tree-lined streets to confront his brother.
    Lancelyn , y our meetings are fruitless and theatrical , he wanted to announce. You have not unveiled Wisdom. You have done nothing new.
    I am younger and stronger than you. So why are you still in power?
    * * *
    Benedict stood on Lancelyn’s doorstep, hands pushing his coat pockets out of shape. I don’t want to face this , he thought. I risk having all my dreams shattered. But I have to. I want everything, or nothing!
    A manservant showed him into the study. Lancelyn was sitting at his desk surrounded by his books and manuscripts. Another figure, a disembodied torso on the edge of the desk, made Ben start. Some sort of dummy, wearing a Mexican hat and striped shirt. One of Lancelyn’s restored toys. Damned ugly thing, Ben thought.
    “Come in,” Lancelyn said gruffly. “Cigar?”
    “Thank you,” said Benedict.
    Lancelyn leaned over to the dummy and pressed a lever. Whirring, it came to life, raising its hands to produce a box of cigars, then opening the lid to Benedict. The fixed grin on its badly painted face was unsettling.
    “Nice toy, eh?” said Lancelyn. “I completely rebuilt the mechanism. Makes a pleasant change from brain-work.”
    Ben took a cigar. The automaton flicked a thumb, held out a light, then sank back to rest.
    “Remarkable,” said Ben, through clouds of smoke. He sat in a leather armchair, putting on a show of relaxed confidence. “You’ve heard the unfortunate news about James and Deirdre?”
    “Of course.” Lancelyn sat down behind his desk. “Very sad. Most regrettable.”
    “Any possibility that it wasn’t suicide? That they were victims of a magical attack?”
    The magus’s reaction was subtle. He became very still, face expressionless and eyes hard. “A strong possibility, I’d say.”
    “But who would do that to them?” Ben said. “Why?”
    “They must have upset someone. No one with such powers uses them lightly, so it must have been very serious. Flouting the Laws, perhaps, or breaking their oath of secrecy.”
    Ben moistened his dry lips. Would Lancelyn speak so openly, if he were guilty? “D’you know who they quarrelled with? Does any member of the Order possess such power... apart from you?”
    Cool amusement creased his brother’s face. “What is this, Ben, a police investigation?”
    “I need the truth. I understand that both Deirdre and James quarrelled with you.”
    “Indeed? What else did Deirdre tell you?”
    “I never said she told me anything,” said Ben, playing Lancelyn’s game. “But she was afraid. She had a visitation. In the light of what subsequently happened, it sounded remarkably like a nightmare vision of a train.”
    “Perhaps she had a fear