A Difficult Night

Chapter Three: Isabel

The end of July; the last light had finally relinquished its hold on the sky. Dark enough now, thought Isabel Nott, letting the heavy curtain swing back into place. She resumed her pacing across the room, taking some pleasure in the fretful swishing of her skirts. Her reflection fell briefly across an antique gilt mirror and a husky voice called out, stifling a yawn.

"You should go to bed, cherie. What will your husband say if great shadows come to spoil those lovely eyes of yours?"

"We both have much more important things to worry about," she muttered. "Anyway, I'm not tired. I'm perfectly well enough to be out tonight."

She stopped beside the cradle standing near the fireplace, in which Theodore lay peacefully. Despite the care she had lavished upon the preparation of the nursery before his birth, at seven months he was still sleeping here with her, as she had found she couldn't bear to let him out of her sight. Theodore had, almost immediately, come to share the place in her heart she had once thought unassailable, even though, unfortunately, he showed little sign of sharing Evan's Rosier good looks. Distracted, she trailed her fingertips across his warm head. His hair was the softest thing she had ever felt. The colour though, so neutral: it made her think of some insignificant animal whose life depended on staying crouched immobile in the grass. It might still darken, redden in time, mightn't it? A surge of protectiveness rose in her for an instant, whose familiarity had no power to blunt its edge. Another of those divided nights. Here she was in this hushed, elegant room, with fire- and candlelight glinting off ivory quill-holders and tortoiseshell hairbrushes, the gentle sound of Theodore breathing. And out there, somewhere, there was Evan. She wasn't sure exactly what his assignment was: he'd said it was better for her not to know, which wasn't unusual; but he'd told her he would be up in Northumberland for some of it. She'd asked whether he'd go home - her mother had been complaining recently of how little she saw of him these days - but he'd said regretfully that he thought he was under suspicion and it wouldn't be wise to turn up at some ungodly hour of the night in case the house was being watched, though he was looking forward to flying over the fells again, at least.

It had been a long time since she'd gone flying with him, she realised. Suddenly, she was shaken by a startlingly vivid recollection of what it was like to chase headlong across the wild country at night. There was so little up there: dry stone walls to whose lines they used to try to keep exactly as a test of skill; a few stunted trees with sheep huddled down around them in a spill of subdued cloud. Nothing to stop them going as fast as they dared; nothing between them and the stars and the wind; nothing to stop them feeling that they were the most important things in the world. Their games of airborne hide-and-seek in thick fog, water droplets clustering on clothes and cold faces, those walls and trees looming up out of nowhere, breathless swoops and swerves...She bit her lip against the pang of reminiscence. She had always loved to follow him. It was not that she wanted to be another Bellatrix Black - Bellatrix Lestrange, now - at whom her mother had always looked askance: I know you can be a little impetuous, my dear, and it is no bad thing for a young girl to have some spirit. But it is not quite decent to voice one's opinions so openly, to be so...flagrant in manner; both of them watching across the room as Bellatrix ran one long finger down Evan's face, laughing...But it did seem hard that she should have been left so far behind, that she should be pacing this room on her own whilst her brother and their friends did their best to bring about a better world.

Of course, all they were doing was for their children's benefit, and what would be the point of creating a new order if there was no-one to carry it on? Her little Theodore was the continuation of two ancient pureblood families, the future. Bellatrix had no children; it was hard to imagine her ever being a mother, so let her reserve that scornful twitch of her lips for Isabel, if she wanted. There was so much she could not possibly understand. It would be good, on the other hand, to be able to talk to Bellatrix's sister, whose son had been born some months after Theodore. But it had never been easy to hold a real conversation with Narcissa. The few meetings she and Isabel had had recently had been stifled in politesse: the sharp chink of teacup against saucer; the boys swaddled in their laps, like dolls. Did she, too, feel confined? Was she happy with Lucius Malfoy? Impossible to tell, unthinkable to ask.

For a moment she thought she heard a tapping on the window. She crossed the room almost at a run: an owl? But no, there was nothing there. With a sigh, she tried settling herself on the chaise longue; not that there was any chance of getting any rest. Her leggy young cat at once leapt up to investigate the potential for games, and she dropped a hand to scratch its head. Nothing to do but wait. Perhaps she should ask Evan, or Benedict, if she could talk to the Dark Lord again. He'd been the one who had remade her world, after all: he'd shown her the magnitude of the task at hand, helped her to understand both the grand sweep of events and her own small part in then. He'd appreciate her desire to do more to help, wouldn't he, find her something else useful to do? She knew he must be terribly busy, but he'd thought her worthy of his attention, once. When she'd first been introduced to him, she'd still been at school. She'd been pleading with Evan to take her along with him to one of his secret meetings for a while, but he'd been reluctant, for some reason. There's time enough, you should concentrate on your schoolwork, don't forget you've got NEWTS coming up, I will soon, I promise...

And then, suddenly, he'd given in. There'd been a masked ball for the New Year, at one of the old family houses in London. She'd not long passed her Apparition test, and as she arrived in style, wearing her finest new dress robes, with Evan and dear Simon Wilkes, the whole occasion felt like a coming of age. Her heart had raced faster and faster as she climbed the sweeping curve of the staircase on Simon's arm, heard their names announced, approached the tall figure standing by the fireplace.

"Isabel, I've heard so much about you." He raised her hand to his lips. "I'm very glad that we have you with us at last." His gaze flickered to Evan for a moment. "Sit by me for a while..." He'd been so charming, asking her about school, praising her brother highly, so passionate. She could not, even immediately afterwards, recall all that had been said, and when, a short time later, she had found herself talking to their host, a tall elderly man wearing wire spectacles in front of his mask, she had hardly been able to focus upon him. Though the Dark Lord had moved on, his presence seemed to stay with her, as if she'd been staring at the sun for too long and now could see little around its burning afterglow. She'd returned Benedict Nott's kind, tentative smile politely, made some inconsequential conversation, then drifted away to find Evan. He'd been standing with Simon on a balcony opening out from the ballroom, and her excited cry had broken into their silence.

"Evan, I can't believe you've kept me out of all this for so long!"

He looked around slowly. "The Dark Lord hasn't told you what he wants of you?"

"No; does he want me to help you? I'll do anything..." What had she imagined? Brave deeds, grave danger, the three of them together, risking their lives for the cause. She'd been so young, then.

"Anything?" Her brother's expression had been unreadable. "You met our host? The Notts go back almost as far as we do, but he's the last of the family. The Dark Lord would like the two of you to be married." He paused, saw that she was unable to respond. "He has impeccable ancestry, an amazing grasp of the Dark Arts. He's one of the Dark Lord's oldest friends. It's a great honour, you know. But..."

He broke off abruptly. Simon, whom only that morning she'd blushingly imagined kissing as bells rang out for the New Year, stared out into the shadowed garden, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Thinking back, she was amazed at how quickly, how completely, as her head span, her world had rearranged itself. Already, she was aware of how foolish her imaginings of a few moments before had been. Certain incendiary phrases of the Dark Lord's came back to her, about the age and traditions of families like hers, the responsibilities of those who belonged to them. How could she refuse him? Surely this interest in her must also be a sign of his esteem for Evan; saying no would let them both down, wouldn't it? For a moment, she couldn't help wondering what her mother would say: they had never quite discussed the subject, of course, but Isabel knew how fond she was of Simon, who'd been visiting the house since he and Evan became best friends in their first year at school. But she had remembered her sense, earlier that evening, that she was coming of age. It was time she made her own decisions. It seemed only fitting that she should face difficulties, leave behind the fancies of youth for the realities of adulthood, make sacrifices to prove her dedication to the cause. She'd allowed herself one renunciatory glance at Simon, then managed a smile. It had been unsteady, but exhilarated.

"All right."

This time, reminiscence had been beneficial: hearing the Dark Lord's voice again; feeling that excitement, that passion, again as if new; the irritations of the long night's wait fading away into certainty. She was on edge, that was all, was never quite herself until she knew Evan was safe. That was the only thing that mattered. If only Benedict wasn't working so late; often, on nights like these, he'd distract her with a game of wizard chess, or by reading to her. She hoped he'd come home soon. Would Evan turn up himself, when he'd finished? No, if he was up in the North he'd probably just send a message to let her know everything was all right. He'd taken to choosing random lines from a wizarding romance he'd confiscated when he caught her reading it tucked inside her History of Magic text book, just before OWLS, and had never got round to giving back. It was a dark and stormy night, the last one had said; the one before that, He felt as if his heart would break asunder. Reading them was like receiving one of his assured, ironic smiles, but they weren't really enough to make up for hours of anxiety.

The cat, a warm furry burden upon her feet, stretched and twitched, hunting in its dreams. She stared into the fire. How long would it take, to achieve all they hoped for? How many more nights of waiting?