by Emma Newman
“Good afternoon,” Max said in his usual monotone.
She beckoned him close and whispered, “The big man will be listening through the door, so we need to keep our voices down.”
“I have a better solution.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender box from which he took something that looked like a hatpin and stuck it into the door’s keyhole. “That will muffle our voices. May I open your window?”
“Of course.”
Max left his hat on the chair and lifted the sash window. The gargoyle climbed in, landing silently on the wooden floorboards, making it seem like it wasn’t really there. It came straight over to her as Max closed the window.
“How are you?” it asked in its smoker’s voice. “Was it bad? You’re thinner.”
She looked for any signs of the anger it had expressed with claws around her throat the last time she saw it. “I’m all right. Still recovering. Yes, it was very bad.”
“Sorry we were horrible to you,” it said, resting its stone chin on the arm of the chair, like a dog hopeful for a pat. “We thought you’d lied to us.”
She slowly reached across and stroked the top of its stone head as Max settled into the opposite chair. “All right. It’s all in the past. Thanks for the file, it’s been very useful.”
“The last information you got to us was good,” Max said. “We found Thorn. He confessed and it helped us progress our investigations, so as far as I’m concerned we’re even.”
“What did Thorn do?”
The gargoyle and the Arbiter exchanged a look. “You don’t know?” Max asked.
“Thorn was the one who tried to kill you,” the gargoyle said.
Cathy felt breathless as a memory of the knife returned with horrific detail. “But Will said it was a Rosa sent by Bartholomew. He didn’t say it was Lord Thorn himself.”
“He disguised himself with a Glamour,” Max said. “He wanted your husband to think it was a Tulipa. It seems it worked.”
Cathy realised she was shaking. “Oh, God, that’s awful. I mean, it was awful already, and I knew it wasn’t Bartholomew, but Will was convinced…” She had to tell him as soon as he got back. They had to tell Margritte. “Hang on, why did Lord Thorn attack me?”
“To get your husband into a lot of trouble with Iris and Poppy and thereby stop him from taking the throne.”
“And probably breathing too,” the gargoyle added.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” Max said.
She was still reeling from the news. “What about Lord Thorn? Is he still set on killing me?”
“He isn’t in a position to do anything.”
“The Sorcerer put him in a special box,” the gargoyle added. “You don’t have to worry about him. And his brother is still in Exilium. We checked.”
“We understand Sam saved you from Thorn,” Max said. “Have you been in contact with him?”
“He did? No one has mentioned him at all. I’m not sure they even know he was there, otherwise Will would have said something. I haven’t seen him since the attack. Oh, God, do you think he’s all right?”
“He survived and he’s been back home since then,” Max replied. “I just wanted to ask him some questions. His wife died whilst you were both in hospital, so he wasn’t in a state to talk about Thorn’s attack.”
“Shit.” Cathy shook her head. “So much has been going on. Poor Sam. He was worried about her boss, did you know about that?”
Max nodded. “That’s another thing I wanted to discuss with him.”
A gentle knock on the door brought the conversation to a halt. The gargoyle scampered behind the curtains and Cathy called Morgan in. The tea was arranged and Carter had a good look at her before Morgan left. She tried to look fine, but felt like all the blood in her had sunk into the floor.
“I’ll pour,” Max said. “You look like you need a moment.”
“Will killed Bartholomew and took the throne because he thought he tried to have me killed. If he’d known it was Thorn, Bartholomew would still be alive.”
The gargoyle returned and sniffed at the cake next to the teapot. “This is only half of all the shit that’s been blowing up over the last few weeks, believe me.”
“What else is going on?”
Max was giving the gargoyle a familiar hard stare. “Not everything is suitable for discussion here,” he said as he handed her the tea.
“But you came to see me for something,” Cathy said after a couple of sips. “It wasn’t just to tell me about Thorn, was it?”
Max shook his head.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” the gargoyle said.
She smiled at it and tickled behind its ears, liking the way its muzzle wrinkled.
“We need your help,” Max said.
“Is this where you offer me the mythical help from the Sorcerer again?”
“We can’t offer that,” the gargoyle said. “He doesn’t know we’re here.” It looked at Max. “I know that was top of your ‘things not to talk about with Cathy’ list but there’s too much going on for us to be all secretive and crap. You know it.”
“I know you talk too much,” Max said.
“We can’t ask her to breach the Split Worlds treaty without an explanation,” the gargoyle replied.
“You want me to do what?”
Max looked from the gargoyle to her. She thought she was getting used to his total lack of emotion, but it seemed odd when there was a clearly disagreement between him and his…pet without any corresponding irritation or anger. Max didn’t say anything for a moment, which made the gargoyle groan. “There’s corruption in one of the London Chapters. They were told to ignore any breaches made by the Rosas.”
“Holy crap! Really?” Cathy had been taught the Arbiters were incorruptible. It was one of the reasons the Great Families were so afraid of them.
“Yep,” the gargoyle replied. “And there’s something dodgy going on with the ex-Sorcerer of Essex, so we need to find the Chapter as soon as we can and look into it.”
“But why isn’t your Sorcerer involved?”
“He’s too busy fighting a war. And he’s as mad as a bag of cats if you ask me.”
So there was a war amongst the Sorcerers. Cathy wondered if her uncle knew about that. Should she warn him?
“That’s enough,” Max said. “There’s something seriously wrong in London and you’re the only person in the city and in Fae-touched society we can ask to help. I can’t promise Mr Ekstrand will help you if you do this for us, but—”
Cathy held up a hand. “I don’t need his help any more. I’ve decided to stay.”
“Why?” the gargoyle asked. “You were dead set on getting out.” It narrowed its eyes. “You haven’t fallen in love or something?” It looked at Max. “You should check her for Charms, maybe—”
“It’s not that,” she interrupted. “I wanted to leave because it sucks to be a woman here. But it’s better to change it for everyone, than to just run away. And it’s the Agency too.”
“What about it?” Max asked.
Cathy feared the curse would kick in if she said anything negative about it. Was it only to stop her telling anyone about the blackmail, or speaking ill of the Agency too? Then she remembered Bennet’s warning about thinking twice before saying anything about them. He wouldn’t have said that if the curse prevented it. With the artefact in the keyhole, she decided to take the risk. “It’s dodgy.” She told them about Miss Rainer without coughing once.
“That’s nothing compared to what we saw last night,” the gargoyle began but Max held up a hand.
“That’s off-topic,” he said.
“Is it?” Cathy put her cup down. “You want me to breach the Treaty in the city of London when I’m supposed to be the Duchess of Londinium. It’s a big risk—what if I’m delivered to bloody Dame Iris by the local Arbiters? Lord Iris would kill me. No, actually, he’d do something worse.”
“I’ll be watching,” Max said. “When
the Arbiter comes I’ll step in and handle it.”
It was still a huge risk. She’d have to do something very obvious and very public to get the immediate attention of the London Arbiters, and what if they didn’t listen to Max? He was working without his Sorcerer’s knowledge, after all. “I’ll do it—if you tell me more about the Agency and get me any files I need.” There were names in Miss Rainer’s file she wanted to follow up, including other former students. Max was the only way she could find out more about them.
“That will be very difficult,” Max said.
“Bollocks.” The gargoyle put itself between her and the Arbiter. “He’s just saying that to cover our arses and make out like it’s something special. We can get you whatever you need to know. The files kept by the Agency are easy to get hold of now and they have one for every single person in your Nether Society.”
Cathy wondered what they had in her file. She suspected Bennet had kept all of her secrets out of it, to preserve their blackmail value.
“Don’t make promises we can’t keep,” Max said.
“And don’t get in the way of something that could get us much further than we can alone,” the gargoyle replied. “Cathy is our insider. She knows what it’s like in their world, we don’t.”
“I know enough,” Max said.
“We know enough to bust their asses when they step out of line, but not how the system works. And she’s connected to the Fae in a way we can never be. Someone is messing everything up, not just in London but the entire Heptarchy and probably other places too, someone who knows Fae magic and sorcery. We have to collaborate if we’re going to solve any of this, whether you like it or not.”
Cathy sat back as the two of them stared at each other. She felt like she’d been obsessing over one messy room whilst the entire house was falling apart. Whilst she was desperate to hear about what the gargoyle and Arbiter saw that night, it wasn’t the time to ask. Their relationship was strange, but then how could anything be normal when a walking, talking gargoyle was involved? Did all Arbiters have them? She didn’t know what the Heptarchy was and she didn’t know what the “someone” the gargoyle referred to had been doing, but one thing was clear: she had her first potential allies against the Agency.
“Listen, I know there hasn’t been much trust between us,” she said. “But I think the gargoyle is right. I don’t know how things work for Arbiters, but I do know that Nether Society is fundamentally unjust. It’s built upon suffering and I want it to change. We can help each other and I’m prepared to take a risk for you if you’re prepared to help me.”
Both she and the gargoyle looked at Max expectantly. “We’ll try it,” he said. “If your uncle can manage to work with the Sorcerer Guardian of Wessex perhaps we can manage to work together too. But if you try anything, it’s all off.”
“Understood,” Cathy said. “Same goes if you try to screw me over. But I do want things to change, and I think the gargoyle’s right.”
The gargoyle grinned. “Finally. Now let’s get to work.”
5
Sam stripped off the black suit and the shirt and stood in his underwear until he started to shiver. He needed to shower but could only face grabbing a pair of jeans and top from the bedroom floor.
The wake was probably still dragging on but he’d stayed as long as he could. He’d said an uncomfortable goodbye to Leanne’s parents and walked all the way home. His feet still throbbed from walking in the formal shoes.
He tried to remember what it was like in the house when Leanne lived there but he could only remember the arguments so he went downstairs to see whether there was any beer left.
As he walked through the hallway a flash of green made him stop before he’d reached the kitchen. He looked back at the long mirror hanging where it always had and realised sunlight was shining out of it.
“Oh, shit.”
A tapping sound drew him towards it, dreading what he’d see. He’d yelled at all the people in horror movies who go to investigate a strange sound and here he was doing it himself.
The mirror looked like a window onto Exilium and Poppy’s faerie was tapping on it. When it saw him it waved and his shoulders drooped.
The glass appeared to liquefy as the faerie reached a tiny hand through it to beckon him. He considered running out of the house and never coming back but his feet still moved forwards as if his body had already made the decision.
“Fuck,” he said as he climbed through the surface of the mirror, feeling as if he was slowly putting his face into a pond but there was no water beyond the surface tension.
“Where have you been?” The faerie flitted about in front of him. “We couldn’t find you.”
“Busy,” he said, wondering if the chapel had offered some sort of protection. Then he realised it was probably something to do with Lord Iron’s house, seeing as his company provided a Fae-proof flat for Leanne. “What do you want?”
“Lord Poppy wants to see you. He’s over there.”
Sam trudged through the perfect meadow grass, irritated by the beauty of the birdsong. There were trees and poppies, like the time he’d come in with Cathy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked until he reached a clearing. Poppy was waiting with his cane and dozens of poppy flowers as if he had always been there and always would be.
“Ah! There you are. I’ve just seen my favourite’s husband and I feel the need to be cheered up.”
“He has that effect on me too,” Sam muttered. “I’m not the best person to cheer anyone up at the moment.”
“Oh?” Poppy came closer, swinging the cane ahead of him with each step. “Oh, dear, you do smell rather miserable. Has someone died?”
“Maybe.”
“Someone close to you.” Poppy squinted as he peered into Sam’s eyes. “My, what a delightful mess you are. I have just the thing to help.”
“Me or you?”
“Both of us, my little grieving one. Sit down.”
“This is counting towards my debt, isn’t it?”
“Oh, silly me!” Poppy snapped his fingers and the hourglass appeared. “Well, a minute here and a minute there is nothing between us.”
Sam had to really stare to catch sight of the grains of sand falling. There was still so much to go. Expecting to sit on the grass, he found himself caught by poppies forming a rudimentary seat beneath him.
“I want you to draw a picture for me,” Poppy said, reaching behind his back and pulling a pad of paper and a pencil from nowhere. “I have a renewed appetite for art, thanks to my little sunlit one having painted such a masterpiece. Have you seen it?”
“No. It was rolled up when I delivered it.”
“Oh. Maybe you will one day, maybe you won’t. I may have an exhibition and reveal it one time only.” He lowered his voice. “Did she tell you what the secret is? The one she painted into it?”
Sam shook his head, glad Cathy hadn’t told him. It meant he didn’t have to lie. “Nope. I haven’t got a clue. And I can’t draw so can I go home now?”
“Everyone can draw!” Poppy dropped the paper and pencil into his lap. “Try. Take as long as you need. Well, until I tire of your struggle and find an alternative way for you to be entertaining with a pencil.”
“I don’t know what to draw.”
“Not ‘what’—who. The one who died. Yes, that’s perfect. I want you to draw…” Poppy leaned down to peer into his eyes. “Her? Yes, a woman, I think. Your mother? No. Your wife!”
Sam stared down at the page, disturbed by how much Poppy could fathom from his face alone. He wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else, but Poppy was desperate to do something awful, he knew it.
He started to draw but the face appearing on the page looked like something a six-year-old would be ashamed of. He went to turn the paper over but Poppy stopped him with his cane.
“Keep going. I must see how awful this will be.”
Sam’s mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. The lines on the paper bore n
o resemblance to Leanne—they didn’t even resemble a person. Poppy watched every hesitant stroke as the faerie sniggered. Sam just wanted to stick the pencil in Poppy’s chest and bolt.
“It’s done,” he finally said, unable to make it any worse.
Poppy took the piece of paper and tipped it from one side to the other before looking at Sam. “Did your wife look like this?”
“Of course not.”
“I can make you think she did.” Poppy watched the horror spread across Sam’s face. “No? You’d rather remember her as she was and suffer not being able to draw her?”
“Of course I bloody would!” Sam chucked the pencil across the clearing and stood up. “This isn’t a fucking game! She’s dead!”
Poppy’s expression was that of a child at the circus: utterly enthralled by a trapeze artist. He leaned closer, reaching towards his face. “Oh…” he whispered. “It’s exquisite.”
Sam leaned back but Poppy’s hand was too fast and he felt the gentlest brush across his cheek. Poppy pulled his hand back, a sparkling teardrop balanced perfectly on his fingertip. Sam touched his cheek and found it was wet.
Poppy lifted the drop to his mouth and tasted it with his horribly long tongue. “What a delicious creation! Grief and guilt and superbly piquant regret. You can go now. I want to enjoy this alone.”
Sam didn’t need any encouragement and hurried out of the clearing and towards the Way back to his house before Poppy said anything else.
Max checked there was no one on the fire escape. They were only a few feet from a busy pavement, tucked in a cramped alleyway between two huge buildings and thus far unnoticed by the innocents of London. He looked at Catherine, who was hunched in a coat and leaning against the wall. She was pale and looked tired. The gargoyle was sitting next to her, close enough to prop her back up if she needed it.
The gargoyle had said more than it should. Max took a moment to think through the reason he was there, examining each decision point for signs of her interference, or that of any of the puppets. She was happy to negotiate once they were there, but there was no way she could have steered events to force them to work together. At least, it wasn’t apparent from the information at his disposal.