Cyrus looked at Gold with a drawn face. 'I don't know.'
Above, Gold saw the ashen pall of clouds now within striking distance of London. The nightmare she had in the early morning still harrowed her. She saw her sister snatched by black claws; twisted hags sneering at her; her legs heavy as stone. Gold whispered a prayer to bring her a sense of calm. In the dream she wielded a sword made from white roses and struck down those that would injure Hazel. She wished it was so in the real world. She ignored the fantasy, steeled herself, and walked towards the market square, one hand beckoning Cyrus. Gold clambered up an iron gate and squeezed herself into a passage. Muddy water flowed around her boots; her jerkin and mittens felt tight as she stretched them.
'Why here?' asked Cyrus. 'We're heading towards the middle of ‘Barrow.'
'I've got a feeling,' replied Gold.
'I taught you not to rely on feelings. Perhaps Hazel was kidnapped and she's halfway to the Frankish by now.'
'Regardless of where we start, Hazel can't have gone far in one night. She’s not the adventurous type.'
The cramped tunnel ran on ahead; Gold tensed her muscles once more and forced herself to calm. She moved towards the end of the tunnel and lit her lantern. Cyrus stood facing her; his boots pasted in muck, a neckerchief over his nose. While Gold strained her eyes in the gloom, the water around them started to flow quicker.
'It's starting to rain.' said Cyrus.
'Must be that storm we saw. Must have broken faster than I thought it would. You didn't see anything odd about it did you?' Gold asked.
'None. Except it was a clear morning.'
Gold nodded. Would they chase Hazel forever? Was this her life? The frustrations of the previous weeks brought her down. No wonder Hazel left home. No number of platitudes or burying the truth could stop it.
'Lead on then. Let's see where your feelings take us.'
'This is pointless. We'll not find her Cyrus, it's my fault she's ran off.'
'Nonsense girl. She's got Saville blood in her; God only knows what she thinks at any given time. You were the best thing in her life. She never admitted to it, but she thought the world of you.'
'Thank you,' she squeezed Cyrus. 'Let's try at least.'
'All we can do in life.'
They quickened pace until a loose grate caught Gold’s eye. She peered through it with her light and came face to face with rats tumbling and spilling out through the bars. Gold called out to Cyrus. The rats were scrambling to get ahead of the torrents of water that were becoming stronger by the minute. He held her arm and took her aside. Cyrus pointed up at a ladder leading towards market and the start of their search. She gagged at the thought of the vermin; her legs wriggled by instinct whenever one came close.
'I hope you're not afraid of them,' asked Cyrus.
'No, it’s more the fear of how filthy they are.'
Cyrus laughed. 'So, you do share something in common with Victoria. She shrieks like a banshee if one gets into the house.'
They clambered up the ladder, up towards the heavy door that led out onto the streets and opened it. Cyrus took stock of the situation as Gold leaned from the ladder below enjoying the wisps of fresh air. He motioned to her to follow and she took care not to make any noise. The public square looked larger in the wet and without stalls. She could feel the sky was boiling in anger. Not a single soul was out on the streets that shouldn’t have been; the rest had fled the downpour. A deafening peal of thunder came in answer; the rain doubled in effort.
'Let's try the church,' she cried over the rain. Cyrus grunted. Gold ditched her lantern in an entrance and jogged across the market avoiding puddles.
'What was that?' shouted Cyrus.
A shadow hovered above. It craned its neck at the streets; its shawl flittered about in the storm.
'It's one of those things Alex described,' Cyrus whispered. 'Two of them took Elena just before he reached here.'
Gold knelt behind a cart. The witch was in a black dress, and held a gnarled branch in between her thighs. Tiny baubles and glass balls fixed to her hair jangled. Gold gasped when she looked at the witch’s face: it was a woman, scarred from her lips to the top of crown, her eyes cold. She cocked her head, as if hearing a distant call. The witch smoothed her legs along the length of the stick and flew off at an alarming speed.
'God preserve. Did you see that? No wonder your friend was so shaken.'
Cyrus turned to Gold and waited for the wind to simmer down. ‘We don't need daggers and knives, we need rifles and pistols.'
'What did happen to Alex?'
'Two of those things snatched a girl he was with, Elena. Before he could save her, and he tried to, fire caught on thin air, hence the burn. He was terrified Gold. I knew him as foolhardy, but never shaken like that,' Cyrus pulled on his knuckles.
'Where is he now? He left early this morning.'
'He’s speaking to a mutual friend.'
Gold pulled her hood tighter and ran through the streets to the next junction. Ahead Cyrus had paused in front of a crumbling church.
'Here,' he said.
‘Looks like the doors are locked and boarded.'
'Well, help me with them,' Cyrus breathed deep and started to remove the boards to church. Gold kept one eye on the clouds and one on the empty streets. She glanced at Cyrus, who met her stare.
'I had a waking dream last night,' she said.
'Can it help pull down planks and nails?'
'There's something vile in the air over London. It's like a miasma, and it's not just this storm.'
'One bad dream and you get all prophetic. When did you become so superstitious girl?'
'Since finding God that day you saved me.'
Cyrus nodded, conceding. Sounds of a skirmish echoed through the square. Shouts of men and the clashing of swords grew louder; after a moment they heard gunfire. They hurried to remove the last of the boards, and stepped inside the cloister.
‘No. Nothing here,' said Cyrus as he mopped his brow.
'She’s a needle in a haystack.'
'Anymore insights or feelings?' he mocked.
Gold looked around the old church. It had seen plenty of feet pass through its narrow entrance; the marble steps underneath concave with age. She grasped a pillar with one hand. Its chiselled lines pronounced in groups of three. Above in a space that attached the ceiling to a rib, was a rose carved from the same stone, washed a thin white.
'What's that?' Gold pointed.
‘Seems to be a rose.'
'What's the name of that inn; the one where all those charlatans and drunks go to for attention?'
'The White Rose. It's a street from home. Smugglers' tunnels run through the cellar. Plenty of shelter for the whole district.'
Gold and Cyrus took what remained of the door and closed it, careful not to draw further attention. They picked up a pace, and jogged to the Rose.
✽✽✽
Hazel rushed past empty barrels, her wet boots slapping on the smooth flagstones. Her heart raced as she pushed herself through the cramped tunnels. She watched the last of men from the inn brave outside. She told herself to calm. If Gold was here, would she fight? The smuggling den, once used to distribute of all manner of goods was now a shelter. Pews and chairs made barricades, with muskets positioned along the balconies above. She saw cowering faces of the children tucked close to their mothers. The only seniority around was now a pack of wizened men. Candles dotted about burned low; the old men placed on guard shared dark looks. Flashes of lightning broke her concentration, and the thunder stopped it altogether. Outside was quiet aside from the downpour. She hadn’t heard rain this heavy since Gold took her to the sea one summer ago. The water there was freezing when she dipped a reluctant toe into it, but she adored the wind and running across the sand. They made and flew kites of all different shapes and sizes, trying to best one another. She used to cry when it rained, especially if she was flying a new kite, intent on it being the fastest. The paper would turn to mush and d
isappear before her eyes. Gold would shrug when this would happen and smile. Three more flashes outside convinced Hazel to take cover under a discarded blanket. She prayed her sister could not only find her, but forgive her.
✽✽✽
Gold rounded the corner with Cyrus ahead. The only other place was now the inn; she prayed out loud that her younger sister would be well and, in her arms, soon. She could see the flattened roof of the Rose as they drew closer; its pale, chalky tiles contrasting with the sickly pastels of the houses around it. Gold realised they were both in the eye of the storm. The wind howled outside the eye; small drops of rain periodic. The battle still raged at the gates to the district. Gold could hear it; militia in groups of twelve marched past the inn. Movement above forced her to crouch and try her best to hide in the niche of the doorway she was in. Seven witches flew only a metre away from her. She could feel fear creep up her spine and along her arms. Among them was a tall witch, clothed in white. They all let out a shrill noise. Gold likened it to a pack of feral cats. Three militiamen, brandishing rifles, charged them from the opposite end of the street. The witches fired arrows at them perched on their branches, felling two men. Once their quivers were empty, they drew curved daggers that flashed in the lightning.
Before Gold could shout, Cyrus dashed ahead, his dagger poised with the grip reversed. He stabbed the closest witch straight through her heart: the tip erupted clean from her chest. A strange choking noise carried its way out of the witch’s mouth as she collapsed. The other witches ceased their attack and looked dumbfounded. The tall witch dropped her bow and quiver and lunged at Cyrus with her own blade. He twisted his heels to the left and with a single stroke lopped her right fingers off; blood pumping from the stumps. As she let out a scream, the rest took flight and carried their wounded sister off into the skies. Gold could hear them fade into the storm with whistles and hisses. The militiamen standing rushed ahead to join with their fellows.
'Poor fighters,' said Cyrus. 'All noise and posturing.'
'They seemed competent enough, and well–armed,’ said Gold, wide–eyed.
‘It worries me though. Why are they here?'
'They snatched Hazel's sister you said. Elena? She must be important enough for the risk.'
'Black ones that could fly–just as Alex described.'
'I remember her. She was only a baby.'
'Sarah Saville’s children, yes.'
'Could Elena have told Sarah Saville where her sister was?'
'Mayhap. If Sarah Saville was still alive to be told; which I find hard to imagine.'
Gold locked her jaw. A miserable group of old men were present at the entrance of the Rose and nodded as they passed into the inn. Inside Gold wrung out her hair and patted down her soaked clothes. What light there was, shone on people, some stabbed, others with burns. Several children ran past carrying clean sheets and jugs of water for the worst off. An older woman coordinated them, tearing the cloth into bandages. Gold walked up to her; dabbing rainwater from her cheeks.
'Madam.'
'Yes?' the woman looked puzzled and glanced at Cyrus. Gold could see her eyes move down to their scabbards.
‘We're not militia, or soldiers,' Gold held her hands up. 'My sister is missing, she’s got silver hair, skittish manners. Have you seen her? She's only young.’
The woman looked down to her shoes as she talked. ‘That young miss with the hair like steel? She left. She left for you. She wouldn’t listen to me now, she insisted in going.'
'She's stubborn.' Gold said.
'Aye, very. Not much sense in her head. Told her I'd stay away from fighting if I was you.'
‘Which direction was she headed? Which street did she take?'
The woman shrugged and waved her hand towards the district gate. Gold stopped, her mind turning.
‘If she comes back, tell her I’m looking for her, and I’m taking her back home’
‘No promises dear. But who are you to her anyway?’
‘Family,’ said Gold, and marched her way back outside.
✽✽✽
Hazel pushed past a mob of men shouting at a witch sprawled on a patch of mud. The mob had bound her mouth shut; bands kept her arms tied and unable to move. Hazel grimaced at the thought of what justice they would deliver. An arrow whistled past her head as another guard fell from his parapet clutching his throat. She could see through the smoke and fires a throng of witches pushed out of the main gate and into murder holes. Men-at-arms threw themselves into the mass and shouted over the cries of the witches. Officers on horseback isolated batches of them and shot until their prey no longer moved. The spells and curses the witches used in return caused men’s skin to blister and their swords and rifles melt before their eyes. Bolts of energy erupted from sinister wands causing horrific wounds. Hazel turned from the violence and coughed up the contents of her stomach. She knew on some level how visceral fighting would be, but the smell of burnt skin had pushed the limits of her nausea. The screams of the innocent and the report of rifles were too much. She stumbled into a stack of straw as a militia man shoved her aside. She found small comfort nestled in the bale, and turned to look at corpses lying on the ground. Priests from under a shelter grasped those still alive under both arms and drag them away for aid. Hazel turned around and amongst the torches she spotted a familiar face, her sister had come.
'Gold!'
Hazel embraced her from behind and held her tight. Gold spun and held her sister in return. They didn’t have need for words; the relief felt was the only thing Hazel wanted at this moment. Gold saw red streaks on the side of Hazel's face and started to clean them with fresh linen. They crumpled to the ground as Gold tended to her cut.
‘I'll always be here for you, you know this. Sisters. We have to stick together,’ Gold shouted.
Hazel nodded; her lips trembled. Gold watched her sister’s face fold in pain. It was natural let go of the emotions she had pent up. Hazel grasped her mouth to stop a squeal from escaping. Gold kissed her on the head; the little shakes and sobs smothered by her cloak.
‘Come on, come back home with us.’
The thunder subsided as if it mirrored her relief. Storm clouds passed with the wind–the sun shone down on men at the gate. The witches had scattered. Captains now issued orders to extinguish fires and remove the dead. She lifted her sister up and led her back home. Gold watched the crowds of people for Cyrus. He stood just beyond the gate and pointed to follow; his face ashen.
✽✽✽
The rain had begun to cease just as Simon folded his spyglass away. He placed one hand on the roof slates and one on a cornerstone and jumped. He landed onto a wooden balcony, pushed open an unlocked window, and stalked through the home. He pulled apart Hazel’s drawers and bookshelves and inspected the contents. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Some clothes, a few trinkets, the occasional book on nonsense. Isolde did not ask him to steal money or possessions, just an answer on why Cyrus’ child would meet Turner. Why would a young woman with a deck of cards be seeing him? If he found any answers here, they had further reason to suspect she was also a witch, a miracle child… and born of Sarah Saville, not Cyrus and Victoria as they thought. If it was true, they could use her gifts to make Isolde’s vision a reality. He looked at Hazel’s desk and paused. He drew himself eye–level; more books and journals and nothing more. He left the bedsit, passed the reception and went through the front passage. After the fighting there was no noise aside from the distant shouts of men. He strained his hearing. There was one sound he could make out from the quiet; a scrape of metal against stone. He spun. On the corner of the street Cyrus stood, his dagger nicked against a wall, his eyes locked onto him.
‘How did you know?’ Simon asked.
Cyrus pursed his lips. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, lad. And you can put whatever you’ve stolen, back.’
‘And you assume that I’ve taken something that’s yours? Isolde owns this house and everyone and everything in it.’
&nbs
p; Cyrus took stock of Red. From the last he saw of the fledgling thief he was a scrawny boy all dressed in red. Now he was a young man, filled out, spry in his step and determined.
‘You’re feeling brave old man? You want to fight me? I think you’d lose,’ Red unbelted his sword, the blade shone.
‘You think I would lose? That doesn’t sound sure. But I know her sister wont.’
Gold rushed behind Red with a cry and lashed her dagger out; he parried the blow. She backed off. In the glare of the sun it was difficult to focus. Red twirled his blade flashing out to strike her head. Gold felt time slow and reflected his sword back to him. The ringing noise was still in her ears as she used the opportunity to jump. She spun around his waist and knocked his feet underneath him in one movement. He lashed out at her with his pommel, smashing her nose. Screaming, Gold threw all her weight into a punch. The blow knocked Red to the side and he fell to the cobbled street, sword clattering. She positioned her dagger and drove it through his chest. His hands reached up to ward off the inevitable. There was a murmur, like a whimpering child, and he took his last breath.
On the street it was silent, aside from Gold’s ragged breath as she panted, drinking in the air. She jostled her dagger out of the corpse, the heady smell of her own blood making her gag. The only thing left to do was to go home. She removed a mitt and wiped the sweat off her brow. Cyrus propped her under one arm, and Gold pushed her thoughts aside until the morning.
The World
London was still sleeping as Alex prepared for his journey. Bakers and drunks were the only sort awake in the glower. He looked at Isolde’s church one last time, steadying himself on his horse, and gestured at it. Cyrus and Ghost followed his lead out of the gates with their own provisions and weapons. He had sent word for Gold and Hazel to join them later. Alex needed Hazel, she had talents beyond his comprehension, and Isolde needed her as part of their deal. It was on faith that he hoped she could sense her sister, or Lady Saville, and guide them in some small part. Birdsong played around them as their horses struggled through churned mud and scattered stone, pausing at times to check equipment and rest. After a full day, night came upon them sooner than Alex appreciated. They camped far off the road, under the shadow of an old mill. Its sails turned in the wind, grinding away nothing. Their first meal was in a sullen quiet, as though the journey was a false start, a non–adventure. Haunch, rainwater and fortified bread eased their stomachs enough for sleep beside hot embers. Later, two torches appeared by the road, both jumped up and down, held by people on horseback. Alex woke Cyrus.
The First House Page 15