The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s clean.’

  He discarded the handkerchief and passed the tea to Bea, who took it without batting an eyelid. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It really nips at the tongue, doesn’t it?’

  Cecil turned to Alice and raised both eyebrows, his lined forehead crumpling. ‘So . . . you consider yourself worthy of joining us, do you?’

  Alice hesitated. It was an odd way to phrase it, as though answering yes indicated her vanity.

  ‘I think I have Mielikki’s legacy,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Many do,’ he said, retrieving a bundle of paperwork from his drawer, ‘but not all become members.’

  Bea had told her this. Those who failed the tests – or weren’t prepared to take the risk of failing – were considered instead for an associate membership, which acknowledged they had a degree of Mielikki’s legacy but one of no great significance. The fully fledged members of a House often ridiculed associate membership; it was a status that broadcast your lack of power, or lack of courage. It mollified those with weaker legacies, but they didn’t really belong to the House; they didn’t enjoy the same benefits or respect as full members, and they weren’t even allowed full access to the building in case they stumbled across some secret knowledge reserved for their betters. She thought of the flyer in the library, advertising the Cream of the Crops competition – banned to associates. They weren’t even made to feel like real members of their own student societies.

  Cecil gestured at the paperwork on his desk. ‘You’ll have to sign to show that you accept the risks involved in the testing process. Your mentor should have made these clear when she was assigned to you, but would you like me to clarify them for you now?’

  Alice shook her head. Bea had been quite alarmingly detailed about the risks. With unnerving relish, she’d recounted stories of the candidates who had not survived the testing process: those who had made fatal errors in brewing tonics; those who had failed to differentiate correctly the edible mushroom from the poisonous; those who had tried too hard and suffocated under the weight of the flowers they’d grown in a room too small to accommodate them; those who hadn’t tried hard enough, who had been paralysed by anxiety and failed to secure the roots of a redwood as the trunk crashed down on top of them. Then there were the injuries: the candidates who had lost limbs and fingers carving wood into elaborate shapes; those who’d accidentally ingested plants that stole their eyesight; those whose skin had erupted with blisters following mishaps with giant hogweed.

  But for Alice, the benefits outweighed the risks. She was dying anyway. What difference did it make if she died in the testing room? She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  ‘Aside from the risks involved in the tests, you are aware of the nature of membership? The binding draught?’

  Alice nodded. Of course she was aware; it was the very thing that had cemented her determination to join the House.

  ‘Membership is awarded,’ said Alice, reciting one of Bea’s books from memory, ‘after the consumption of a draught made from the Summer Tree, a tincture of its essence. Anyone who refuses to take the draught is refused membership. It binds the drinker to House Mielikki—’

  Bea nodded encouragingly. ‘The draught binds you to the tree itself rather than the House,’ she corrected.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice, with a brief frown. ‘Sorry, that was what I meant.’

  She had pored over the guidance she’d been sent in advance. She’d considered the implications of binding herself to Mielikki’s tree, the Tree of Life . . . and she’d known instantly that she’d wanted it – needed it. A small, illegal dose of the tree’s sap had once saved her life, nullifying the toxins of the Arbor Talvi, the winter trees, in the Sulka Moors. Now she needed something even greater to nullify Tuoni’s poisonous legacy. The binding draught was it. The Rookery’s most controlled and precious substance.

  Cecil pushed the paperwork across the table, towards Alice.

  ‘The draught is too powerful and too dangerous to be consumed in one sitting,’ said Cecil. ‘That’s why it’s given in moderation. There are three tests for admission; if you pass today’s you will be offered your first portion of the draught. Failure to drink it will result in a rejection of your application, regardless of your success in the test.’

  Alice forced a smile. ‘I know. That’s fine.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a very great honour,’ said Cecil, ‘to be bound in service to the Summer Tree.’

  She didn’t respond, but he didn’t seem to have expected her to. The tree was a wondrous and magical thing, but the draught ensured honourable servitude at best. The binding tied members to the tree’s life force; it was in their interests to tend it well, because they would face personal consequences if the tree came to any harm. The binding would pass on the damage to them. There could be no weak links, no one who would care poorly for the tree and let the House down.

  ‘Could I ask a question?’ asked Alice.

  Cecil peered at her over his glasses.

  ‘If the draught links us to the Summer Tree, and we feel the effects should it grow weaker, isn’t the reverse also true? Could we damage the tree if we became ill? Or died?’

  It was the only fear that had held her back. Bea’s books had already provided the answer she’d hoped for, but she needed to hear the words confirmed out loud.

  Cecil smiled. ‘No.’

  Alice’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

  ‘Members of the House can’t damage the tree in return,’ said Cecil, ‘or every time someone linked to the tree died of old age their death would harm it. But they don’t. The tree is too powerful to accept such damage. Do you see?’

  She nodded, the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying now beginning to ease.

  ‘Do you have any questions regarding the binding draught?’ he asked.

  Alice shook her head.

  The binding draught was also a part of the tests. If your legacy wasn’t strong enough, the drink itself could kill you. Like a drug, it could act as an overdose. Only those with the strongest constitutions could withstand a tincture harvested from the most ancient and powerful tree ever grown. Bea had been quick to provide Alice with the statistical chances of death as a result of the draught – but she’d tried to smooth over the danger by suggesting it was, at least, a good way to die, a pleasant delirium.

  The binding draught held no fears for Alice. It was why she was here. It was the prize. Tying herself to a tree renowned for its life-giving properties was exactly what she needed.

  Cecil patted his waistcoat pocket and retrieved a gold pen. He placed it on top of the contract.

  ‘We can’t be held responsible should the tests result in grievous injury or death,’ he said. ‘If those terms are agreeable to you, then go ahead and sign.’

  She did as instructed. An undercurrent of nerves had just begun to kick in and her signature was unrecognizable.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ he said, stepping out from behind the desk.

  ‘Someone else finishing up?’ asked Bea over her teacup.

  Cecil checked his pocket watch. ‘Yes. The youngest Mowbray girl.’

  Holly, realized Alice.

  ‘Where’s Lester?’ asked Bea, her voice dropping an octave.

  ‘In the bar, I believe,’ Cecil answered with a private, knowing look at the librarian. ‘Enjoying a celebratory drink in the name of his mentee’s success.’

  Bea snorted.

  ‘A little presumptive,’ added Cecil with a smile. ‘Since she hasn’t finished her test yet.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll pass all right,’ said Bea. ‘He only takes the dead-certs from the highest-profile families. Snob.’

  Cecil chuckled and left the room.

  Bea twisted around in her chair to face Alice, who had begun to pick anxiously at the dry skin on the back of her hand.

  ‘That looks suspiciously like a nervous tic,’ said Bea, her expression serious.

 
; ‘It looks suspiciously like dermatitis,’ said Alice, dropping her hands to her knees. She flashed a smile.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Bea.

  Alice’s smile faded into a wince. ‘Like . . . this chair is too small,’ she said, rising from it, ‘and I need to keep moving, because if I stop and think about it, I might start picking at my hands again.’

  Bea nodded sagely. ‘Alice, darling, I have total faith in you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, a crack appearing in the mental wall she’d built for the test. ‘And my recent disaster with the sunflower?’

  ‘That was cutworm, darling. My faith in you,’ said Bea, sipping from her cup, ‘is as unshakeable as my love of tea.’

  Alice raised an eyebrow. ‘Rosehip or green?’ she countered.

  Bea laughed. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Alice sighed. It was an act of self-sabotage to think of the dead sunflower and what it meant. She couldn’t dwell on it. Not now. She moved off to distract herself with the portraits decorating Cecil’s walls. Dignified men and women, painted in oils or photographed in black-and-white daguerreotype and faded colour Kodachrome; they looked out from their frames with pompous or sombre expressions. She examined them closely, scanning the plaques attached. Chancellor McGillen, Rector Sullivan, Governor Whitmore, Governor Harlin, Treasurer Helsby, Chancellor Westergard, Chancellor Franzen.

  ‘House Mielikki’s finest alumni,’ said Bea. ‘Cecil says he keeps their pictures up because it’s aspirational, encouraging new recruits to imagine the heady heights they could reach in the Rookery. All nonsense,’ she said cheerily. ‘He keeps their pictures up because he was the mentor for at least two of them – Helsby and Sullivan – and it’s a matter of House pride that we’ve produced more than our fair share of chancellors.’

  Alice’s eyes paused on the photo of Governor Whitmore, the current head of House Mielikki. If the newspapers were to be believed, the four governors spent as much time at the Houses of Parliament, arguing with the chancellor who ran the Rookery Council, as they did in their own Houses.

  ‘The whole testing thing . . .’ Alice said at last, turning away from the portraits. ‘Don’t you think there should be more . . . I don’t know . . . pomp and ceremony?’ She glanced down at Bea. ‘A cup of tea and a bit of paperwork doesn’t exactly capture the excitement of the occasion. And I didn’t even get offered any tea.’

  Bea shook her head, smiling. ‘It’s exciting for you – not so much for Cecil, who’s been through this process about a thousand times. Besides,’ she said, ‘they save all the pomp and ceremony for later. I can give you the speech, if you like. Cecil’s given the same spiel to every single candidate I’ve ever mentored. Let me remember . . .’ She squinted into her cup, thinking hard. ‘Oh wait, I’ve got the start of it,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘We take only those who have a clear legacy inherited from Mielikki. We don’t take those who show only a modicum of talent. A jack of all trades has no place here. We are elitist and proud of it.’ Bea paused. ‘This is the bit that’ll interest you . . . There are no fanfares and parades for those who merely apply for membership – because many will fail and we do not reward or encourage failure. If suitable, the governor—’

  ‘I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered,’ said Cecil, appearing in the doorway.

  Bea’s eyes widened and she choked on a fresh mouthful of tea. ‘Flattered, Cecil. Without question.’

  ‘Did you manage to finish?’ he asked, his mouth lifting into a muted smile.

  ‘Not quite,’ Bea mused. ‘Isn’t there a bit about the deciding vote? A nice, summarizing flourish, I’ve always thought.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cecil, turning to Alice. ‘The governor retains the power to confer membership. Though I’m Head of Admissions, Gabriel Whitmore will have the deciding vote on your success, should you reach the final stage. Now,’ he said, ‘would you like to begin?’

  Alice nodded, but Cecil didn’t move. He glanced over her shoulder at Bea. ‘No parting words of wisdom?’

  Bea leaned over and placed her teacup on the table. She rose from her seat and approached Alice with a broad smile. ‘It’s very simple, darling,’ she said. ‘All you have to do is . . . not fail.’

  Alice pulled a face. ‘Thank you. I’m sure that inspirational speech will make all the difference.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bea, her bosom heaving, ‘it’s never failed me yet.’ She patted Alice’s arm a little too hard, her tone growing more sober. ‘You’re ready. Now off you go,’ she said, waving Alice into the corridor, ‘and don’t come back until you’ve passed.’

  Alice thought she heard Cecil mutter something under his breath as she followed him back into the corridor. It was the same corridor she’d arrived by, except that this time there were two new doorways opposite. One of them was open.

  A towering, broad-shouldered man with a chin you could crack walnuts on was leaning casually against one of the door frames. He wore shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows and braces that seemed to highlight his strapping chest. He heard them approach and turned a smug grin on them.

  ‘I think we can safely record that as a pass,’ he said, crossing his burly arms over his chest.

  ‘Thank you, Lester, I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Cecil.

  Lester’s eyes – too small for his face – swept the full length of Alice’s body before sharpening. Alice couldn’t help but stare at the sweat glistening on his upper lip.

  ‘Are you one of the Callaghans?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘One of the Wyndhams.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ he said, turning away with uninterest.

  Holly emerged from the room. Closing the door behind her, she asked, ‘Was I faster than Cassandra?’

  ‘Easily,’ said Lester. ‘Your sister isn’t a patch on you.’

  Holly gave a small, satisfied smile. ‘Good. I’ve had to wait two years for my chance to wipe her family record.’

  She gave a high, bright laugh as she sashayed down the corridor with Lester swaggering ahead like a bodyguard. ‘I can’t wait to tell her.’ She paused by Cecil’s office. ‘Oh, Alice – good luck,’ she called out behind her. ‘But not too lucky – don’t even think of beating my time!’

  Alice attempted to return the smile, but her stomach was knotted with anticipation.

  ‘The theme of your first test is rejuvenation,’ said Cecil, who was standing by the other of the two doors. ‘House Mielikki is famed for its ability to rejuvenate natural objects.’ He pushed open the door. ‘We would like you to demonstrate that you can think outside the box and contribute to the House’s future endeavours in this area.’

  She moved past him, into the room. There were no obvious dangers. The room was bare save for a table in the centre, which held a wooden tray covered with a faded patterned blanket.

  ‘Remove the blanket,’ he said.

  She did as he told her and examined the contents of the tray. There was a small terracotta pot filled with soil and fine grey dust; poking from the top was a withered seed. Next, there was a rotted, trumpet-shaped flower with burgundy petals in a vase of murky water: a tropical hibiscus – they only ever bloomed for a single day. The only other item was a burned match, one end blackened and as brittle as charcoal.

  ‘You have fifteen minutes.’

  He closed the door, but she didn’t watch him leave; she couldn’t afford to waste the limited time she had.

  Rejuvenation. This wasn’t combat against a challenger; this was combat against herself, against her destructive Tuoni legacy. But if she could just channel the right energies and restrict the others, wasn’t this something she could do? The decorative plants on her parents’ home had lasted weeks before they’d died, and she only had to make these rejuvenations last fifteen minutes.

  Alice reached for the terracotta pot, clutching it tightly in one hand while she pushed the fingers of her other hand into the soil. The seed was half planted, protruding from the topsoi
l. Taking a deep breath, she studied every millimetre of it: the mottled brown pattern, the flaking crust, each furrow and slope on the shell. She imagined it germinating, a shoot sprouting from the bottom, bursting through the shell, and deep roots plunging into the soil to take hold. With every fibre of her being, she willed it to vibrate with life. The tendons in her neck strained and her fingers tingled. But the seed remained inert. Lifeless.

  Lifeless. Again, the fears pushed themselves to the forefront of her mind – I am made of Death. How can I create life? – but she swallowed hard and forced them away. No time for doubts. She had brought foliage to life before – and she’d already wasted five minutes.

  She dumped the potted seed back onto the tray and snatched up the vase of decayed red hibiscus. The stems were weak and the flower heads drooped pitifully over the side of the glass. She scooped up the heads in the flat of her palm, moved closer and breathed warm air over the crisped petals. A shiver of relief ran through her as a rich scarlet bled through the petals, the edges uncurling and the stem straightening. But her resuscitation lasted only moments. The colour swiftly faded and dulled once again, and the soggy stems bent under the weight of the heads. Alice peered into the vase, debating what to do about the murky water; she couldn’t clean it – this was a test for entry to House Mielikki, not House Ahti – but could the dirty water be inhibiting her efforts?

  Frustration dug into her thoughts, and she hurriedly discarded the damp flowers. She snatched up the match and examined it carefully. One end of the wood was smooth and undamaged; the other was crooked and blackened, the burned phosphorus sulphide crumbling against her skin. She replaced the match on the tray, took one final confirmatory glance at the terracotta pot and stepped backwards.