The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  This wasn’t a test – it was a trick. The seed was planted in a terracotta pot, in soil mixed with a dusting of fine grey cement. It was tainted with materials more suited to House Pellervoinen, the House of stone and rock. The rotted flowers had drunk their fill of filthy water – House Ahti, the House of water. And the burned match had been destroyed by fire – House Ilmarinen, the House of metal and flame. Everything in the tray was linked to another House and designed to work against her. Well, Alice had already spent months trying to wield Mielikki’s gifts while another force attempted to quell her; she was used to that. But how to approach this now? She’d never had to produce her skill in defiance of another House’s magic before.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes left. Five minutes to save her life. Chewing furiously on her bottom lip, she began to pace. The soles of her shoes squeaked on the wooden floor, setting her nerves on edge, while she tried to assemble a plan from her scrambled thoughts. What had Holly done to pass? Had her test been the same as Alice’s?

  She toured several lengths of the room, the minutes dwindling still further, before she stopped fixating on the items on the tray and widened her focus to the tray itself. We would like you to demonstrate that you can think outside the box and contribute to the House’s future endeavours in this area . . . We would like you to demonstrate that you can think outside the box . . . The box . . . The tray . . . Had Cecil been giving her a clue? She froze. Her eyes roamed the breadth of the bare room, taking in the table and tray, the blanket, the patterned wallpaper, elegant ceiling rose and hardwood oak floor. Her breath hitched. Could she . . .? Was there time?

  She dropped to her knees and ran a hand over the floorboards: planks of smooth timber, with dark knots spattering the grain like freckles. Literally outside the box. In some places there were small, haphazardly positioned knot clusters on the planks. Perfect. She crawled closer on all fours, and then sat back to better examine her options. One of the knots was small, and noticeably darker than the rest; she picked it out as her main target.

  Rubbing her palms together until the friction warmed them, she slammed her hands down on the cluster of knots. Bent over, with her shoulders almost touching the floor and her head hanging so low that her hair trailed over the wood, she sucked in a deep, slow breath, inhaling the scents of polish and musky resin – and when she exhaled, she held the small dark knot in her mind’s eye and pushed her breath, her will, her desire towards it. Her stomach fluttered with exhilaration. The tips of her fingers blanched against the wood grain, tingling and throbbing, the blood carrying the pulsing sensation up her arms, into her chest and her pounding heart. I can do this. I can. I’m made of life too.

  It began as a nudge. Something prodding at her skin. Her index fingertip first . . . then her thumb . . . her left hand – and her right . . . the palms, the forearms . . . small protrusions pushing their way out of the ground. Not out of the small dark knot. Out of every knot. Poking her, jabbing her with hardened tips.

  She opened her eyes and forgot to breathe. All around her, growing branches snaked out from the knots of wood. They moved sinuously, up and up, extending over her head until they butted the ceiling and began to bend under the pressure from below. Twigs sprouted rapidly from the arms of the branches. Buds blossomed and leaves unfurled, draping the room with foliage and colour.

  Energy poured out of her like a surge of water escaping a reservoir. And Alice could only watch in silent amazement as she grew a forest from a polished wooden floor. What was this? Her chest swelled with a dizzying euphoria. This was a pass.

  She moved to the door to find Cecil, to show him what she’d done. But the branches were in the way, pressing against it. Alice’s hands scrabbled with the doorknob, twisting it and trying to yank it free. With a muffled click, the door jerked open a few inches and she peered eagerly through the crack.

  Cecil wasn’t waiting outside the room, and Alice was just about to close the door again to wait when she caught a blur of movement. A pale man wearing a trilby and a long dark coat swept along the corridor towards the closed door of the clubhouse bar. He stopped and glanced around him as if checking he wasn’t being followed, then stroked a hand over the willow wall opposite. The willow unravelled and peeled back to reveal a hidden door. With one final look over his shoulder, he hurried through it, and the wall weaved back into place. Alice exhaled softly. Despite the hat, she recognized him. It was the governor. Gabriel Whitmore. Maybe there would be some pomp and ceremony for her after all.

  ‘Cecil?’ she called out into the corridor. ‘I think I’ve . . .’

  The beatific smile dropped suddenly from her face and she staggered sideways, grabbing for the branches to steady herself. Her hands slid painfully down their length and she crashed to the floor on her knees. The room spun around her and a bright, fierce pain charged in to hack at her temples. Pins and needles tingled through her body, the buzz of pain expanding, folding back into itself, like a wave gaining strength. The muscles in her limbs clenched and spasmed as agony washed over her. Alice gasped, her fingers rushing desperately to press into the gnawing in her head, to push it away. Her eyes screwed up as a fresh pain clawed at her chest, tearing her in half, stealing her breath away.

  What’s . . .? I . . .

  There was a flash of white at the corner of her eye – pale feathers and flapping wings. Alice’s nightjar swooped into view and shot her a reproachful glare. She reached out to it, for comfort, as her last clear thought arrowed into her brain.

  I’m dying.

  And then darkness engulfed her.

  ‘Over-exerted herself . . .’ Cecil’s voice?

  ‘. . . just a short rest . . .’

  ‘Remember Finn Conroy’s test three years ago? The very same thing . . .’

  ‘. . . was one of Lester’s, wasn’t he?’ said Bea.

  ‘. . . Conroy failed, of course . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bea. ‘I heard Lester broke Finn’s nose when he failed, for embarrassing him . . . terrible shame. The family disowned the boy.’

  Alice’s eyes snapped open. She found herself lying on her side, on the floor of Cecil’s office. With a wheeze of pain, she pushed herself upright. Stars danced at the edges of her vision and she slumped back to the floor again. The ceiling, she thought. Concentrate on that. If she could just make the ceiling stay still, she’d be okay.

  A hand smoothed Alice’s hair out of her face. ‘You’re burning up,’ Bea muttered. Something clinked as though a glass lid had been removed, and then a powerful smell – ammonia and eucalyptus – burned the back of Alice’s throat. She gagged, coughing and spluttering into the rug.

  ‘Smelling salts,’ explained Bea as Alice struggled to turn her head away. ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Bea, wafting the scents closer. ‘You need it. Just lie flat and catch your breath, that’s it.’

  Alice’s eyes stung. She gave a watery blink and released a trembling breath. Bea patted her arm and vanished from sight.

  ‘Generally, people go for the blanket,’ said Cecil, his voice floating from the corner of the room, where his desk sat.

  Alice frowned, trying to regain her senses. The blanket? What was he talking about?

  ‘It’s half a century old. The pomegranate dye is very faded and the cotton worn through with holes.’ He paused. ‘Fixable, for those who have the presence of mind to remain calm when the items on the tray prove difficult. They’re specially commissioned from each of the other Houses,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘I don’t remember any previous challenges featuring a blanket,’ said Bea.

  ‘I suppose it’s been a few years since we’ve used that particular test,’ Cecil conceded.

  Alice’s mind went blank. The blanket? Her brain had slid right over it as soon as she’d seen the knots. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but found her energy so lacking she could barely move her lips into the right shapes. What was wrong with her? Was this the hangover from working Mielikki’s l
egacy? She recalled the feeling of energy pouring off her in waves. Had she gone too far? Given too much of herself?

  There was a heavy sigh from the corner. ‘It’s been an additional twenty minutes,’ Cecil said slowly.

  ‘Just give her another minute,’ said Bea. ‘She’s almost come round fully.’

  They were talking about her as though she wasn’t in the room. And yet she was – she was right there. But she couldn’t seem to move or communicate with them.

  ‘Tell me about – oh Christ, Cecil, I don’t know,’ said Bea. ‘Holly? Who’s administering the draught for her? Is it Tom?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘She and Lester should be in the grove right now. And I should be there with them, overseeing stage one of her binding.’

  ‘But you’re here enjoying my company instead,’ Bea responded brightly. ‘I’m sure Lester won’t mind waiting. He’ll probably enjoy dragging it out for all it’s worth.’

  ‘Bea—’

  ‘Tell me about your plans for the holidays,’ she said.

  Alice’s eyes flickered with the effort of keeping them open. She was so tired. So very . . . All she wanted to do was sleep . . .

  ‘Bea,’ said Cecil. ‘Your candidate . . . This is only the first test and it has depleted her resources, utterly. The second test might ask so much of her it kills her. I’m sorry, but it’s time to bring this to a close.’

  ‘No,’ said Bea, her voice steely. ‘I’ve seen what she can do, Cecil. She has the strength to go all the way with this. And if she doesn’t . . . I’ll take responsibility for it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now – please, tell me about your holidays.’

  Cecil grunted, and Alice heard the shuffle of paperwork.

  ‘I was thinking of visiting Edinburgh, if the weather is good,’ he said at last, his tone grudging.

  ‘How lovely,’ said Bea, and from her prone position on the floor, Alice could almost hear the relief in her voice. ‘I can recommend a visit to . . .’

  A faint clicking sound, like a cicada, made Alice’s jaw vibrate and Bea trailed away. Was that noise in my head? Alice wondered. But the noise grew louder, transitioning into a whirring, ratchet-like sound as the noise gathered pace, and then a screeching klaxon. A fire alarm?

  ‘No,’ Cecil breathed. ‘No, it can’t be . . .’

  Cecil got to his feet and Alice caught sight of him by the door. His expression one of horrified disbelief, he hurried from the room without another word.

  Bea sprang up and made to follow him, but hesitated and hurried back to retrieve her handbag. She ferreted around in it and pulled out a small bottle of liquid. With a quick check to ensure there was no one coming, she sank down beside Alice and lifted her head.

  Alice blinked up at her groggily as Bea unscrewed the lid and poured the thick liquid down Alice’s throat.

  ‘Do not tell anyone I’ve given this to you,’ hissed Bea. ‘It’s a restorative tonic. Capsaicin for pain relief, plus powdered maca, guarana, ephedra berries and golden root. A powerful stimulant and also absolutely illegal. I only carry it for emergencies.’

  Bea quickly stowed the empty bottle in her bag and sat back to stare anxiously at Alice, who was licking her lips and appeared to be relearning how to use the muscles in her jaw.

  ‘Cecil is considering failing you for your own safety,’ said Bea, leaning closer to be heard over the sound of the klaxon outside the room. ‘What went wrong? You’ve never fainted before!’

  Alice said nothing, but she managed to push herself into a sitting position. Warmth flooded her body, massaging relief into her limbs. The pain had dwindled to a vague, dull vibration beneath her skin. Manageable. She swallowed thickly, marvelling at the lack of discomfort when she inhaled.

  ‘If Cecil knows I’ve given you a stimulant, he’ll fail you regardless. I might as well have fed steroids to an athlete. You can’t let him smell it on your breath. Let me see your eyes.’ She grabbed Alice’s face and tilted it sideways, studying her carefully.

  ‘Damn. Your pupils are huge. Don’t let him look at you either.’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘Speak,’ said Bea desperately. ‘Show me you understand, Alice. They’ll expel me from the House if they suspect I’ve had possession of that tonic.’

  Alice’s tongue unstuck itself from the roof of her mouth. ‘Okay,’ she croaked.

  ‘Oh thank fuck,’ said Bea. ‘Come on, stand up.’

  She made to hook Alice’s arm and pull her up, but Alice shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s . . . it’s okay,’ said Alice. ‘I can do it. I feel . . .’ She hesitated, frowning. The tumbling wail of a siren was still echoing through the building: too loud, too invasive. What was it?

  ‘I feel okay,’ said Alice. ‘I can stand.’

  She pushed upwards and found her feet. Her head felt clear, maybe a little buzzed but . . . alert. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms out in front of her, cracking her fingers.

  ‘What’s the siren for?’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Bea. She frowned. ‘I think it’s coming from the grove, but . . . It must be a false alarm.’

  ‘The grove?’ said Alice. ‘Isn’t Holly there with Lester and Tom?’

  Bea nodded. ‘Tom’s administering the draught.’ She patted her bag down, ensuring the tonic bottle was out of sight. ‘Listen,’ she said, gesturing at one of the leather chairs, ‘you just . . . just sit here and wait.’ She scanned Alice’s face. ‘Hopefully the more obvious effects will have worn off by the time I get back.’

  Bea darted to the door, paused and waved again at the chair. ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘Stay. And do not, for the love of God, let anyone see your ridiculous eyes!’

  Without another word, Bea vanished. Alice glanced at the chair. There was a long pause while she battled her conscience, but the boosted adrenaline in her blood made the decision for her. With an apologetic grunt, she rushed after Bea, but the corridor and the entirety of House Mielikki had come alive, and it was impossible to spot her. People had spilled from the room of clinking glasses and music, and were milling around outside it with an air of confusion. The clubhouse door had closed behind them, but a fresh door had opened opposite. And it was to this door that the people were drawn like moths. This was the door she’d seen Governor Whitmore entering before she’d fainted.

  The siren drowned out the crowd’s frantic conversations, but Alice caught one or two words as she drifted closer, wary and expecting at any moment to be asked to leave – or to be spotted by Bea or Cecil.

  ‘Arbor Suvi,’ someone murmured.

  ‘. . . Summer Tree.’

  ‘. . . does it mean?’

  The klaxon grated her eardrums and she winced. The crowd funnelled through the door at the end of the corridor and Alice hung back, watching them go. In minutes, she was alone. Curiosity itched beneath her skin and the emptiness of the House seemed to mock her. Follow them. Taking a deep breath, she ploughed forward, pulling open the door.

  A gentle breeze brushed her face as darkness settled around her. She’d travelled using the void plenty of times, and yet it felt different here, the wind warmer and less cutting. She remained very still, trying to catch her bearings and work out what to do. To travel, it was important to visualize the door you wished to travel to, but Alice had no idea where the others might have chosen to go. She frowned into the darkness, frustration beginning to chafe. And then there was light – a tiny glowing spark, followed by another, and another: fireflies. They radiated faint light, like a trail of breadcrumbs, showing her the way. They floated around a door frame that the darkness had hidden from her. Alice peered at it in the gloom. Is it a door or an ancient tree? It was misshapen, the rough wood crooked and gnarled but thick as an oak trunk. There was no handle. Alice reached out to the wood, and with a soft creak, it swung open.

  She had expected to find herself in another corridor; instead she found herself in a wood. The dark sky was pierced with tiny stars. Thick clouds cloaked the moon
, stifling the light – yet a diffuse glow shimmered between the trees and Alice caught her breath in wonderment. Hundreds of fireflies drifted lazily through the woods, illuminating the motes of dust floating past her eyes. She stepped forward, crunching through bark and bracken. The others must have come this way too; many feet had trampled the undergrowth.

  Ahead, a rope bridge hung over a deep gully filled with creeping ferns. Its entrance, lit like a runway, invited her into the copse beyond. Clusters of glowing lights lined the timber rails, and as she drew closer, Alice realized they were bioluminescent mushrooms. Omphalotus nidiformis. She’d seen them in one of Bea’s books. Funnel-shaped with overlapping clusters, they reminded her of white lilies and were strangely beautiful.

  The rope bridge swayed when she stepped onto it. Alice paused, her adrenaline spiking with the rattling of planks. She doubted the House would take kindly to trespassers in these woods. She squinted into the distance, picking out silhouetted figures moving between the trees. Too many people with too many nightjars – she couldn’t cloak herself from them all. Alice moved off with more caution, willing the bridge not to give her away, and reached the other side with relief.

  It was quiet here. The klaxon had been silenced, and the crowd trudging ahead spoke in hushed whisperers as though a raised voice would defile the sanctity of the woods. The only sounds were the leaves stirring in the breeze, the groaning branches and the soft footfalls of the crowd stepping through the grove. Alice followed silently behind, careful not to garner attention. The siren had sent them here, and she wanted to know why. Where were Holly and Bea?

  She crept behind a thick trunk and peered around the edges of the crusted bark. Dark figures obscured her view, and she moved from tree to tree to see properly. She considered calling for her nightjar, but she wanted to see this with her own eyes – and she wasn’t sure Bea’s stimulant was strong enough to fight off the disorientation of a bird’s-eye view.

  Something glittered over the heads of the crowd and she inched closer. They were gathered around a tree no bigger than a small fir in the centre of a clearing. The tree had captured the attention of everyone in the forest. For a moment, she thought there were glistening raindrops falling on its leaves, but in fact it wasn’t rain – it was light, particles of sparkling lights, and they weren’t falling – they were floating from the branches, flittering into the air like sparks of ash from a bonfire. She moved out from behind the tree, mesmerized by the dancing glints streaming upwards through the dark night.