Alice sighed irritably and added another sugar to her tea.
‘Whenever he re-emerges, the Runners will find him,’ said Bea. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried,’ said Alice, ‘I’m pissed off.’ She shook her head. ‘And you knew I didn’t want the Runners involved.’
Bea reached for her cup. ‘I have a duty of care for your safety,’ she said. ‘If you die before the second test, who’s to say it wouldn’t be your family setting solicitors on me?’
Alice sighed, but the frown lines remained etched on her forehead. ‘Do I have a date yet?’ she asked. ‘For the second test? I’m ready for it. I want to get it done.’ She didn’t just want it, she needed it – what if Lester attacked again and her soul was put at risk? She was determined never to give Kuu the order to ‘go’ again, but she needed that link to the tree strengthened.
‘There’s been a slight delay because . . .’ Bea glanced around and leaned closer. ‘Concerns over the Summer Tree’s growth have taken precedence.’ She sat back up straight. ‘But it’ll be soon. We should hear about the date early next week. And Cecil has thrown me a little pre-warning about the next test.’
‘Oh?’ asked Alice with interest.
‘They’re setting you against other candidates. Four of you for two spots in the House.’
Alice grimaced. She didn’t like the sound of that. Not when she’d already watched Holly die the last time round.
‘Look at this,’ said Alice, putting the test to one side for now. She pulled out Cecil’s book and found space for it next to a rack of toast.
‘I don’t think he’s going to test you on that, darling,’ said Bea. ‘Most people smile politely and put it on a bookshelf unread.’
Alice shook her head and tapped the photograph on the cover. It was the same portrait she’d found locked away in Reid’s drawer.
‘Look at what she’s wearing on her finger,’ said Alice, pointing to the woman in the oval frame.
She’d studied the photo all evening, holding it up to the light at different angles to see if there was something written on it, some hidden message she hadn’t yet spotted that might explain its significance to Reid. But then she’d noticed something curious.
Bea hunched over, examining the spot in the photo that Alice was pointing at. On the woman’s little finger was an engraved oval signet ring. Alice held up her own gold signet ring. It had the same criss-crossed pattern around the setting. ‘Don’t you think they look the same?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t that weird?’
Bea squinted at Alice’s ring, then back at the photo. ‘Maybe,’ she said in an indulgent tone. ‘But every man and his dog has a signet ring with a coat of arms on it – except the Dagsworth-Pictons. My mother wears one with a bear on it that belonged to her father. Unless you can inspect it with a magnifying glass, they all look the same to me.’
‘But look at the scratches on my ring,’ Alice persisted, drawing Bea’s attention back to the photo. ‘Couldn’t they be the same as these lines on here?’
Bea laughed. ‘Darling, I can’t even see any scratches on your ring, never mind a photo. My eyes just aren’t good enough.’
Bea reached for the salt again, and Alice sighed. It had been a bit of a leap, she supposed, but it was the only thing that stood out about the photograph. She couldn’t fathom why it might be special to Reid. Of course, there was also a huge question mark over the other photograph, but . . . Alice shook her head. The woman hadn’t returned to work since she’d manhandled Alice, not even after her workspace had been destroyed. Either she’d finally lost it or something was wrong. Still, that was for Risdon to follow up on in his investigation into the vandalism.
Alice stared absentmindedly at her arm, remembering the manic glint in Reid’s eye as she’d grabbed her. What had tipped her over the edge? That Alice had forgotten to copy her notes?
‘These old genealogy books of yours,’ said Alice. ‘Do they have all the old crests in them?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bea. ‘All the ones from the big old families, anyway. You want to see if you can find the pattern on your ring?’
Alice sighed. ‘I don’t know. My mum gave me this ring and she’s never set foot in the Rookery, but . . . it’s just odd. It looks so similar to that one.’
Bea gestured for Alice’s hand. ‘It could be a coat of arms,’ she conceded. ‘But the engraving’s so smooth, darling, it’s almost worn away to nothing. You’d have a real job trying to match it up with anything.’ She paused. ‘I take your point, though. As far as I can tell, the pattern on the side of the ring is quite similar to the chancellor’s portrait. But I imagine thousands were.’
‘If I can make the engraving clearer . . .’ Alice began.
‘How?’
Alice smiled. ‘I have a very clever friend who works at the Royal Mint. He makes weaponry in his spare time and coins in his day-to-day job. If anyone could do it, he could.’
Jude was a member of House Ilmarinen, the House of fire and metal. Next time Alice saw him, she was going to ask for his help. In fact, if she wore the ring to midsummer and Sasha and Jude could be persuaded to meet her there, she could kill two birds with one stone.
The moon hung low in the sky. It was the first thing Alice saw when she fumbled her arrival, staggering sideways and bumping her shoulder into the brick archway. Bea was so distracted she barely noticed. Despite weeks of planning, Bea had changed her mind about her outfit at the last minute, ditching the green floaty dress for a deep maroon silky number, which she’d paired with a slash of bright red lipstick. The dress switch had made them late for the Midsummer Festival. The bonfires were due to be lit a little before sunset, at around 9 p.m., and they’d hoped to be among the first to arrive and circulate. That plan, so far, had failed.
‘Was that smoke?’ asked Bea, her voice fraught.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Alice, emerging from the doorway.
‘Definitely steam,’ said Tom, nudging them forward.
They’d travelled through the Crane Park shot tower, a two-hundred-year-old circular brick erection at least eighty feet tall. Right next door, accessed via a short bridge, was Crane Park Island itself. The island had been created to contain water for the Hounslow Gunpowder Works near the site. Now, it was a nature reserve back in London, and here in the Rookery, a largely uncorrupted woodland allowed to grow wild.
Bea hurried on ahead, her eyes fixed on the steam dissipating over the treeline. Tom’s long legs caught her up with ease, but Alice held back. She wanted to take her time, to appreciate her first Midsummer Festival. And if she was hoping a face would spot her moving slowly through the crowd, she didn’t allow herself to think on it too much.
There was a path trodden through the woods, worn grasses giving way to dry soil. She followed its curve, leading her between a grove of trees and out into a glade. She stood absolutely still, savouring the scents and sounds permeating the air. Very slowly, a smile spread across her face and her eyes gleamed. If ever she was to believe there was magic in the air, then this midsummer eve was certainly it. And tonight, she wanted to believe in magic.
Drifts of people in high spirits meandered through the glade and off into the woods. Others stood around in groups, drinking and laughing. A small huddle watched a woman in a headscarf cooking at a huge metal plate. Pan-fried minnows sizzled in butter, sending flashes of steam billowing into the sky. She turned the fish with a spatula and tossed a handful of flour and seasoning into the pan, watching it crisp and crackle. A few feet away, smoked bream cooked on a metal rack next to an open fire, while garlic-stuffed trout was laid flat across a grill, the scales shimmering in the flickering light.
There were tables and tables of food laid out under the trees: tureens of soup and warm bread; plates of buttered potatoes; salad bowls filled with dewy tomatoes, ripened peppers, watermelon and feta cheese, dressed with wine vinegar and sour cream; and plates of homemade munkki doughnuts alongside pulla pastries with whipped cream. The air wa
s fragrant with sweet smells and sharp, salty tangs, mingling with the scents of fresh grasses, birch wood and flowers.
Glasses clinked, and bearded, smiling men beckoned Alice closer, urging her to taste their sahti beer and liquorice-flavoured salmiakki. She grinned at them and shook her head, ambling away from the glade and deeper into the trees.
Bright flashes of orange fire exploded through the sky, and Alice paused to watch as a bare-chested man in face paint tossed balls of flame with his bare hands. The crowd cheered him on when he introduced a fifth, juggling the fire higher and higher, the tapered flames like shooting stars against the dark night.
Overhead, midsummer poles – midsommarstång – had been raised: timber logs fashioned into crosses with circular wreaths on each arm. Birch leaves and flowers wrapped the timber, hiding the wood beneath. They stood thirty feet tall, marking out a trail through the scattered festival celebrations.
Alice glanced over her shoulder every few metres or so. She’d been torn over the dangers of the festival – on the one hand, a busy area full of people would be a foolish place to attack her; on the other hand, she was surrounded by nature: in other words, a ready supply of weaponry for anyone with Mielikki’s legacy to launch an attack. But as long as she kept her wits about her, she intended to enjoy herself.
She passed old ladies with stalls selling woven blankets and crocheting. They stood by the piles of fabrics, fingers at work with drop spindles, the yarn spinning uniformly around the wood. As she passed, they grabbed her and gestured for her to try. Beaming, she took one end and rotated the spindle, but the wool clogged and tangled; they laughed as she smiled her apologies and pressed the wool back into their soft hands.
‘Wildflower crown?’ asked a young woman at the next stall. ‘Hand-woven using the freshest flowers to symbolize rebirth and growth . . . the best way to capture the magic of midsummer for the best price.’
She held out a handful of seeds in her cupped palm. ‘Primrose, daisies, red campion and white clover,’ she said – and in her hand, the seeds cracked open and sprouted. In moments, budding flowers unfurled their petals and the woman fastened them together with a thin vine.
She took advantage of Alice’s surprised silence to settle the floral garland firmly on her head. ‘Five shillings if you don’t want to haggle,’ she said, ‘and six shillings if you do.’
Alice laughed at her audacity. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she admitted, admiring the many midsummer crowns laid out on the table. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Now you’re ready,’ the trader said, exchanging money.
‘For what?’
‘To dance,’ she said with a wink.
A soft, mellifluous sound swelled through the trees. By turns haunting and lively, the clear, bright notes of a piccolo drifted through the darkening night. It was joined by a mournful harmony knitting the melody from other voices: the rich staccato plucks of the kantele, the wheeze and whine of an accordion and the tremulous tones of a violin swaying through the trees.
Alice followed the tumbling rhythm beneath the leafy canopies, weaving between the birch, willow and oak trees and skirting closer to the trickling sounds of running water. Were the plants always so verdant here, she wondered, or was it another sign of House Mielikki’s increased power?
A steady stream of dark figures left the woods to follow the riverbank, the edges of their silhouettes flickering with orange light. Alice trekked after them, emerging from a dense copse, her boots finding firmer ground. The river Crane flowed smoothly downstream towards Isleworth, sloshing against the reeds and spraying a fine mist over the reed warblers hiding there. Iridescent dragonflies hovered and darted low to the water, their reflections rippling across the surface.
Dotting the riverbank were heaped piles of dry branches and bracken tapering to points. Bonfires. Most had now begun to flame. They’d missed it – the ceremony of lighting the brushwood – but the reflection of dancing flames on the water was so beautiful it didn’t much matter. Slashes of golden fire painted the sky and rained sparks like meteorites. Smoke billowed up from the smouldering bonfires, musty and fragrant.
And then she saw movement in the river: arms scything through the water or stretched out and floating. Men and women discarded their clothes on the riverbank and slipped into the shallows, their shrieks and giggles muffled by the folk melody seeping from the woods.
‘Alice?’
She turned quickly, peering into the thicket. The bushes rustled and Bea stumbled out, tailed by Tom.
‘Told you it was her,’ said Tom. ‘You owe me a glass of sahti.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Bea, ‘panoramic views are one of the many benefits of being sixteen feet tall.’ She straightened her dress and assembled a knowing smile on her face. ‘So? What do you think of the Midsummer Festival?’
‘I . . .’ Alice sighed. ‘Love it.’
Bea grinned. ‘I knew you would. Nice crown, by the way.’
Alice brushed a hand over the circlet of flowers.
‘Come on,’ said Bea. ‘You have two options now, and you have to show willing and participate in at least one.’
Alice’s brow furrowed with suspicion. ‘What options?’
‘Well, you’ve already missed your opportunity with the seven flowers under your pillow—’
‘I am not rolling around naked in a wheat field,’ Alice said firmly.
‘Quiet, darling – you so clearly don’t know what’s good for you,’ she said with a smile.
‘And with that,’ said Tom with a laugh, ‘I’m off to find a comfortable wheat field. I’ll catch up with you both . . . tomorrow, hopefully.’
He smiled and moved off through the woods, into the promise of the night.
Bea rounded on Alice, eyes sparkling. ‘Midsummer is time to worship nature with our most sacred traditions – we ward off evil with fire, we give thanks to the old gods . . . and if we’re lucky, they grant us healthy, fertile crops and wombs. Midsummer is a night of magic and promise. A night of – oh, everything, multiplied a thousand-fold. Fertility, rebirth, love—’
‘I don’t want to multiply my fertility,’ said Alice, alarmed. ‘Especially not for one night only.’
Bea laughed. ‘You have to be open to anything – all of our Rookery traditions. This is midsummer. Who knows? Tonight, you might see your true love reflected in the river. Or on the other side of the bonfire when you jump over it.’
‘When I jump over a bonfire?’ Alice spluttered. Some of the bonfires along the river’s edge had to be at least seven feet high. ‘And burning to death like Guy Fawkes . . . this is “what’s good for me”, is it?’
Bea smiled and patted her arm. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, towing Alice back through the woods.
Alice found herself dragged into a crowded clearing, which turned out to be the source of the music. The tune had picked up a faster tempo now, and the musicians had switched from haunting melody to playful quickstep. Couples danced around the glade’s distant edges, spinning in circles far from the glow of a blazing fire. This one was considerably smaller than those lining the riverbank.
A ring of people stood drinking around the small bonfire, laughing and shouting encouragement at a short man who was preparing to leap over the searing flames. Judging by the way he was swaying, the true love he was likely to see on the other side of the bonfire was another glass of beer. Alice winced as he set off at a tilted canter. Predictably, he mistimed his jump and his trailing foot kicked the smouldering branches as he landed. The bottom of his trouser leg caught fire and the crowd jeered as he rolled in the grass. The flames finally doused, he got to his feet sheepishly, and a taller man shoved a beer at him and clapped him on the back.
‘See,’ said Bea. ‘Easy.’
A woman trotted over and hurled dried birch wood onto the heap. The fire sparked and the smoke thickened, warping the night air and shrouding the furthest trees from sight. In the distant gloom, there was a flicker of movement as a tall figure at the edge of the g
lade leaned back against a trunk, his head tipping back, arms folded, and the stern, disapproving stance was so familiar that Alice’s pulse raced, just for a moment, until another figure appeared, took his hand and slipped deeper into the shadows. Not him. In fact, looking around at the laughing, the clinking glasses and the dancing, she couldn’t imagine a less likely place to see Crowley. There was an infinitesimal slump of her shoulders, but she lifted her chin higher and tried to focus on Bea’s conversation.
‘Go on then, Lady Pelham-Gladstone,’ said Alice. ‘Since you’re so keen, let’s see you jumping through fire to see your true love.’
‘Less of the lady, please,’ said Bea. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to see my true love through a bonfire,’ she added with a smutty laugh. ‘I’m enjoying my maidenhood, thank you. I wouldn’t mind finding myself a horizontal companion, however.’
With that, she turned away, gathered up her skirts and hurdled the bonfire. A man emerged from nowhere to catch her on the other side and there was an audible gasp from the watching crowd as they realized who it was. Alice recognized him from her soggy newspaper. With two dour, hulking men looming nearby – bodyguards, no doubt – and the ceremonial chain around his neck, the dark receding hair and impossibly white teeth, it could only be . . .
A middle-aged woman bumped into Alice from behind. ‘I’ve had too much sahti,’ said the stranger, squinting across the clearing. ‘I thought I just saw Chancellor Litmanen catch that woman.’
There was a heavy pause.
‘You did,’ said Alice. ‘And now you’re seeing her shove him into the bonfire and his bodyguards drag her away.’
Alice hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should hurry to Bea’s aid. Then she watched dandelion stalks slither from the ground and wrap around the bodyguards’ ankles and decided Bea had this one covered.
The Rookery Page 18