The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  ‘What was the book?’ asked Alice, staring at the pine wood.

  Tom gestured at her. ‘You know, sometimes it can help to tackle it from a diagonal,’ he said. ‘Try standing at a forty-five-degree angle.’

  Alice nodded and adjusted her stance. He was right. She felt steadier.

  ‘Oh, it had a Latin title,’ said Bea. ‘Something hopelessly long and fussy. But it was apparently a scientific study of the Rookery’s geography.’

  ‘There was a national outcry at the time about the secrets of our creation having been lost,’ said Tom.

  ‘Apparently,’ added Bea.

  ‘And what was its theory?’ asked Alice, squinting at the log with one eye, to perfect her aim as though staring down the barrel of a gun.

  ‘It told us how parallel cities like this one were built,’ said Tom.

  Alice stepped back from the pine to listen, and Bea bristled. ‘Can we please focus on the matter at hand?’ said the librarian, gesturing for Alice to resume her practice.

  ‘Am I causing a distraction?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Yes, darling, you are,’ said Bea, patting him on the hand. ‘But I’m just glad to see you’re safe after last night.’

  He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve offered to administer the binding draught in your next test,’ he told Alice. There was a nervous pause. ‘I thought . . . maybe jumping back into the saddle is for the best.’

  They very carefully avoided looking towards the holly bush.

  ‘But I won’t be offended at all if you’d rather—’

  ‘I want you to do it,’ said Alice.

  He let out a rush of breath and nodded. ‘Good. Well, I’ll see you both later.’

  They watched him lope off. After a moment, Alice turned back to Bea and said, ‘How was the Rookery built?’

  Bea sighed loudly, but her expression showed she’d given in.

  ‘The world is an onion skin,’ she said. ‘Cities layered upon cities. And in that gap between the layers is the void. An empty space, like a corridor. The problem is, some layers are stronger than others. Take an actual onion skin,’ she said. ‘In the centre is the bud. If I drop an onion, the chances are the layers on the outside will be bruised and the bud will be quite safe.’

  Bea paused, to take in Alice’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘London is the bud,’ said Bea. ‘We’re the weaker layer on the outside. Once you cut the layers off the onion bud to make your dinner, that’s it, they’re gone, so for us to survive intact, we have to stay attached to the onion bud. Oh, I don’t even like bloody onions,’ she said after a moment. ‘But do you see what I’m saying? The Rookery is on its own layer. Here, the Summer Tree is what keeps us stable, by connecting us to the’ – she rolled her eyes – ‘onion bud. We’re anchored onto London. And the tree’s roots stretch through every part of our city’s foundation layer. The Rookery is built over them. Without them the city would crumble – possibly into the void, who knows?’

  ‘How do the roots tie us to London?’ asked Alice, trying to keep up. ‘Do you mean literally? They stretch through the void and into London’s foundations too?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘No idea, darling. The theory was explained in the book, but it’s gone. I doubt we’ll ever know. The important takeaway is that without the tree, the Rookery would disintegrate.’

  ‘But . . . the tree isn’t going anywhere,’ said Alice, pausing. ‘Setting aside what happened last night, if the tree’s growing bigger and stronger, won’t it strengthen the ties?’

  ‘Look, big is beautiful – you’ll get no argument from me on that score,’ said Bea. ‘But think about this for a minute, darling. House Mielikki controls the natural world; it doesn’t let it run wild. I can grow a rose for you, exactly twelve inches tall, with alternating red, white and yellow petals. I control the rose. It grows to my specifications, not its own. We manage the unmanageable.’ She paused. ‘Look at parasites, diseases and tumours . . . Uncontrollable cell growth can be damaging. There has to be balance – something to restrict it, to hold it back.’

  Alice tensed. Those words were familiar to her in a way that Bea could never imagine.

  ‘Have you ever seen an infestation of knotweed?’

  Alice nodded cautiously. When she’d been looking around flats with Jen, one of the first that the estate agent had shown them had had knotweed in what the particulars had claimed was a garden but was in fact a tiny square of concrete. The plant had smashed through the concrete, its invidious roots piercing the flat’s mortar and cracking the brickwork. The whole building looked like it was about to collapse, and they’d laughed in the estate agent’s face when he’d asked if they wanted to pay the deposit by cash.

  ‘You’re saying . . . the Summer Tree might grow like knotweed and destroy the Rookery’s foundations in its bid to expand?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bea. ‘And I think last night shows that’s exactly what it’s capable of.’

  Alice shook her head in disbelief. How could this possibly be true? She had only discovered this world eighteen months ago – people she cared for were here. Jen had died to save this city. And now . . .? It was unthinkable. She couldn’t lose the Rookery when she’d only just found it.

  ‘But . . . Look, if House Mielikki has responsibility for the tree, why can’t they use their legacy to stop it? The legacies are growing stronger. Do something with them!’

  ‘Because we protect it,’ said Bea, ‘but we don’t control it. Mielikki’s family bloodline died out years ago, and with them all our control over the tree.’

  ‘The Gardiners,’ said Alice. ‘Or the Florilynns, you mean.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Bea cocked her head in interest. ‘You’ve been reading up?’

  ‘I’ve been reading about stolen inheritances and gambled fortunes,’ said Alice.

  ‘Ah, The Roots of House Mielikki,’ she said. ‘Apparently, it caused a bit of a stir when it was published about a hundred years ago.’ She paused and then shrugged. ‘No. It was the Gardiners who were the original bloodline. When Nathaniel Florin threw out his wife, Elizabeth Gardiner, they had no children. He boasted of his connection to the Mielikki line but it was rubbish – as soon as he divorced her, the connection was ended, and Elizabeth died of consumption soon after.’ Bea sighed and leaned back on her elbows. ‘Mielikki’s line ended, and that’s where the House has always had a problem. Mielikki grew the Summer Tree, and when she died, her children became its . . . its . . .’

  ‘Gardeners?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bea, snapping her fingers. ‘The Gardiners. We’re talking thousands of years ago. On-the-nose surname bastardizations were all the rage.’ She brushed splinters off her dress. ‘First Mielikki, then her children and grandchildren looked after it, for thousands of years.’

  ‘But then years of mixed marriage corrupted the bloodline, and the . . . original line died out?’ said Alice, understanding beginning to emerge from the potted history.

  ‘Yes. Of course, to some degree or other, each of us has her blood inside us, since we’ve inherited her legacy.’

  ‘The House system is so incestuous,’ Alice murmured.

  Bea snorted. ‘I suppose. But only in the way the entire human race is. You could be my great-to-the-power-of-a-billion grandmother for all we know. Anyway, none of us are direct descendants. But we do have her legacy, however diluted it’s become. So we took on responsibility for the tree. It was House Mielikki who pushed for the fireflies to be introduced to protect the tree. Decades ago, it wasn’t necessary because Mielikki’s most direct bloodline could still protect it. But when that family died out, we needed an alternative. Politically,’ she went on, ‘it’s always left us vulnerable. We take credit for the good the Summer Tree does, but it’s difficult to avoid the pointing fingers when things go wrong if you’ve spent years crowing about being responsible for its successes.’

  Bea stopped and tucked a loose straggle of hair back into he
r chignon. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Those crowing about the rise of House Mielikki are going to have a shock heading their way. I hope whatever spike in legacy power they get from the tree’s surge is worth it, because we’re about to become the most hated House in the Rookery’s history. Tomorrow morning’s Rookery Herald is running with a headline blaming us for the deaths at midsummer. And do you know what, darling? That’s probably the best we can hope for right now. Because if things get worse . . .’ She shook her head, her face deathly pale.

  Alice thrust her hand forward. The log split cleanly and rolled into the grass.

  Bea tried to smile, staring at the wood but clearly distracted. ‘Well at least that’s something.’

  Alice nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘By the way – there’s something you should know,’ said Bea.

  ‘What?’ asked Alice, wiping her palms on her jeans.

  ‘Lester’s dead. He fell into a sinkhole at Crane Park.’

  Alice’s eyebrows rose. He’d been there? She wasn’t sure what to feel about it. Relieved? She shook her head. Actually, after all she’d seen, more than anything she just felt . . . sad.

  There was someone in her apartment. She could hear their nightjar fluttering through the crack under her door. Alice hesitated, a chill prickling down her spine. Lester’s dead. How could there be a stranger in my apartment if Lester is dead?

  Alice froze. Her heart began to pound and adrenaline slid through her veins. Catch them by surprise, she decided, quickly formulating a plan. The cricket bat was just by the front door. It was the perfect weapon, in fact, for someone who claimed Mielikki’s legacy: she could turn it into anything she needed, an explosion of wooden shards, maybe . . .

  Alice glanced over her shoulder and quickly placed her hand against the wooden door. She exhaled steadily, the even rhythm of her breath helping her to focus as she pushed her will into it. Tingling shivers ran down her arm and she pressed harder . . . until the door shattered into thousands of splinters, falling to the floor like hail.

  There was a gasp of surprise from inside and Alice charged into her apartment, snatching up the cricket bat as she went.

  ‘Don’t swing that at me.’

  It was Reid. Pale and drawn, and wearing clothes that looked slept in.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ asked Alice, letting the cricket bat fall to her side.

  ‘I needed to talk to you,’ said Reid. ‘I wanted to . . .’ She trailed away and visibly stiffened, her back straightening and her eyes narrowing. ‘Were you followed?’

  Alice gave her a baffled look. ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked. ‘Have the Runners been in touch? They’ve been investigating the vandalism in the lab. You didn’t show up for work, and—’

  ‘It was me,’ said Reid dismissively. ‘I smashed up the lab.’

  Alice dropped the bat. ‘What? You? Why?’

  Reid shrugged the question aside. ‘It doesn’t matter. The bulk of my research . . . is gone. Destroyed. You didn’t make any more copies?’

  Alice stared at her. ‘No. ‘But why would you—?’

  ‘Because I was lied to!’ said Reid in a shrill voice. ‘I thought my research was only theoretical, but the project backer . . . He wanted to use it. To make me an accessory out of a twisted vengeance. What happened at Crane Park Island . . . If I’d known, I would never have . . .’ She shuddered, running a shaky hand through her nest of hair.

  ‘Crane Park?’ Alice said sharply. Had Reid’s project had something to do with the Summer Tree’s damage?

  ‘I need you to come with me,’ said Reid, dropping her voice to a barely audible whisper, ‘to my apartment. It’s only a matter of time before he discovers my address.’ Her tone was urgent. ‘I want to show you what remains of my research. You have to help. We need to go before—’

  It began as a rattle. Wooden boards tremored against each other, long edges vibrating. Then a clacking sound that made it difficult to hear as the ends tipped and crashed back down again. It was the floor beneath them. It was lurching unevenly.

  ‘This . . .’ said Reid, looking about her with an anxious scowl on her face. ‘It’s not . . .’

  The joists in the ceiling shifted out of place with a thunderous crack, and Alice darted a glance overhead. The ceiling was going to fall in. A sprinkle of plaster bloomed from above, raining dust over the floor, and as the creaking boards rocked beneath her feet and the door frame strained against the walls, she was catapulted to Crane Park Island – the earthquake, the sinkholes . . . the screams.

  Not again. Not here.

  ‘Reid!’ she shouted over the noise. ‘Let’s go!’

  But Reid was bleeding. A red blotch was seeping through the cotton shirt by her collar bone. The wooden lintel on Alice’s window frame had cracked, a shard tumbling free and striking her near the shoulder. Reid fell back against the wall, too weak to push herself upright. Diving forward, Alice flung Reid’s other arm around her neck and hauled her across the tilting floorboards. They didn’t quite make it to the door. Reid was a dead weight in Alice’s arms. The professor’s limp foot caught the edge of a lifted board and sent them stumbling towards the bed.

  Alice ricocheted off the bedpost and hit the wall with a winded breath. Reid lay collapsed on the mattress, her crumpled blouse riding up over the waistband of her trousers and her curls utterly undone. Shit. Alice’s back smarted with the pain of her landing.

  But the room had stopped vibrating. The floor was still, the door frame no longer straining against the walls. Alice didn’t have time for relief: she had to get Reid out of here, quickly. The vibrations had stopped, but between the precarious joists, the ceiling, the floor and window, the place was a death trap.

  Kuu suddenly screeched a warning, and Alice’s eyes darted up. Tension tightened every muscle and ligament in her body. Kuu jerked her head at Reid’s nightjar, and Alice paled. Reid’s nightjar, sitting next to her on the mattress, spread its wings and tottered closer to the radiant umbilical cord that linked bird and human. Squatting down, it pecked at the cord in a frenzy, then wafted its wings and soared into the air. The cord looping from its clawed foot . . . was beginning to dim. The glow was fading as it prepared to leave. Reid was dying before her eyes.

  ‘What? No!’

  Alice dived onto the bed, her knees sinking down into the springs. How was she dying? Why?

  Blood had pooled out across the mattress, rich and glossy. Oh God. The broken lintel hadn’t struck the professor – it was embedded in her. The angle was a steep diagonal, the wooden fragment stabbed through like a rapier. How close to the heart?

  She grabbed up handfuls of bedsheets and padded them around the pumping wound, careful not to remove the shard of broken wood.

  ‘Reid?’ she shouted, one eye on the professor’s deathly pale face, the other on the blood. Her stomach fluttered. It wasn’t stopping. The blood wasn’t stopping. It soaked into the knees of her jeans, and she shuddered at the warm wetness against her skin.

  ‘Help!’ she bellowed. ‘Someone get help!’ But of course, there was no one else upstairs.

  The pillows, she decidedly frantically. She reached for the pillows, pressing them harder, silently pleading. Come on. And then, seconds or minutes or hours later, Alice glanced up at Reid’s nightjar – the cord now blooming with light. Thank God. There’s still time to get help.

  Reid mumbled something inaudible, and a shiver of relief ran through Alice.

  ‘Vivian?’ she shouted. ‘Stay awake, okay? Just . . .’

  Reid’s eyes flickered and she forced them open. She squinted up at Alice. Her mouth worked silently, and Alice strained to listen.

  ‘You should never . . . have come back. You were safe . . .’

  Reid closed her eyes and winced in pain.

  ‘With your parents . . .’ she hissed. ‘You were safe . . . They were chosen . . . because . . . safe . . .’

  Alice stared at her in shock.

  ‘Vivian, what do you mean?
’ asked Alice, fighting the confusion that threatened to disorder her thoughts.

  Reid’s eyes rolled back and she wheezed.

  ‘Science,’ she mumbled incoherently. ‘Magellan . . .’

  ‘Vivian?’ Alice said more forcefully, kneeling down so that they were eye to eye. ‘What do you mean about my parents? You chose them? What does that . . .?’

  Reid peered at Alice, trying to focus through her pain. She tilted her head, mouth puckering.

  ‘I didn’t know who you were,’ she said, her skeletal hands reaching out to tighten around Alice’s wrist. ‘I didn’t know . . .’ Her grip relaxed and her hand slid down Alice’s, pausing at her bare finger. ‘Where is it?’ she asked, squeezing Alice’s hand.

  ‘My signet ring?’

  ‘I left it for you . . . wanted you . . . to have it . . .’ Reid rasped.

  Creeping fingers of icy dread slid down Alice’s spine. She stared at the bare finger, and back at Reid’s slack face. No. Alice’s mum – Patricia Wyndham – had given her the ring months ago. Alice’s ears were buzzing, and the walls seemed to close in around her.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Alice whispered. ‘What are you . . .? Reid, wake up!’ she demanded as the older woman’s eyelids flickered. ‘Reid, don’t you dare – tell me what you mean!’

  Reid opened her mouth, but her words were garbled and nonsensical as she struggled to stay awake. The professor hissed, frustrated at her inability to speak, and her eyelids drooped. Alice’s hands darted to the wound. The blood flow had eased off. Reid’s cord was aglow, her nightjar intact.

  Out in the corridor, a distant door swung open – the one that led from the stairs up to the corridor. Brief footsteps echoed along the hallway.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ Alice shouted. ‘Someone’s had an accident!’

  There was a sharp intake of breath and the footsteps hurried away, the door swinging shut behind them.

  Alice looked down at the professor. She was breathing in a steady rhythm, as though in a peaceful rest.