The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  ‘Fucking knotweed,’ he said, leaning over to hack and cough into the grass. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you know if the others got out?’ asked Alice, peering at the two other boxes. A tree had landed on one, and the other had almost completely collapsed.

  ‘Didn’t see anything,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and sitting up groggily. He couldn’t have been much younger than Alice, but he was far stronger. Broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his trouser leg had torn, revealing tanned, muscular calves.

  A muffled groan stiffened Alice’s spine, and she glanced at the man she’d just rescued.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Phillip.’

  ‘I’m Alice,’ she said, then spun round and darted towards the noise.

  The first box had been destroyed by knotweed – a failure in the test, then, rather than the quake. She ducked the low-hanging chunks of concrete and eased closer, to search for the candidate inside. She was already too late.

  Her stomach lurched and Alice recoiled from the box, bile rising in her throat. The candidate inside – a thin man with curled hair – had been strung up by the knotweed like a scarecrow. It had invaded his body like a thousand daggers, impaling his shoulders and piercing his chest, blades of the plant stabbing upwards through his ribs. The box was a mess of blood and carnage.

  Stumbling away, she blinked hard against the clinging images and swerved towards the moans of pain seeping from the remaining box.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, her voice faint.

  ‘Can’t breathe,’ came the mumbled response.

  It was the tree. A thick rowan, bursting with beautiful red berries, had crashed down on the roof, compressing the space inside. If they could just lift it off . . .

  She rose up on her toes, eyes scanning the forest. ‘Phillip?’ she called. ‘Help me lift the tree!’

  There were distant signs of movement, and then Phillip staggered upright. He cricked his neck to loosen his muscles and Alice rounded the box, hunting for the best place to grab the branches.

  Beneath her feet, the floor juddered. Her head snapped up, and she and Phillip locked eyes. The creak of listing trees grew louder – and Phillip shook his head.

  ‘There are only two winners,’ he said, gesturing at himself, Alice and whoever was in the box. ‘Leave them and we’ll share it.’

  A pulse of anger throbbed under Alice’s skin, and she looked from Phillip to the collapsed rowan tree, clenching her jaw. He shrugged and sprinted off through the forest, and Alice floundered, her mind battling her instincts. Go now – get the final place! She shuddered, pressing the ball of her palm into her eyes. Think! She couldn’t fail this test – she needed that spot. But she also couldn’t leave someone to die like the other poor soul in the box. Yet if she saved this one and helped them to the grove, which of them would take the pass?

  The rumbling began again. Gently at first, like falling pebbles, but growing louder every moment. The compacted soil shook her off balance and she thumped into the grass, sitting upright. The forest see-sawed around her, trees oscillating. Leaves rustled and branches cracked. Alice tried to stand, but the tremors increased and gravity pinned her down.

  The rowan tree began to shimmy with every quake, and with a yawning creak, its trunk slipped from the concrete. Alice rolled to the side just before it smashed down in the space she’d occupied. The momentum helped her dive upwards and she staggered to her feet, careening back towards the box. The pieces of broken concrete vibrated and clinked together, and Alice lunged at them, shoving them aside, clawing through to uncover the candidate inside.

  A slender young woman, her dark skin coated with grey dust and a trickle of blood dribbling from her temple, lay curled on the floor. The chain bolting her to the box had snapped. Liberated from the weight crushing her chest, she gasped, and Alice sank down next to her while the remaining walls trembled.

  ‘Can you stand?’ Alice demanded.

  The woman nodded, and Alice quickly slid a hand under her back and pulled her upright. Stumbling together, they hurried from the battered concrete shell. Alice tensed at the sound of something whistling through the air nearby. A teetering pine tree swooped to the ground, landing with a clatter.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Alice breathed, the woman’s arm over her shoulder.

  Weaving through the long grasses, tripping on fallen logs and clawing branches, they navigated a path through the forest while trees crashed down around them.

  ‘Look!’ hissed the woman in Alice’s ear. ‘Should we check him?’

  Phillip was splayed out in the undergrowth, the snapped trunk of a fallen rowan tree smashed right through his chest. His eyes were open, his face frozen in a mask of shock. His nightjar was gone and no sign of the gleaming cord remained.

  ‘No,’ said Alice, walking on with a shudder. ‘He’s dead.’ Relief and dismay raged through her mind, but one thought won out in the end: there were only two candidates now.

  There was a gasp beside her, and Alice’s head darted up. An elm tree sliced through the air towards them at speed. Alice instinctively flinched as the branches struck her shoulder. The other woman’s arm shot upwards and she screamed as her palm hit the falling trunk . . . and obliterated the entire tree. An explosion of sawdust flittered around them, dusting their hair and sinking into the cotton of their clothes. A bubble of exhaustion and nerves rose in Alice’s throat, and she began to laugh – she didn’t quite know why. Together, the two women creased over, eyes streaming. Engulfed by grains of shattered elm, they slumped down in the dust together, their nervous laughter echoing through the trees.

  ‘Congratulations on a successful test.’ A man’s voice, gentle and proper: Cecil.

  He appeared from between two trees on a ridge, smiling down at them, and Alice’s laughter died out.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘The door to the grove is just through here.’

  There was a moment’s pause, and then Alice rose from the grass. She held out her hand to the other woman.

  ‘I’m Shobhna, by the way,’ said the woman, her dark eyes shining.

  ‘I’m Alice. Thanks for saving my life.’

  Alice pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Thanks for saving mine,’ said Shobhna, shaking dust from her sleeve with a smile.

  ‘Are you injured?’ asked Alice, looking her over.

  ‘I think my ankle’s sprained, and my chest hurts,’ said Shobhna, ‘but the binding draught will fix it. Shall we go?’

  Alice nodded, a grin creeping over her face. The binding draught would fix it. It fixed everything.

  Alice stepped out onto King Edward Street sometime later with her heart still pounding and the elated feeling in her chest almost lifting her off her feet. The binding draught had healed the scratches that the branches had drawn over her skin, and Alice felt invincible. She wasn’t at all anxious about going straight to Reid’s apartment – so what if someone else wanted to get hold of the research? Alice grinned; she and Crowley would simply get there first.

  It took several seconds before she realized there was something odd about the street. It was unusually crowded. Drifts of people were pouring out of buildings and looking around at each other – some confused, others irritable.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked a nearby young woman.

  ‘Power outage,’ she said. ‘All the electricity systems have gone down. It’s got to be the earthquakes’ fault again, hasn’t it?’

  Alice nodded blankly, the niggling signs of more Summer Tree havoc puncturing her good mood.

  Crowley was leaning against a street lamp outside Coram House, his hands in his pockets. When he saw her, holding open the door to the void, he instantly straightened, drawing himself up to his full height to study her.

  ‘You passed,’ he said, a satisfied look in his eye.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re alive,’ he said with a smirk. ‘And why wouldn’t you have passed? You’re Alice Wyndha
m.’ He strode up the stairs of the derelict building they always used for travel and stepped in beside her with a raised eyebrow. ‘You see? I can be charming when I want to be.’

  She rolled her eyes, but a blush had formed on her cheeks. ‘Have you been practising in the mirror?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She barked a laugh at his unexpected response and closed the door behind him, pitching them into instant shadow. Frigid blasts of air chilled her to the bone and she shivered. Crowley inched closer as though to lend her some warmth, but paused when his hand inadvertently brushed hers. He glanced down at her, swallowed and looked away. She was very aware of his breathing, of the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, a husk to the edge of his voice that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. ‘There wasn’t a doubt in my mind.’

  Alice smiled invisibly into the gloom, and then gave herself a mental shake. No distractions. Time to get down to business. Crowley had no idea where they were going: Alice was in the driving seat for this trip.

  Reid’s apartment was in Islington. Alice had once dropped off some photocopying to her, pushing it through her letterbox on a Saturday morning. She tried to visualize it in her mind’s eye, staring into the darkness surrounding her. Her nose began to stream and she bowed her head into her chest. One hand thrust out in front of her, groping the darkness, searching . . . Reid’s apartment . . . Reid’s apartment . . . She pictured the glass-fronted lobby, the steel beams and stone walls.

  A rounded shape slotted neatly into her curved palm with a dull thwack. The door. She twisted. The lock clicked and she pushed against the blustering wind. Light blazed into the void as the door gave way, and she leaned into it, stepping forward, into the entrance to Reid’s apartment block.

  Reid’s front door was locked to travel; she was far too mistrustful to allow anyone access to her flat. Fortunately, however, Alice had brought with her the one man capable of opening any door he pleased. Pellervoinen’s heir, no less.

  ‘Third floor,’ she whispered. ‘We’d better not take the lift. Too loud.’

  She hurried purposefully towards the stairs, Crowley keeping pace with her. At the top, she nodded and he gently pushed open the fire door. She put a finger to her lips and moved past him in silence. The corridor was empty. Reid’s apartment was at the end – she occupied one of the small corner plots.

  Creeping towards it, Alice froze. There had been no need to bring Crowley – because the door was already open. She felt him stiffen behind her. He placed one hand on her arm, in warning, and she nodded. Then, using just the tip of her index finger, she pushed the door. It swung open with a muffled creak.

  A flurry of motion followed the sound. There was someone inside. Alice shoved the door wider and stepped into Reid’s tiled inner hallway. Her pulse was thrumming. She clenched and unclenched her fists, readying herself to call her legacy to her palms. Her back suddenly warmed and she glanced over her shoulder. A haze of warm air shimmered around Crowley, like the calm before a storm, as he drew his power to him: Ilmarinen’s, the House of fire.

  She stepped forward, the floorboard creaking beneath her foot.

  ‘Hello?’ a cautious voice called out to her from another room. ‘Is someone there?’

  Alice frowned, some of the tension lifting off her shoulders. She knew that voice.

  With a quick glance at Crowley, who was stony-faced, she moved through the apartment, into Reid’s cramped living room. It was a comfortable enough room, but the only real luxury was the tiny balcony overlooking the main road. Through the glass, Alice caught sight of a vintage double-decker bus, a winding staircase on the back and an advert for Bovril splashed on the side. And in the living room window’s reflection, Alice spied movement over her shoulder.

  ‘Alice?’ said Tom as he emerged from the kitchen, his nose wrinkling in confusion. ‘Did they send you too?’

  She stared at him for a moment, running through a dozen possible reasons for his presence.

  He gave her a quizzical smile, his eyes drifting to Crowley. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Who’s they, Tom?’ she asked, her voice measured.

  He adjusted his glasses. ‘The university welfare team,’ he said. ‘They asked for a volunteer to collect some of her things to take to the hospital. Apparently she’ll be there for weeks.’

  She wasn’t watching his face. Her eyes were on his nightjar. A long, lithe bird with a complicated patchwork of browns, its neck was unusually thin. Every time he spoke, it tucked its wings closer around its body as though using them as a barricade.

  ‘I didn’t realize they’d asked you too,’ he said, his blue eyes looking thoughtful.

  Alice’s mouth tightened briefly. ‘They didn’t ask me, Tom.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think they asked you either.’

  Warring emotions crossed his face, and she tensed, expecting him to continue the lie. But instead, his shoulders sagged with something like relief.

  ‘Okay,’ he said with a pronounced sigh. ‘Let me show you – but you absolutely can’t tell anyone outside of the House.’ He beckoned her towards the kitchen, but paused, casting Crowley an awkward glance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If the governor found out I’d spoken about this with . . .’ He trailed away and looked to Alice for support. ‘What House is your friend in?’ he murmured to Alice.

  ‘Ilmarinen,’ said Crowley, answering for himself with a raised eyebrow.

  Tom threw him an apologetic smile and swallowed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I . . . All right. Both of you then. Look—’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared clutching a biscuit-coloured folder: what remained of Reid’s notes.

  ‘While you were busy with your test, Bea spoke with the committee. She said one of her sources had confirmed that Vivian Reid had been doing research into something that might have harmed the Summer Tree. Something that might have caused the damage our House is being blamed for. If it’s true,’ he said a little breathlessly, ‘this could exonerate us. Reid’s a member of House Pellervoinen – who’s to say they’re not behind all this and the tragedy at Crane Park Island?’

  Crowley shifted, leaning back against the living room wall, his arms folded.

  It was, of course, something she’d considered herself. But as Alice searched Tom’s earnest face, the pleading look in his eyes felt like a blow to her chest.

  She exhaled deeply, trying to push away the doubts. This was Tom – who’d been bullied by Lester and was distraught over Holly; who had lain on the university’s lawn with her, drunk cloudberry wine and laughed at the stars; who had helped her train for her tests and had administered her binding draught. Tom, who had snuck into Vivian Reid’s apartment to steal her research.

  ‘Tom,’ she said quietly, her voice strained, ‘I wish you weren’t lying.’

  It was his nightjar. It laid him utterly bare. He looked taken aback, and for the slightest moment, she saw the sincerity in his eyes harden and vanish.

  ‘You were the one Reid tried to warn me about, weren’t you?’ said Alice. ‘She kept saying “he’s here”. She meant at the university. You set off the quake in my apartment to stop her talking—’

  Tom’s lips curled back into a bitter sneer. He clenched the folder under one arm and hissed, ‘Get out of my way, Alice.’

  She held her ground, and from the corner of her eye she saw Crowley silently stride up behind her. ‘Give me the folder, Tom,’ she said, trying to inject her voice with a calm she didn’t feel. Her heart thumped violently against her ribs and her fingers twitched.

  Tom dropped to his knees and slammed his palm against the oak floor. The moment his skin touched the wood, the boards beneath Crowley disintegrated. With a shocked yell, he fell through them, but they reformed rapidly, trapping him waist-deep in the floor.

  Tom raised a mocking eyebrow at Alice. ‘Move out of my way.’

  She reached for the wooden dado rail running around the room, intending on forcing
her legacy into it, and he smiled.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, pressing harder against the floor.

  Alice’s feet vibrated with warmth as Tom’s legacy seeped closer.

  ‘Alice, look out!’ hissed Crowley, battling to free himself without falling into the apartment below.

  She dived just in time as Tom obliterated the floorboard beneath her. Panting, she hit the wall when she landed and reached upwards. Alice slammed her hand over the dado rail and mentally pulled. Crack-crack-crack. It snapped off the wall and she snatched it closer. Pinching it between her fingers in a carving motion, she sharpened the tip and threw it – slicing the air – at him.

  Tom ducked and gritted his teeth, whipping his arm out in front of him. Reid’s wooden coffee table lifted into the air and catapulted towards Alice.

  She gasped and braced for impact, but it exploded in a burst of flames before it reached her. She glanced at Crowley – still trapped – and shouted, ‘Thanks!’

  Thwarted, Tom slammed his palms to the floor again, but this time he made no attempt to eat through the wooden boards; instead, branches unspooled from the knots, but unlike those from her first test, these were like waxy saplings.

  Kuu suddenly swooped into view and called out in a shrill voice, as though directing Alice’s attention. The bird circled Tom, wings striking urgently above his head, and she understood. Tom’s nightjar hovered behind him, its eyes wider than she’d ever seen them and its claws tucked up as though to attack. She tried to focus, to exhale slowly, but her breath came in short pants. If she could just cloak herself long enough to gain the upper hand.

  ‘Look away,’ she hissed to his soul-bird. ‘Look away.’

  The nightjar blinked. It appeared to lose interest in her and began to turn. But her concentration slipped and its head spun back round. It flapped its wings aggressively, its glare now locked on her face. Kuu expressed her disappointment at the failure with a flurry of ruffled feathers, and then vanished again.

  Tom grunted and the saplings pouring from the floor snapped towards Alice. They grabbed her ankles, their grasping reach curling higher around her calves. She was reminded, forcefully, of the attack from her window frame. Just as that night she’d been reminded of another.