‘The Summer Tree,’ said Tilda, her voice tight. ‘It’s happening again. We lost a whole corridor last time.’
‘What do you mean, my mother’s tree?’ asked Alice.
The books on the alcove shelves juddered and slid off. The bindings thudded onto the stone floor and the books fanned open, their pages splayed out like fallen birds’ wings. The floor rumbled beneath them and the force threw the books out of the alcove, onto the landing.
‘You haven’t asked me about your father,’ Tilda said quickly.
Alice’s head snapped up.
‘Listen to me,’ said the librarian, growing urgent. ‘He did love her – but his love killed her.’
Alice’s eyes widened. Tuoni had loved Leda?
‘But darkness can’t love the light, Alice. The two can’t coexist – they cancel each other out,’ said Tilda. ‘The moment your father reached for your mother, he destroyed her. She spent her last few weeks hiding from him. And you . . . you must not let him do the same. Understand?’
‘No,’ she said, more confused than ever. ‘I don’t understand. What do you—?’
Glass shattered. Tinkling shards fell, a jangling waterfall of music as they collided with the stone floor. Tilda dashed from the alcove and across the landing, skidding to a halt at the banister. The glass atrium ceiling . . . was gone. Half the steel girders designed to support the ceiling now held nothing at all; the other half had fallen to the floor, smashing holes in the stone flags. Glass debris littered the courtyard floor, and glittering crystals lay in chunks on the Summer Tree’s lower leaves . . . and the upper leaves and much of the tree’s crown now fountained through the ceiling.
‘Alice!’ said Tilda. ‘Can you feel it?’
‘Feel what?’
‘Its power. Your power.’
Alice gestured helplessly. ‘What do—?’
‘You haven’t taken the binding draught?’ shouted Tilda above the echoing rumble.
‘I’m still—’
‘Leda Westergard’s daughter should belong to her mother’s House,’ said Tilda in a reproving tone. ‘You must apply to House Mielikki – everything depends on it!’
‘I’m trying to!’ Alice responded. ‘But why?’
‘The anchors are broken,’ she started, breaking off at another creaking groan from the tree. A rumble in the underbelly of the building echoed ominously from the walls, and the pages of the scattered books began to flutter.
‘Come and find me when it settles again,’ said Tilda, with an impatient shake of her head. ‘I’ll explain everything to you then. The roots . . . You heard about Crane Park Island? You know the danger?’
‘Death and destruction . . . the entire city,’ said Alice. ‘I heard you – I think it was you – with Gabriel Whitmore.’
Tilda’s eyes widened at his name, and she nodded at the stairs. ‘You need to find somewhere safe and stay there!’
‘But I . . . Where would I find Leda’s book?’
‘The ground floor. Biographies, under 920 WES. But not now,’ Tilda shouted, stepping aside as a surge of people hurried up the stairs. ‘When it’s safer.’
‘I don’t—’
Tilda shouted something that Alice only just managed to catch.
‘Mile End?’ Alice checked.
‘Yes!’ said the old woman. ‘My address. I’ll meet you there tonight and we can talk!’
Tilda hurried down the stairs, pushing against the tide as the other librarians and visitors rushed up them, desperate to escape the atrium.
Alice raced after her and the old woman stopped, chest heaving, and looked back. She put up her gloved hand to stop Alice following.
‘Go! Find somewhere safe!’ Alice hesitated, and Tilda threw her a quick smile. ‘I’m glad you’ve come home,’ she said. ‘We need you.’
The fragments of glass on the stairs began to vibrate, and they watched it for a split second, the vibrations gaining momentum, before staring at each other. And then Alice nodded, and in perfect synchronization they whirled away from each other. Tilda hurtled down the stairs and Alice dashed up them. Behind her, the tree strained against its roots, and the echoing crash of falling bookshelves chased her out into the square.
Alice had made it all the way to the derelict doorway opposite Coram House before the voice in her head won its argument. She wanted Leda’s book, and she wouldn’t settle if she didn’t at least try to find it. So she’d slammed the door shut and dived back into the void, fixing her destination in mind.
When she arrived, the Summer Tree had stopped trembling the earth all around it and the square was deathly quiet. Everyone inside had fled. Which meant that there was no one to pay her any attention at all as she slipped into the abbey and made her way down to the atrium.
Even in the dim light from the oil lamps on the walls, she could see that the ground floor was an absolute disaster. Stone flags were upended and scattered at random, a mass of engorged tree roots were tangled over the floor, and books littered everything, tucked into nooks and crannies formed by curved roots and propped-up stones.
No Tilda Jarvis, she suddenly realized. No librarians here now at all. She cast about her, realizing quite suddenly how futile this would be. How could she expect to find a specific book in this utter chaos?
She searched the corridors, her stomach leaping at her good fortune when she found the corridor Tilda had indicated. Many of the signs had fallen off the walls, but the biography section’s merely hung slanted.
The corridor was uneven. Where a bookshelf had tipped its load, the books were piled against one wall like rubble, but then the bookshelf itself had collapsed and landed on top. She was forced to clamber over the unsteady unit to reach the far end of the corridor, which darkened the further she moved away from the natural light at the entrance.
When Alice finally reached the shelf she was looking for, number 920 – cracked and hanging by a nail – she almost laughed out of sheer hopelessness. Her good fortune had lasted long enough only to jeer at her. She would never find this book. No one would ever find anything among this clutter. She couldn’t even see down here; it was so dark she had no idea where she was standing, and would probably trip and break her neck at any moment.
‘Kuu?’ she whispered.
There was a pale flutter in the air above her head and she reached up to stroke her nightjar, who came to rest on her hand. She bestowed a few gentle brushes with a curled finger and then held the bird up to her shadowed eye.
‘Can you find it, Kuu?’ she asked. ‘The way you once found Reid’s philosophy book?’
Her nightjar lifted into the air, its claws briefly pinching her skin as it shot upwards. Alice bent to her haunches and began her own search while Kuu helped from the air. She pulled out books, scanned the titles and stacked them to one side. Book after book after book. It was slow-going in the shadows. She squinted at a title and held it up, angling it to see if the light might glance off it so she could identify it.
She bit back a frustrated sigh and put it down again. It was no use. She couldn’t see a bloody—
A tiny light bloomed to life overhead and she froze. There was a whirring hum near her ear and she forced herself not to recoil from it. Another light joined the first. Then a third. A small congregation of fireflies drifted closer, shining their soft glow on the books by her feet. She held her breath, bit her lip and lifted another book, holding it up to their generous light. The fireflies . . . the lethal, carnivorous fireflies . . . were helping her.
Kuu tugged at the luminous cord wrapped around Alice’s wrist, and she dropped the book she was holding. The nightjar let out a shriek and swooped down to stab at another book with her beak. The force of it sent the book rolling end over end towards Alice. She snatched it up, her heart pummelling her ribs, and ran a hand over the front cover. In the soft yellow glimmer from above, the words stood proud. Chancellor Westergard: A Life in Service.
This was it! Leda’s book. The one Tilda wanted her to have. The te
mptation to flip it open and scour it was overwhelming, but she forced her desire aside. It would have to wait. She needed to get out of here. Struggling to her feet, slipping and sliding on fallen books and shelves, she scrambled out of the corridor and back to the ground floor of the atrium. The fireflies followed obediently, lighting her path. Strange.
Alice paused for a moment to appreciate the magnificence and awe of the Summer Tree. It was so vast it seemed on the verge of exploding through the walls of the abbey. A sobering thought. She looked about her, suddenly feeling overcome with the need to leave. Now. What she’d once thought beautiful was now unearthly and eerie. It was too dark, too broken down here – too silent. The only sound was the creaking wood, straining from the roots, pressing against the stone walls. It was almost—
She stilled. Every muscle and every sinew in her body tightened. Her own breathing was too loud, and she hushed even that as she turned her face up to the tree, her eyes searching. She could hear . . . something. She darted a glance at Kuu, but there was no one else here. No doubt the Runners were outside securing the area with safety barriers this very moment. But . . .
She shuffled closer to the trunk and peered up through the knotted branches. The hairs rose on the back of her neck as she stood up on her tiptoes to see better. The overlapping branches were too thick, the leaves too impenetrable. She could see nothing, but she could sense . . . She swallowed her confusion.
There was a nightjar in here. Somewhere in the atrium, there was a nightjar that didn’t belong. A nightjar flying freely, attached to no one. Alice was sure of it.
The door to Coram House swung open and Alice stumbled over the threshold. Crowley caught her by the shoulders. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes searching hers with growing alarm.
‘Alice?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m okay, I . . . Can I just sit for a while?’ she murmured. ‘With you?’
Relief washed over his face, and without a word he took her by the elbow and guided her to the stairs. He hesitated, just momentarily, before leading her onwards – not to the kitchen but towards his private quarters in the basement.
Crowley’s rooms had been built for comfort rather than elegance. The wooden furniture was plain, with chunky legs on the wing-back chairs and worn velvet on the seat cushions. But the cushions were thickly padded, the rug soft, curtains draped in a pile to the floor, and a dying fire crackled in the grate. He waved a hand at it and the fire burst to life, heat pouring off it like the sun.
She cast an eye over the rest of the space. A desk, set diagonally under the basement window, gleamed in the cold early morning light, and was stacked with books, a tray of spirits and crystal glasses. One entire wall was given over to bookshelves, and through a crack in the door, Alice caught a glimpse of a handsome bed dressed with a plump quilted blanket and soft pillows. It looked the sort of bed you could dive into and sink to the bottom of. Everything was wood and sage-green furnishings. It looked more like the home of a House Mielikki member than an Ilmarinen’s.
Alice opened her mouth to speak. She ought to tell him what Marianne had said about his mother, about her jealousy over some secret birthright. But she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but what she’d learned from Tilda.
‘Leda Westergard is my biological mother,’ she said as they moved to sit by the fire.
He jerked in shock, but he didn’t question what she’d said. Alice stared absently at the flames in the grate, casting distorted shadows over the wall. She felt there was a tight band around her ribcage, compressing her breathing along with every emotion other than dreadful anticipation.
‘This is hers,’ she said, holding out the book to him.
Frowning, he took it and lowered his eyes to the cover. He made to flip it open, but failed. Confused, he tried to slide his thumb between the cover and first page, but there was no give. Tilda had said she’d made it so that only Leda’s daughter could open it. Alice had wanted to make sure.
She held out her hand, and he returned the book to her. She ran her palm over the faded letters, Chancellor Westergard: A Life in Service. There was a picture of Leda on the cover, sitting in an oval frame with an air of stateliness, her brown hair plaited and pinned up, a calm but steely expression on her face. She looked like the sort of woman who was used to having all the answers.
Alice took a sharp breath and opened the cover. The pages turned easily, and she felt faintly like King Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone. Alice’s eyes dropped to the opened page, her heart fluttering and a strange, muffled sensation settling over her, crowding out the room, Crowley’s voice and everything else but the book. The book, which was filled with blank pages – except for the first few. Blue ink looped and scratched across them. Leda’s handwriting. Leda’s hands had touched these pages . . .
My darling kulta, the message began. The sight of it stirred something inside Alice’s chest; Leda had never known the name Alice would be given. To Leda, the very concept of Alice must have been a barely formed thing.
‘Crowley . . .’ said Alice. ‘Is Kulta a girl’s name? Was that the name she’d picked out for me?’
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a term of endearment. It means “gold”.’
Alice nodded, her focus drifting back to the book.
My darling kulta,
I am so sorry, and so ashamed. And I am so very, very tired. I pray for sleep every night. But every time I close my eyes, I hear his whispers taking root in my mind, his pleas and promises. I worry you can sense it – my exhaustion, my guilt – and that somehow it might harm you. I remember Helena’s pregnancy; she bloomed with good health, yet I’ve robbed myself of that – and you, too. If there had been any other way, I’d have taken it. I’ve broken him, and I regret it more than he’ll ever know, but he isn’t blameless. We are, in the end, both ruined. But you, little one, are not.
Alice shuddered. Was this a message to her or a maudlin diary entry, towards the end of Leda’s pregnancy? Her eyes dropped back to the page.
I’ve protected you as best as I can, and found anonymity for you in the hope that this will protect you when I’m gone. They’re good people. I’ve watched them. They’ll love you in the way that love should be expressed: healthy, and not the poison ours has become.
And though I have so many regrets, I know I’d make the same choices again. I’ve always done the things that needed to be done. I’ve never turned my face from the hard decisions. You are all that matters, in the end.
So I’ll bear my pain here, in private, while Tilda fusses over my health and Catherine takes to her books for a solution she won’t find. Helena has gone. I’m not sure where. Perhaps to nurse her guilt, as I do. Shame binds people like nothing else; she won’t ever tell what we’ve done, and soon I won’t be on this earth to tell another soul either. My only hope is that the cost of what we’ve done won’t be borne by others. We’re certain nothing has been endangered – that we’ve not damned all to hell – but it’s poor comfort when we three have already paid an unimaginable price.
Each night, when sleep refuses to come, I remind myself that I didn’t lie when I took my oath of office – though I have broken it since. It brings me no relief to know that I intended to hold fast to the values of my chancellorship, even if I’ve fallen short. The Houses are blind to what we’ve done, and Gabriel, if he ever loved me, will let me have this one, final secret. Not that it matters now – my legacy is no longer going to be the achievements of my office. My legacy is you. You’ll never know the burden of the Westergard name, or the duties expected of the last of the Gardiner line, and for that I’m glad. I hope that I’ve relinquished those on your behalf. You’ll be a Wyndham, and it will be a name that brings you a freedom I’ve never had. I hope, also, though every cell in my body craves to know you, that you’ll never read these words and that you’ll never know me. What I wish most for you – and what I’ve fought for, and betrayed for – is that you will have the freedom to be no one other than yourself
.
Leda
Alice trembled, her thoughts in chaos. She squeezed the book compulsively, and then reread the words again several times over. Was Leda saying . . .?
‘I think . . . I think I might be a Gardiner,’ Alice breathed.
Crowley stared at her, his face ashen with surprise.
She looked up at him. ‘I think I’m a Gardiner. The last Gardiner. Which would make me—’
‘Mielikki’s heir,’ he whispered in stunned disbelief.
‘Look,’ said Alice, thrusting the book at him.
He glanced down at it. ‘It’s blank.’
Alice frowned. Crowley couldn’t see Leda’s writing?
‘Read it to me,’ he said quietly.
He listened in silence, only emitting a shaky breath when Alice mentioned his mother’s name.
‘What were they so ashamed of? What did they do?’ said Alice. ‘And who was she protecting me from?’
Crowley shook his head, his mouth pressed into a tight line, and Alice’s eyes fell to her signet ring. It wasn’t the Westergard crest Leda had worn on her finger. Could it be something much older – the Gardiner crest instead?
Crowley exhaled steadily, apparently mastering whatever emotions were roiling through him.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Gabriel?’
Alice stilled. She didn’t dare breathe.
‘If Gabriel ever loved me?’ said Crowley, his voice hoarse. ‘Alice . . . could Gabriel Whitmore be your father?’
No. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. No. It couldn’t be. Tuoni . . .? Why would Tuoni have come to the Rookery and masqueraded as an actual man, with a job and a life? She flung her eyes open. The Lintuvahti had once said that her father, Tuoni, had grown weary of his duties and had found that his place was elsewhere. Was his place in the Rookery – as the governor of House Mielikki?
The Rookery Page 30