‘Let me go,’ she said in his ear.
His arm tightened around her in response. ‘No.’
A wave of water slammed into them, leaving them gasping, but his grip held.
‘I’m not being noble, Crowley,’ she said, wedging an elbow between them to crowbar herself free.
Crowley shook his head, grimly determined. ‘I’m not letting you go.’
She managed to turn sideways in his arms. He was deathly pale and strained. He thought she was trying to sacrifice herself to give him a better chance – she could see it in his eyes. Exhaustion was written all over his face. Droplets of water glistened on his cheekbones and on his mouth. And as they were buffeted by rubble from every direction, swaying with the movement of the icy river, she leaned up and without any warning at all pressed her icy lips to his. It lasted only a second. Caught off guard, his eyebrows flew up, and he lost his grip. Satisfied, she slipped free from his arms and kicked away. He lunged to grab her with a shocked cry, but she shook her head.
‘I’m not being noble!’ she shouted.
And then she raised her arms above her head, streamlining her body as best she could, stopped kicking and sank. This time it was much faster. They were closer to the fracture now, and it sucked the river towards it like a black hole. Below the surface, she offered no resistance as the water swept her deeper, praying her lungs would hold out.
The tingling in her fingers grew more insistent. A throb of magic spasmed through her arms, legs and chest as she plunged towards the fracture and the exposed root of the Summer Tree. Its power was magnetic. Ripples of warmth pulsed through the icy water like a welcome.
The water pressure shifted suddenly, pushing backwards, and Alice’s movement stalled. Something drew closer, slithering along the riverbed. The whining groan of a heavy mass straining against its bindings echoed out above the surface. And Alice’s blood was on fire as a bunched-up curve of the Summer Tree’s root surged up beneath her like a life raft . . . and pushed her to the surface.
Water sprayed out around her as she emerged from the river, standing on the crooked root. Raw energy crackled beneath her feet and her muscles thrummed with a strange vitality. She thrust out a hand to snatch Crowley’s sleeve as she passed and clenched it tight as he scrambled up beside her, gasping on all fours.
Panting, and shoving wet hair from her face, Alice peered over at the mass evacuation effort underway on the other side of the river, a small crowd searching for survivors.
‘Do you think,’ she breathed, ‘anyone saw us?’
‘I felt it,’ said Alice, ‘beneath the water. Its power. I don’t know how, but I did.’
They were sitting in Alice’s university quarters. Visitors were not allowed, but Alice no longer cared about breaking the rules. It was unlikely anyone would ever find out, anyway – there was no one around to see. The entire campus had been silent when they’d arrived. The university buildings and all the surrounding streets were pitch black. It had been eerie to step out of the janitor’s outhouse and find the street lamps extinguished and a blanket of darkness as far as the eye could see.
The rector had maintained the campus-wide ban on matches, candles and uncontrollable fires, so they sat at Alice’s table with one of Crowley’s flames dancing on a saucer between them. He had dried them off with a flick of his wrist the moment they’d reached land. Still, she couldn’t seem to get warm. She was wrapped in the blankets from her bed, her legs crossed on the wooden chair.
‘Look,’ said Alice, stabbing a finger at Reid’s biscuit-coloured folder. In the margins, Reid had scribbled Pellervoinen safeguards hold? ‘Even she knew about the stone.’
Crowley gave an imperceptible shrug. He looked exhausted, and she wondered when he’d last slept a full eight hours.
She sighed heavily. ‘Reid – God knows why – thought that her soul research caused the tree to grow. She once claimed plants have souls, so maybe she was researching whether the Summer Tree had a soul and thought she’d damaged it, I don’t know. But she clearly thought that the Pellervoinen safeguard would be strong enough to resist any backlash to the city’s foundations.’ She pointed again at Reid’s scribbled handwriting. ‘Is it common knowledge about the anchors and the Rookery Stone?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Then maybe your mother told her. They knew each other, Crowley. They grew up together. The fact that Reid knew how important they were . . . We need to examine the Rookery Stone.’
He stared at the flames on the saucer. ‘I’ve never known where it is,’ he said. ‘It’s why I’ve spared it little thought over the years.’ There were shadows under his eyes that were less to do with the flicker of firelight and everything to do with weariness.
She stared at him, unable to comprehend. ‘But . . . we need to check it,’ she said. ‘If Tilda’s right about broken anchors . . . The London Stone seemed intact, but the Rookery Stone might be damaged.’
He sighed heavily and turned to her, his expression pained. ‘My mother never told me its location, Alice. If I’ve inherited the guardianship from her, then I am the custodian of a needle in a haystack.’
Alice sat back in her seat, all of her ideas cut off at the root. How could they find a single stone in a city so sprawling? She opened her mouth to speak but found there was nothing much she could say.
Crowley stared blankly into the flames, his expression morose.
‘It isn’t your fault that you don’t know how to save the world, Crowley,’ she said at last.
He shot her a dark look, and she knew she’d hit the target. Another thought began to creep around the edges of her brain, and she wasn’t sure this was the moment to bring it up, but she sensed they were running out of time.
‘Crowley – the Beaks . . .’
He grew very still. His father, Sir John Boleyn, led a government faction dedicated to wiping out the Rookery and its people. The Judicium, they called themselves, though they were known in this city as the far less impressive-sounding ‘Beaks’.
‘Do you think they know that the London Stone is an anchor?’ asked Alice. ‘If they knew they could use it to damage the Rookery—’
‘They don’t know,’ Crowley said quietly. ‘Whatever my mother’s naivety in marrying him, she never told him that.’
Alice nodded, but the look in Crowley’s eyes was stricken. She swallowed and reached for a change of subject.
‘Those books of Tilda’s,’ she said. ‘They mentioned a stone and the Summer Tree. We should check them again. Maybe Bea can open them, too – they might be linked to House Mielikki members rather than just her heir. Bea can probably read Latin – it’s the sort of thing lords and ladies can do, isn’t it?’
Crowley nodded, and then neither spoke for a long time. His dark eyes, shining in the dancing light, drifted up to steal glances of her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Her hands tightened on the blanket as she listened to the gentle hum of his breathing and remembered the shock on his face when their lips had met.
‘No, darling, I can’t read Latin,’ said Bea later that night. She’d been busy at the House since the siren had sounded, returning before midnight. Crowley had stayed to meet her, and Bea had looked him over with an appraising eye before giving Alice a subtle nod. The librarian looked weary – the dark circles under her eyes, Alice suspected, were caused by the news of Tom’s death. She was glad it had been announced in her absence.
‘We had the option of Latin or Ancient Greek at school. I went with Ancient Greek because the teacher was rumoured never to give homework, which incidentally turned out to be a lie.’ Bea swept out from one of the library’s dark aisles with an exhausted sigh.
Crowley’s contraband light – now in a jar on the check-out desk – was just enough to see by. The shelves cast shadows along every narrow corridor, but the huge window provided some low moonlight to the centre of the library. A stripe of dim light illuminated Bea, her mass of thick, glossy hair pinned back and her patterned dress c
lashing gloriously with the beads around her neck.
‘Tell me the quote again,’ she said.
Crowley cleared his throat. ‘Natura valde simplex est et sibi consona.’
‘Nature is exceedingly simple and harmonious with itself,’ said Bea.
‘You know it too?’ said Alice, incredulous.
‘It’s Newton,’ said Bea. ‘Everybody knows Newton.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Not everybody.’
‘That’s not just a quote, it’s also a book,’ said Bea. ‘The one we spoke about. Very famous for a book no one’s ever seen.’
Alice stared at her. ‘The one we spoke about? You mean . . . the one Whitmore’s rumoured to have a copy of?’
Bea snorted. ‘That rumour only started because he refuses to let anyone access his personal library at the House; people started to suspect he had all sorts of illicit materials in it. But frankly, by the number of dog-eared books the students return to me here, I don’t blame him for keeping his collection private.’ She stopped and sighed. ‘I wish he did have it, of course I do, but just because the book was written by his ancestor, doesn’t mean he inherited a copy.’
Alice darted an alarmed glance at Crowley but said nothing. How could Gabriel Whitmore be Tuoni if he had ancestors? But whether he was Tuoni or not, he’d been behaving suspiciously every time he’d been involved with the Summer Tree, and now another link had come to the fore. This warranted her attention. Who was he really, and what was his connection to the tree’s destruction?
‘Just so we’re clear,’ Alice said slowly, ‘the book is a study of the Rookery’s geography and foundations?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘And by foundations . . .’ Alice trailed off as she glanced again at Crowley, whose expression was serious.
Foundations – surely that meant the anchors? The two stones and the two trees. Was there a book out there that could tell the heirs of Mielikki and Pellervoinen how to fix the city?
‘Look, I told you, darling,’ said Bea. ‘The book burned in this library.’ She looked around the shelves. ‘It’s partly why the rector’s already threatened to sack anyone found with candles indoors. The original Goring House and its successor, Arlington House, both burned down in London on this very site. The place has practically been cursed by fire. No wonder he’s not taking any chances. Anyway,’ said Bea, turning back to Alice with a calming breath. ‘Your book? Natura Valde Simplex est et Sibi Consona. Real mouthful. Terrible idea to title a book with a complete quote.’
‘The book was once here, in this library?’ asked Crowley.
‘Yes. A few hundred years ago, but the library burned down here too, and all the books with it. It was one of them. I still have a copy of the old stocktake, believe it or not.’
‘Why would you remember the name of this one specific book anyway?’ asked Alice.
‘Because of the public outcry about its loss at the time. And I am a librarian, darling; there’s such a thing as professional interest.’
Alice met Crowley’s eye. They had an empty book cover with that Latin name. All the pages were torn out, but they weren’t singed from a fire. If Whitmore’s ancestor wrote the book, maybe the rumours were true. Maybe he had a spare copy. Or perhaps Whitmore had the missing pages. Either way, they needed to make sure. Because if a copy of that book did exist, and had the information they needed – it could save the city.
It was long after midnight, but the door to House Mielikki was still open. Muffled, haunting music swayed out from the arched bough that formed the entrance, a sign that the clubhouse bar was still open for business. People needed to find solace somewhere, she supposed. Alice’s eyes traced the slants of moonlight striping the pavement like a ladder, highlighting a path to the magnificent botanical and stone facade. The leaves rustled in the breeze as the seasons transformed the outer walls.
‘How do you propose we do this?’ asked Crowley, his voice such a close rumble in her ear that it lifted the hair on the back of her neck.
They were standing on the corner of Angel Street, aiming for an air of inconspicuousness while they pored over their options.
‘I’m not allowed access to the bar until I get my membership,’ she said, ‘so that rules out having a drink and sneaking through the building to find Whitmore’s office.’
‘I could attempt to travel inside using a doorway,’ said Crowley. ‘But I can’t imagine the doors won’t be locked and alarmed against members of other Houses, which would amount to a smash and grab.’
She shook her head. ‘If we broke in with force and I got caught, that would be my membership bid up in smoke.’ She turned to him and found he’d moved closer, so she had to tip her head back to see him clearly. ‘We’ve been here before,’ she said, offering a wry smile. ‘Trespassing?’
‘Indeed,’ he said, tracing his lips with a finger.
But it was different this time; she couldn’t jeopardize her membership. There was too much riding on it. Tilda had told her she needed to bind herself to the Summer Tree. As Mielikki’s heir, the Rookery’s survival might depend on it.
‘A more subtle approach then?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘How much leeway do you think ignorance might get us? If, say, we were refused a drink at the bar and accidentally . . . took a wrong turning on our way out?’
If they came across anyone, Alice could always cloak them both. It’d failed with Tom, but she knew she could do it if she was given time to focus.
‘Let’s go,’ she murmured, hurrying across the road before she changed her mind. As she charged towards the House, she tested a few possible excuses in case they were discovered. About the most plausible was that she’d come to ask Cecil to autograph his book, which meant they really couldn’t afford to get caught.
She stepped into the entrance, warm light flickering overhead, and then turned to gesture for Crowley to follow her. With a swift glance around him, he entered the corridor, peering at the willow walls with curiosity.
‘I’ve always wondered what it was like in here,’ he said, just as a clawing knot of vines and branches snaked out from either side of the corridor, blocking their path forward and sealing off the entrance behind, entrapping them.
‘Shit,’ Alice murmured.
She flexed her fingers and grabbed the thicket barring their way. Then she poured all of her frustration and anger into her hands, down through her fingertips and into the wall of branches. The branches rotted and hollowed out under her grasp. She twitched her hands, strengthening her hold, and they disintegrated into ash and sawdust. She stepped over the heaped dust and wiped her hands on her thighs.
‘Not quite the welcome we were hoping for,’ said Crowley.
He moved in step behind her, but the willow wall rippled again. The branches unravelled and wound across their path, blocking them from continuing. Crowley caught Alice’s arm and tugged her backwards, but another wall of branches wove itself around them from behind, capturing them in the middle. This trap was tighter, the weight of the branches pushing them together. They were wrapped in the walls like a blanket, Alice’s arms pinned to her sides.
She tried to elbow herself some room. ‘We must’ve triggered an alert,’ she hissed.
She gave up struggling. It was no use. They were hamstrung. But the House could hardly dismiss her from the membership tests for this – she’d only stepped through the bloody entrance. It would put paid, however, to their attempts to access Whitmore’s private library tonight.
‘Cat burglary really isn’t your forte, is it?’ drawled Crowley. ‘Might I suggest you look for another career? To my knowledge, you’ve been caught trespassing every time you’ve attempted it.’ His breath ghosted the back of her neck when he spoke, and she suddenly became very aware of his presence.
Her back was pressed against his chest. Crowley’s arm was down by his side, next to hers, the backs of their hands lightly touching. And though she should have been focused on what she was doing at House Mielikki
and the fact that they were trapped in the corridor, every sense had instead honed in on the feel of his hand pressed gently against hers. They stood deathly still for several agonizing minutes, neither quite sure how to break the strange deadlock.
But then a knuckle brushed her skin, just barely. A touch so light she might have imagined it if not for the electric sensation it left behind. Crowley stared straight ahead, as though his movements were utterly detached. And then she felt a finger, gently questing, reaching out – and then another. Alice swallowed hard as his wrist turned in the cramped space and his hand reached for hers. Their fingers slid together, locking like jigsaw pieces, and they stood for a moment in the flickering light of the corridor, holding hands in silence.
‘What happened in the river . . .’ he murmured.
She swallowed hard. The kiss. But it had only been an attempt to distract him.
‘Did you . . .?’ he began, but the willow wall surrounding them suddenly disintegrated and she staggered forward, breaking their hands apart.
Crowley caught her by the shoulders, holding her steady, as a door swung open at the end of the corridor. A door she’d never seen before. And Gabriel Whitmore stood before her, with a piercing look in his eye. He held her gaze for a long, drawn-out moment, and then nodded his acknowledgement.
‘Your friend doesn’t belong here,’ said Whitmore. ‘Ask him to leave, and then we may talk.’
‘I see you’ve inherited your mother’s gift for theatrics.’
Alice’s breathing stilled. ‘How long have you known?’
He leaned back in the sumptuous leather chair. Across the impressive polished desk, his gaze was penetrating. ‘Only a matter of days. Tilda came to me with the news. I should have seen it earlier. You look . . . very alike.’
She had never scrutinized the governor up close. Now she took the opportunity to explore his features, searching for her own face in his, some small image of herself mirrored there, but she found nothing. He was sandy-haired, his eyes a deep ocean blue where hers were brown; his skin was a milky alabaster next to her rosy-cheeked complexion. And the way he held himself, sturdy but long-limbed, precise and elegant; there was nothing at all she had inherited from him – he couldn’t possibly be her father.
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