The Rookery

by Deborah Hewitt

  ‘I have my soul,’ he said, ‘and I intend to go to the Sulka Moors to find Leda.’ He spun back to her. ‘Send me to the moors, Alice. Send me home.’

  She could hardly comprehend what he was saying. The only emotion he had ever invoked in her was hatred, but she had never – not once – intentionally taken a life.

  Murderer.

  ‘I’m tired, Alice,’ he said. ‘You took Leda from me.’ He trailed his hands along one of the wooded roots looping through the wall, and it perished beneath his touch, a bloom of sawdust scattering the ground. Above, the ceiling juddered and stony grit rained down, as though the whole chamber might soon collapse.

  ‘You took Leda from me,’ he murmured again, ‘and it has taken so long to forgive you. But I do.’ He glanced at her. ‘Monsters beget monsters. I have no one to blame but myself.’

  He stroked another root and watched it disintegrate. The wall shook with its absence.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Alice, her fists clenched.

  ‘Make me,’ he said with a smile, reaching for another.

  She dropped to her haunches, scrambling to lay her hand against one of the living roots. Mielikki’s legacy surged up to meet her, vibrating against her skin. Her palm throbbed as she pushed her will deep into the root, maintaining her composure when a deep rumble echoed around the chamber. A rasping slither hissed into the room as Alice directed the tree roots outside like a choreographer; they curved through the gaps left by Risdon’s decay and wound into the room, propping up the walls.

  ‘Your friend with the red hair,’ he said, his voice silky, ‘perhaps I’ll find her in the moors . . .’

  Alice flinched, reflexively squeezing the root in her hands. As her fingers clenched, so too did the roots pouring through the walls. They snapped around Risdon, curling to press him against the wall, trapped within their embrace. He made no move to decay them. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he taunted her with another smile, his face still visible through the meshing limbs of the Summer Tree.

  ‘Perhaps Jen and I—’

  The roots tightened, crushing him in their grasp, and he gasped in pain. But still the smile. Alice rose on shaky legs and moved closer. She had expected him to be trapped, unable to struggle against the bindings wrapped around him. But there was blood pouring from his chest.

  ‘How did . . .?’ She frowned, her stomach churning

  The tree root . . . The thin, jagged end of a root had curled around him and embedded itself in his chest. Like a needle, sewn through flesh.

  ‘But I didn’t mean . . .’ Her words trailed away as realization dawned. I did this. I did this. Not with my soul. With my own bare hands. With Mielikki’s legacy, not Tuoni’s.

  ‘Alice,’ he murmured.

  She stared at him in shock. He fumbled to reach a hand through the intertwining roots enveloping him – but his attempts were feeble and the blood was pooling rapidly at his feet. Trembling with confusion and guilt, Alice gripped the branches and broke a hole for him, to free him, but he stopped her. He smiled at her – the first genuine smile she’d seen him offer, his grey eyes shining – and managed to reach through the gap.

  His hand, shaking as his strength failed him, reached up to gently touch her cheek.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said quietly. ‘Now take my nightjar and use its cord.’

  Her eyes searched his face and her lips pressed into a thin line. It was why he’d come here: to offer his nightjar. To force her to take it. She nodded, her eyes glistening as he released a soft sigh and his white nightjar flapped into the chamber. His body sagged, and the nightjar tugged away from it, the luminous cord rippling loosely from its leg.

  Alice snatched the cord from the air. It shimmered in her hands, beads of glittering light oozing through it, like oil through water.

  ‘Kuu?’ Alice whispered.

  Her bird fluttered down from her shoulder and swooped towards Tuoni’s nightjar, its beak open wide. In one graceful arc, it sliced the other end of the cord, and Tuoni’s nightjar blinked, held her gaze and soared off along the corridor, vanishing into the shadows with something bright in its claws.

  Alice’s breath caught and she peered down at the cord in her hands, losing its shine with every second she wasted. But she wasn’t sure what to do. The book had told her what needed to be done, but not exactly how to carry it out. Frustration and panic burst across her senses. If she wasted the chance Tuoni had given her, she would be forced to use her own cord anyway.

  And then Kuu swooped down, her wings creating small pockets of air that cooled Alice’s face, and snatched the spare cord into her beak.

  Alice swallowed against the lump in her throat as Kuu leapt into the air. The nightjar circled the chamber, its feathers rippling. It looped and glided between branches, picking up speed. Tuoni’s loose cord fluttered behind, leaving sparkling trails of light. And then her nightjar dipped its head and stretched out its tiny body and dived. Right through the roots dripping from the ceiling, it plunged towards the Rookery Stone and the dying threads of light, spiralling around them, swooping left and right, turning circles. Until suddenly, it swooped up to land on the stone, giving it a cautious peck for good measure. Alice scrambled closer, over the uneven floor, to peer down at it, her heart hammering.

  Kuu hadn’t just knotted Tuoni’s nightjar cord around the stone, the roots and the threads of light leading to the void. It was fused around them. And the cracks were vanishing . . . Alice hardly dared breathe. What did it mean? Had Kuu—?

  The chamber exploded with light and Alice fell backwards. She threw her hands out to break her fall and thumped onto a chunk of hard rock. The threads of light glimmering weakly at the Rookery Stone now shone with a blinding brilliance. White instead of blue raced along the lines, pouring towards the door to the void. The moment they hit it, the closed door glowed just briefly before disintegrating. Dust blossomed outwards, and wind rushed into the chamber.

  Alice stared at the dark rectangle in the wall, willing him to appear. Where are you, Crowley? And then he was there, filling the door frame, his hands gripping the edges and his hair blown across his face.

  ‘Alice,’ he said.

  Neither moved for a heartbeat. And then he strode across the room and swept his arms around her, crushing her against him.

  ‘There are no good things without you,’ he murmured brokenly. ‘I won’t let you go again.’

  On the floor, the petrified roots of the Summer Tree met the Rookery Stone in a glimmering, marble-like sheen. The connection between them was whole – no imperfections, no cracks. Alice watched in silent awe as Kuu glided and swooped about the chamber, her incandescent cord shimmering. Unbroken. Whole.

  It was not going well. This was the first official meeting between the two women, and Alice was already regretting the idea of introducing them. Sasha and Bea hadn’t said a word to each other.

  ‘Would anyone like any more tea?’ she asked, staring intently at Jude for support, but he was too busy watching Bea with an appraising eye to notice.

  ‘Can I smoke at the table?’ asked August, pulling out a roll-up.

  ‘No,’ said Sasha and Bea in unison. They narrowed their eyes, staring at each other suspiciously.

  ‘Smoking is prohibited under the terms of your rental agreement,’ said Crowley. ‘You may not smoke in the kitchen or your bedroom.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘As you well know.’

  August ran a hand through his straggly blond hair and stretched out his legs under the table. ‘Just as well I’ve never smoked in my bedroom then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crowley. ‘Although Sasha I must admit I was very disappointed to see you flouting the rules.’

  She shot him a withering look. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Strange,’ mused Crowley. ‘I saw your bedsheets on the drying rack. Pocked with small burn marks from the tobacco sparks of a roll-up cigarette.’

  Sasha gasped in horror and Alice stared wide-eyed at the table, clamping her lips and safely avoidi
ng eye contact.

  ‘Oh God, darling,’ said Bea in sympathy. ‘Don’t be ashamed of your terrible choices in men. I once dated Geraint Litmanen, so think on that.’

  Alice shook her head, turning away with a laugh. Her eyes met Crowley’s. He was staring directly at her, with such intensity that a trickle of nerves fluttered pleasantly in her stomach. He threw a wicked grin in her direction and she swallowed and looked away. Beneath the table, his questing fingers brushed against hers.

  ‘This is going to be the start of a beautiful new friendship,’ said Bea, elbowing Sasha. The icy atmosphere between them had melted in the face of their joint stance on terrible men.

  ‘Hey,’ objected August. ‘Isn’t sexism banned under the terms of the rental agreement as well as smoking?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s sexism,’ said Jude, reaching for his teacup. ‘It’s probably closer to misandry.’

  ‘In English?’ said August.

  Sasha sighed. ‘You need to break down the big words for him,’ she said, throwing August a smirk.

  ‘Misandry is a hatred of men,’ explained Jude.

  ‘Not all men,’ said Bea, treating Jude to a coquettish smile.

  Crowley’s palm slid into Alice’s and she held their joined hands in her lap like a secret.

  As August dragged Jude into a lively debate about sexist remarks and Bea interrupted to ask him about his reading habits, Alice smiled to herself. This really did feel like home. Life wasn’t perfect – nor was she – but she still had her research job at the university, with a very contrite Vivian Reid. She still had her health, her soul, her parents safely tucked away in Ireland . . .

  The table rattled and Alice frowned.

  ‘Did I just imagine that, or—’

  August’s tobacco tin vibrated across the wooden surface, and he cursed and snatched it up. The plates and drained teacups bounced and tipped on their sides, and August shot out of his seat.

  ‘What the hell is—’

  The grains in the wood rippled, like sand in the breeze, and Crowley’s hand tightened in Alice’s. The grains poured together in shifting directions, before rising from the surface to form letters.

  ‘It’s a message from House Mielikki,’ said Bea. ‘Read it, darling. What does it say?’

  Alice Wyndham – welcome to House Mielikki

  ‘They’re a bit late, aren’t they, darling,’ said Bea with a sigh. ‘You took your binding draught days ago. They’re supposed to send you a framed certificate.’

  ‘I expect they’ve been busy,’ said Alice. Her eyes glittering, she turned a thoughtful eye on Bea. ‘Has anyone ever refused membership after they’ve passed?’

  The table erupted in uproar and she laughed. But the idea picked away at her mind. House Mielikki and House Tuoni; she was a rightful member of both. Crowley was a member of one House and really belonged in another. Why did it have to be black and white?

  Maybe there ought to be a House that welcomed the necromancers, like August and Eris Mawkin, who had been forced to hide their legacies for fear of persecution by the Council. A House that welcomed the daughter of Tuoni and embraced her deathly gifts. If the choice were Leda’s, wouldn’t she do something radical and brave, like setting up her own House? Smashing the four-House system? Maybe even opening a House for those who didn’t seem to fit anywhere else – hemomancers along with necromancers, or those whose gifts weren’t strong enough to join any of the Houses and who were left to feel inadequate and unwanted? A House of misfits?

  She smiled and reached for her teacup. House Mielikki and House Tuoni?

  Why couldn’t she belong to both?

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to Bella Pagan, editor extraordinaire – a great support with a brilliantly beady eye and an infinite source of plot ideas! Thanks everlasting to the wonderful Jemima Forrester, who has been the catalyst for every good thing that’s happened to me in the writing business so far! Many, many thanks to the teams at Pan Macmillan, Tor, Goldmann, Eksmo, Agave, Argo and David Higham who helped to bring the stories of Alice and the Rookery to life and championed them. Thanks to the fabulous Penelope Killick, Becky Lloyd, Georgia Summers, Emma Winter, Charlotte Wright, Natalie Young, Claire Eddy, Diana Gill, Desirae Friesen, Kristin Temple and Toby Selwyn. Thanks to Emma Coode for her brilliantly helpful insights, to Matthew Garrett and Neil Lang for designing the most beautiful covers, and to Jamie-Lee Nardone and Stephen Haskins – PR legends and the best shepherds I could ever have wished for at Comic-Con.

  MASSIVE thanks to the readers and bloggers who supported The Nightjar. It’s hard to put into words what this meant to me. Writing a story is like shouting into a void – you never know if anyone is going to listen or not – but having you there, not just listening but shouting back, was the most wonderful welcome to the book world. You are just fantastic.

  Writing and re-writing The Rookery in the middle of a pandemic felt, at times, like playing the violin on the deck of the Titanic while it sinks – only you’ve forgotten the tune and Billy Zane’s* just stolen your bow (probably to use it as an oar). Thanks so much to my family for providing the life jackets: to David, for the endless cups of tea and nudges that fuelled me through the journey, and to Pippa and Chris Davies, brilliant parents and my biggest cheerleaders.

  To my lovely boys, Seb Hewitt and Archie Hewitt, whose ‘encouragement hugs’ proved absolutely priceless. You’re the only things I’ve ever created that were perfect in the first draft and I adore you both. Completely and utterly. Massively and infinitely. The best thing about publishing a book is that I get to say this in print so that the message is like an echo – it will always be out there, somewhere. I am so proud of you, always.

  The second-best thing about publishing these books has been the chance to immortalize my two elderly Westies, Bo and Ruby. They sat on my knee while I wrote both of these books, but now they’re off chasing rainbows together. The best good girls.

  Thanks to the Savvies, who have been a fantastic source of information and support. Writing is a strange old business, and it’s invaluable to know others who are navigating the same path.

  If you’ve made it this far . . . please seek out the song Alice and Crowley dance to at midsummer. Loituma’s Ievan Polkka is an absolute marvel – I loved it the minute I heard it, and I hope you will too.

  Finally . . . #ThankYouNHS

  * To Billy Zane, please don’t sue me for defamation, I was only joking.

  About the Author

  Deborah lives in the UK, somewhere south of Glasgow and north of London. When she’s not writing, she can be found watching her brilliant boys play football in a muddy field, or teaching in her classroom. Occasionally she cooks. Her family wishes she wouldn’t. She is the author of The Nightjar and The Rookery.

  BY DEBORAH HEWITT

  The Nightjar

  The Rookery

  First published 2021 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition first published 2021 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  The Smithson, 6 Briset Street, London EC1M 5NR

  EU representative: Macmillan Publishers Ireland Limited,

  Mallard Lodge, Lansdowne Village, Dublin 4

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-9651-6

  Copyright © Deborah Hewitt 2021

  Cover design © Neil Lang.

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.

  The right of Deborah Hewitt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

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erwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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