by Kay Kenyon
The stairs curved around to higher floors. She climbed. Through stone slit windows rectangles of light lit her way.
On the next landing was a closed door much like her own. No voices or movement inside. Removing Idelle’s key from her pocket, she slipped it into the lock, but it did not fit.
Ascending, she found herself on the last landing. Electricity had not come to this level of the castle, leaving the shallow landing in semi-darkness. The door to the apartment lay ajar. She pushed it open to reveal a room identical in shape to her own, but long unused, the only furniture a black Victorian bedstead too massive to move down the stairwell. She wondered who had ever slept here, and whether Sulcliffe might once have rung with the cries of children playing or couples laughing or making love. It was very hard to imagine.
One of the windows looked out toward folded hills, a reminder of her isolation here. The glass was very old and appeared to be sagging, as though after a very long time it could no longer keep its shape.
She turned to another window in the semicircular wall. It looked out to Sulcliffe’s long north wall, massive and capped at the far end by another turret, and beyond it, the Irish Sea. On the top floor of the north turret she could just make out someone moving inside. Perhaps it was Powell. Lady Ellesmere’s suite was on the other side of the castle. Who else besides the baron would have an apartment commanding what must be an extraordinary view of the sea?
As she stood at the window, she wondered what she would look like at this distance to someone who could see Talents. She imagined her body shedding light as though electrified, or her skin suffused with a phosphorescent glow. To a person who could discern such things, the world might appear to be full of ghostlike creatures, stripped of their personalities, distilled to one thing only: light. It might be possible to think such people easier to exterminate.
If there was such a Talent, she hoped it was very rare.
The shadow at the far window had disappeared. If it had been Powell, perhaps he was sitting down to his dinner.
On the landing, she quickly descended all the way to the broad, gallery-like hall.
Sconces lit her way in the deserted corridor. She slipped into the drawing room, looking around in case someone might be reading a paper on the divan or stoking the fire. But the room was empty. She lifted the receiver of the telephone. The operator came on, and she gave the telephone number of Alice’s lodging.
After a few moments of clicking, a man’s voice came across the line. “Llewellyn House, may I help you?”
“I would like to speak with a lodger, Alice Ward.”
“Could you speak up, please?”
Kim looked toward the hall. “Alice Ward, please,” she said more urgently.
A very long pause. She thought perhaps she had been disconnected. The moment stretched on interminably. Then: “I’m sorry, she is not in her room. Would you like to leave word?”
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right.” Although it wasn’t. “I’ll call back.”
“Wait a moment, please.” Kim heard a conversation at the other end, just out of earshot. “My wife found her in the dining room. Here she is.”
A beat and a rustle on the line. “Hello, this is Alice.”
“Alice! Oh, hello, this is Kim. How are you?”
“Very well indeed. And you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I arrived in good order, and expect to have a lovely weekend. I hope you’re enjoying your holiday. You might like to tour the little church tomorrow. Saturdays are such a nice time to do a little sightseeing. I’ve heard there’s quite a significant monument in the churchyard. These old churches are so edifying.”
“Good idea, I’ll give it a go. I wonder if I’ll see anyone I know.”
“Your sister-in-law said she’d go sightseeing, so you might run into her.”
“I’ll watch for her, then. By the way, I just heard some news from Vicar Hathaway. Martin has gone off to London, of all places. He left a note saying he’d be back, but there was something he had to do. They’re looking for him. Just thought you should know.”
“Oh no, Alice.” This was disturbing news. Why on earth would Martin do such a thing? “Will you call with any developments?”
“Of course.”
Martin in London. It was no place for a boy his age by himself. What could he be thinking? “Well, must ring off. That little cold I had has gone, so I’m feeling in the pink.”
“Oh, good. Have fun, and get some good snaps.”
“I should be home on Sunday evening, so see you then.” She replaced the receiver, and wiped her sweating hands on her skirt. In the pink was her code for all well.
Martin was missing. After the episode of lying, she thought he would be keen on redeeming himself. And now this. She worried about a boy his age traveling alone, and to London! Alice shouldn’t have injected family matters into an operational message. A newcomer’s mistake, but frankly, she was glad to be informed.
She sat for a while, thinking about Martin. Despite what had happened with Robert’s diary, over the past month she had grown terribly fond of him. She had watched Martin grow from guarded and diffident to something approaching lively and actually happy. Everyone in the house enjoyed him, and, she had to admit, especially her. Someday, she would have children of her own; it was not too late. But for now, it was lovely to have Martin.
A noise at the archway. Powell had entered the drawing room.
“There you are!”
She smiled up at him. “How is everything going at the fair?”
“Top-notch. Sorry we all had to have dinner in our rooms; that’s how it is these fair weekends.” He frowned. “I say, is everything all right? You look a bit cast down.”
“Oh. Well, yes, I’m fine. But I just had a telephone chat with my friend Alice, to tell her I’ll be home tomorrow. She told me that a boy I’m fostering has run off, or I should say, took an unapproved trip. It’s a bit worrying.”
“I shouldn’t wonder! I didn’t know you had a foster child.”
“Martin isn’t officially in my care, but he is staying on the farm for the summer.” It was better to encourage Powell to talk about himself rather than her, so she quickly deflected the questions he seemed on the verge of pursuing. “I should have come with you to the field. Did Lady Ellesmere give a talk at the big tent?”
“No, she’ll wait for more to arrive, but she did join in for a bit of the singing at the stone circle. Quite lovely. It does inspire, to have music and the nice fire under the stars. In fact, I was just coming to find you. There’s something to see from the terrace.”
“What is it?”
He smiled. “Just come. You won’t be disappointed.”
They crossed the gallery hall and went out onto the terrace. He draped an arm over her shoulder and led her across the paving stones to the parapet. They looked east onto a series of vales shadowed by soft hills.
There, far down, were lights. A string of them, moving past the castle, like Chinese lanterns floating on a river.
“We’ve had an omnibus pick our people up at the village green, and they’ll be bivouacking on the field tonight. It’s a fine sight, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes! It looks like a river of gold.” Though an almost-full moon lay on the eastern horizon, the headland remained in dramatic darkness. “Do they have lanterns, then?” Do some glow on their own?
“Yes, and flashlights. Our people come prepared. See over there?” He turned her shoulders toward the fairgrounds where a dim firelight pulsed. “We’ve lit a bonfire to shed some light so they can make camp.”
“Too bad I couldn’t get a snap of this! But I guess there won’t be any pictures at all, Lady Ellesmere says.” She tossed her head to rid herself of his arm. “Well, we’ll make do.”
The wall of the castle provided some refuge from the wind, so the high terrace was quite pleasant in the heavy dusk. From the gallery hall, the lancet windows threw ingots of light onto the flagstones. Kim could
imagine a soiree out here, had it been any other family who owned the place.
“About the lad you’re fostering—Martin, is it?” At her nod, he said, “You don’t feel you have to be going home early?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sure it will be all right.” She knew she was under Powell’s particular gaze, and wondered why he had really brought her to the terrace.
“I’m glad. When you’re done with your articles, we’ll be friends. Won’t we?”
“Of course we will.” With his back to the windows, his face was not so much in shadow, as missing. It reminded her that she had no idea who he truly was.
“It wasn’t only for your newspaper that you came this time, was it?”
“Well, I am keen on writing you up.”
“All right, then, I’ll just ask you. Do you like me, Kim?” He let out a little laugh. “Or has Mother completely scared you off?”
The question was so fraught with mines, she didn’t know where to step. And how desperate for affection he must be, to presume to say this on so little encouragement. “She did say I wasn’t for you.”
He snorted. “And what did you say?”
“I . . . I said . . .” She didn’t know how to sustain some pretense of affection for the sake of the operation. She was a spill artist, not a spy trading in sex and secrets.
“I told her I didn’t think of you in that way.”
He hadn’t moved. “Did you mean it?”
“Powell.” She paused, gathering her words carefully. “I don’t know you very well. So, of course I am here to write an article. We have time to become better acquainted if we decide we should.”
She watched as he moved to the other side of the battlements, the one that faced the sea. His voice came to her faintly. “I thought you said I had attraction.”
He had heard that clearly enough, but she hadn’t meant it to pertain to her, only to his followers. “You do. You have a great attraction.” She drew closer to him. “But between a man and a woman, a gift for it—that can’t be what goes on. You do see that.”
He turned to her with a forced smile. “It was my test.”
“I failed it.”
“No,” he said. “I failed it. I failed to attract you.”
The wind blew her hair in her face, into her mouth as though trying to stop her from talking, but she couldn’t leave this. “Everyone who meets you must feel at ease, must feel your warmth. I felt it, Powell, truly. You’ll make a good leader of Ancient Light.” She hesitated but added, “If Lady Ellesmere would only let you.” If Powell was innocent, he needed to hear this. If he wasn’t, then nothing could save him.
He looked at her without responding, for really, what could he say? She was not for him. His mother was not for him. It was too bad, but Powell had probably been dodging the truth of his mother’s rejection his whole life.
After such a conversation, it was best to call it a night. There could be no small talk, no spill, after this. She turned at the doorway. “Personally, I don’t think you need to meditate anymore.”
Pushing open the door, she made her way down the gallery hall. He didn’t follow her. As she passed by the hall windows, she saw him standing on the terrace, gazing out to sea.
30
SULCLIFFE CASTLE, WALES
SATURDAY, AUGUST 29. The pipes shuddered and banged as Kim drew a hot bath. It surprised her greatly that there was hot water, but this morning she could have steeped a chicken in it.
She slipped into the giant claw-footed basin, and watched her skin turn rosy red. The bath needed to refresh her, because she had hardly slept, expecting some dramatic occurrence in the middle of the night. Her gun under her pillow, her door locked. Why did clandestine work demand overnights?
By her watch lying on the low table next to the tub, it was 9:17. Terribly late, because she had only dozed off shortly before dawn. Reluctantly, she pulled the plug. With a little sleep and a bright sun charging through the windows, her theory of secret sight seemed a bit foolish. It no doubt came of wishing to bring a villain to trial before he killed again. But the real murderer could be in Sussex or Cornwall, for all she knew.
She was dressed when the knock came at her door. Rian.
“There’s kidneys and fry for breakfast down to the dining hall, miss. But it’s cold by now. Did ye not hear the gong?”
“Oh, thank you, Rian. I’ll be right along. It’s a big castle for a gong.”
Rian sniffed. “It brung the master from the cabin many a year.”
“Good ears, then, I imagine.”
Rian looked at her as though having good ears was hardly the point. Kim grabbed her light jacket and her handbag with its extra heft from the Colt and made her way to the gallery hall. Looking out the windows, she wondered if she could see any fair activity from the castle battlements. She hurried down the hall to the massive front door and stepped out onto the terrace.
Hearing voices from below, she leaned over the parapet to see Idelle getting into the family car. She was dressed in dark maroon with matching felt hat. But instead of Awbrey opening the door for her, it was Powell. They drove off in a spray of gravel.
A setback. If Powell was with Idelle, it would not be possible for Alice to get close to her at the cemetery and strike up a conversation, as she had directed her to do during their phone call. Your sister-in-law said she’d go sightseeing, so you might run into her. They were interested in Flory Soames, in case the name had some importance, as Idelle seemed to believe it did—or why would she have taken such pains to be sure she had told Kim the name in private? All Alice might need was a few minutes alone with her. With luck, her trauma view could cast light on the name. Well, perhaps not possible now.
The damnable Coslett luck. They had escaped everything that Crossbow had thrown at them.
She ate alone in the dining hall, feeling very small indeed at the massive table and with chandeliers hanging on twenty-foot chains overhead. The fireplace was spacious enough to roast a boar. While she ate, she brooded on the dance of agents and their quarry. Four young people slaughtered near their homes, farms and churches. One badly hurt. More to come, she didn’t doubt. Hundreds of agents and police mobilized.
Surely Talon would make a mistake somewhere along the line. If not here, then wherever he was.
But he had not.
THE SULCLIFFE ESTATE
12:30 PM. “Please do not hover.”
Kim watched as Lady Ellesmere bent crookedly over her cane, her face distorted. “It will pass,” she said making a guttural slur of the final word. The sounds of the fair came from just over the rise.
Her young and eager-faced attendants, Donald and Royce, stepped back, faces creased with concern.
Kim thought the men likely had been chosen by Lady Ellesmere from among her followers. At least, Kim hadn’t seen them before. Red-haired Donald was bright-faced and eager. Royce, jug-eared and solid, watched the dowager as though at any moment she might topple.
When the old woman straightened up, she inhaled deeply and struck her cane into the ground, walking on. The spasm and pain seemed to have passed, but it had left its mark in the deeper lines of her face. How strange that Dorothea Coslett could not just give her son the reins of Ancient Light. She had not long to live, and what might have been comfort in having her son carry on had turned into a test that he could never pass.
The fierce morning sun lit up the vistas before them: the distant Snowdonian Mountains, the near hills thick with green grasses and the massed heather a bruised purple. The four of them began making their way up the next rise, behind which Kim could hear the droning of a crowd, pierced by bright shouts.
The dowager wore a heavy knit dress and three-quarter-length coat, more suited to a cross-channel ferry deck than a warm day at the fair. The wind had subsided, making the August day balmy. “Did you see the circle?” Lady Ellesmere asked.
“Oh, yes. Is it an ancient locale or did you bring the stones in?”
Lady Ellesmer
e paused to rest for a moment. “We brought them in. But they’re in the right place.”
“How do you know?” Kim took out her notebook and pencil.
The old woman shook her head in exasperation. “You people are besotted with stones and barrows. Stonehenge, Barclodiad y Gawres, Silbury Hill. But they’re all connected by the sacred ground, Earth itself.”
“Of course, but some places have great power. Isn’t that a principle?”
As they approached the top of the rise, Kim saw pennants first, bright primary colors against the cerulean sky, then the tent peaks.
“Oh, if you must dwell on it.” She glanced at Kim’s notebook. “For the popular press,” she said, making clear how low that was.
“Would it be wrong to think of the henges and megaliths as, in some way, the churches of Ancient Light?”
“Never use that word,” Lady Ellesmere managed to say through gritted teeth. Kim couldn’t decide if she was still in pain or just suffering a fool. They looked down on the tents and pavilions of the gathering, with the happy chaos of fair-goers cooking over small fire pits near their tents and shouting amid games in the meadow. This was more like a gathering of friends than any tent revival or religious meeting.
“I see that Powell took Idelle into the village,” Kim said. “Will he spend time at the churchyard with her?”
But people had seen them on the hill, and began to run forward, first the small group from the closest tents, and then others, some issuing from the main pavilion, seashell white, anchored with ropes.
A ruddy-faced woman in leather trousers and blousy shirt reached Lady Ellesmere first, her eyes shining with not a little adoration. “Helena,” the dowager murmured, “lovely to see you.” They chatted for a moment as people jostled around them. So, this was Helena Cumberledge, Powell’s replacement if it came to that. She did have a robust presence, a ready smile; perhaps she was the leader Ancient Light would get.