The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  Tears ran down her cheeks and she started to cry, soft sobs. She ran the tap, as she drowned in something like grief.

  When she came out, she was sure Sadie had heard her because the teenager didn’t pester her, just led the way down to breakfast.

  The dining room was old-fashioned, but the food was excellent. Jack helped herself to more toast, after porridge and bacon and eggs. Sadie nibbled a little toast, having eaten most of her porridge.

  Sadie waved her hand down her own frame. “I’ve lost loads and you’re getting fatter.” She half smiled. “It suits you. But you need some new clothes.”

  “Borrowed timers are always skinny.” Jack thought back to the moment when she had augmented her life-preserving magic with a mouthful of fresh blood. It had infused her with energy, enough to last three months. For a moment, the craving for Felix’s warm arm, the cut skin against her tongue, the slow pulsing of salt into her mouth, overwhelmed her.

  “So, shopping.” Sadie, at least, could keep her focus. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Jack, but she didn’t say anything.

  “After we look at the house and get some lists written.” Jack’s throat was dry and she slaked it with a slurp of tea. “And find a good rubbish clearance firm.”

  Chapter 2

  Venice, in this twenty-eighth year of her Grace the Queen Elizabeth’s reign, rises out the lagoon like a fairy town. But once one sets foot to it, it is revealed as the antechamber to hell in its stench, its debauchery, its treachery, and its battle with the sea. All delivered in a smiling mask.

  —EDWARD KELLEY, private letter to Lord Dannick dated 15 May 1586, held in Dannick family archive (facsimile held by British Library dated 1975)

  My first view of Venice, of this marvel of man’s mastery over the sea, was of a line of buildings topped by a risen dome gilded by the sun. My boatman, who talked continuously despite my lack of comprehension, gabbled and pointed.

  “San Marco!” he shouted, pointing at the dome. The great cathedral of St. Mark’s, famous all over Europe. The buildings beside it seemed to float upon a sea of fog, tall mansions squeezed together. The lagoon was calm and the man turned as if onto an invisible path, then looked across at another island and turned again. He babbled something that sounded like Italian, but left me with little understanding. Shoals, I feared, on which we might ground.

  I clutched my bags more closely around me, and he glanced again at them, his tongue touching his lips. I lifted my head and looked away while my fingers crawled along my belt to my dagger. I am counted a good judge of character, and was certain that while the man would not hesitate to rob a lesser man, he would back down in a fight.

  As he wove patterns in the water behind us, whirls and bubbles that trailed away, we were diverted along the waterfront. My stomach, never at ease at sea, lurched in my belly. The buildings, some giant complex of palaces and churches, led to a row of great houses, bright with color and extravagantly glazed, mirroring the light back upon the water. It was a marvelous sight.

  My boatman, now concentrating on his work and heaving upon the single large oar, pulled his craft about into a narrow lane. It was almost a road of water, shaded by the walls of wooden and stone houses above us. The sounds of hand carts, clogs, traders, boatmen and whores assaulted us. He pointed ahead to an area filled with pontoons and, as the port came into view, all manner of ships. I marveled at a great galleon as we slipped into its lee, a few sailors watching from its deck, casting down scornful comments upon us. My boatman pointed his thumb at me and spat into the water. The men above laughed, but we left them behind as he brought his boat into an area of pontoons lined with vessels three and four deep. He tied up alongside one.

  “Arsenale,” he said, holding out his brown hand, much callused. I gave the man some coins, and when he whined for more shook my head sternly, for the ambassador in Prague had visited Venice many times and warned me the boatmen were robbers. When his face turned angry, I added one more scudo, and he was happy. I grasped my largest bag, swung it over my shoulder, and indicated that he should carry the other. I stepped onto the seat to disembark.

  The whole city stank like death, and eyes followed me with every move. I trod with care from one flatboat to another to reach the quayside and grasp one of the wooden piers that supported it. I swayed more upon the dock than I had on the sea. I leaned over the black water and spat bile. My oarsman, hopping nimbly, threw my belongings toward me. I barely caught them before they spilled into the lagoon. I sat down upon a mooring block and opened my bags to check the contents. I carried my most important possessions upon my person, but any educated man knew the value of books. Lord Robert Dannick, my patron, had entrusted me with the most secret mission, and promised enough funds to complete my experiments back in the house in Prague. In addition, my friend Amyas Ratcliffe had charged me with a mission to answer a question we had both concerned ourselves with: the very nature of our animus, our base human form and its spiritual frailties.

  The first I knew of a companion was a pair of long-toed, polished boots of an oxblood color. I glanced up then stood, for the fellow who wore the boots was clearly of some importance, attended as he was by two servants. He was a little round man, wearing such bright colors and clashing garments that I might have thought him in motley, like a fool.

  “Signor.” I made my best bow. My Italian was rudimentary at best but my Venetian was worse, so I attempted a greeting in Latin. “I am honored to meet you, sir.”

  The man squinted into the sun, then looked me over in a fashion which in England would be most rude.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed in Latin. He had a high-pitched, musical voice. “You are German?”

  I stepped back, a little nervous at his waving and loud voice. At least a dozen fellows stopped working on boats or nets to watch us.

  I bowed again, with a flourish of my cloak I had learned in Prague. “Sir. My name is Edward Kelley, late from England, and I am come here on business.”

  “It is more correct to address me as Excellency, Signor Kelley.” His Latin was heavily accented, his tongue stretching the vowels and rolling the “r”s. He smiled again, showing a row of blackened teeth. “I am sent to welcome you to our city-state and learn your business.”

  It seemed strange to be quizzed by the man, but I thought perhaps it was part of the habits of this city. No doubt this was some custom official, as he wore upon his breast a heavy gold chain and some sort of emblem.

  “I am here on the business of Lord Dannick of England, to visit a nobleman of Venice to discuss some important research, your Excellency.” One of his servants hefted my bags onto his broad back and the other lifted a cudgel. I opened my mouth to protest, but shut it again. Trust me to keep close watch upon my baggage.

  “And, no doubt, you have papers and letters of introduction, signor?” The man started walking ahead of me, a fat, bouncy fellow, in his red shoes.

  I fumbled within my pocket where lay my purse. “I do, of course, but I—” The man was getting ahead of me so I pushed past the servants to catch up. “Your Excellency, whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “I?” The man grinned over his shoulder at me. “Why, Master Kelley, I am no one.”

  I felt a blow upon my head, and my senses were lost as my face hit the planks of the quayside.

  Chapter 3

  PRESENT DAY: BEE COTTAGE, LAKE DISTRICT

  Apple and plum trees tease children with fruit, hanging just out of reach over the garden wall, as if tempting them to try their footing between the shamble of stones. They always fall. Once, many seasons ago, a child died when the slab of limestone on top of the wall slid after his tumbling body and crushed his skull. Now the fruit goes unpicked, prey only to the wasps and the boldest of the rooks that grow fat and unmolested around the house. They nest between the chimneys, and hide behind its shattered windows.

  The idea of clearing the old house was overwhelming. Jack prioritized cleaning up the dead cat, slimier and stinkier after another
day, and unbolted the back door again for air. It sprang inward, if possible with more force than before, ivy pressing its green gloss into the room as if searching for something.

  “There really are rats!” shouted Sadie. She was wearing Jack’s old riding boots against the dirt and was rummaging in the packed dining room at the front of the house. “There’s shit everywhere—” There was more swearing, which Jack ignored, followed by a squeaking sound. “I got the window open.”

  Jack carried the bagged cat to the open front door. Sadie was leaning out of the window, probably trying to get some fresh air. Jack dumped the package into an available bin and closed the lid on it. “How much stuff is in there?”

  Sadie looked back. “I’m kneeling on it, it’s all over the whole room. Mostly just papers, though, and a few boxes of old tins. But…” She disappeared, then waved a metal item out of the window. “I found a sword!”

  Jack went indoors and fought her way past the damp papers to the dining room. Sadie met her holding the rusted thing. Calling it a sword seemed fanciful until Jack made out the cross guard. “OK, it is a sword. Probably some ornamental thing.”

  “The newspapers go back to the nineties. Twenty years. That must be when she started to go mad.”

  Jack smiled, and leaned in to estimate the amount of clutter in the room. There were sagging cardboard boxes filled with china, glass and empty tins. “That’s a whole Dumpster full, just there by the window. It’s a miracle the floor’s held.”

  “There’s one place where the floor is rotted right through. I think that’s where the rats get in.” Sadie dropped the sword and brushed past her into the hall. “Let’s try upstairs.”

  Jack made a note about the floor, and followed Sadie up the creaking, uncarpeted steps. There were four rooms off the landing, all closed up, and several piles of boxes in front of two of them. Sadie tried the nearest door, to the room over the kitchen, but it was stuck. It took all of Jack’s strength to force the door open.

  The room was like something from Miss Havisham’s house. It looked hundreds of years old, but Jack recognized a plastic radio and an aluminum walking frame from the modern era. The bed was Victorian brass, and the room had a huge mahogany chest of drawers in one corner and a marble-topped table under the window. Everything was covered with dust and stank of mildew. But that wasn’t what caught Jack’s eye after a second—when it moved.

  It was a rook, cowering but defiant, its gray beak switching direction as it looked first from one eye, then the other. Before Jack could say anything, it launched itself at them, forcing them to duck, and flapped over their heads toward the doorway, cawing loudly.

  “How did it get in?” shouted Sadie, over the screeching.

  Jack pointed at the window, where a corner of the glass of the bottom sash was missing. As her eyes adjusted to the low light—the rest of the window was covered with leaves, like the downstairs room—she could see the mess over every surface. She went back onto the landing. The bird was now walking with its rolling gait toward the back of the house. Jack chased after it down the landing. Just when Jack thought she would have to catch it, it opened its wings and glided over her head and down the stairs. She could hear its squawks diminishing as it flew out of the open front door.

  Sadie pulled at the bedclothes and wrinkled her nose. “This room isn’t too bad. If we strip it right out and start again, obviously.”

  “I’m going to clean up the furniture,” Jack said. She ran her eyes over the piles of papers on the table. “These look like bills. Legal papers, vet invoices, utilities.”

  “Maybe the cat was ill.”

  “Maybe.” Jack peeled one disintegrating sheet from the next. Everything was wet. “This is a letter from Blackwell and Whist, the solicitors who managed Ellen’s will. They wrote to Maggie telling her she was the sole heir.” She squinted at the blurred characters.

  Sadie had wandered off, and after some banging managed to squeak another door open.

  “There’s a bathroom,” she shouted back. The sound of running water was reassuring. “And a sink.”

  “It’s a good thing we haven’t had a cold snap,” Jack said. “There’s enough water in the house already.” One paper caught her eye. The heading had a drawing of a castle on it. The ink had run but she could make out some of the words. “Breach of contract” jumped out at her.

  Sadie banged the new door shut, and after a few moments emerged again to the sound of rushing water and clanking pipes. “The toilet flushes.”

  “So I hear.” Jack followed the sound of Sadie’s voice onto the landing.

  “There’s a tank up on the wall, it’s so old-fashioned.” Sadie fumbled in her pocket for a bottle of decoction, and took a sip. “It’s weird, I don’t feel too bad here. I’ve even got some energy. What’s in here?”

  Sadie wrenched open a door at the front of the house, then stumbled back, hands over her face in a maelstrom of feathers and screeches. A dozen birds flew at her. She screamed, staggering toward Jack. The two cowered in the doorway of the back bedroom as the birds flapped around the hallway before one led the others down the stairs. Jack, her arms around the teenager, could feel her shaking.

  “It’s OK,” she said, as she let go. “Just birds. Rooks.”

  “They took me by surprise. My mum made me sit up and watch this old film, once. These crows went mad and killed people.” Sadie shrugged Jack off and brushed herself down. She gingerly pushed the new door open farther. “I can’t forget what happened before…”

  Jack remembered Sadie’s experience of seeing an air elemental rip through a rookery, dismembering the birds and nearly killing the girl. “Well, these seem healthy, anyway, but we don’t want a rookery in the house.” She leaned into the bedroom.

  The birds had found a way in through the missing pane of a whole sash, bringing in thousands of sticks and covering the lot with excrement.

  Jack checked the nests but none had eggs in them yet. “Maybe Ellen liked them being here. They would make a fuss if anyone broke in, like guard dogs.”

  Water had eroded and darkened the floorboards by the window, underneath a hole in the ceiling that gave access to the loft. A few holes between the slates allowed daylight in. From the middle of the room, piled high with more rubbish, there was a fantastic view through the shattered window over the nearest field. The light purpled what Jack guessed was heather, over a whole hillside.

  A man’s voice made her jump.

  “Hello! Is anyone there?”

  His words echoed up the hall and stairs. Jack struggled through the mountains of paper to look down the stairs. The man, in his late forties or early fifties she judged, was smiling up at her. “Ah. The lady of the house, I presume? Mrs. Slee?” He was wearing a suit, incongruous against all the rubbish.

  “No. I’m acting on her behalf.” Jack negotiated the piles of rubbish on each step with care, and took the offered hand. Strong fingers, warm. Close up, he could be older than she first guessed. “I’m Jack Hammond.” Sadie was keeping out of sight upstairs, yet he cocked his head as if he heard something.

  “I’m Henry Dannick. And your companion?”

  She ignored the question and released the hand. The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. She looked past him to a long, expensive car and a uniformed driver. “I’m just here to decide how to clear and empty the house.”

  “I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Slee but if you are close to her perhaps you can help me.”

  “OK.” Jack stepped away from him, feeling some unnamed alarm but also the pull of the man. He was very charming. He spread out his hands, palms up, as if to say “I’m harmless.”

  “My family and Ellen Ratcliffe’s have had a long association. But recently—”

  “What’s the problem, Mr. Dannick?”

  “Actually, it’s Sir Henry. Ellen worked for my family for many years.” He looked around the hallway and his lips twisted. “I had no idea she had got into such a mess. She was always eccentric, of co
urse.”

  “Worked for you, how?” As far as she knew Ellen supplied items for magic, much as Jack did.

  “The garden—I know it’s hard to see it now, but it used to be full of rare herbs. Ellen was my family’s herbalist. We were hoping to come to a similar arrangement with Mrs. Slee, we know she is an—herbalist—as well.”

  “I understand.” Herbalist, or a witch, like Maggie? She motioned toward the door. “Perhaps we could talk outside? The smell in here is rather strong.” The charred meat stink was starting to nauseate her again.

  “Of course.” He stepped outside, careful not to touch the door frame with his sleeves. “It really is disgusting in there. We were so sorry to hear what had happened.”

  “What item in particular did you need?”

  “It’s an herb. I’m afraid I only know its colloquial name, black hair-root. At least, that’s what they call it in this area.” There was no trace of a northern accent in his voice, which suggested some upper-class education. He waited as if he expected Jack to understand the reference to the herb.

  “Hair-root. You’re going to have to give me more than that. A picture, maybe?”

  “Ellen makes it into a tincture for us. She said it was rare, and this was the only place it grew in any quantity to her knowledge.” He looked down at her, and she got the impression he was trying to read her, too. “This is a very important herbal medicine for us. Ellen must have made notes somewhere.”

  “We haven’t found any personal papers yet. A lot of stuff was ruined by the fire brigade.”

  “She also had Thomazine’s papers; they may describe the herb. They are written on vellum, and so would be more resistant to water, perhaps. I assume she kept them safe—they are very valuable.”