The Shadow Wing

by Sarah Painter

  Roisin sat down behind the nearest computer, seemingly on autopilot.

  ‘It’s not in the online collection,’ Lydia said. ‘I already checked.’

  ‘Right,’ Roisin said. ‘I just…’

  ‘You just wanted to make a show of looking in the hope that I would sod off.’

  She started. ‘No. No, not that. Not at all.’

  ‘If you say something three times, it doesn’t make it true,’ Lydia said sweetly. ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about and I want you to show me everything you’ve got on the Families. Now.’

  The photographs showed the cup exactly as she remembered it. Tall and ornate with two handles. Like a trophy. It would be just like the Silvers to award themselves one. In the image, Lydia could see the same aged silver that had been so cleverly replicated in the fake cup currently residing in the Silver Family tomb. What she couldn’t see, from the photograph, was the blindingly shiny silver overlay that she had seen from the real thing. The unmistakable sheen of Silver power which had made her throw up in Alejandro’s office, just from being near to it. Looking around the busy reading room, the lack of nausea was a blessing, but it would have been handy to confirm for certain that the cup given to the museum had been the real deal.

  Whoever had catalogued the cup had been thorough. There were photographs from different angles and one of the base. Four smudges in a row caught Lydia’s eye. She magnified the image until the smudges revealed themselves to be stamped markings. One was recognisably the shape of a lion, one a letter L, and one was round and indistinct. The first mark was the most complex and the image too pixelated when magnified for Lydia to make it out.

  ‘The lion is a quality mark, to show it’s sterling silver. This is a leopard’s head,’ Roisin pointed at the round-ish shape. ‘It tells you which Assay office tested and hallmarked the cup. Leopard is the symbol for the London office.’

  Lydia squinted at the blob. ‘I’ll take your word for it. What about this one?’

  ‘That’s the maker’s mark. It was registered with the Assay office and we got the details from them.’

  ‘Their records go back that far?’

  Roisin’s face was alight with the fervour of a true fan. ‘The Assay office began assessing the quality of metal goods in 1300, and the hallmarking office set up in 1478. The records aren’t perfect back to that date, of course, but by the sixteen hundreds, they were writing things down. And this piece was important. It was made for the king, after all. See the crown, there. That’s to commemorate that it was made for James I. We know the stamp from other royal items. I know it looks like any other crown, but they really are distinctive when you get into it.’

  Lydia was studying the maker’s mark. ‘Is that a G?’

  Roisin nodded. ‘And that’s a “C” on the other side of the hand. Hands have been a common symbol to indicate fine workmanship over the years, but this symbol with the palm facing out can be traced to a French maker.’

  ‘You traced the maker?’

  ‘I found this,’ Roisin said, clicking to open a file. It was a photograph of a book page packed with black ink. The script was impossible to read as far as Lydia could see, but Roisin pointed to a line. ‘This lists the date and the initials GC. The surname is here, see? It says “Chartes” which certainly ties in with the probable French origin.’

  * * *

  Back at The Fork, Lydia found her old notebook and confirmed what she had thought. She had recognised the name ‘Chartes’ from an old case. Lydia had been on the trail of a statue of a knight and she had ended up in the silver vaults. A man named Guillame Chartes had sold the statue to Yas Bishop in her capacity as JRB employee from a shop he ran down in the vaults. A shop which had mysteriously disappeared when she had looked for it a second time.

  Yas Bishop was the only other person, apart from Mr Smith, that Lydia had found connected with JRB. And Maria Silver had killed her. The Silvers represented JRB. Mr Smith was high up in JRB. Possibly the sole owner. In fact, Lydia’s working hypothesis was that JRB was just a shell corporation, a cover for Mr Smith’s pet projects. The ones that didn’t fit into his official capacity in his shady department with the British government’s secret service. It was all so murky and Lydia had the familiar urge to shine a bright light on the whole lot. Preferably using a flame thrower.

  Jason was sitting on the sofa with his feet up, laptop glued in place. He had been ignoring her pacing but finally sighed and looked up from the screen.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lydia said, and stopped.

  ‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘Just someone in the crew is arguing for the sake of it.’

  Jason had made a bunch of hacker friends online. If ‘friends’ was the right term. Colleagues? Cohort? Gang members? ‘That’s the internet for you.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Jason shook his head, clearing the distraction. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  Lydia went over her thoughts, marvelling at how much better it felt to talk the whole thing out. By the end she still didn’t have a clue how to find out more about JRB, how to confirm that Mr Smith was a one-man-band, or how to find the cup, or whether she should, but she felt a little better.

  ‘That’s a weird coincidence,’ Jason mused. ‘The name being the same as the guy you met in the vaults. You reckon it’s his ancestor? Family firm?’

  ‘Could be. Some families do hold to the same line of work for centuries,’ she said, smiling at Jason. ‘But it doesn’t really help. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find. Looking at the original is a nice history lesson, but it doesn’t help me find it now.’

  ‘You’re going to find out who made the replica, though, right?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s next. It gives me something to do. Something to tell Maria when she demands an update. And who knows? Maybe it will give me a lead.’

  Jason was staring at the wall, thinking. ‘That silver statue sent people crazy, didn’t it? Could the cup have the same effect? You said it was imbued with Silver power… Maybe that’s why it was down in the tomb? To protect people from it?’

  Lydia stopped pacing. ‘Is that something you could search for? People admitted to hospital with psychosis?’

  ‘I can try,’ Jason said. ‘Everything is recorded digitally now, but it depends on whether there is a centralised system. If medical records are kept by each individual hospital and institution, it will be harder. What about arrest reports?’

  He made a good point. And Fleet would look if she asked.

  * * *

  That evening, Lydia called into her local deli before heading over to Fleet’s flat. She wanted a good bottle of wine and his favourite crisps. She figured she should bring gifts before she hit him with a request. The sign had been flipped to ‘closed’ but Ciro opened the door when he saw it was her.

  ‘Evening, Ms Lydia,’ he ducked his head.

  At first it had been strange when men and women old enough to be her grandparents bowed and scraped, their anxiety around her now that she was the head of the Crows palpable, but she had adjusted quickly. That was something she would have to watch, she thought, as she picked up two sharing bags of crisps and waited for Ciro to fill a plastic pot with fat green olives. If she wasn’t careful, she would get used to it. Or even start to think she deserved their deference. She had to act the part left by Charlie Crow but she had to be careful she didn’t start believing her own hype.

  She asked after Ciro’s children and grandbabies while he packed two bottles of red into a canvas shopping bag along with the olives and crisps. ‘Anything else today?’

  ‘No, that’s perfect,’ Lydia said. ‘You’re a lifesaver, thank you for opening for me.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Ciro ducked from behind the deli counter to open the front door for Lydia.

  She didn’t try to pay, knowing from experience that this would send Ciro into paroxysms of panicky genuflections and she didn’t have time to reassure him. Instead she pushed a little extra warmth into her smile. It
wasn’t much, but she told herself it was better than nothing.

  Fleet hadn’t been home long when Lydia arrived. He was still in his suit with his tie loosened and hadn’t even got himself a beer.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ He asked after kissing her hello.

  ‘No. I brought olives,’ Lydia hefted the bag onto the kitchen counter and began unpacking.

  Fleet slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair before getting wine glasses and a bowl for the crisps. ‘I’ve got some Greek salad and flat bread.’

  Lydia wasn’t big on salad, but she was too tired to think about takeaway, let alone cooking, so she gratefully agreed. She wandered through the flat, telling Fleet about her educational trip to the museum and hearing about his caseload, while music played through the speakers.

  Fleet was just about to bring plates over to the sofa when he stood still. ‘Can you smell that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something’s burning.’ He turned to check the stove. ‘I’ve not used the oven. I don’t-’

  ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘Could be from another flat.’ Fleet crossed the room at speed. A moment later, he had the front door open and was in the stairwell.

  Lydia trailed after him.

  He was turning slowly, frowning in confusion. ‘You really can’t smell it? It’s definitely smoke. Really strong.’

  Dutifully, she took a couple of deep snorts. Traces of urine and refuse. Somebody in the building cooking curry. A hint of Fleet. ‘No.’

  He shook his head and they went back inside.

  Lydia retrieved the plates, and they sat on the sofa. She forked up some cucumber and feta cheese and washed it down with a generous gulp of wine.

  ‘It’s gone,’ Fleet said after getting stuck into his own meal. ‘That was weird.’

  There was a possibility that Fleet’s olfactory hallucination was a result of a head or nose injury, maybe something which hadn’t been picked up in A&E after their car crash, as the doctor had been distracted by his gunshot wound. Or, and Lydia decided not to voice this opinion, it was his precognition gleam playing merry havoc with his senses. She glanced at the ceiling. ‘Have you tested those recently?’

  ‘The smoke alarms? Yeah. And they have that little light which shows the battery is good.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘You think it was a sign?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She wasn’t going to lie to him. ‘How have you been? Had any premonitions today?’

  Fleet looked down at his salad and speared a piece of tomato. ‘Hard to tell.’

  Lydia waited.

  ‘I mean… I have thoughts about what might happen all the time. Often I’m right, but that’s experience of being an adult in the world. Doesn’t make it precognition.’

  Lydia put her plate onto the coffee table and drained the rest of her wine. ‘Keep an eye on it. Maybe you could start tracking when something comes true? If you have a strong feeling or vision, maybe?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Fleet put his empty plate on top of Lydia’s and sat back, rubbing his face. ‘I don’t want to think about this.’

  Lydia climbed onto his lap. ‘Lucky for you, I have an excellent alternative.’

  He smiled up at her and she felt the kick low in her stomach. ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘It’s a promise,’ she said, and kissed him.

  Chapter Six

  Since talking to Fleet about fathers and answers, Lydia had been wishing she could speak to hers. She was still trying to keep away from Henry Crow, in case her presence made him ill again, but she had another idea. The next day was bright and warm and it seemed like as good a time as any to visit the cemetery. With a ghost for a flatmate, the idea of asking her dead relatives for information didn’t seem completely pointless. And who knew? Maybe they would answer. If you didn’t ask, you didn’t get.

  The Family tomb was surrounded by bluebells and wild daffodils, ivy ramping across its surface and the old yew tree alive with small birds chattering. As Lydia crested the hill, three crows swooped down and perched on the stone tomb. The small birds took off in fright and the corvids regarded Lydia in an expectant manner. She greeted them politely, as she had been taught to do from an early age, and was rewarded with what might have been an acknowledgement. A slow tilt of their heads, six bright eyes fixed upon her, waiting. Feeling faintly foolish, Lydia faced the tomb and asked the question she had been mulling over on her walk. ‘Where did my abilities come from?’

  Nothing.

  ‘I mean, I know that I’m a main bloodline Crow and that’s why I have Crow power. Like my father and grandfather. But how did we get it in the first place?’

  Lydia hadn’t expected an answer, but when the crow simply cawed and flew up into the tree, she couldn’t help but feel a little snubbed. Then she remembered that she was carrying an offering, and that she was in entirely the wrong place to get answers.

  The yew tree had a couple of sturdy limbs which were invitingly low to the ground. Lydia caught one and swung her legs up, trying to imagine her father doing the same when he had been her age. She got herself into a crouch and shuffled along, holding a branch above for balance until she could reach the trunk. She rose slowly, gripping the trunk. Her first thought had been to climb higher but now that she was standing, she felt like she had plenty of height. Her view of the cityscape was obscured by branches and a thick canopy of pale green leaves.

  Henry had told her that this was the best way to pay her respects. That her Family had never cared much for churches or carved stones on the ground, that they preferred a perch up high. Somewhere with a view, where you could hear the wind through the leaves and feel the sun on your feathers. Now that she was in the tree, Lydia could see the remains of previous offerings. Small scraps of frayed material, worn to threads by the weather, were tied from upper branches. She had never noticed them from the ground, partly because they were high up and partly because they were black and didn’t exactly stand out. Lydia produced her coin and made it stick to the trunk while she tied the piece of black silk around the nearest branch.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The voice startled her and the world tilted sideways for a sickening second. She gripped the trunk and took a couple of breaths.

  Peering down through the foliage, she saw the man she expected. Not just from his familiar voice, but from the strong scent of Fox which had wafted upward, carried on the breeze.

  Lydia didn’t bother replying to Paul, just saved her concentration for getting back down out of the tree in one piece. Her father might have happily shimmied up and down it in his youth, but Lydia’s activities had always been more urbanite. Having never been keen on heights or plants, she wasn’t a natural tree climber. Above her, her offering flapped in the breeze, looking uncannily like a wing.

  Once she had reached solid ground, she put her hands on her hips and faced the Fox. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Charming,’ Paul said. ‘Thought you would like a status report on the surveillance of your friend.’

  Yes. The huge favour Paul and his family were doing. Lydia closed her eyes briefly and called for strength. She forced a pleasant expression onto her face. ‘Thank you.’

  Paul’s lips quirked into an amused smile. ‘That must have hurt, Little Bird. Don’t strain yourself.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘That’s more like it. She’s fine. No sign of anyone hanging around. And I’ve put a tracker on her car so if it goes AWOL we’ll be able to find her.’

  Lydia ignored the clutch of her chest as she imagined Emma being forced to drive somewhere with Maddie. She could see it so clearly, Maddie in the passenger or rear seat, knife held to Emma or, more likely, just using the threat of violence to Archie and Maisie to gain Emma’s compliance. It was unbearable.

  ‘Hey, she’s going to be okay.’ Paul took an uncertain step forward. ‘I swear.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ Lydia said, noting that his words seemed sincere. ‘But I
appreciate you saying it. I do.’

  He looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Now. How did you know to find me here?’ She gestured at the tomb.

  Paul smiled, the moment of uncertainty erased and swagger firmly back in place. ‘I’m keeping an eye on you. We all are. For your own protection, of course.’

  Well, that was creepy. But also, weirdly comforting. Next to JRB and Maddie, attention from the Fox Family seemed almost quaint.

  ‘So, what were you doing up there?’ Paul lifted his chin, his usual teasing tone and sardonic expression back in place. ‘I didn’t have you down as a tree hugger.’

  ‘I’m not, as a rule.’ She turned and looked back at the yew, the branches stretching over the family tomb. ‘I brought something for the grave, but my dad said the Crows didn’t care much for the ground. He said it was more respectful to leave offerings in a decent perch.’

  ‘Well it makes a kind of sense. If you believe they’re here.’

  Lydia rubbed at the tree debris which she had acquired, knocking curls of bark and sap from her jacket and jeans. ‘Honestly, I don’t. But I’m desperate.’

  ‘Desperate?’

  As always, Paul Fox made her instantly wish she had kept her mouth shut. ‘Don’t get excited,’ she said in her most withering tone.

  He grinned at her, flashing white teeth.

  She was too tired to spar with Paul. The way things stood, their old animosity felt like school playtime. Whether it was sensible or not, he felt like something safe and comforting. Familiar. Lydia had a new benchmark to divide her friends and enemies. Had they attempted to kill her?

  She sat cross-legged next to the tomb, resting her back against the cool stone and looked at the vista of London laid out beyond the roll of the hill and the nearby rooftops. Paul sat next to her. Close, but not touching.

  They didn’t speak for a while and Lydia felt her heart rate calm and her breathing slow down.