Why here?
Grace.
Jack couldn’t forget the terrible image of her, despairing, in the crypt. He knew it was only a vision of what could be, he knew that Grace was either still at Southwark or on her way back to Copt Hall, but even so, he couldn’t repress the sickening sense of loss that flooded his being.
He looked about. It was near dawn, a faint light tinging the eastern sky.
He was close to Ambersbury Banks, and thus close to Copt Hall.
Maybe Grace was waiting for him there.
He turned to the west, but before he had taken two strides Catling appeared before him.
Jack stopped, his stomach feeling as though it was rising up into his mouth. He knew instantly it was Catling rather than the White Queen. He swallowed, fighting down fear. What did she want? Why was she here?
“Dressed as a Kingman, Jack?” Catling said, taking a single, terrible step closer to him. “And with six of the kingship bands now? I always knew you had them. But what is this? I smell residual power about you. What have you been doing tonight?”
She was very alert, very tightly strung, and Jack realised she’d felt something.
“Did you not feel the raid tonight?” Jack said, injecting anger into his voice. “Did you not feel the destruction and the terror? For all the gods’ sakes, Catling, you are the one reflecting that destruction into the Faerie! That’s where I have been, damn you, trying with every power I have to try to deflect your cursed malice!”
Jack’s voice broke a little on his last sentence: not through any skill of acting, but through sheer emotion and fear. All he wanted was to get away from Catling before she discovered the truth, get away from her before someone else (Grace!) happened upon them in the forest and unwittingly exposed his lie to Catling.
All he wanted was to get away from Catling and back to Grace and take her in his arms, and know that she was still safe.
Again Catling nodded, but Jack could see the mistrust in her eyes, and knew she didn’t believe him. She smiled, so coldly it risked delaying spring by a month.
“Finish me,” she said. “Delay as long as you will, Jack, for I cannot force you onto the dancing floor. But know that each day you delay I grow stronger.”
Jack stared at Catling a moment, then gave a terse nod of his own, and walked away.
When Jack got back to Copt Hall Grace was there, waiting for him.
Jack enveloped her in a tight embrace, holding her as close to him as possible.
“Thank gods,” he whispered. He knew now that if he lost her when they closed the Shadow Game, then he would not be able to live, knowing she was trapped in its dark heart with Catling.
SEVEN
The Faerie
Friday, 18th April 1941
Jack met with Noah and the Lord of the Faerie atop The Naked. The Faerie was now beyond desperate. The hills surrounding The Naked were virtually barren dust, save for the odd tree here and there.
The Faerie folk, those who had survived the desolation, were huddled in small groups about the slopes of The Naked, silent, blank-eyed.
“Look!” said the Lord of the Faerie. “Look!” He gestured to the devastated hills about him, fought to find words to speak, then shook his head helplessly. “We cannot survive much longer,” he said eventually, his voice almost as lifeless as the Faerie.
Jack wondered if he should relate the conversation he’d had with Catling, then decided against it. No need to further worry anyone here.
“Have you built the devising yet?” he asked Noah. “Discovered somewhere to shelter Grace?” He’d barely seen Noah over the past week or so. He knew Noah had spoken to Ariadne and Silvius, but he did not know the details of that conversation.
“Yes,” Noah said. “The Idyll will be the perfect place to—”
“No!” Jack said. “Catling has already penetrated the Idyll.”
“The Idyll has isolated itself entirely,” Noah said. “As soon as the Faerie began to decay, the Idyll retreated. Remember, it is the essence of Weyland, and its very nature is to hide and isolate itself the moment it feels itself under threat. I know Catling penetrated the Idyll to hex Grace, but the Idyll is far more tightly shuttered now than it was then. And I have the devising that will keep Catling’s hex from touching Grace. I can wall off the Idyll.”
Jack said nothing, regarding Noah with a steady, probing gaze.
“Damn you!” Noah said, low. “Grace is my daughter! I will not risk her unless I think she has a good chance of being safe. I can shelter her, Jack!”
“I need more reassurance than that,” he said.
“What more can I say? What do you want? A badge? A statutory declaration? Something written and signed on letterhead? We are all going into this blind, Jack. I have done as much as I can. I am certain it will work. There is nothing else I can say or do.”
“For gods’ sakes,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “listen to you both! If this is the best the land can hope for, then gods help us all!”
Jack took a step away, looking over the rolling hills, his entire stance tense, taking a few moments to calm himself.
“I want Grace to survive,” he said finally, softly, without turning around.
“We all do, Jack,” said the Lord of the Faerie, “but the land must come first. Whatever happens to Grace, the land must come first.”
“You want me to sacrifice her willingly?” Jack said, whipping about.
“Not ‘willingly’, Jack,” said the Lord of the Faerie, holding his gaze, “but I do expect you—and Grace—to do what is needed to save the land. The land must come first, the entrapment of the Troy Game must come before Grace. I know that. You know that.” He paused, still holding Jack’s furious gaze. “Grace knows that.”
Jack stared a moment longer, then he turned, and walked away down The Naked.
Noah went to follow him, but the Lord of the Faerie caught at her arm. “Noah, how sure are you that your devising will work? How safe is Grace?”
“Not enough,” she whispered, “is the answer to both your questions.”
And then she, too, was gone.
Catling sat alone in the heart of the Troy Game, feeling the labyrinthine powers of the Game swirl about her.
She was more certain than ever that Jack and Noah would launch an attack on her during the Dance of the Flowers.
Well, she was ready for them. Whatever happened to her would happen to Grace.
Catling’s face contorted in a rictus of a smile. She raised her hands, revealing the red wool twisted about them. Her fingers began to move, layering the hex that bound her to Grace into new depths of malevolent constructions.
After a while, the wool began to scream.
“Grace?”
She turned about from the fire in the drawing room, wondering how it was that the Lord of the Faerie had managed to get past Malcolm’s watchful eye.
“He is upstairs, running your bath,” said the Lord of the Faerie. “I did not knock. I just entered.”
“Please,” said Grace, “sit down.”
“I will continue to stand, if you please,” the Faerie Lord said, his posture stiff, his words awkward, and Grace tensed in response.
“What can I do for you, Coel?” she said.
“Grace, if your mother’s devising fails, if you are trapped within the heart of the Shadow Game, will you continue to—”
“Stop,” she said, taking a half step back towards the fire. “Don’t. Coel…for gods’ sakes, we were lovers once, and—”
“I need to know, Grace. I am for the land, first and foremost. What we once did in a bed is beside the point. Will you continue to do what is right?”
“Do you have a heart?” she said. “Do you have even a faint shadow of one left?”
Something flickered in his face. “My heart has died along with the Faerie. I am not Jack, Grace. I would rather the land survive than you.”
She blanched, unable to answer
“Grace, please. Just answe
r the question. Will you continue the dance, even if trapped inside—”
“Yes! Yes! Damn you, Coel, get out!”
“I’m sorry, Grace,” he said. “I had to—”
“Leave now,” said Malcolm’s voice from the doorway. “There is no place for you here.”
The Lord of the Faerie turned, sent Malcolm an unreadable look, glanced once more at Grace, then left the room.
Grace now had her arms wrapped about her chest as if she were beset by terrible cold. “Malcolm, do you believe the White Queen when she says that she can, and will, do nothing for me?”
He didn’t answer in words, only walking over and taking her in his arms.
Grace clung to him, her shoulders shaking.
EIGHT
The Savoy
Saturday, 19th April to Friday, 9th May 1941
GRACE SPEAKS
Ifelt as if I could not get warm, no matter the trouble I took. Coldness enveloped me, as if assessing me for long-term companionship.
I wondered if the dark heart of the Shadow Game were cold.
Everyone that mattered, Jack and Malcolm foremost, my parents and Ariadne and Silvius next, were brightly—and, to my eyes, falsely—cheerful.
Everything will be all right, sweeting. Here, let me hold you, comfort you, reassure you.
But all I could ever think about was Jack’s lack of confidence, which he let slip in myriad small ways, and my mother’s likewise, and the Lord of the Faerie, standing before me, making sure that when I was trapped in the dark heart of the Shadow Game with Catling I would continue to “do the right thing”.
How bloody British of him.
The land might be saved, and the Troy Game might be halted in its tracks and entombed, but it looked to me like everyone would be having their celebrations without me.
I felt myself slide back into the black hole of hopelessness that had once ruled my life, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Jack did his best. He bent over backwards to be loving and kind and reassuring.
But there wasn’t a thing he could do, either.
I was lost. I was certain of it, and that great, terrible weight of impending doom dragged about with me every waking moment.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like, trapped inside the dark heart with a raging, vengeful Catling.
I tried to be cheerful, and because Jack needed to spend time with my parents, and Ariadne and Silvius, he pretended to take that cheerfulness at face value. He spent most of his days at the Savoy, where Silvius and Ariadne joined him, working out the steps of the entwining Games with them, and making sure that Ariadne and Silvius understood, and could manage, the devising that my mother had made to protect me.
I went along every so often as well, mainly to practise with my father the steps of the Dance of the Flowers. Although Weyland would wield little power during the dance, he did need to mirror Jack’s steps precisely and in complete harmony with him for the Flower Gate to begin to rise at the Shadow Game as well as at the Troy Game.
Jack was obsessed with timing. He berated everyone—save for me—for lack of concentration, or application, or the occasional stumbling which tore apart the critical sequence of events needed to ensure success. He snapped and snarled, he cajoled, he even wept in frustration, but in the end he had what he wanted. By Friday the ninth of May he said that he was as satisfied as he could possibly be.
There was one last thing we needed to do, he said.
We needed, all three couples, to go dancing in the Savoy’s ballroom one last time.
It was a rehearsal for what we’d need to do—oh, gods—tomorrow night, when the White Queen had told us a major raid was due. Where better than the dance floor of the Savoy’s ballroom?
I should have been nervous, depressed (my fate would be decided tomorrow) but instead I found the experience calming and settling.
All the other dancers melted away as we took to the dance floor. Silvius, Weyland and Jack were in evening dress; Noah, Ariadne and I in svelte black gowns. I wonder what the onlookers thought of us, three couples all dancing separately, but somehow so connected, so allied, that when one of us made a step, so also did five others.
It worked. It worked beautifully. I began dancing with my father, and Jack with my mother, but as the dance progressed Jack and my father changed places smoothly, effortlessly, missing not a beat or jarring our entwined harmonies. As Jack took me in his arms I saw the relief in his eyes, felt him relax against me, and suddenly, blindingly, I believed that everything would work.
It had to. This was too perfect to be an illusion.
NINE
St Paul’s and Southwark
Saturday, 10th May 1941
They stood under the dome of St Paul’s. About them wandered members of the cathedral Watch, uneasy and vigilant as the air raid above intensified; they did not see the man and woman standing so close together.
Jack and Noah stood facing each other, cheek to cheek, touching in myriad different places, taking comfort from each other’s warmth. They were dressed as Kingman and Mistress of the Labyrinth, wearing little else save their white linen wraps. In her left hand Noah dangled a large spray of early spring columbines.
They were peculiarly still, their eyes downcast, their breathing slow and deep. Even the marks on Jack’s shoulders were quiescent.
They were waiting for the moment when they might start, and the other two pairs with them.
They were communing, both with themselves and with the other two sets of dancers: Weyland and Grace at Southwark, preparing to step onto the labyrinth lit by the water sprites, and Ariadne and Silvius atop the ancient Keep within the Tower of London, where they could draw on the power of the ancient God Well far below the structure’s foundations.
Jack and Noah were deepening themselves with the land, preparing to pull behind them all their powers as Ringwalker and Eaving.
They were making peace with each other, marking both a start and an end. For almost four thousand years they had battled with each other and with the world about them. Now they would battle no more.
At precisely the same instant, each lifted their right hand and slowly, caressingly, ran it up their partner’s left arm to the shoulder.
At Southwark, Weyland and Grace lifted their hands to their partner, and at the Tower, so also did Ariadne and Silvius.
Catling was deep in the dark heart of the Troy Game. She watched Jack and Noah above her, as if all the layers of rock and stone in between were transparent, and between her fingers the red wool twisted and frayed into complex patterns.
Catling muttered as she wove the wool, the words tripping unintelligibly from her tongue.
High above, on the marble floor under the dome of the cathedral, Noah and Jack turned slowly away from each other, their hands dropping reluctantly from their partner’s shoulder, walking—a movement so sensuous, so lyrical, it was more dance than walk—to opposite sides of the dome. As they had in late December, Noah moved to the eastern sector of the dome, Jack to the western.
Again, as in December, once they had reached their places, Noah stood still, her eyes on Jack, as he raised the labyrinth from the depths. Five months ago this had been difficult work for him, but now Jack had the six bands—and something else, Noah thought, although she couldn’t quite define that “else”. Jack had somehow grown in the past few months—not just in power, but in…
Serenity, Noah thought. He has grown in serenity and contentment. When they’d tried this in December, Jack had been distraught and agitated…unsure.
Now, he was at peace with himself, and it showed in every movement, and in the ease with which he handled his power.
On the banks of the Thames at Southwark, Grace and Weyland mirrored precisely Jack’s and Noah’s movements. As Jack and Noah turned away from each other, they moved onto the water, over the labyrinth surrounding the crypt of St Thomas’, their feet supported by the hands of thousands of water sprites who hovered just below the surface.
<
br /> When Weyland had moved to the western sector of the water over which they danced, he raised his hands at precisely the same time as did Jack in St Paul’s, and as the labyrinth rose under the dome of St Paul’s, so the labyrinth rose from the depths under the water, lit by the eyes of the sprites.
Power flowed smoothly between Jack and Weyland; although it was Weyland standing on the water opposite Grace, it was Jack’s spirit and power which acted through him.
Atop the ancient Keep in the Tower of London, Ariadne and Silvius did not move. They remained close to each other, locked in contemplation as they continued to draw power from the God Well deep under the Keep.
Their time was yet to come.
Deep in the dark heart of the Troy Game, Catling abruptly stilled.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
TEN
St Paul’s, Southwark, and the Tower of London
Saturday, 10th May 1941
Jack and Noah (shadowed by Weyland and Grace) danced about the perimeter of the labyrinth, their movements slow, fluid, seductive, their eyes not leaving the other. As she danced, Noah (and, in turn, her daughter, Grace) allowed single columbines to flutter downwards from the sprays they each carried.
They marked the external perimeter of the labyrinth, the head of each spray of flowers turning so that it faced towards the dark heart in the centre of the labyrinth.
In St Paul’s, a seething blackness arose from the labyrinth which showed glimpses of something red and twisting in its heart.
At Southwark, as Grace and Weyland danced about the perimeter of the labyrinth, the waters opened over the crypt of St Thomas’, twisting downwards in a motionless vortex.
In St Paul’s crypt Catling rose to her feet, her face ashen, her eyes glittering between incredulity and anger.
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