Got them from Val, Miranda had sent. Anything good in there?
I stopped dead, frozen with astonishment. I read it a couple of times, just to be sure, before I showed it to Zareen.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
I hauled the two books out of my shoulder-bag again and snapped a quick shot for Val.
It didn’t take long for her to reply. Where did you get those, and can I have them?
From Mir, I wrote back. Says she got them from you?
Those did not come from this library, Val replied.
I sat slowly down upon the steps and put my face in my hands, because as bad news went, this bordered upon awful. I was not quite so appalled as I would have been had it been Valerie or Zareen, or Rob, or Jay. But it was bad enough.
How far back did it go?
‘Why would Miranda lie about that?’ said Zareen. She’d joined me on the step, less because she was shocked, I suspected, than because she was exhausted.
‘I can only think of one reason. If those books didn’t come from our library and Mir’s concealing the source, then they came from someplace she should not have access to.’
Zareen just nodded, her head drooping wearily.
‘Shit,’ I muttered, and hauled myself to my feet again. The question of why Miranda had gone out of her way to put those books into our hands, even at the risk of discovery, could wait. First I had to find out who had come from the Society.
It was Rob, of course. We found him pacing about under the walnut trees at the back of Mrs. Amberstone’s garden, brow uncharacteristically clouded. He wore his customary dark shirt and trousers, and a dapper fedora over his dark curls. This last he took off, and rubbed a hand over his hair. The gesture looked unutterably weary.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said as we approached. ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.’
‘It’s Miranda, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘How did you know that?’ There was a tilt to his head and a wary quality to his voice that I did not like. Was this how it would be from now on? Would we all suspect each other?
‘Miranda’s been at somebody else’s library, and I suspect it’s Ancestria Magicka’s.’ I showed Rob the few messages she and I had exchanged, and the books themselves.
Rob just looked at them, and gave a soft sigh. ‘That’s it, then.’ He shook his head, and gave the books back to me. ‘Might as well get some use out of those before we have to give them back.’
I stashed them again.
‘How did you find out?’ said Zareen.
‘I told you there’s been a rash of Dappledok puppies turning up? Miranda kept going out to collect them, but wherever she was taking them, it wasn’t Home. That became clear about an hour ago. Then we realised she hadn’t come back at all from the last pickup, had left no word for anybody, and — and she’s taken several of the rarest beasts from the East Wing. At least, nobody knows where they are, so it’s the most likely explanation.’
It physically hurt to hear this. Miranda was a fixture at the Society, had been for almost as long as I’d been employed there. How could she? What was she thinking?
I saw some of the same questions written over Rob’s face. ‘Has anyone spoken to her?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘She hasn’t been answering her phone, or messages.’
‘She answered me,’ I said, already typing. Where are you? That’s all I put.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this message she did not answer.
‘Was it Mir, then, who told Ancestria Magicka about Bill?’ I said, trying to maintain my composure. ‘And put the tracker spell into the book?’
Rob shrugged. ‘Hard to say until someone gets hold of her, but it looks likely.’
‘But why?’ I could think of nothing else to say.
‘She’s always been so passionate about those beasts,’ said Rob, and as devastated as he was himself he was still kind enough to lay a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘The Society has always had to follow Ministry policy there. Imagine how tempting it must have been to her, when Ancestria Magicka appeared. Money to do anything and everything necessary for her creatures, and the will to defy the Ministry if they deemed it important enough. Imagine what they must have promised her. And then you showed up with a Dappledok pup…’
I was gripped by a sudden fear. ‘Rob. My pup — or not my pup, but, you know — did Miranda take her as well?’
Rob nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Ves. There are no pups left at Home.’
‘Damnit, Miranda.’ I took a breath, and ruthlessly pulled myself together. ‘When we saw her this morning, she had a couple of unfamiliar kennel aides with her. I assumed they must be new recruits.’
‘As far as I know, not. We haven’t had any newcomers in the Beasts division lately.’
‘So they were probably from Ancestria Magicka.’
Rob nodded.
I realised Zareen was no longer with us. Looking around, I saw her several feet away, her phone to her ear. She had the tense, listening posture of a person hearing unwelcome news.
‘George Mercer,’ I said. ‘Bet that’s who she’s talking to. If Miranda’s been working for them these past weeks, he probably knew.’
‘And didn’t tell her?’ Rob winced in sympathy.
‘He wouldn’t, would he? But I think Zar believes he’s honest with her.’ Privately, I think she needed to believe that. Mercer was more important a figure in her world than he at all deserved to be, at least in my opinion.
‘Something doesn’t add up, though,’ I said, frowning. ‘Why did Mir get us those books?’
Rob thought that over. ‘I’ve known Miranda many years,’ he said after a while. ‘Whatever misdeeds she may have lately committed, I don’t believe she’s ruthless by nature, nor would betrayal have come easily to her. If she did put the tracker spell in your book, she probably thought her new allies would just steal it. She could never have meant for you or Jay to end up in harm’s way.’
‘So you think this is guilt?’ I slapped a hand against my shoulder-bag, where the purloined books lay.
Rob grimaced. ‘Something like that. More a desire to make amends, perhaps. And… just because she’s been helping Ancestria Magicka, doesn’t mean she’s become entirely disloyal to the Society.’
‘How good of her to help us,’ I muttered.
Rob gave me a sad smile, and I felt a bit guilty. But, then, Rob had heard this news a little sooner, and he’d had time to regain his composure. I hadn’t, yet, but I would get there.
‘Wait,’ I said, another thought breezing cheerily into my over-burdened head. ‘What about Lord Garrogin? He interviewed Mir, like the rest of us. Why didn’t he know?’
‘Those questions are being asked.’
Much good it would do us. Garrogin would deny all knowledge, and it might be the truth or it might not be.
I called the Baron.
It hurt so much, to have to tell him of Miranda’s treachery. He listened in silence, however, and when I raised Lord Garrogin’s name he became unusually grim.
‘Miranda’s not a sorceress or a witch or — or anything, Alban,’ I finished. ‘She doesn’t have a great deal of magick of her own. What she does have is a few charms and cantrips that keep her beasts calm and happy; a bit of healing magick; that kind of thing. Nothing, in short, that could help her to deceive a Truthseeker.’
‘Right,’ said the Baron, his voice wintry-cold. ‘Then he’s a turncoat, too.’
‘Looks like it.’
Baron Alban sighed. ‘Thanks, Ves. I’ll tell Their Majesties.’
Zareen came back, her face white and set. ‘We’re going to that party,’ she informed me.
‘Oh?’
‘And we may or may not be burning down the castle on our way out.’
10
I sent a few messages to Miranda after that, mostly variations on the general theme of why?
To my regret, but not to my surprise, she did not answer any of them.
By the next morning, it was official: Miranda had gone. Rob brought us a copy of the Society’s internal memo on the subject.
I winced upon reading it. Milady was most seriously displeased.
Miranda Evans is no longer a member of this Society. The circumstances of her departure are not for public dissemination. Let it be known, however, that any and all communication with Ms. Evans is strongly discouraged.
There was more, but not much. I pictured the icy fury with which Milady had penned the missive (or dictated it, she being incorporeal and all) and shuddered.
It did raise an interesting question, though. Had Miranda corrupted anybody else, prior to her departure? I could only assume that was the fear lurking behind Milady’s prohibition on communication. We none of us wished to lose any more people to Ancestria Magicka.
I’d had to field a string of messages from Indira, too. She had discovered Jay’s absence by way of several failed and unanswered phone calls and was cheerfully freaking out about him. Since I was in much the same state, albeit more secretly, there was not much I could do to reassure her. I could not even say for sure that George Mercer’s offer was still open, not after he and Zareen had so obviously fallen out over Miranda.
Difficult morning. I treated my nerves to an extra helping of chocolate from Milady’s wonderful pot, recruited my strength with some of Mrs. Amberstone’s best pancakes, and boosted my confidence with a change of hair colour. Maybe it sounds frivolous, but try it before you judge me.
I stepped out a little later, tossing my parti-coloured hair (cream at the top and daffodil-yellow at the bottom, with a smooth ombre fade in between). I was beginning to lose my patience with this particular mess, and it was high time we sorted it out.
I found Zareen in much the same frame of mind. A solid ten hours of sleep had restored her colour somewhat, and she looked much nearer her old self when she opened her door. ‘Plan?’ she said.
‘Find Jay.’ I ticked off point one on my fingers. ‘Find out what that isle of Melmidoc’s is about. Figure out what the bloody hell has got into Miranda and fix it. Discover the source of the Dappledok pups and fix that, too. And find out once and for all where in space or time those houses are going to when they vanish.’ I ticked them all off on my fingers, using rather more fingers in the process than I was hoping.
‘That’s a wish list,’ said Zareen. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘No bloody clue.’
‘Right, then. Situation normal.’ Zareen grabbed her jacket, stuffed her feet into her boots and fell in beside me as I made for the stairs.
‘The party’s at seven,’ Zareen said, checking the time. ‘We’ve got ten hours until then. Pick a place to start?’
‘Baron Alban.’
‘Needing a little eye candy?’
‘Always, but that’s not it this time. Val’s drawn a blank on Melmidoc’s isle as far as our library goes, and Mauf has nothing for us either. We need another resource, and I can’t think of a better one than the library at the Troll Courts. Can you?’
‘I can punch George in the face until he consents to check their records for us.’
‘Think that’ll work?’
‘No. And anyway, I’d have to tell him all about the isle first, and we sort of agreed not to do that.’
‘Right. Plan forming. Part one in progress.’ I composed another message to Miranda and sent it before I could change my mind.
It said: Rage aside, Mir, those books prove you want to help us. So help. Find out anything you can about a secret isle, probably 1600s, linked to names like Melmidoc Redclover. Please. Thanks xx
We hadn’t given Miranda the full low-down about the spire before, probably because it had not seemed relevant. We’d just told her about the part we knew would interest her: Dramary’s Bestiary. I wondered, though. Had she heard the rest from someone else? Word tended to travel at Home. If she had, she would have taken that information to Ancestria Magicka — which meant that George Mercer must be lying about their ignorance. If so, what was his game?
I showed my message to Zareen, who grunted, a sound halfway between approval and irritation.
‘I know, I know.’
‘I hate this.’
‘Me too. Right. Part two in progress.’ I called the Baron. ‘Alban,’ I said crisply the moment he answered. ‘It’s Ves. May I speak frankly?’
‘Please.’
‘This shit is driving us crazy and we would like to resolve it. We propose a joining of forces.’
‘Oh? Among whom, exactly?’
‘The Thrilling Three, even if we are presently down to the Testy Two, and the Troll Court.’
‘As represented by me?’
‘Yes.’
I waited. I knew the Baron would understand my meaning. I wasn’t just asking for his personal assistance; I was requesting the official aid of Their Majesties’ Court itself.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
The Baron arrived in person about an hour later.
Zareen and I spent the intervening time scouring Miranda’s books for what Nancy Drew might have called “leads” (unsuccessfully). About all I could determine from Millie Makepeace’s diaries was that she was batshit crazy, and largely unaware of her Waymaster abilities. Apparently magickal education for young women of breeding was on the underwhelming side, back in the day. I wondered who had introduced her to her powers (after death…?), and how they had known she’d had any. I shied away from the idea that someone from her own family had been responsible for her after-death fate, but one or two references to her father made me wonder a bit. Had he been a practitioner of the Weird Stuff? Perhaps.
Zareen read through her pamphlet with an irritable frown, and finally snapped it closed with, I thought, unnecessary violence. The booklet was old, and delicate. I gently took it from her. ‘No use?’
‘Tells me nothing new.’
Judging from her glowering dissatisfaction, it had reminded her of a number of things she did not like to think about.
I checked the title. Dark Deeds and Strange Wayes: The Wyrde Path. No author was listed.
‘It’s all new to me,’ I said. ‘Mind if I read?’
Zareen had signalled her lack of objection with a shrug, and had then proceeded to stretch out in the grass (we were out in Mrs. Amberstone’s garden again, under the walnut trees). Whether she was sleeping or brooding I could not tell.
I skimmed through the pamphlet, keeping an absent eye on my phone in case of word from the Baron or Miranda — or Mabyn Redclover, at the Hidden Ministry. I’d informed her of the fate of the spire, and had capitalised on her satisfaction by pleading for help. I knew Val would be doing her utmost to come up with something, too; with that many people at work on the matter of the mysterious isle, I had hopes of hearing something useful soon.
But the pamphlet.
‘Chilling read,’ I said when I’d finished it.
That was an understatement. It proved to be the work of an early serial killer. The author — who was so cagey about his or her identity that I could not even determine their gender — had discovered at a horrifyingly young age that the “art” of killing (their words, not mine) had a pleasurably amplifying effect upon their “wyrde wayes” (also their words). The obliging author had conducted a number of grisly murders over a period of years (all described in detail) and recorded the effects of these despicable deeds upon their unsavoury magicks. All very positive, I was to believe; after several such murders, the author was understood to be in possession of virtually unheard-of power in fields such as necromancy, and could oblige any Ghoste or Spirite to do my Bydding, as well as making Puppets of the Deade, and, perhaps most interestingly, restorynge Life that has been Loste.
Did they mean converting the dead into the undead, or a revival from death back into a state of genuine life? If the latter, that was… remarkable. I experienced a vision of this unknown necromancer four hundred years ago, killing the same victim over and over again in
the name of experimentation, and shuddered. Thank goodness I had not been burdened with the Stranger Arts. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes at the School of Weird.
I was not absolutely convinced by the author’s claims. The text displayed clear signs of narcissism and megalomania, in my humble opinion, and surely the links between murder and “wyrde” powers couldn’t be that simple or powerful or we’d have seen a total ban on all such arts many years ago.
But Zareen accepted it, and she ought to know.
I handed the pamphlet back to her.
Message from Miranda. Tread carefully, Ves.
‘Is that it?’ I said in disgust, quoting it to Zareen. ‘What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Means she knows something but cannot or will not say, other than to imply that it is dangerous.’
I sighed. ‘And that means Ancestria Magicka knows something, which means maybe it’s time to start punching George in the face.’
Zareen complied, metaphorically speaking.
And then came the Baron, strolling over Mrs. Amberstone’s neatly-trimmed lawn like he had all the time in the world. I suppose with those long legs, he could stroll all he liked and still make faster progress than I would at a brisk trot. He’d dressed down: he wore a pair of crisp, dark blue trousers and a loose white shirt, open at the neck. Polished shoes, no hat, his bronze-blonde hair artfully disordered. If anything, the effect was more devastating than all the impeccable, elaborate style of his previous ensembles. He smiled at me as he approached, his green eyes bright with apparent pleasure at seeing me, and something odd happened in my stomach.
‘Morning,’ I said lightly.
Baron Alban made us a polite, courtly bow amid exquisitely courteous greetings. I did not imagine it: his smile definitely lingered on me. ‘Morning, ladies. What’s the news?’
‘Not much.’ I showed him Miranda’s note, upon which he made no comment save for a raised eyebrow.
‘I’d hoped you were bringing the cavalry,’ I said, noticing all the empty space around him that was not filled with other knowledgeable and useful members of Their Majesties’ Court.
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