A shudder ran through the larger cloud. My eye jerked to it. Lockwood took a slow step further away.
‘Getting warm,’ Flo said again. ‘I can feel it.’
‘It’s moving, Flo. We’ve got signs of agitation . . .’
‘Getting warm . . .’
A screech of sound, a sudden crack of air. I jerked back sharply, swallowing my ball of gum. The white shape dropped straight down beside the post, directly towards Flo’s head. Lockwood darted inwards, slicing his rapier across its path. The shape jerked up, avoiding the slashing silver-coated blade; I had the briefest sensation of wide, billowing skirts and a coil of smoke-like hair, as it somersaulted silently over our heads and came to a halt a few feet from me, hovering just above the ground.
Rage had given the apparition solid form. A tall, thin woman in an old-fashioned dress – tight up top, with a spreading crinoline skirt. She wore a pale bonnet, with long strands of dark hair half obscuring her face, and she had a necklace of spring flowers at her throat. Curls of other-light spun about her like river weed flexing in a current. At her side a tiny figure huddled close against her skirts. They were holding hands.
I stepped back, dry-throated, trying to recall the stance I’d used with Esmeralda in the rapier room. This wasn’t a Shade, but a Cold Maiden – a female ghost that persists because of ancient loss. Most Cold Maidens are melancholy, passive things that don’t put up much of a fight when you’re hunting for their Source. But not this one.
With a rush, she swept towards me. Her hair blew back; her face was a bone-white horror, a frozen, black-eyed mask of scowling madness. I whirled the sword in a desperate defence. For a moment I seemed surrounded by palely clawing hands; a shrieking beat upon my ears. But the ward-knot held firm: the rapier’s blade protected me. And all at once the air was clear, and far across the mud two faint translucent shapes were streaming away – a tiny child, a weeping woman in a trailing dress.
‘Back to the post, Lucy,’ Lockwood called. ‘You take one side; I’ll take the other. Flo! Talk to us! How’s it going down there?’
‘And if you say “getting warm” again,’ I snarled as I drew close, ‘I’ll bury you in the hole myself.’
‘Warmer,’ Flo said promptly. ‘Warmish. You might say almost hot. I got a few little pieces up for consideration here. Which, though? What’s the Source?’
I looked out across the Southwark Reaches, where the Visitors sped, lit by their own faint glow. Now, without breaking pace, they arced round, came racing back.
‘Whichever it is, they really don’t want you to take it,’ I said. ‘Please hurry up, Flo.’
Flo squatted by the hole, cupping a set of tiny objects in her hands. ‘Is it these bones? If so, this one or that? Or not the bones at all? This little thing, this funny metal horse?’
‘Tell you what,’ Lockwood said. ‘How about you take the lot?’ The glowing shapes were getting nearer, nearer, flying above the stones.
‘I don’t want to take any old rubbish,’ Flo Bones said, in an aggrieved voice. ‘I’ve got standards. My customers have expectations.’
The shapes were tilted forward in their hate and fury. Again I saw the woman’s face – the thin dark mouth, the gaping eyes.
‘Flo . . .’
‘Oh, very well.’
She took up the sack, tore it open, and a sweet and cleansing scent burst forth. Flo shoved the fragments inside. At once the glowing forms blinked out; a rush of wind burst harmlessly against us. The corners of Lockwood’s coat flicked back, and softly subsided. The night was dark. When I looked up at the top of the post, I saw nothing but stars.
Flo pulled the strings tight. I sank down on the sand, and rested my sword across my knee.
‘In the bag . . .’ Lockwood said. He was leaning against the post. ‘Is it . . .?’
‘Lavender. Yeah. Stuffed with it. Stronger than silver, lavender is, while the fragrance lasts. It’ll keep them quiet for a bit.’ She grinned at me. ‘Anything happen just now? I was busy, couldn’t take a look-see.’
‘You knew they would attack,’ I said, ‘didn’t you? You’d had a go at this before.’
Flo Bones took off her hat and scratched at her matted blonde scalp. ‘Seems you’re not as dumb as you look . . . Well,’ she said. ‘I guess that’s that.’
‘Not quite,’ Lockwood said grimly. ‘That’s our side of the bargain. Now we get to yours.’
Few London eating establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. Still, certain places do exist for agents or night-watch kids to break their fast, and it seemed relic-men had their favoured venues too. The Hare and Horsewhip – an inn situated in the dingiest back alley in Southwark – was Flo’s first choice and we proceeded there at speed.
We soon discovered, however, that it was not a place for us that night. Three silver-grey vans, painted with the rearing unicorn, had parked at dramatic angles outside the inn. A score of adult Fittes agents, accompanied by armed police and DEPRAC dog-handlers, were bundling people out of the pub and into the vans. Scuffles had broken out. Some men tried to flee; they were pursued by dogs, seized and dragged to the ground. From where we skulked at the far end of the street, we could just make out Kipps, Ned Shaw and Kat Godwin, standing aloof beside the door.
Lockwood drew us back into the dark. ‘They’re rounding up the relic-men,’ he murmured. ‘Kipps is spreading his net wide.’
‘Think he knows about Jack Carver?’ I said. ‘The kid wouldn’t have told him, surely.’
‘Someone else might know the connection between Carver and Neddles . . . Well, we can’t do much about it. Anywhere else we can go, Flo?’
The relic-girl had been unusually silent. ‘Yeah,’ she said softly. ‘Not far.’
Her second choice turned out to be a café close to Limehouse Station, a small-hours joint catering mainly for off-shift night-watch kids. The doors and windows were laced with iron grilles, and overhung by battered ghost-lamps. Inside, a row of plastic tubs displayed the sweets and toffees favoured by the youngest clients. A corkboard near the door was pinned with ads, job offers, Lost and Found notices and other scraps of paper. A few stained magazines and comic books were scattered on the Formica table tops; five grey-faced children sat at separate tables, eating, drinking, staring into space. Their watch-sticks waited in the weapon racks beside the door.
Lockwood and I ordered scrambled egg, kippers and tea. Flo wanted coffee, and jam on toast. We found a table in the corner and got down to business.
Under the café’s strong light, Flo looked even grubbier. She accepted her coffee, black, and proceeded to fill it, slowly, methodically, with eight spoonfuls of sugar.
‘So, Flo,’ Lockwood said as the goo was stirred, ‘Jack Carver. Tell us all.’
She nodded, sniffed, took the mug in dirty fingers. ‘Yes, I know Carver.’
‘Excellent. So you know where he lives?’
She shook her head shortly. ‘No.’
‘Where he hangs out?’
‘No.’
‘The people he associates with?’
‘No. Aside from Duane Neddles, and you say he’s dead.’
‘His hobbies, the kinds of thing he does in his spare time?’
‘No.’
‘But you do know where we might find him?’
Her eyes brightened. She took a sip of coffee, frowned, and tipped another spoon-load of sugar into the black syrup. A frenzy of stirring followed while we watched and waited; at last the ritual was complete. Finally she regarded us both levelly. ‘No.’