Or someone had made sure it had not worked properly.
He paced around in frustration. Then it occurred to him to look at the cover sheet of the file. Yes, the file was an aetherized version of an older paper document, which was stored in the original Registry. Which was now in St Albans, a small town outside London, where it had been relocated from the original Charing Cross site in 1932.
It would not do to send an official request for the file, especially if Noel and his Section were watching him.
Then it struck him. The answer was obvious. He needed to find out what the Winter Court knew about him, and what had happened to George. He needed access to the Old Registry.
In other words, he needed a source inside the Winter Court.
He remembered the night Noel had left him on the rooftop alone. It was so dark he had crawled around on all fours, looking for routes down. Then the clouds hiding the moon passed and it became an algebra problem, putting a series of simple steps in the right order. Go down a drainpipe close to a window with ornamental stonework. Jump onto a ledge, hang from it, drop. And then his feet were on the ground.
Peter poured himself a cup of vim, sat down, took up his aetherpen and started drafting an ectomail to Rachel White.
At the top of the Marconi Tower, Rachel White looked at London through the November rain and steeled herself for her new career as a Soviet source.
Bloom had suggested having the call there early in the evening, after she finished work. ‘Talking on an ectophone is rather dull,’ he wrote in his ectomail. ‘I would rather go for a walk with you, somewhere we can look at the world from different perspectives.’
Rachel buttoned her raincoat tightly against the wind-tossed droplets and wished she had not agreed so readily. Spirit spies did not get colds. She sniffed and waited for the ectophone in her purse to ring. Bloom was late.
The Tower stood near the Embankment. One of Gustave Eiffel’s posthumous projects, it was a triple-pronged radio mast, a monstrosity of wrought iron and steel that smelled of rust. It had started to rain the very moment she began to climb the steps in the central spire. All the tourists and visitors came clambering down in the opposite direction, holding umbrellas and leaflets over their heads. Rachel gritted her teeth, forced her way up to the central gondola and showed her SIS identity card to the watchman, who touched his cap and returned to his glass-walled booth and a cup of tea.
It was a perfectly logical meeting place, of course. The Tower was a hub of spirit messenger and ectomail activity, a giant instrument attuned to the aetheric signals that tied the worlds of the living and the dead together, and meeting there was the Summerland equivalent of a discreet encounter in a crowded, public space. Bloom was being careful.
Below, the Thames was a pitch-black, flowing fracture that bisected London into two lobes of a brain made of street lights, people and electricity. Momentary vertigo grabbed her and she clutched the railing with one gloved hand, struggling to hold her umbrella with the other.
At that very moment, her phone gave a tinkle. She let go of the umbrella. The wind seized it and it blew away, rising upwards in a chaotic, tumbling motion. Her hat and face were instantly wet. She fumbled with the earbuds and the tuning dial until she heard Bloom’s voice through the hiss of static and the rain.
‘Tell me, Rachel,’ he said, ‘what do you see?’
She sniffed. ‘Rain. London. And an abyss that will allow me to join you over there if I take just one more step.’
Bloom laughed, a soft, whisper-like sound. ‘I apologise. I should have checked the weather forecast. One tends to forget.’
‘I understand.’
‘If you prefer, we can go somewhere else.’
The wind had eased a bit. ‘I am fine for now,’ Rachel said. ‘I climbed all the way up here so we might as well enjoy the view. What is it that you see, Peter?’
‘Over here, the Tower is like a giant firecracker and we are right in the heart of it. It’s noisy. There are spirits everywhere, flitting back and forth, carrying letters and messages.’
Max was nearby in Summerland, too, watching. She tried to sweep the thought from her mind, in case Bloom noticed anything. Right now, it was easy enough to focus on the chill and the discomfort, and the view below.
‘And you can see the souls of London from here, moving like impulses through nerves. It really is like one vast creature, alive and sentient.’
‘Does death turn everybody into poets, or just you?’
Bloom laughed. ‘My apologies. Poetry does not keep you warm, does it?’
‘Not that kind, anyway. Tell me, then—what can I do for the Summer Court?’
‘I would rather discuss what the Summer Court can do for you. You have had quite a career, Rachel. The Registry, the Irish Section, Counter-subversion. And you even married into the secret world. That happens often, of course, although usually it’s the secretaries, no offence. Your husband used to be a liaison officer for the RAF?’
‘Formerly,’ Rachel said. ‘He has some health issues.’
‘Ah. I was wondering why he was not at the party. I am sorry to hear that.’ There was genuine concern in his voice. The idea that her private darkness was visible to him made Rachel angry. That was good. She seized the emotion and brought it out in her voice, just like she had practised with Max.
‘I did not think we were here to discuss my husband.’
‘Of course not. It is just that I am aware of your pension and Ticket issues.’
Rachel said nothing. The rain had nearly stopped. The tiny raindrops that remained felt almost pleasant on her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bloom said. ‘I did not mean to overstep.’
‘You did not. Things are … complicated at the moment.’ She paused. ‘Can you tell me more about what you see? What is it like over there?’
‘Well, it is more or less as they describe in the books. I believe your mother is in a Summer Home?’
‘Peter. I don’t want to hear about four-dimensional captains and three-dimensional ships, or any other broken metaphor. Tell me stuff I can’t read about in books. What is the worst thing over there?’
Bloom considered. ‘That would have to be the Fading. It’s terrifying. One does not notice it at first. Vim—aetheric energy—stops it, for a time. Thought-travel and aether-shaping make it worse. The aetherologists claim that the aetherbeasts used to be human spirits, too, only they forgot their true natures aeons ago.’
‘That sounds terrible. I have heard the word but did not realise what it meant.’
‘The National Death Service does not advertise it. But with enough vim, it is barely noticeable, a tiny memory here and there over the years, and it does not happen to everybody. There are beautiful things, too. The Summer City sings to itself sometimes. It sounds like musical rain. There is a man, a Faded person, who tells fortunes near the Fortress. He listens to the luz bricks. I thought he was mad at first, but if you listen closely, you can hear the soul-stones mutter in the walls.’
‘So it sounds like being dead is no simpler than being alive. Good and bad.’ In spite of herself, Rachel was fascinated. Spirits rarely discussed Summerland—they were always hungry to hear more about the living. She chided herself for getting too distracted: she was no longer a little girl who believed in magic kingdoms.
The rain had stopped. The clouds were a mixture of red and grey, reflecting the city lights. Near the horizon, a solitary star winked over the skyline.