“Is this some kind of research?” asked the priest.
“Yes,” said Blackbird. “That’s exactly what it is — research.”
The priest considered her for a moment, glancing at Angela. “I’m sorry. You’ve come at the wrong time. There is no ceremony at the winter solstice, unless you mean Christmas, which is a little later. We’re a Christian church — always have been.”
“Thank you, said Blackbird. “Angela?” She turned and walked to the exit.
“I’m sorry if we…” said Angela.
“Angela!” The call was insistent, and Angela shrugged and followed Blackbird to the exit. They walked in silence across the road and back down Seething Lane towards the Way-node.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Angela.
“What makes you think that?” asked Blackbird.
“The priest said there wasn’t another ceremony,” said Angela. “You heard him.”
“I did indeed hear him,” said Blackbird. “But I also heard what he didn’t say.” To Angela’s blank look, Blackbird said, “He didn’t say there wasn’t another rent, paid at the winter solstice. There are secrets here, I can smell them,” she said.
Angela trailed after her. “Let’s hope you can tell the difference between secrets and lies,” she said.
Driving down to Kew wasn’t the quickest way to travel, but I would not be able to use the Ways once I’d collected the horseshoes. I’d had one bad experience, when I’d tried to use my power to take a hammer across the underground River Fleet. I’d almost drowned proving that magic and iron didn’t mix, and I had no wish to repeat the experiment. I was using Blackbird’s authority to commandeer the car, and this way I’d been able to wait until we were clear of the courts before expanding on our destination and purpose. Even so, I had simply told Big Dave that I was collecting something for Blackbird and that we needed the car to carry it back. He knew better than to enquire further.
As the daylight faded, I used the time in the back seat of the limo to think things through. I ran my fingers up the side of my cheek, feeling the wheals raised in my skin. Had it been Raffmir I’d seen through the reflection of the glass in the van? He’d made me doubt myself, which was perhaps his intent. Despite everything, I felt sure that he would abide by the letter of the law which bound us both not to harm the other, if not the spirit. Even when Blackbird killed Raffmir’s sister, Solandre, he had not broken the oath we all swore before the trial by ordeal that had almost ended my life. That law was enforced by the courts, and even though the Seventh Court was in exile, its members were still bound by it. They were supposed to be held back by the barrier, the construct of fey magic and human ritual that prevented the Seventh Court from crossing from our world whenever they pleased, so how did they get here?
The barrier would stop them crossing between the worlds other than at the equinox and the solstice — the times when the world was in balance; this much Blackbird had told me. Those were the times when the world of exiled Seventh Court and the human world were closest and the barrier was at its weakest and they could cross, either in person, or by taking the thread of power from a newly dead corpse — someone who inherited the thread of dormant power that they could take and use to animate the corpse, using it like a puppet across the barrier. That was what they had tried to do with me when I’d had a heart attack on the London Underground.
Looking back, it was like another life. I’d gone to work, paid my bills, and met my commitments to my ex-wife and the child we shared. I’d done all that was expected of me, and yet it had left me empty, distant and numb. It hadn’t been a life, it had been an existence. I’d buried myself in my work because it was too painful to think about anything else. I’d done my duty by my family without ever connecting with who they were. Instead I had walled myself up and felt nothing.
For a moment, I wondered what would have happened if I’d never had the heart attack, had gone to work as normal, had a career, maybe even met someone else. But then Alex’s accident would have happened anyway, and I would never have found her without my abilities and Raffmir’s help and she would have been drugged up to her eyeballs in a cell at Porton Down for the rest of her unnaturally long life. Perhaps I should thank Raffmir after all, when next I saw him.
Dave eased his way through the traffic, adopting the relaxed approach of the professional driver. We came off the motorway and navigated through West London while I watched the planes climbing out of Heathrow. We made good time through the back streets, but we never appeared to hurry. When we reached the entrance to the National Archive car park, he didn’t stop, but rolled past.
“Did we miss the turn?” I asked him.
“There’s CCTV on the car park,” he said. “If you’re not worried about being tracked I can turn around and park, but they’ll pick up the registration plate. Otherwise I can drop you in a side street and cruise around the neighbourhood until you’re ready. That OK?”
“That would be better, Dave. Thanks. I’m not expecting problems, but it’s better if no one knows we were here.”
I exited the car on the corner of a network of streets in a permit-only parking zone, taking the black holdall I’d brought to carry the horseshoe, and watched him pull away in the long black car. It was a nice area, so the biggest risk was that he would get stopped on suspicion of casing properties for burglary, not that he would be found cruising for company.
I headed back towards the gates of the National Archive. The entrance was through a large glass atrium and staff were still coming and going. I waited for a few moments and then, cloaking myself in glamour, I tailed one of them inside. The man at the large circular reception desk barely registered my presence. I took a diversion off to the left, heading to where the public lockers were in search of the locker that Claire had used to leave her belongings. The doors to the lockers were transparent, allowing the contents to be viewed while the contents remained securely locked inside. Most of them were empty with the keys hanging from the locks ready to use the next day. I scanned them, looking for one without a key.
It should have been obvious. I should be able to feel the presence of the horseshoe when I got close to it, and the absence of any such sensation was a bad sign. In the end I found the locker — not because of the contents, but because although it was empty it had no key and there was a notice on the inside of the door. This locker is out of service. Please use another.
Someone had been there before me.
I checked the rest of the lockers just in case. It could have been for some other reason — a broken lock or a lost key — but although there were lockers that were empty and locked, only one of them had a notice on it. I went back to the locker with the sign, resting my hand over the lock. It gave a satisfying click and I pulled the door open. There was no sign or anything left there, though there were traces of fine dust on the side and base walls. I wiped my finger across it and it came away coated with glossy powder that left a grey sheen across my finger. It was the sort of powder they used to dust for fingerprints. Of course, there had been a murder and they wanted to know who else had used the locker. I searched my memory as to whether I had touched Claire’s belongings, whether I had held her bag for a moment, but I could not recall. After all, it hadn’t seemed important at the time — I’d not been expecting her to have her throat cut.
Whether they would be able to identify me from my fingerprints, or from the descriptions given by the people who’d seen me with Claire before she was killed was a moot point, in that if I was caught I was unlikely to see trial. Fortunately I was unlikely to be caught and in any case, as a Warder, I had a degree of diplomatic immunity. Like all immunities, though, it had its boundaries, and I suspected that killing people in public places was beyond them.