“On duty,” she said. “But I can listen from here.”
I sat Alex between Blackbird and I, and we were drawn into the storytelling. It had evolved into taking turns, where each would tell a story and then defer to the next. When it came to my turn, I hesitated. “I don’t really have any stories,” I said.
“What about the fishing village?” said Blackbird. “Tell them about Ravensby.” So I told them about Greg, the vicar of Ravensby, and how he’d discovered his calling riding bikes at breakneck speed down the hills of East Yorkshire, and helped me find the missing girls. I missed out exactly what happened on the fishing boat, as perhaps that was a story for a different audience.
Then it was Alex’s turn, and I thought she would be like me and have nothing to say, but almost immediately she began with what had happened at the top of Glastonbury Tor. The way she told it made it vivid for me. She described the universe torn open and laid out above her in such lucid detail that it was like being there. I could feel the piercing cold, hear the crunch of the frozen grass under my feet. It seemed more real when she told it than my memory of it, though I had been there, outside the protective barrier thrown up around the Tor. After she had finished there was silence for a short while. I think everyone felt as I did, in awe of what had she had seen.
Then it was Blackbird’s turn and she told a story of two brothers who fought over the possession of a magical talisman. Each of the brothers thought it was meant for them and no other, and the lengths they went to in order to prevent the other getting it left me wondering how much of the tale was true and how much fiction. She never did say what the nature of the talisman was.
There were more stories, and when it came time to withdraw I was glad to see that Alex was reluctant to retire. It was the first time I’d seen her enjoying company for a while, and it left me hopeful and optimistic. She bade us good night, and went to her room in a better frame of mind than I’d seen her in for some time.
While Blackbird went to check on the baby, I placed my hand on the mirror once more. The connection was quick and easy. I could hear snoring through the mirror, a rhythmic rasp punctuating each breath.
“Sam?” I said.
“Wha-? What is it?” The voice sounded panicky.
I released my hand and let the connection fall away.
“What are you doing?” asked Blackbird from the doorway to the nursery.
“I’m preparing my ground,” I told her.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“An old friend,” I told her. “Someone who owes me a big favour.”
“If he was a friend, why didn’t you speak to him?” she asked.
“It was Sam Veldon,” I said.
“Oh, was it? Perhaps I could speak to him. I have one or two things to say that would set his ears ringing.”
“I have plans for Sam,” I told her. “At the moment he thinks I’m dead, though there is a growing realisation that I might not be. I intend to capitalise on that.”
“Just don’t get shot again,” she warned me. “Next time he might choose to shoot you through the head.”
“I don’t intend to give him that opportunity,” I told her.
My intention was to stay awake for a while and wait until Blackbird slept, but I was more tired than I thought and slipped quickly into a deep sleep. It wasn’t until the baby grizzled in his sleep in the small hours that I came awake again. I padded across into the adjoining room and stroked his hair in the red light from the night-lamp until he slept more peacefully. The more I could persuade him to skip his night-time feeds, the better. No doubt he would wake early and protest his hunger, but that was a fair trade if he would get into the habit of sleeping through.
When I was sure he was asleep again, I slipped into the bathroom, leaving the lights off, and placed my hand on the mirror, whispering into the glass, “Sam?” I felt the glass cool under my hand and heard the characteristic change in background noise as the space on the other side of the mirror opened up. I could feel a presence beyond the glass.
“I know you’re there,” said a voice. “Where are you?”
“Soon,” I whispered softly, almost beyond the level of hearing. The words were swallowed by the mirror as I pulled my hand away and released the connection. I had what I wanted. Sam was awake, waiting for a word, living off nervous energy, wondering what would happen next. I had him where I wanted him. With a smile I went back to bed, and was soon asleep.
FIFTEEN
The next morning Blackbird was getting ready to visit Grey's Court. She was dressed practically, without the finery of the courts, in a plain skirt and loose top with a woollen coat over the top.
“You don’t need to come, Niall. You can rest, here. It’ll be fine,” she told me.
“I want to come. I want to see what it’s like.”
“If you come, leave your sword here,” she said.
“Why? If I don’t need it, you won’t even know it’s there. I left the baby with Alex a few moments ago. She seemed happy enough to look after him, and it’ll do her good. We won’t be that long, will we?”
She started at me. “If you bring the sword, you’ll draw it. We’re not trying to intimidate anyone, just find out what the situation is and make a decision. It’s as simple as that. There’ll be no fighting.”
“What if it’s not what it appears to be?”
“Nothing’s ever what it appears to be,” she said, “but we’ll deal with that when we come to it. It doesn’t mean we have to start a war.”
I met her gaze, and for once it was her that looked away. “OK, have it your own way, but you don’t start waving it around without my say-so.”
“Yes, Lady,” I agreed.
“And you can stop that as well,” she said.
“Yes, Lady.”
Lesley had been sent ahead with Big Dave in the car, and the plan was to join them in the village near the house and arrive together. Angela met us in the room where the Ways converged. Blackbird had already found a route which would lead us directly to the village, and she led us down the Ways. Angela went after her and I followed them to a clearing in a wood, just outside the village of Rotherfield Greys in Oxfordshire.
We arrived on a cold, clear morning with mist still drifting through the trees like pale shadows and walked to the edge of the woods where the fields were still edged with frost from the clear night. We crossed a field to the road and walked into the village, finding the car waiting in the car park of the Maltsters Arms, just on the corner. We climbed into the back, while Lesley stayed in the front with Dave.
“Have you had a look yet?” asked Blackbird.
“We cruised past the house,” said Dave. “It’s set back from the road, but there was no obvious activity. There are a few working farms around it, but it was quiet.”
“There’s something else,” said Lesley.
“Yes?” said Blackbird.
“Grey's Court is advertised as a National Trust property,” said Lesley.
“National Trust?” said Angela.
“It’s open for visitors for at least part of the year,” said Dave. “You don’t think this could all be some kind of weird prank?” he asked.
“I don’t understand,” said Angela.
“I think we have to go and look,” said Blackbird. “Dave, if you would be so kind?”
The car pulled away and travelled through the lanes at a stately pace. We turned down a side road and travelled down a lane with the winter sun striping across the road through the trees. As we approached a sign, Dave slowed so that we could read it.
Grey's Court — National Trust, said the sign. Visitors welcome from March until October. Limited opening at other times.
“It’s not open at the moment,” I pointed out.
“So we’re OK until March,” said Angela, “and then what?”
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” said Blackbird. “Let’s go on and see the house.”
The car followed the lane until Dave slowed at the entrance to the house and turned in, following the drive through more trees until it opened out into a broad meadow through which the drive turned in a long crescent. There was a signpost diverting the public off to a separate car park, but Dave ignored this and drove on to the house.