The building across the road was the one from my vision. It was suddenly sharp and clear in my mind. No wonder I had thought I recognised it. I must have been past it hundreds of times.
Blackbird stood at the window, looking across the street, but she wasn't focusing on the building. She was lost in thought. Whatever it was she was thinking about, it didn't lighten her mood.
"Are the visions always like this, so fragmented and disjointed?"
There was a pause while she returned to herself and then she spoke, looking out over the street rather than at me.
"The way Kareesh once explained it to me, the future is a warren of paths and junctions. She has shown you the main junctions you might pass through from your present. Which path you take, though, and where you end up is for you to choose."
I tried to imagine time as passages and tunnels crisscrossing into the future. It didn't help. I glanced at Blackbird, staring stiffly out of the window. "What's wrong?" I asked her.
"It's nothing." She dismissed my question and continued to watch the traffic, but I could hear the lie in that statement.
"Does finding out that my Fey ancestor was wraithkin make that much of a difference?"
She didn't answer my question.
"Look, I can't help who my ancestors were. If it makes you feel better, I just won't summon it again, OK?"
My words fell into her silence.
"If there's anything I can do…"
"You can't."
It was said in a flat quiet voice, without emotion or warmth. It wasn't a reprimand as much as a statement of cold fact. I turned and looked at the building again, unsure of what to say. I understood that there was a part of her that hurt, the part that showed in her eyes at odd times, like last night and now. I wanted to offer her simple comfort against that hurt but I knew if I faced her now, it would be raw in her eyes and she would turn away. "I'm sorry," I offered. "What for?"
"I don't know, but if it makes any difference, I am."
"You're sorry." She laughed without humour.
"Yes."
"It's not you that should be sorry."
"Why?"
"Because…" She stopped and then sighed. "Because I was going to kill you."
"You didn't know it was really me."
"I didn't know at first, but then I realised it was you and I was going to do it anyway."
I took a deep breath. "Can I ask why?"
"It's complicated."
"I don't understand."
"No, you don't. But a big part of me, a strong part of me, wanted to shove that knife in as far as it would go. I wanted to see your blood pool on the floor and watch you die." Her voice was brittle and she was more of a stranger to me in that moment than at any time since we had met.
"But you didn't." I kept my voice calm, trying to steady her.
"I knew it was you and I still wanted to kill you."
She was trying to explain it to herself, as if her hand had been guided by some external force.
"The important thing is, you didn't."
"I was going to."
"But I'm still here. So it's OK."
"It's not OK. It'll never be OK."
And there it was, the dead end I encountered every time I tried to reach out to her. I stood watching the traffic, unable to cross the chasm between us. I was surprised when she spoke.
"When I was little, we lived in a house in a forest." Her voice lost its edge and softened with memory. I had no idea where this conversation was going but I left her space to think about what she wanted to say and it was a while before she spoke again.
"The house was deep into the trees. At night, sometimes, I went to sleep with the wind roaring in the canopies around the house. It was elemental, and I loved it." There was another long pause.
"My mother used to hold me up high and whirl me around and tell me I had wings and that one day I would fly…" Her voice broke and she stopped again. She fished in a pocket, pulling out a rumpled hanky. "She used to leave me with my father for hours sometimes. She would kiss his cheek and tell him she'd be back soon. He would smile and busy himself outside. He loved the forest and would spend hours chopping logs or mending things. I would go up to my room and play, wondering where she went.
"There was a pitched roof below my window at the back of the house and, one time, I stepped out over the sill and slid down the slates to the soft earth. I sneaked around the house and followed my mother into the forest while my father was occupied. It didn't take long to catch up with her, she was in no hurry. She followed a path though the trees to a clearing.
"I nearly cried out when I saw what came out of the forest to meet her, but she ran towards it and threw herself into its arms and he picked her up and whirled her around above his head, the way she did for me. It was the first time I saw Gramawl."
She stiffened, steeling herself against whatever was coming.
"I never heard my mother and father fight. Then one night I woke to her screaming my name up the stairway, telling me to run and hide." Her voice solidified into ice. "I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go to her, but there were sounds downstairs, strange sounds, screams, crashing, my father yelling – it sounded like they were fighting. I didn't understand."
I could hear her, steadying herself with long slow breaths.
"I went to my window and opened it wide. It was a wild night and the wind was tearing leaves from the trees in the dark. Everywhere was moving, swaying in the moonlight and I stood at the window and thought how I would slide down the pitched roof and run and find my mother's friend in the forest and tell him to come and help. But I couldn't. I was scared. It was dark and wild, and I wanted her to come and get me. I wanted her to come and tell me everything was well. "The noises downstairs ceased, quite suddenly, and I backed into the corner of my room and made myself as small as I could. I put my hands over my eyes and peeked through my fingers. I still wanted to see, do you understand? The moonlight came into my room, dancing across the ceiling with the wildness outside. I leaned over to look outside, but the moon wasn't shining in." Her voice had gone quiet and small.
"I tucked myself back in the corner, just as the door was thrown open, and my instinct shouted in my mind 'I'm not here! I'm too small! You can't see me!' But I was only young and there was no magic in me to answer." She took a long slow breath.
"The figure in the doorway was darkness. He was outlined in moonlight, but he was just dark. The light in the room swam with the trees outside as he entered the room. He went to the open window and looked out into the night. I could have touched his coat, I was so close. He turned back and went to the mirror hanging over the dresser, my faerie mirror, the one my mother had bought for me because it had tiny winged figures carved into the frame all around it. He placed his hand on it and the light from his hand entered it, turning it milky and then clear as the moonlight shone through it." She glanced sideways at me, then looked back resolutely at the road.
"He said, 'They're dead, but the girl has run off into the forest.' For a moment I thought he was talking to me and I nearly said, 'No, I'm here,' but then a voice came from the mirror, distorted and slowed down. "It said 'Find her.' That's all. Just two words: 'Find her.' It sounded so cold, so angry.
"The figure took his hand from the mirror and the light within it faded. He turned back to the window facing me, but there was no face, just blackness. The light swelled until a nimbus formed around him and I was sure he couldn't fail to see me squeezed into the corner. Then he took a step towards me and vanished. "The room went dark, but it was a normal dark, a welcome dark. I stayed there, curled into the corner, too terrified to close my eyes in case he came back. The wind died down and the room faded into grey and I stayed pressed into the corner, sure the figure of darkness was waiting for me to give myself away. "As the light grew steadier, there was a noise on the stairs, a creak as something heavy shifted. Gramawl, my mother's friend, unfolded from my doorway and filled my room. He didn't make a sound, but he opened his arms and I uncurled myself and ran to him, burying myself in his embrace." She blew her nose noisily.
"There was no point in looking for her. The Feyre stand between life and power, holding the two in equilibrium, but when they die there's nothing to hold the power back. The magic consumes their flesh and bones in a last flare of power. We buried my father in the forest, Gramawl and I. It was the only thing to do. He loved the trees."
She tucked the hanky back into her pocket and straightened her coat.
"Afterwards, I went back up to my room and smashed the mirror. I couldn't bear the thought of his hand on it, calling the moonlight. Then Gramawl took me to Kareesh and she took me in, just like that. She didn't dwell on what had happened, and I grew up in the forest with her and Gramawl as foster-parents, though she is more like a grandmother to me. She told me what I was and who I was and taught me about the Feyre. They were both there for me when no one else was."
She pushed her hair back from her face, sniffed.
"When I was older, I asked her about that night and about what had happened. I asked her why the wraithkin hadn't seen me, though I must have been plainly visible. She told me she would tell me when I came into my power and that then I would understand. So I waited.
"And when the time came, she taught me what power was and how to wield it, tutoring me in the subtleties and nuances of it. She showed me what it means to be Fey. I thought she would tell me about that night, when I had learned enough, but she never raised it. She let me take my time until I was ready to ask again. "
"When I finally did, she explained it to me." She turned to face me, finally, her eyes red-rimmed, skin puffy and blotchy. "You remember when I sent you to the moors with the wolves? That's one of the gifts I inherited from my mother. That's what my mother did to the wraithkin, but she couldn't bind him to it. Without his name, he could shrug it off any time he wanted to. So she made a world for him identical to the one he was in, except I wasn't in it. He couldn't see me because, for him, I wasn't there. "
"She saved you," I said quietly.
"She saved me, but to do it she had to touch…" The tears welled in her eyes again and she fumbled for the hanky. "She had to put her hand on that blackness, defenceless against what he could do. He consumed her power, sucked the life out of her and discarded her, and she stood there and deceived him while he did it so that I…" The tears ran down her cheeks unheeded, the hanky wrung between her hands. "So I…" Her shoulder shook and she turned her back to me. I stepped forward to offer some comfort.
"Don't!" She threw her hand back, warding me off.
"Don't touch me."
"I'm sorry, I didn't think-"
"You can't help it. It's what you are."
Her shoulders shook.
"I can't change what I am."
"I know. But that's why I wanted to kill you. Part of me still wants to." She stood apart and I watched her cry.
Sometimes Alex hates me. She rails against me and screams and shouts and stamps about as if she can't contain the fury within her. Then she cries and screams again and I try and stay calm and soothe her. And when her anger is spent, she won't let me touch her, won't let me hold her. So I wait. And when the storm has finally blown itself out and she's calm again, I open my arms and she'll come and press her head against my chest and accept comfort from me.
I waited until Blackbird had calmed herself and then
I opened my arms in that way to her, knowing that, being Fey, touch had other connotations to her than to my daughter but wanting to offer her that simple gesture against her pain. Her grief was wrapped about her like a veil and it was beyond me not to offer some comfort. She hesitated at this human gesture and I thought she would turn away from me again.
Instead, she shook her head. "No, I'm all right, really. It's just that I've never told anyone that before. Kareesh and Gramawl knew but I've never told anyone else. Only with you being…" She dried up.
"Yes." I dropped my hands back to my sides, awkwardly. At least I knew why she pulled away. She blew her nose on the dishevelled hanky and stuffed it back into her pocket, looking up at me. "So now what?" she lifted her chin, making a bold effort to put the weight of the past aside. Eyes still puffy, she was determined to move on, rather than dwell on what had been.
"I don't know. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. "
"The building over the way, there. You said it was the one in your vision. What about it?"
"I don't know. It was mixed up with a whole load of other stuff. I just know it's the one. In the vision there was a sign by the main door carved into the stone, that's all. "
"What does it say? "
"I don't know. I couldn't see it clearly. "
"We should go and look then. "
"Are you sure you're up to this?"
"I'm fine." She broke into a half smile. "I thought I was over it, it was all such a long time ago, but when you summoned the gallowfyre… it brought it all back. I know it's wrong to blame you, but… "
"You still do."
"I don't blame you. I don't. It just feels like I should. "
"Because of what I am?" I rubbed at where the point of the knife had pressed under my chin, feeling the break in the skin.
"The rational part of me knows you aren't him and could never have been him. It's just my feelings haven't caught up with the rest of me yet.
"I understand. Sort of."
"We should go and have a look at this building of yours. Maybe the writing on the doorway will tell us something."
I accepted her change of subject and she turned away from the window, straightening her coat, and took the stairway down to ground level. I tagged along, down and through the darkening passage to the heavy street door. Blackbird turned the catch, shot back the bolt and opened the door, spilling daylight into the corridor. We stepped out onto the pavement along the Strand, attracting only mildly curious stares from passers-by. Blackbird let me past and then stood at door, masking what she was doing with her body. It made a low crunk sound and when she tested it again, it was locked. I stepped across the wide pavement and turned to look at where we had emerged. A sign along the base of the arched window above the street declared it to be the Strand Station of the Piccadilly Railway. "I've never heard of a Strand Station," I told her. "In fact, I didn't know there was a tube station here at all. "
"There isn't. The line was supposed to go through under the Thames but the extension was never built. This is as far as they managed."
She turned and walked brusquely off down the Strand with me trailing after her. Then she slowed, allowing me to catch up so we could walk alongside each other. It was a small concession, given what she'd told me.
We crossed the busy road when the traffic thinned momentarily and continued across the road down the side of Australia House. The building was roughly triangular in plan, being the easterly point at the end of the long crescent formed by Aldwych alongside the Strand. There were doors for the public set along the side of the building with notices about opening times for the issuing of visas and other documents. Posters of Ayer's Rock, Uhuru or whatever it was called, adorned the walls inside.
We followed the pavement past these until we came to the blunted point of the triangle where the Strand opened out into a wide thoroughfare. A church faced us across the broad paved area where the trees were shedding, the leaves whirling around in a fickle breeze. Turning back, the entrance to Australia House was impressive with tall stone pillars and heavy iron gates folded back against the wall inside the entrance porch. To either side of the doorway, stone statues graced the entrance, while high above the gates a bronze sculpture of heroic figures on untamed horses adorned the frontage. Inside the doorway there were letters picked out in gold, carved into the door pillar where I knew they would be. Blackbird leaned down to inspect the writing. "What does it say?" I asked.
"It says the stone was laid in…" She translated the
Roman numerals. "1913. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No. Should it?"
"Are you sure? It must have some significance or you wouldn't have seen it in the vision."
"Well, perhaps it's not the building that's significant. Maybe we're supposed to meet someone here, or find something?"
I looked around at the roads, busy with passing traffic. No one approached us with a secret code word or a mysterious package. There was a distinct absence of things with clues written on them.
"Do you see anything else that looks familiar?" Blackbird asked.
"Not really. The sign is the right one, but it's just a carving showing when this was built."
I found myself conscious of the huge ornamental iron gates turned back against the wall on each side of the entrance. They were beautifully made and I couldn't help feeling there was something significant about them.
"I wonder what was here before this was built," she mused. "I don't remember anything particularly special."
"Even if there was something, it was demolished a hundred years ago to make way for this." I watched the gates, feeling that somehow they were also watching me.
"That isn't a very long time, really. I can't recall that there was anything particular here, though it was a pretty rough area. I'm sure I would remember. "
"So, where does that leave us?"
"It leaves us asking why, I suppose." Blackbird scanned the surrounding buildings.
The gates definitely had my attention. Were they the thing I was supposed to find here? Were they the clue we were looking for? I found myself reaching out to touch the dark ironwork. "Perhaps if we ask at th- NO!"
My hand touched the metalwork and a jolt went through me like a lightning bolt. I remember something slamming into my arm and the trees above me spinning, then crashing onto my back on the paving. My breath went out of me and the back of my skull banged against the concrete. For a moment, everything went black.
When I came to, Blackbird was leaning over me. She'd moved me onto my side and had her palm pressed against my forehead. Despite that, a dizzying nausea welled up in me and I threw up the remains of my pasty on the paving slabs. Blackbird leant back until the retching stopped and then handed me a practical hanky. It was still damp. "Are you all right?"
I nodded weakly, wiping my mouth with it. At least I thought I was OK. I did a mental check for broken bones. My arm was numb where I had touched the gate and the nerves in my hand were jangling.
"Are you OK, mate?" The Australian twang in the question meant that although I couldn't see the questioner I knew we had attracted attention from the building.
"I'm not sure," Blackbird responded. "My friend got a shock off those gates just now."
There was a slight pause. "That's impossible. They're not electric or anything. He couldn't have done." A man in uniform, possibly a security guard, walked into my field of view. "Are you OK, sir?"
"I think I'll be OK in a minute. Can you help me sit up?"
"Do you think that's wise? I could get an ambulance for you, if you like?" The long "A" of ambulance was almost comical and I found myself smiling at his Australian accent, despite my aching head.
"Well, you've still got a sense of humour about you." He stepped back and let Blackbird help me to a sitting position. I sat on the cold paving with my head against my knees while the spinning sensation slowly subsided. "I've never seen anything like it. You went up in the air like you were doing a backwards somersault. I saw it on the monitors." Clearly this was the most exciting thing that had happened all day and now he had established I wasn't dead he was determined to make the most of it.
"Well you should definitely have those gates checked," asserted Blackbird with all her authority. "They caused a nasty accident. Next time someone could be killed."
"I still don't see how," he commented, taking his peaked hat off and scratching his head. "Maybe some sort of static build-up?" He glanced back at the gates, inert inside the doorway. "What were you doing, anyway?"
"We were trying to work out how old the building is."
"1917," he said. "Well, what I mean is, they were able to move in by then. I don't think the building was fully finished until after the First World War."
The way the intonation in his accent lifted at the end made every sentence made it sound like a question, as if everything were uncertain and he was looking for constant confirmation of reality. Having banged my head on the paving, I knew how he felt.
"The decorations must have taken a while to complete," he continued. "It's very grand inside. We used to have open days so you could look around, though that had to stop after the 7/7 bombs. How's your friend?"
Blackbird stood up. "I think he'll recover but that could have been serious."
"We've never had any trouble before. I can't think why he would get a shock from there."
"Do you want to go and touch the gates, after that?" she asked him.
"No, I think we'll have the electricians in to check them out, first, eh?" he grinned.
"It might be wise. We were just trying to find out about the building. Do you know what was here before all this?" She gestured at the grand facade.
I was a little miffed that Blackbird was more intent on the security man than on my injuries, but it did present an opportunity to find out more. I sat on the ground and listened while she gently pressed him for more information.
"I've worked here for thirty years and I don't remember anyone mentioning anything before this. You'd be amazed at some of the enquiries we get, though, people wanting to emigrate and everything. We don't get many historical queries, though. Mind you, one of my colleagues trained as one of those guides, you know, an official London guide? He's got a certificate and everything. I could ask him if he knows anything. "
"That would be very kind."
He turned and went back into the building, taking a careful look at the gates as he passed them. Blackbird turned back to me.
"What on earth did you think you were doing?" She kept her voice down, though her anger was evident. "I thought the gates might be the reason we were here," I said defensively. "They're made of iron! "
"What's so special about iron?" I asked.
"Iron is the antithesis of magic. All the Feyre react to iron. It's one of the things that marks us out. "
"I didn't know."
"Couldn't you feel it? What on earth possessed you to touch them?"
"I told you, I thought they might be what we came for."
She probed the back of my head with her fingers. "Nine times idiot!" she hissed. "It's a good thing you weren't right inside the doorway or you'd have been flung back into the other gate. If your head had hit iron instead of concrete, you wouldn't be sitting here nursing a headache. Look up at me."
I lifted my head off my knees and looked up into her grey eyes, surprised by the concern that showed there. "At least your pupils are the same size. How do you feel?"
"A bit nauseous, but the world has stopped spinning. "
"I still can't believe you touched them. Didn't it feel wrong?"
"Yes, kind of, but at the same time it was compelling, almost alive."
"Let me see your hand."
I could feel the pulse throbbing in my palm and when I opened my hand I found my fingers had red wheals where the bars had touched. I looked up at Blackbird and she shook her head.
"You won't do that again in a hurry. Is it sore? "
"It's still numb."
"Is anywhere else numb?"
"My arm was completely numb, but it's just my forearm now."
"If the feeling doesn't come back in a little while, let me know."
She offered her hand and supported my uninjured arm as I got to my feet. I was a little unsteady, but once I was vertical I felt better.
"Are you up to coming and finding out what our antipodean friend has come up with?"
I nodded and then wished I'd spoken instead. My head pounded. I swallowed and steadied myself. Blackbird tucked herself under my arm and helped me towards the doorway. At that moment, the stone Megan had given me flared to warmth against my chest. It was odd that it had chosen this moment to become active again. Maybe it was reacting to my injury. Megan had said it had something to do with physical awareness. Blackbird helped me through the entrance, carefully avoiding the black iron of the heavy gates. It was incongruous that the older of us was helping the younger, though she appeared unconscious of the irony. Inside there was a security desk with glass screens between us and our security man. He was holding the phone tucked onto his shoulder, meanwhile waving his other hand and making an expression that must have been intended as "Hang on a minute, I'm on the phone". I leant with my back against the counter, observing that the inside of the doors was separated from the rest of the building by more security screening. One of those walk-through metal detectors you see at airports had been installed. Clearly they took the security seriously, as he'd said. What little I could see of the inside of the building indicated that it was decorated in the style of the kind of country house that had grand ballrooms.
We waited while the muffled sound of the guard's voice came through the glass.
"Wrong building?" He conversed with his hidden colleague. "You're sure about that?"
Blackbird tried to interrupt him to explain that it was this building we were interested in, but he held his hand up to pause her and asked his colleague to repeat his last sentence again. Finally, he thanked them and hung up, turning back to us and speaking through the screen. "You've come to the wrong place."
"It was this building in particular we were interested in," Blackbird explained patiently.
"Yes, but you see, the history isn't here. It's at the Royal Courts of Justice across the way there." He pointed out of the glass doors at the street.
"But it was this building…" Blackbird repeated.
"Yes, I got you, ma'am, but the history of this building is over at the Royal Courts. My colleague trained as a guide, like I told you, and he says that this ground was paid for by something called a quick rent."
Blackbird, who had been looking at me with an expression of exasperation, suddenly focused back on the man.
"A quick rent? Do you mean a quit rent?"
"It could have been. Yes, that was it. I thought it sounded funny."
"Why would there be a quit rent?" she said to herself. "He said the Ceremony of the Quit Rents is held every year at the Royal Courts across the road and if you wanted to know more about this building, you should be asking there. Apparently the ground for this building is owned by the British Crown and the Corporation of London pay a quit rent for it. They have information over at the Royal Courts and you should enquire there." He showed us a victorious smile, revealing uneven teeth stained by heavy smoking.
Blackbird thanked him for his help, while my attention was drawn to a bank of monitors set up on a side-bench. They were obviously used to monitor the security cameras and they depicted various views of the exterior of the building. One of them, though, had been adapted back to its original purpose and was showing a twenty-four hour news programme.
It had suddenly flashed up with a photo-fit picture of a middle-aged man with a scrolling caption underneath. The caption said this was a picture of a man police urgently wanted to interview in connection with the death of an officer in West London that morning.
It wasn't a good likeness. The hair was too dark and the forehead too high, but there was no mistaking the image.
It was me.