VII

There was little progress for the next few weeks. A wilting flower on Fern’s coffee table conveyed Mabb’s agreement, and the goblins kept a casual watch on their designated targets. Skuldunder reported back, once in a while, with much detail and little substance: goblins can observe human society, but few have any understanding of how it works. Fern was certain Kaspar Walgrim was involved in some dubious activity on Morgus’s behalf, probably financial, but she needed a computer hack, not a kobold, to investigate. She met his son several times, hospital visits and drinks extending to dinner, with her repeatedly having to dissuade him from storming Wrokeby. “As long as we do nothing, Morgus won’t harm Dana any further. She’s divided her soul from her body: there’s little greater damage she could do, short of murder. But if we try a rescue mission and it fails, Dana will be the first victim. Morgus might send Dana through the Gate of Death, or worse still, into the abyss, as she did with the ghosts. When we make the attempt, we must be sure of success. Morgus has to have a weakness, if I can only find it . . .”

They discussed possibilities until the subject wore out, and moved inevitably on to more personal matters, to their likes and dislikes, their lives and loves, their tastes in food and music, literature and politics. Fern found herself giving him an edited version of her time in Atlantis—her journey into the Forbidden Past when she was sixteen years old, her entanglement in the fall of the island empire, even a few details of her never-to-be-forgotten love. “He drowned?” Luc said at the end, his face darkening.

Fern nodded.

“How long ago?”

“About ten thousand years.”

She saw him shiver.

“I watched him,” she said. “I watched him die—in a spell, in a dream. His ship broke up, and a mermaid dragged him down beneath the waves.”

“But . . .”

“The Gifted can sometimes tune in to another mind, another life. You have the Gift—I don’t know how strongly—and circumstances have thrown us together. You seem to be picking up on my memories. He lay on the seabed till his bones were coral, like in the play. Those are pearls that were his eyes . . .”

Luc said sharply: “I had those dreams long before I met you.”

“Don’t!” said Fern.

“Don’t?”

“Don’t cheat me with fantasies!” In that moment, he saw her composure splinter, and there was naked pain in her face. “Don’t let me cheat myself! The soul may return—we don’t know—there may be unfinished business, a quest unfulfilled, some doom that might last a thousand lives, but we can’t be sure. We don’t know. Anyway, Rafarl Dev was not like you. He tried to be cynical, but he couldn’t help believing in things; he tried to run away, but in the end he stayed. He was one of those who are born to fight, and lose. You are—a creature of another mettle. You have a harder edge, a colder eye.”

“What you mean is, I wouldn’t have waited for you when the city was falling about my ears.”

“Would you?” she asked.

“No. I would have gone long before and made you come with me, against your will if necessary.”

Fern smiled fleetingly, and then grew somber. “No one has ever made me do anything.”

“Maybe it’s time.”

If we weren’t in a restaurant, she thought, he would kiss me again. But they were, and the table with the remnants of their meal was between them, and a cruising waiter topped their glasses, and the moment passed into oblivion, never to return. Or so she fancied, wondering if that kiss might have lasted longer, and tasted sweeter, and whether, with his mouth on hers, she would have known the truth at last. She struggled to recall how it had felt to kiss Rafarl, but it was all too many ages past, and few kisses can stand the test of so much time.

“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” Luc resumed when the waiter had moved on. “I have never really believed in anything. Not God, or the soul, or true love. We are flesh and blood—water and clay—and when we are gone, that is all that remains.”

“You said it,” Fern pointed out. “When we are gone. If there is only flesh and blood, who is the ‘we’ that has to go with those elements? Besides, your sister’s soul is in a jar in Morgus’s spellchamber. You believe that.”

“Just because it may be true,” he said, “that doesn’t mean I have to believe it.” After a pause, he went on: “Your Rafarl, did he look like me?”

Fern sighed. “It’s awful, but I can’t visualize him, not clearly. His eyes were dark—yours are light. I think his bones were similar, but . . . more regular. He was beautiful, like a god. If he’d been alive today he’d have been advertising Calvin Klein. You’re interesting-looking, attractive, but not beautiful.” He grimaced at her, revealing the gap in his teeth. “How did you lose that tooth?”

“I pinched my father’s car when I was eleven, drove it into a wall, smashed my face on the wheel.”

“Why don’t you have a false one?”

“Why should I?”

“Raf had a tooth missing,” Fern said. “I think it was there.”

“Coincidence,” he said. “This is all nonsense. You and I couldn’t have loved each other, or we would feel something now, and I’m not in love with you.”

“Nor I with you,” she responded. She felt no disappointment, or hurt. His light-gray eyes were fixed on her with a strange intensity.

“I recognized you, though,” he said. “In the first dream. And the first time we met.”

“Then you are more sensitive than me.”

When they left the restaurant, he put her in a taxi and kissed her, but this time only on the cheek.

Gaynor, meanwhile, had summoned the tatters of her resolution and telephoned Hugh Fairbairn. He seemed less eager to see her than before, which is always the way; possibly he had found another sympathetic female to whom he could pour out his woes. Gaynor knew she ought to be relieved, but she wanted his attention, if only so she could demonstrate to Will her competence at research. “I need your help,” she told Hugh. Not being an adept liar, she continued with a bowdlerized version of the facts. “I have a friend who’s in trouble. I can’t explain everything, but it’s all to do with investment banking. I was hoping you could sort of fill me in.”

“Depends what you want to know. Most of the stuff I deal with is very confidential.”

“Of course, of course,” Gaynor stammered. “But you’re the most important banker I know . . .” This was true enough, she reflected, since he was the only banker she knew.

Hugh mellowed audibly. He was a man who mellowed easily, particularly in response to such stimulants as wine, women, and flattery—even if the flattery was offered in Gaynor’s slightly hesitant manner. After explaining that he would be busy being important for the next week, he suggested lunch on the following Friday at the latest Japanese restaurant in Berkley Square. Gaynor accepted, despite private reservations about raw fish.

She arrived punctually, dressed in black—not clinging, sexy black but the kind worn by widows and orphans, guaranteed to discourage masculine advances. Gaynor favored black, though she suspected it did not suit her: it went with everything, did not show the dirt, and at night it blended effortlessly into the semidarkness of pub or party. One of her worst nightmares was entering a very large room full of people whispering, and realizing she was wearing scarlet. Hugh, however, was uncritical; possibly he could not differentiate between various degrees of black. He wore charcoal, with his hair brushed back from an ascending forehead and a city pallor that sat unnaturally on the face of a country squire. His genes should have made him jolly and easygoing, but the high-stress, dog-eat-man atmosphere of the City had rendered him aggressive, sometimes pompous, and chronically misunderstood. Gaynor found herself thinking that what he really needed was to retire early and live in the country with two or three Labradors who would not fail to understand him whatever he did.

Like most people who claim their work is very confidential, once he started to talk the sluices opened and Gaynor was inundated with information she did not need or want. Apparently, he was a merchant banker, which was something subtly different from an investment banker. It took several vain attempts before she was able to nudge him away from his own field—“I was doing business with Brazil only last week, an expanding timber company—timber is very big out there. Of course, we don’t want to destroy the rainforests, but they have to earn their keep”—into the field next door. (Earn their keep? Gaynor wondered. They’re forests, not inefficient employees.) Investment bankers, as far as she could tell from Hugh’s rather rambling discourse, simply advised their clients on where to invest their money, sometimes, though not always, investing the bank’s own funds as well. They were supposed to be cunning judges of which stocks would provide the biggest dividends, which were the most trendy, whether the market would go up or down, which companies would sink with the ship or swim with the tide. “They’re clever buggers,” Hugh conceded with only moderate enthusiasm. Naturally, he favored his own branch of the profession. “When they get it right, investors can make a mint. When they’re wrong, you’re down a few million. Or more. Look at—”

“What happens to the banker then?” Gaynor interrupted.

“Damages his reputation. Bad for business.”

“But he doesn’t have to pay compensation or anything?”

“Christ, no.”

Realizing she was in danger of being sidetracked, what with the inefficiency of the rainforests and the nonaccountability of senior bankers, Gaynor launched abruptly into the reason for her inquiries. “Do you know someone called Kaspar Walgrim?”

“Lord, yes.” Hugh seemed unable to affirm or deny without a religious qualification. “With Schindler Volpone. Known as Schindler’s Ark ever since they went into the biotech industry. You know: fatter, juicier tomatoes and more of them, fatter, juicier cows, greener leeks, that kind of thing. Now it’s mapping the genome. They do other stuff, but that’s their specialty. Kaspar Walgrim is their biotech wizard: got the lowdown on every top scientist in every company and whether they’re going to come up with a cure for cancer in ten years’ time and designer babies in twenty. Or vice versa. Bit scary if you ask me, but that’s where the money is—miracle medicines and producing a generation of six-foot supermodels with the brains of Einstein. Personally, I like my women a tad shorter and cuddlier.” His grin hovered close to a leer. “What do you think of the black cod?”

“It’s gorgeous.” Gaynor had been agreeably surprised by the fish, some of which was cooked and all delicious.

“Good. Thought you’d like it. Nice to see you again. So how come you’re interested in Wizard Walgrim?”

“Is that what they call him?” Gaynor asked, secretly entertained.

“Got a sixth sense, so they say. Uncanny. He’ll pick out some little company with one laboratory and a couple of postgrads and a year later they’ll be replicating your internal organs or growing a zucchini that eats its own weevils.”

If Luc is Gifted as Fern says, Gaynor speculated, maybe his father is, too. Could you use the Gift for high finance? “What is he like?” she went on. “As a person, I mean.”

“Only met him once. He’s a sort of legend in the City, but not for his personality. Not the flamboyant type, you know. Gray sort of chap, doesn’t show emotion, may not have any. Cast-iron integrity. Wife died a long time ago; no obvious replacement. Must have married very young—probably got the girl pregnant—for he’s not yet fifty and there’s a son of thirty-odd and a fucked-up daughter who spends all her time in rehab with the stars. Doesn’t seem to bother Daddy much: he can afford the bills. Still, you never know. Where does your friend fit in?”

“My friend? Oh yes . . . well—“ Gaynor succumbed to temptation “—I’m afraid it’s frightfully confidential.”

“Come on now. I gave you the goods. Not sporting for you to clam up on me now.”

“Actually,” Gaynor admitted, “my friend knows the son. Lucas . . . Luc . . .”

“Met him, too. Bright boy, so they say. Not like the sister. Supposed to be attractive—couldn’t see it myself. One of those dark, bottled-up types. Hope your ‘friend’ isn’t really you. Like in old whodunits: the lady never says she’s being blackmailed or having an affair; it’s always ‘my friend.’ “

“No,” Gaynor assured him. “I really do have a friend. Well, lots.”

“Not little Fernanda? Shouldn’t have thought a City whiz kid was her cup of tea: she usually goes for mature men in the meedja.”

“It’s not her,” Gaynor said hastily. “The thing is, according to Luc, his father’s mixed up with a woman . . .”

“About time.”

“She’s not very desirable,” Gaynor said, anxious to steer the conversation away from Fern. “At least, she is desirable, if you see what I mean, only not—not as a human being. We think she’s a really bad lot—she could affect his cast-iron integrity.”

“Sons always hate prospective stepmothers,” Hugh said wisely. “Probably fancies her himself. Good for Dad, if you ask me. Van’s seeing someone: did I tell you? Arty type, looks like a poof. Interior designer of some sort. I think she’s trying to show me up. Says he’s a New Man, changes diapers and that. Fine, I said. Let’s start having sex again, have a couple of rug rats and he can do the dirty work. What’s the point of a diaper-changing poof when she refuses to get pregnant?”

Gaynor lapsed into sympathetic mode and concentrated on her sushi.

In the lower branches of the Tree the spider spun its fragile webs, catching the few insects that invaded its airspace, drinking the sap from split stem and torn leaf. As it grew larger it ventured more often to the ground, exploring corners of the conservatory that the builders had not touched, behind stone jars and carved troughs where tropical plants flourished grimly, accustomed to the jungle gloom. There the spider spread its nets, no longer fragile, thickening the shadows. One day it caught a rat.

Morgus found it there on a night of the waning moon when she came to commune with the Tree. She stumbled into a sticky silken rope that tore her dress when she pulled it away, but she was not angered. Seeing the clustered eyes watching her, malevolent as Oedaphor’s and intelligent as an aphid’s, she laughed softly. “So my Tree has acquired a guardian! It is well. It is very well. What have you been eating?” She poked among the plant debris with her foot, dislodging a pile of little white bones. “Mice, perhaps? Too meager a feast for such a prodigy. I will bring you something more substantial.” The next day, she ordered a car and was driven into the nearest town, where she asked to be taken to a pet shop. There she bought an entire litter of pedigreed puppies.

“I want the best,” she told the assistant.

“These are purebred,” the young woman assured her. “Look, aren’t they adorable? Are they for your children?”

“For my—child,” said Morgus.

“They’re not like cats, you know. They have to be properly looked after.”

“They will be taken care of,” Morgus replied.

She paid with plastic, where once she would have had to pay with gold. She had concluded that money in the twenty-first century was at once vitally important and completely meaningless. Rulers mislaid or misspent unimaginable sums, running deficits that outran her comprehension. And even the lowest peasant seemed to borrow and juggle and gamble in ways mysterious to her. She left all such matters to Kaspar, her helper, her counselor—and her slave. His name was on the plastic, but no one queried it.

The puppies cost two hundred pounds apiece.

Later, the spider hunted something that yapped and squealed, until the venom took effect and it was paralyzed into silence.

“When you are hungry, there will be another,” promised Morgus. “Eat well, and grow!”

In her basement spellchamber, she mixed a potion from the sap of the Tree and left a bowl out nightly for the spider to drink.

Upstairs in the kitchen, Grodda watched over the remaining puppies, stroking them and making inarticulate cooing noises, until one by one they were all gone.

Ragginbone stood outside a building site in King’s Cross, reading the graffiti on the barrier walls. Among the usual scribblings of the lewd and crude there were signs that he recognized, or thought he recognized, though some were so ancient he was unsure of their meaning. All were freshly painted in various colors; he had a feeling each color, too, had a unique significance. He wondered who had done it. There were many strange creatures lost in the London crowds: werefolk, spirits in human or semihuman forms, a few of the Gifted who, like Moonspittle, had outlived their time and lingered on, furtive and ineffectual, telling fortunes, weaving petty spells, too old to die. But it did not really matter who was responsible. What mattered was that there could be something on that site which needed protection, or isolation, and there were those who had sensed it, or thought they had sensed it, and had taken the necessary measures. Ragginbone walked around the perimeter for some time before seeking admittance.

“I was hoping to talk to the archaeologists,” he told the guard at the gate. “I am something of an expert myself.”

The man took one look at his eccentric garb and believed him. Ragginbone followed him through the site to an area crisscrossed with trenches where about a dozen people, mostly of student age, bent or squatted over various inscrutable tasks. Both sexes wore jeans, T-shirts, long untidy hair, and, in a couple of cases, designer stubble. The guard called: “Mr. Hunter!” and one of them straightened up, glancing toward the intruders with a preoccupied air. “Visitor for you. Says he’s an expert on this stuff.”

The man murmured an “Okay,” and the guard returned to his post, showing no further interest.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Ragginbone said, “but I was intrigued when I read about your excavation. You seem to think you may have found traces of something very ancient, or so I gathered. The roots of London run deep.”

“What’s your interest?” asked the young man. He had a slight American accent, possibly Californian. “You’re definitely not the press.”

“I am also an archaeologist—of a kind. Purely amateur, I’m afraid. My name is Watchman.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” the young man said. “I’m Dane Hunter. I’m in charge here. Most of my fellow workers are student volunteers. Everyone approves of salvaging our heritage, but no one wants to pay for it. Still, we welcome informed enthusiasts.”

“I was hoping,” said Ragginbone, “that you would inform me.”

The young man was actually not so young, he noticed. Perhaps thirty-five or so. The long off-blond hair, pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, and the jeans-and-T-shirt uniform gave him an air of superficial studenthood, but the planes of his face had hardened and there were faint lines around his eyes and barring his forehead. His mouth was slim and set, its seriousness belied by the more quizzical of the lines; his light tan and the muscles in his forearms indicated an outdoor lifestyle and regular physical exertion. But then, Ragginbone reflected, glancing around the site, much of archaeology did take place alfresco, involving digging with pickaxes or dental probes, exploring caves and graves, grubbing among stones and bones. Dane Hunter looked at once the man of action and the man of thought, though the action was undoubtedly careful and considered, his thought processes probably rather more rapid. Ragginbone noticed how the female volunteers glanced around at his approach and took their time before reverting to the work at hand.

Hunter talked easily about the indications of a building, possibly a temple from the layout, predating the Romans. “We’ve found some fragments of a skeleton or more than one, though they don’t appear to be human. They could point to some kind of sacrifice. There are also a few artifacts: a stone knife, a broken cup or chalice, and some pieces that may have a religious significance. We don’t yet know what religion. There were so many primitive gods around, and we have so few written records of any of them. We think this would have been the altar . . .”

He stopped beside a rather deeper depression, where stone showed beneath the earth. A youth in his late teens was sweeping a brush across a partially exposed surface.

Dane said: “We’re hoping for an inscription. That would at least give us the language, which would be a starting point.” He added, politely: “You said you were an expert. Have you any ideas?”

“Yes,” said Ragginbone, “I have. But I think for the moment I shall keep them to myself. I trust you won’t object if I return from time to time?”

“No,” said Dane, clearly slightly nonplussed. “I don’t object. But—”

“And if you find an inscription,” said Ragginbone, “I should like to see it.”

He did not go straight back to the shop that never opened but made his way instead to Fern’s flat, walking south through the park, taking his time. London flowed past and over him, a river blended of many million lives, many million stories. His tale was just one droplet in the flood, a single strand in a vast embroidery, and somehow it comforted him to think of this, to catch in faces anxious or hopeful, vivid or closed, a glimpse of the wider spectrum of existence. In the country, it had often calmed him to watch the ever-changing sky and think of Keats: “Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,” but here Man, even more than nature, set him in his place in the world. He reflected with the philosophical outlook that comes from great age that if they lost their particular battle, it might matter for a little space, a moment of eternity, but somewhere else, someone would win.

But he knew Fern would not see it that way.

She was home from work when he reached Pimlico. Whether his journey was long or short, fast or slow, he had acquired the knack of arriving at the right time. Maybe it had something to do with the Gift he had lost.

“I haven’t seen you for a week,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

“Walking. Thinking. I visited a building site today. I think you should come and have a look sometime.”

“At a building site? Why?”

“Rescue archaeologists are at work there. They have made certain discoveries, not much yet, but there may be more. My heart tells me this is important.”

“What have they found?”

“Something very ancient,” said Ragginbone. “Maybe a temple. It smells of death. Old death, long gone. But the runes on the outer wall were new, scribbled among the graffiti. That in itself is an indicator. Someone thinks the place is in need of occult protection—or isolation. Death connects with death: it may once have held a link to the dark kingdom, the source of Morgus’s invulnerability. There could be some clue—”

“I have been to the dark kingdom,” said Fern. “Remember? It’s empty now, a waste of vacant caverns, full of ghosts. There were no clues.”

“Nonetheless,” said Ragginbone, “it would be foolish not to check.”

“I’ll check,” said Fern, with a hint of tartness.

Later, they sat down over a salad supper, discussing their researches. “Gaynor rang today,” Fern said. “She got a colleague in Cardiff to e-mail her the photofiles of some manuscripts they have there. Very obscure mythology predating the Mabinogion. Unfortunately, they’re in Welsh, and he forgot to e-mail the translation. She said she’d get back to him, but . . . I can’t really believe we’re going anywhere with all of this. I think . . .”

“Yes?” Ragginbone encouraged. “What do you think?”

“I have this feeling the real answer must be something very simple—something so obvious that we’ve overlooked it. That sounds like a whodunit, I know. Only this is a howdunit, and I’m the murderess, and the crime has yet to be committed.”

“The crime is being committed,” Ragginbone pointed out. “Dana’s soul is imprisoned; her father may well be subject to some kind of mind control. What Morgus is doing at Wrokeby we can only speculate. You said she still dreams of ruling Britain. Her thoughts are limited by her past; she cannot look beyond old ambitions. But that does not limit her power. She could do great harm. Save your conscience for after the deed.”

“I know,” said Fern. “The native hue of resolution gets sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought. And all that. I will try to stop thinking.”

“How do your relations progress with Lucas Walgrim?”

“Relations? We don’t have relations. Just dinner. Sometimes.”

He saw the doubt in her face, the holding back. “What troubles you?”

It was a while before she answered. “I dream about him. He dreams about me. He dreamed long before—of things that touch my life. He dreamed of drowning . . .”

“You said he was Gifted. The Gift may reach out, mind to mind, binding two people together long before they meet.”

“You said the soul returns. That if I truly loved, I might find Rafarl again—someday. I’ve always wondered: when is Someday?”

“Did you truly love? You were still only a child, after all.”

“I don’t know. That’s just it. I don’t know anything. I can’t properly remember his face. Rafarl’s, I mean. He had a tooth missing from his lower jaw: I remember that. So has Luc. Does that mean something?”

He thought she looked suddenly very young and unsophisticated, almost pleading with him, her expression naked.

He said: “We have no answers. Only questions. Maybe there are no answers to find. Some things you have to take on trust. But beware of sentimentality.”

“Thanks,” said Fern, relapsing into a smile. “You have, as usual, given me contradictory lines of advice. Both a warning and an endorsement. There are times when you behave exactly like the best wizards of fiction. It’s a pity you don’t have their power.”

“The greatest fiction is always founded on truth, if not fact. I used to meet a man in a pub in Oxford, many years ago. He was an academic, a scholar of ancient languages. I remember he wanted to create a mythology for Britain. We talked a lot about this and that. He struck me as intelligent and imaginative, a Catholic as I once was. Perhaps that was why I gave him one of my Italian names: Gabbandolfo, Elvincape in English. I believe he was a genius, in his way. His stories have the true magic, the Gift that holds the reader. A story is only another kind of spell.”

“In that case,” said Fern, “you have not lost all your power. That is the best story I’ve heard from you yet. But is it gospel, or apocrypha?”

“It is as real as your tale,” said Ragginbone. “But whether the man learned from me, or even remembered our conversation, that is another matter. He was probably too wise for that.”

“False modesty,” Fern said. “Not a wizardly quality. You haven’t helped, you know—but you’ve given me something to smile about, in the night watches. Whether it’s true or not.”

Ragginbone’s face—an old man’s face, tough as oak and not always entirely human—scrunched into a thousand lines, brightening with unwizardly mischief. “Good,” he said. “Then fact or fancy, it isn’t wasted.”

I visited the prisoner yesterday. Even without the nightmares, his condition had deteriorated. Being only semihuman he can go a long while without nourishment, but since his return I had instructed Grodda to bring him food each evening, and he was daubed in his own filth, his hair hanging over his face, clogged with a thick grease that seemed to be made from a mixture of dust and urine. It was as if his self-disgust required a physical manifestation, the need not merely to loathe his own being but to wallow in that loathing. What little dignity he once assumed was long abandoned. He stank. I mocked him from a distance, savoring his torment, but in truth he was almost too far gone for me to take further pleasure in my revenge. It was the man in him whose suffering I could appreciate, and now he was all beast. Vengeance is satisfying in its completeness, but I had hoped to delay that end a little longer, and play out my games with him, and watch the pain behind his eyes. Last night, I did not want to get that close.

“He has paid the price of betrayal,” I told my friend. I had taken her head out of the jar and stood it in a shallow basin of the preserving fluid, which continued to seep upward from the neck and permeate the whole fruit. Regular periods of immersion were still necessary to stave off decay, but in the basin, she could talk to me.

I am not sure this is an advantage.

“What of your treachery?” she shrilled. “You hold me imprisoned in this state, fruit of the Eternal Tree, prolonging my torment, keeping me from both death and the chance of further life. Find me a body, a vessel to inhabit. You have the power, and such things have been done before. You know the long-lost words spoken from beyond the grave: The damned are not forever lost. That girl you have stolen must be young and strong. Give me her physical being, and let her soul wither, bodiless.”

“I do not have her,” I explained. “Her body lies in a hospital; only her spirit is mine. Still, the idea is interesting. I might find you a body of another kind, say, that of some animal, maybe a pig. That, too, has been done before.”

“Do not taunt me!” she hissed. “Remember: we were as sisters. We shared everything.”

“I had a sister once,” I said, “a blood-sister, Morgun, my twin. We too shared everything. Our first pleasure was in each other’s arms, our spirits were interwoven, our minds had a single bent. But she was wayward and seduced by her own lusts. She gave up the way of witchkind and the pursuit of power for the chimera of love and the forgiveness of men. She turned against me—even me—in search of something she called redemption, and she died in bitterness, and hung on the Tree cursing my name. That is the nature of sisterhood.” The cat Nehemet purred as I spoke, a soft throbbing sound not altogether pleasant to hear, and rubbed her naked flank against my legs.

“I was a different kind of sister,” insisted the head, fear-pale. “I never failed you, or cheated you.”

“Ah, but not for the lack of wishing!” I said, half teasing, seeing in her fear that it was true. I stroked her cheek, still young and full in the first ripeness of the fruit. “Do not trouble yourself, Sysselore my beloved; I will treat you only—always—as you deserve.” I knew she would have flinched from me, if she could, but I would not harm her, not yet. Her company is still sweet to me, for all the sourness of her tongue.

In the kitchen, Grodda was nursing a baby. I had wanted a human child, but these days such things are difficult to obtain. There used to be many babies, wanted and unwanted—the peasants bred like rabbits—but now they have pills to stave off conception, and venomous creams, and sheaths to contain the male secretions, and then women complain that they are barren and go to the doctors as once they went to witches, begging a spell or a philter to fulfill their dreams. The future is a strange place. There are more people but fewer babies, and the infants are so watched and cared for that even the maimed and sick grow to a gibbering adulthood, and are nursed and nannied into age. But Grodda had found a calf, I did not ask where; no doubt some farmer would miss it, even as the mother misses her child. It was twig legged and doe eyed, its soft ears lay back, and it suckled milk from a bottle. It would do, I said. I looped a cord about its neck and led it to the conservatory.

The guardian was waiting, its pale body, shadow mottled, lost among the eerie patterning of moonlight and leaves. The Tree stirred at my approach, rustling, or maybe it was the rustling of crooked limbs uncurling across the floor. I released the calf, and it stood there, emitting the mewling noises that small creatures make when calling for their mothers. Then moonspots and shadows seemed to gather together, bunching into a spring, and the calf was blotted out. It screamed once—a curiously human sound, touching me with pleasure—but the second scream was stifled into a whisper, and then it was silent. There were scrapings and scratchings as something was bundled up and dragged away to be consumed at leisure. Later, from a corner, I heard nibbling and crunching. When I went back in the morning there were only a few of the larger bones and a shell-like fragment of skull, picked clean. I could not even smell the blood.

He was lurking behind some giant pots, in an undergrowth of untended plants. After careful scrutiny I could make out a protrusion shaped like a claw, and a splinter of eye peering through the foliage. I wanted to coax him out, to see how big he had grown—in the dark, it had been impossible to tell—but I sensed the smallness of his mind brooding in the swollen body, a tiny insect mind focused on hunger and survival, and I knew it would be better not to disturb him. I had no fear of him, but I did not wish to have to kill in order to protect myself.

The Tree, too, was growing: its trunk was as thick as my waist, and its spreading leaves darkened the daylight. I walked in its gloom, caressing quivering branches, listening to its whispering voice. And then I found what I had sought for so long, a small green thing like a misshapen crab apple, without flush or feature. Fruit. At that sight, my blood quickened to the Tree’s quickening, my heart beat with its pulse. I touched the rind very gently, though it was firm and hard, willing it to swell and ripen, trying in vain to discern what form it might take. The heads of the dead grew on its Eternal progenitor, but the fruit of my Tree might take almost any shape. My imagination shivered at the possibilities. Already it seemed to me there were lumps on the little globe that could develop into nose and browbone, cheekbones and chin. I must have stood half the morning, watching it, as if I might actually see it grow. No sun penetrated this green cavern, but it came from a dimension without the sun, where day and dark sprang from the will of the Tree, and I knew it would ripen even by night. “Guard it well,” I told the creature in the corner.

Later that day, I brought him a bowl of the potion mixed with tree sap to drink. He was large enough to eat a calf, and quickly, but I wanted him large enough to eat a man. Neither ape nor urchin, Adam nor Eve would steal my fruit from me.

“So what have we learned?” asked Fern. They were having a council of war at her flat in Pimlico. Although it was high summer, rain beat on the window, and she had switched on the artificial fire to ward off the chill. Gas-powered flames leaped and danced around a convincing array of coals; Gaynor, Will, and Ragginbone sat in a semicircle, warming themselves at its glow. Luc had not been invited.

“Nothing and nothing,” Fern went on, answering her own question. “Morgus still looks invulnerable; Dana is still in a coma. We’re going nowhere.”

“Gaynor did well getting the lowdown on Walgrim senior,” Will pointed out. “Anyone with that much integrity is always iffy, particularly a banker. Once you’re above suspicion, you can get away with anything.”

“Get away with anything?” Ragginbone inquired.

“Invent a company. Get people to invest in it. Pocket the money.” Will’s expression quirked into cynicism. “The easiest kind of fraud. And if Morgus has got her claws into him, he won’t be worrying about the future. Magical influence makes your mind furry around the edges. Your sense of self-preservation goes. At least, that was how it felt all those years ago when Alimond summoned me. I should think this would be something similar.”

Ragginbone gave a nod of acquiescence. Gaynor said: “What about the goblins? Have they come up with anything?”

“They don’t investigate,” Fern explained. “They simply watch. Dana is watched, Luc and Kaspar are watched—”

“Luc . . .” Ragginbone murmured, with a swift glance from under lowering eyebrows.

“Even Wrokeby is watched, from a safe distance. A couple of weeks ago, Morgus bought a litter of puppies. I know it seems unlikely, but Skuldunder was very positive. Any suggestions as to why?”

“Maybe she likes dogs,” said Gaynor doubtfully.

“She’s got a cat,” said Fern. “Witches have cats. It’s traditional. She isn’t a doggy person. I could imagine her with a tank full of poisonous octopi, a pet cobra, a tarantula on a golden chain—but not puppies. She would kill anything that slobbered on her skirt.”

“What kind were they?” Will asked.

“Don’t know. Goblins don’t like dogs of any description. Does it matter?”

Will shrugged. “We can’t tell what matters. Maybe you should draw the circle again . . .”

“Too dangerous,” said Ragginbone. “Have you forgotten? Potent magic attracts elementals. The many eyes of Oedaphor would be watching: Morgus has called him up, and he could betray Fern’s whereabouts. We were too quick for him last time, but that would not happen again. We are not yet ready for the big confrontation.”

“Does it have to happen?” Will said. “If Fern can’t defeat her, maybe there’s some other way . . .”

“She’s looking for me,” Fern said. “There were magpies around Dale House. Bradachin tackled the telephone—he thought it was important I should know. He says they were marked in blue, though it didn’t show when you looked at them directly. They’re birds from the Tree, spies for Morgus.”

“Bradachin used the phone?” Ragginbone was distracted. “Goblins hate all technology: they see it as a kind of sinister contemporary magic. He must have thought it was important.”

“He’s exceptional,” Will said shortly.

“I have to face her.” Fern was following her own train of thought. “But not now.”

“What about the Old Spirit?” Gaynor asked diffidently. “Is he involved in all this?”

“Gaynor has a point,” said Ragginbone. “He is always involved. We would do well to keep that in mind. If any of you see or sense him, even in your dreams—especially in your dreams—“ something in Fern’s expression, in her silence, drew his attention; the other two followed his gaze “—share it with us.”

“Haven’t you told him about your dream?” said Will.

“Not yet.” She didn’t like talking about it, having to describe it again: the high office, and Azmordis, and the scritch-scratch of the quill as she signed the document she did not need to read. “It came again last night. It feels more real every time. I know it’s the Dark Tower, like in stories, only it’s modern, a black soaring skyscraper, all glass and steel. I think it’s in a dimension of its own, like the Tree, but not separate: it connects to the City, maybe to all cities. I’m looking for it, so I find it, and I sign in blood, sealing the bargain. Selling my soul, my Gift. My Self.”

“It can’t be a prophecy,” said Will. “It might be a warning.”

“Maybe,” said Ragginbone.

“I thought Azmodel was his place.” Gaynor was frowning. “I don’t understand about the Tower.”

“He has many strongholds,” Ragginbone explained. “Azmodel—the Beautiful Valley—is the most ancient. But the Dark Tower is old, nonetheless. Once it had dungeons and arrow slots, a spiral stair where now there is an elevator and an escalator, a stone chamber instead of a carpeted office. It has fallen and been rebuilt, adapting to history. He moves with Time, growing closer to Men, battening on their weaknesses. Long ago the Tower stood in a barren waste; now, as Fern says, it is in every city. He makes it easy for the great and the good to beat a path to his door.”

“Not Fern,” Will asserted positively. In a rare gesture, he reached for his sister’s hand. “Don’t worry. We know you would never do that.”

“Worry,” said Ragginbone. “Prophecy is a gray area, but the insights of the Gifted are not to be ignored. What are you thinking, when you sign?”

“I don’t really want to,” Fern said instantly. “It’s as if I have no choice. There’s someone in danger—someone I love.”

“That old chestnut,” said Will, and “One of us?” from Gaynor.

Fern shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Will said.

“I remember.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. People can learn from their mistakes. You should learn, too, and not just from dreams.”

“Meaning?” his sister queried.

“The Gifted are always alone. Not just Alimond and Morgus; think of Zohrâne. Even Ragginbone, in his wizardly days. Power isolates. Like Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot. Maybe they had a Gift of a kind: who knows what drove them? The point is, they didn’t have friends, only minions. Henchpersons to do their dirty deeds, courtiers to adore them and listen to their rantings. No one they truly cared for or who cared for them, no one to take them out of their little selves. Their lives were bounded in a walnut shell, and they tried to fit the whole world in there with them. Result: madness.”

“I respect your arguments,” Ragginbone murmured, “but I would like to point out that I at least am not mad.”

“Debatable,” said Will. “Anyway, you lost your power. More important, you gained Lougarry. She may well have saved your sanity.”

“Are you saying,” Fern interjected, “that without you lot I might end up like Zohrâne?”

“Yes,” said Will. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You keep things from us, you distance yourself, you try to ‘protect’ us. That’s incredibly dangerous—for you. I think that’s the principal danger of the Gift. Power plus solitude equals disassociation from reality. Hence arrogance, paranoia, and so on. You told me if Zohrâne became attached to one of her body slaves, she would have him killed. Your friends and family aren’t your weakness: we’re your strength. You have to accept that.”

“And the risk?” said Fern.

“All life is risky. For myself, I believe it’s better for me to die than for you to become a megalomaniac witch queen.”

“Me too,” said Gaynor, before Fern had a chance to ask.

“Wisdom,” Ragginbone remarked, “springs from unlikely sources. Your brother may indeed have pinpointed the true peril of Prospero’s Children.”

“Did they all turn to evil,” Fern asked, “in the end?”

“Let us say that few turned to good.”

“I lose either way, don’t I?” said Fern. “My friends, or my head.”

“The choice isn’t yours to make,” Will retorted. “We’ve chosen. Forget your dream for the moment, and the Old Spirit. We have to deal with Morgus first.”

“If we can,” said Fern. She turned to Gaynor. “Did you get hold of a translation of that Welsh stuff?”

“Mm.”

“And?”

“It was all about Wales.”

They kicked the subject around for a while longer, going nowhere, as Fern had said at the beginning. Yet afterward, she sensed a difference in herself, as if a shadow had been lifted from her mind, a barrier removed. She remembered how alone she had felt when, at sixteen, she first confronted the dark and became aware of her own power. But I am not alone, she thought. I never was. And for all her fears, relinquishing that burden of solitude and ultimate responsibility gave her a new lightness of heart, a different angle on their problems. I will find a way, she concluded. We will find a way.

That night, what dreams she had were beyond recollection, and she was at peace.

The conservatory at Wrokeby was a vast semicircular structure built toward the end of the Victorian age, when wealthy botanists headed into the Himalayas with mules and native porters, returning with the stolen flora of the mountains. Once, it had been the home of majestic gardeners, potted palms, wagging bustles, afternoon tea parties. But its north-facing situation, with the trees crowding close outside, meant that little light could pass through the towering glass walls, and any that did seek admittance was rapidly choked out of existence by the jungle inside. The builders had restored broken panes and replaced roof joists, but they had not tried to penetrate the thickets of plant life within. Now there were new shadows to strangle the intrusive light, woven webs whose weight bent the palms. The spider had grown too big for its surroundings, and the miniature rainforest could no longer contain it. There was no prey for it to snare, no food to sate its growing appetite, save at Morgus’s whim. The tiny brain grappled with its overgrown body, filled with a nebulous rage at an existence that was against all instincts. Somehow, it sensed that there should have been webs to spin which did not snap their supports, juicy flies to eat, haphazard mating rituals. Instead, it was trapped in this shrunken world, hand-fed by a creature who was far from arachnoid in appearance. It stayed close to the Tree, finding it familiar, pining for a Tree that constituted its whole universe, and the safety of sheltering under a single leaf.

Morgus felt its bewilderment and its fury, and was glad.

She came day and night to look at the fruit. On one occasion the spider drew too close, lured by the scent of edible flesh, but a lightning flare scorched its foreleg, and it withdrew. Nehemet hissed at it, secure in the proximity of her mistress. Her fur would have bristled, but she had none, and only the goose bumps along her back betrayed her. “Do not threaten me, little monster,” Morgus admonished. “Am I not the hand that feeds?” She did not give it a second look, turning back to the fruit, examining its colors in the murky daylight, the gradual development of its features. “It is a head,” she told the goblin cat, and her sudden shortening of breath revealed her eagerness. “It is truly a human head. See the uncurling of its ears, the flattening brow, the hollows around the eyes. A head—but whose? Man or woman, living or dead? The skin is growing paler . . . there is the first tuft of raven hair. Whose head is ripening here for me? And why here, and not on its parent Tree? Ah, my kitten, we shall see. Soon, we shall see.”

The head matured swiftly in the world of Time. Its complexion was almost white, the shadow of its brows very black. Its hair grew thick and long, a tangle of dense curls that snagged on neighboring twigs and writhed downward like snakes. Dark lashes lay against its cheek. Morgus gazed at it as into a mirror. “It is my sister,” she said at last. “My blood-sister, my twin. Morgun. But why should she come here to haunt me? I saw her on the Eternal Tree long ago. Her fruit withered, she passed the Gate—I know she passed the Gate—her soul cannot come again. Yet here she is: her eyes will open soon. I must understand. When the moon waxes I will draw the circle again, and question the seeresses and the Old Spirits—even the ghouls who gather in graveyards, looking for ghosts to eat. Someone will tell me the answer, if I have to interrogate the Powers themselves! The life of the Tree runs in my veins, and I flow in the sap of its sapling, so it responds to my thought and my need. But why Morgun? I have hardly thought of her in a thousand years. I had hoped it would give me the head of my erstwhile pupil, to show me the way to revenge. It is long overdue. But . . . Morgun? Why Morgun?”

The cat arched its spine; a flicker of static ran across its bare skin, visible as a leaping spark, but Morgus did not see it.

It was evening now, and together they stepped out into the sunset, watching the sky kindled to gold behind Farsee Hill, where the silhouette of blasted trees rose up like finger bones. The golden light reached even to the west lawn, long unshaven, stretching the shadow of a veteran oak across the grass. The witch and the cat swam in the light, gilded phantoms of the fading day, until the sun vanished, and the slow dusk crept out of the woods, and the house, purged of its past, stood like an unoccupied tomb, filled with an uneasy expectancy.

The owl followed close on the dark, cruising on motionless wings. Morgus extended her arm, and it alighted there, speaking in soft owl noises. “So she has not been there,” Morgus said. “I dared not hope for it. But keep watch. She must come out from under her stone sooner or later. Meanwhile, Grodda will give you your reward.”

The owl sped toward the kitchen windows, and Morgus went back into the house. The cat stayed outside for a while, until the moon rose and an owl-shaped shadow skimmed across its face, flying back to the north.

A couple of days later Ragginbone returned to the site in King’s Cross with Fern in his swath. He was amused to note the altered manner of the guard on the gate, taking her, perhaps, for a student to Ragginbone’s professor, elevating him from eccentric to academic. She had come straight from work and was dressed accordingly in soft pale gray trousers and collarless jacket, looking elegant and out-of-place as she picked her way across the excavations, followed by admiring glances from the guard and a lingering builder. Beside the bejeaned volunteers she seemed to be a different species, sophisticated and unnatural. Dane Hunter, climbing out of a ditch to greet Ragginbone, surveyed her without enthusiasm. “Your granddaughter?” he hazarded.

“My friend. Fern Capel. Fern, this is Dane Hunter.” They shook hands formally, hers white and well-manicured, his rough and dry from grubbing in soil and brick dust, with dirt under the nails.

He said: “You don’t look like an archaeologist.”

“I’m not. I work in PR. Mr. Watchman—“ she shot Ragginbone a malicious look “—thought you might need some.”

“It’s an idea,” said Ragginbone, fielding the ball. “You could do with backers. I know Fernanda feels she spends too much time promoting products and not enough promoting causes.”

Dane said: “I doubt if we could afford you.”

“Her services would come gratis,” Ragginbone assured him, ignoring Fern’s steely glare. “Her gesture to posterity.”

“Really.” Dane looked skeptical, Fern irritated by them both. Then her mood changed. They were bending over a stone now fully exposed, his candidate for the altar. Fern, letting her witch senses take over, caught the long-lost scent of blood, the shadow of ancient death—a shadow that could be felt but not seen, lurking in the crevices and at the roots of walls now all but razed. She laid a hand on the bare surface, touching the deep pulse of the earth. Her eyes closed.

“You’re a psychic?” Dane inquired, conscientiously polite.

Fern opened her eyes again. “Not exactly,” she said, at her most matter-of-fact. “I’m a witch.”

“In PR?”

“Absolutely. I sell largely useless products to people who don’t need them. That takes witchcraft.”

Dane, taken by surprise, relaxed into a smile. “Are you really interested in archaeology?”

“Isn’t everyone?” She glanced down at the stone again. “I think it’s the wrong way up. Fallen forward, maybe, or deliberately overturned. Christians vandalizing a pagan temple—a rival sect—whatever. There is an inscription underneath.”

“You know, do you?”

She nodded, ignoring sarcasm. “It’s in a language you won’t recognize. It says . . .” she hesitated “—Uval haadé. Uval néan-charne. I’ll write it down for you if you like.” He did not seem to like, but she searched in her bag for pen and paper. She wrote down the words in block capitals on the back of a business card.

“And—er—what does it mean?” Dane asked. The smile had gone and his courtesy was wearing thin.

“The Gate of Death. Well, not Gate . . . Portal is better. Uval means that which opens. The Portal of Death, the Portal to the Abyss. I know you don’t believe me, but this isn’t a spiel. I’m not mad, either.”

“You look sane, and rather decorative, but appearances can be misleading.”

“No doubt.” She looked him up and down, as if criticizing his soil-stained garb and student-length hair. “Dig. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?” And, turning to Ragginbone: “There’s nothing more here. We may as well go.”

Hostile female eyes watched as she made her way back across the site to the exit. Dane Hunter turned the card over, scrutinizing it thoughtfully. His fingers left smudge marks on the white surface. Of course, she had been talking rubbish; that air of cool confidence was just a part of her professional artifice. He thrust the card into the back pocket of his jeans and returned to his work.

Fern summoned a further meeting at her flat on the following Tuesday. This time, she brought Luc. “This is Lucas Walgrim,” she told the others. “He has to join us now. We need him. Luc, this is my brother, Will—Gaynor Mobberley—and a shady friend of ours whom we usually call Ragginbone. Mr. Watchman, if you want to be polite.”

Luc nodded curtly and, after a moment’s hesitation, shook Gaynor’s extended hand. “I’m sorry about your sister,” she said. “We’ve all been through it, with Fern. We know how awful it is.”

“Have a drink,” said Will, offering the contents of Fern’s cabinet with vicarious generosity. “Just why do we need him, sis?”

“Don’t call me sis.” Absently, she poured herself a large G and T, but did not drink it. “I’ve got a plan.”

“Is it a good plan?” asked Ragginbone, watching her expression.

“No,” said Fern baldly. “But we can’t go on waiting, doing nothing, and it’s the best I can come up with.”

“You’ve figured out a way to kill Morgus?” asked Will.

“Nope.” Fern never said nope. “But we have to save Dana, and I want a look around Wrokeby. A chance to find out exactly what Morgus is up to. If I can’t kill her, I need to get her out of the way. A diversion. Only it’s going to be dangerous.”

“You’re always dabbling in danger,” said Will. “There are times when I suspect you like it, in some deep-buried vein of your soul.”

“It won’t be dangerous for me,” Fern said unhappily. “If we do this, you’re going to have to stage the diversion. You’ll be the ones in danger. You’ll have to face Morgus—on your own.”

For a minute, there was absolute silence. The screaming of a police siren somewhere nearby cut in sharply; inside the flat it seemed that nobody breathed.

“You wanted to be a team,” said Fern. She looked very pale, even for her. “Welcome to the major league.”

At last, they spoke. Will said: “Finally.”

Gaynor murmured, “Shit,” which was out of character.

Ragginbone contented himself with one of those glowing looks from beneath the overhang of his eyebrows.

Luc demanded: “Does that include me?”

“Not this time. You’re coming with me—to Wrokeby. We need a fast car, and you’re a banker. You’ve got a Porsche or two.”

“Porsche and classic Jag,” said Luc. “But I think I can do better than that. I’ve got a bike as well.”

“A Harley?” Will was distracted.

“I’m scared of bikes,” Fern said.

“Good,” said Ragginbone. “That way we get to share the fear around. You’ll need Lucas at Wrokeby: as her close kin, he could be the only one who can restore Dana to herself. Even if her spirit is released, without the Gift she may be unable to find her own way back.”

“Can you tell me what to do?” asked Luc.

“Later. Tell us your plan, Fernanda.”

She told them.

“You were right,” said Ragginbone. “It isn’t a good plan. But it will have to do. Were you thinking of drawing the circle here?”

“You know the room’s not big enough, and the vibes are wrong. We’ll have to use the basement again.”

“Moonspittle won’t like it,” Ragginbone said. “Whatever you offer him won’t be enough.”

“You’ll have to twist his arm. You’ve done it before. The point is, will it work?”

“Sorcery always attracts attention,” the Watcher conceded. “The elementals are certain to be still around, and the eyes of Oedaphor miss little. Once she’s found you, there’s no doubt that Morgus will come. Whether we can divert her for long enough . . . well, that is a matter for us. But creeping around a witch’s lair in her absence is hardly a safe option.”

“I’ll walk on tiptoe,” Fern said. “And I’ll put spells of protection around you, especially Gaynor. I’m sorry, but you’re the weakest, and my friend; she’s bound to target you. She already thinks you’re a reincarnation of Guinevere.”

“Maybe I could use that,” Gaynor heard herself saying, surprised to find her voice unshaken. “I know all the legends.”

“Legends only tell you what’s legendary,” Ragginbone said. “We don’t know the truth, or what memories we might reawaken. That could be the most dangerous game of all.”

“It’s worth a try,” Gaynor insisted valiantly.

“Definitely not,” said Fern. “Just keep her talking for a while. When she gets angry, tell her where I’ve gone. That’ll make her so mad she should forget about you immediately. Broomsticks are out this year: she’ll have to get back to Wrokeby by car. With luck, we’ll be away before then.”

“You are relying too much on luck,” said Ragginbone.

“You mean we’re relying on it,” said Will. “You’ll be in the firing line, too. No more simply the observer.”

Ragginbone made no answer, and his eyes were hooded.

“Are we agreed?” asked Fern.

The response came in nods and whispers.

“When do we do it?” Gaynor inquired tentatively.

“Friday,” said Fern. “I won’t wait for the moon; I don’t want to run the risk of the circles intersecting again. Morgus will have to get to London by some normal means of transport, probably a car. That’s vital for the time factor.” She did not add: I don’t want to leave myself leisure to think. There was a darkness in her head that might have been mere dread or genuine premonition, but now that she had told the others of the plan—now that she had their agreement—she knew there was no going back. She glanced at Luc’s face: the geometry of his bones, the straight bar of his brow, the clamped mouth. He would be with her. On some instinctive level, he believed in her—in her power, in her ability to help. Suddenly, it mattered to Fern very much that he did not see her fear or fail. Whoever he was.

“We’ll be lucky,” she said.

In her gut, she thought her luck had run out.