Idol Lane and Earl’s Court Station, London

Weyland stood, staring at Noah in that strange reserved manner he had when he was at his most wary.

“I have arranged the driver and carriage to meet you on Thames Street,” he said. “As you asked.”

She smiled, briefly putting the palm of her hand against his cheek. “Then I do thank you, Weyland.”

“Brutus—”

“He will know. He won’t act.”

“Are you sure?”

She paused, and Weyland could see that she was not sure at all. “I will come with you,” he said.

“No, Weyland. I can only do this by myself. The band will remain hidden if it senses you nearby.”

Weyland repressed every natural instinct he had to insist that he accompany her. He took a deep breath.

“Very well,” he said. “Gods, Noah—”

“I will come home, Weyland. Trust me.”

The frightening thing was, he thought, that it was too easy to trust her. Too easy to believe in her.

Too easy to love her, and risk all.

Weyland gave a weak smile, and she leaned forward and kissed him. “I will bring back the band, Weyland…and I will not bring Theseus with it.”

At that Weyland felt so weak with fear, with sheer vulnerability, that he actually felt physically nauseated. Noah knew too many of his weaknesses. She knew what horror it had been for him to see Ariadne leading Theseus by the hand into the heart of the labyrinth, and knew that the horror had not so much been fear, but that soul-destroying knowledge of treachery by someone he had loved without reason.

She kissed him again, briefly, and then she was gone, leaving Weyland standing at the head of the stairs, staring after her.

The carriage and driver were waiting at the junction of Idol Lane and Thames Street as Weyland had promised. Noah spoke softly to the driver, waited for his nod, then allowed him to settle her into the carriage.

The driver climbed to his seat, picked up reins and whip, and clucked the pair of bay mares into motion, and they were off.

They drove west along Thames Street, worked their way to Fleet Street, then to the Strand which they followed to Charing Cross. From there, they turned right up Haymarket Street and then west along Piccadilly and Portugal Street into the open countryside. Fields and orchards, covered with a dusting of snow, stretched on either side; the market gardens of Earl’s Court, where they were headed, were sure to be smothered in either slush or mud.

But as they drove, a change came over the countryside and, indeed, in the vehicle in which Noah travelled. The sound of the horses’ hooves faded, as also did the dark-cloaked figure of the driver. The carriage grew a roof, where before it had none, and its motion changed from rolling and rocking to a far smoother action.

Noah was riding in one of those strange black machines she had seen on several occasions in her previous life, when she had moved the bands for the first time. She tensed, unhappy with the strangeness of the vehicle, but knowing it had to be endured.

The countryside closed in. Tall, dirty, stuccoed buildings rose to either side, shutting out any view of what fields may have been left behind them. People in strange clothing bustled along footpaths, while about Noah rushed many similar vehicles to the one in which she was trapped.

She leaned forward on her seat, and opened the small glass window between her and her driver, who didn’t seem in the least perturbed to be in control of a conveyance far different to the one he had started driving.

As he heard the window slide open, the driver turned his head slightly, and, with a jolt of surprise, Noah saw that he’d turned into one of the grey wraiths of St Dunstan’s bone house.

“Madam?” he said.

“Turn left down Earl’s Court Road,” she said, “and drop me off at the station.”

He nodded, and Noah sat back, slightly fascinated, despite her initial uneasiness, by the style of housing along the roads down which they drove. So substantial, such big windows and porticoed entrances, so…staid.

And the roads. Noah was used to the crowded streets of London, but never had she seen traffic move so fast. She remembered the time in her previous life when she’d had to cross to Gospel Oak station, and had frozen in the middle of the road, terrified by the traffic.

Fortunately, the driver pulled up at the footpath right by Earl’s Court station (apparently breaking some kind of honour code as he did so, for several of the black monsters blared screeching horns at him as he turned about in front of them), and Noah was spared another crossing.

“Wait for me,” she said to him as she climbed out of the vehicle (making several attempts before she worked out how the door opened), straightened, and with no apparent hesitation, walked into the gaping entrance of Earl’s Court underground station.

There was a low-ceilinged vestibule, then the station opened out into a large concourse which overlooked the railway platforms themselves. To her right there were five windows at which people queued; directly in front of her were stairs leading down to the platforms; and to her left was a teahouse.

There were several small tables set out here, and at one of them sat a very tall man dressed in a tightly belted coat and with a soft hat pulled well down over his eyes.

Before him, on the table, stood a steaming cup of tea.

Noah drew in a deep breath, steadying herself, then walked over to the table.

It looked as if the man was asleep, and Noah stretched down a careful, silent hand, reaching for the cup and saucer.

The man—the Sidlesaghe—raised his face to her, his eyes large and mournful.

“What do you, Eaving? Why take the golden band of Troy now?”

Her hand closed about the saucer, and it shifted fractionally towards her.

The Sidlesaghe put his large, long-fingered hand over her wrist, and the cup and saucer slid to a halt. “Eaving—”

“Friend,” Noah said softly, “release the band to me, please.”

“Eaving, we fear what you do.”

“I will shelter it,” she said. “I promise this.”

Reluctantly the Sidlesaghe lifted his hand, and Noah slid the cup and saucer towards her, then lifted them into her hands.

Instantly they transformed into one of the heavy golden bands of Troy, emblazoned about its outer diameter with the icon of the stylised labyrinth with the spinning crown above it.

Noah gave the Sidlesaghe a nod, and then she was gone.

The journey back to Idol Lane was precisely the reverse of her journey through time and space to Earl’s Court. The wraith was waiting for her in his vehicle at the kerbside—he leapt out to open the back door for Noah so she could sit inside.

The wraith set the black vehicle in motion and drove northwards to Kensington Road where he turned right and headed back into the city.

As they drove so the dirty, stuccoed buildings faded away and the winter fields appeared once more. At the junction of Portugal Street and Piccadilly, the townhouses of outer London began to appear. As the outer transformation took place, so also did that of the vehicle in which Noah travelled. The horses reappeared, the roof and confining walls of the black monster slid away, and Noah was left, grateful, to sit in the open carriage in the cold sharp sunlight of a winter’s day.

All the while she kept close hold of the band.

All the while she kept shut out, as much as she could, the soft cries of Louis that prodded at her mind from his magical journey through the Ringwalk.

Why, Noah? Why? Why? Why?

“Because I choose,” she whispered.

Noah opened the front door, and looked up the

flight of stairs.

Weyland was still standing at their head, as if he had not moved the entire time she’d been gone.

“Jane?” Noah said softly.

“Gone to market,” Weyland replied. “Noah—”

“I have it,” she said, and held it forth.

Weyland visibly sagged, and Noah realised how tense he’d been. She walked up the stairs, faced him, and held it out so he could see.

Weyland swallowed, then reached out a hand and touched it.

The instant his fingers made contact with the metal he sprang back, with a soft exclamation.

“What is it?” Noah said.

“It bit me!” Weyland said, looking between the golden band and the tips of his fingers, which were reddened and slightly swollen.

“Then I shall have to keep it safe,” she said, “if it will not allow you to touch it.”

“Noah—”

“I will shelter it, Weyland.”

“And when I ask for it?”

“Then I shall bring it forth, and we can see again if the band shall allow you to handle it. It will not go far. Trust me.”

Weyland opened his mouth to say something, but just then the front door opened, and before either he or Noah could react, Jane entered, looked up the stairs, and gave an audible gasp of horror. “Noah! What have you done?”

Noah sent a quick, hard look at Weyland—let me speak with her, Weyland, I beg you—and then she was running lightly down the stairs, one hand clutching the band, the other held out in appeal to Jane.

But Jane did not see. She slammed the front door closed and marched through the parlour into the kitchen.

“Jane…” Breathless—and that through shock rather than through exertion—Noah stood in the doorway between kitchen and parlour, watching Jane as she thumped goods out of her basket onto the table.

“I cannot believe what you have done!” Jane said.

Noah took a step into the room. “Jane—”

“You are giving Weyland the bands of Troy? You are giving them to him?”

“No,” said Noah. “I am taking them into my own hands.”

“Ha!” said Jane.

“I am no longer willing to allow the Troy Game to dictate what happens, Jane. The bands are too valuable to lie about various places.”

Jane stopped what she was doing and stared at Noah. “Has the power of the labyrinth gone to your head, Noah? Have you lost what little wits you possessed? I saw you! Standing there, holding out one of the bands to Weyland! How many of the other bands does he have? How many betrayals have you managed before I saw that particular little touching scene?”

“Jane—”

“What have you done, Noah?”

“For all the gods’ sakes, Jane, it is not what it seems!”

“No? Then explain it to me.”

“I—”

Noah got no further, for at that moment Weyland appeared behind her, and, sliding his arms about her waist, drew her close back against him.

Noah winced and closed her eyes, as if she could not believe Weyland’s actions. Not now, Weyland, not now…

“Noah and I have become…close,” said Weyland. He was sick of pretending. Moreover, some part of him felt that if he pushed, then he would discover sooner rather than later if he had left himself critically open to betrayal.

Jane was staring at the pair before her as if she could not believe this further development, either.

“You have been sleeping with him,” Jane whispered. “You lied to me.”

Before Noah could stop him, one of Weyland’s hands had cupped her slightly rounded belly. “She’s carrying my child, Jane,” he said. “A real child. Not an imp.”

Jane gaped, her face white.

“Jane,” Noah said, wriggling out of Weyland’s grasp. “Please, I need you to trust in what I am—”

“Trust?” Jane said. “Trust? Wait until Brutus hears what—”

“Jane!” Noah’s voice snapped out the distance between them. “Jane, I beg you…” Keep silent about this, Jane. Please!

“Why?” Jane said, very softly. She’d caught the unspoken words.

“Jane, I need you to keep this secret for me.” I need you to keep all my secrets, and tell no one.

Jane glanced at Weyland. He was looking between them, but Noah was using her powers as Eaving to send her thoughts, and Jane was fairly sure Weyland could not catch them. You want me to keep silent about the fact you are handing Weyland the bands, and carrying his child? You have lost all your wits, indeed.

“Please, Jane,” Noah said. Keep this secret for me.

“Why, Noah?”

“Because I ask it, Jane, and because…”

“Yes?”

“Because, Jane, as a favour to me, Weyland shall grant you your freedom when I have completed my training as Mistress of the Labyrinth. He will have no further need of you, then. He will let you go.”

“I will?” Weyland said.

“A bribe?” said Jane. “How tasty.”

Noah inclined her head very slightly Weyland’s way. She didn’t look directly at him, but somehow the movement conveyed such emotion, and such appeal, that she might as well have thrown herself to her knees.

“Do this for me, Weyland, and for our daughter,” she said, low. “Promise that you will grant Jane her freedom once I have attained full powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth. Why not? What need shall you have of her, then? Grant me this boon, Weyland, I pray you.”

Weyland looked at her, a look of such hopelessness passing over his face as he did so that Jane was momentarily stunned, then he looked at Jane.

“Very well,” he said. “Your freedom, Jane, once Noah ceases to need you.”

Jane didn’t know what to do or say. She’d never dared to even consider the notion of freedom because she had been certain, all this life, that Weyland would eventually kill her once he’d done with her.

All the time she’d been learning the Ancient Carol in the Realm of the Faerie, she’d feared that Weyland would murder her before she could escape entirely into the Faerie.

Could she trust his promise now? Freedom?

Gods, freedom…Jane suddenly wanted it so badly she felt it as an ache in her belly.

But was freedom worth what Noah asked her to do?

She wanted Jane to keep her secrets. And what secrets…and kept from so many people. Hide from all—save the Lord of the Faerie, at least he knew this—that it was Ariadne who taught Noah, not Jane. Hide the fact that Noah was Ariadne’s blood daughter-heir. Hide the fact that Asterion was her forefather. Hide the fact that Noah was a Darkwitch bred and born. Hide from the Lord of the Faerie and from Louis, as all their allies, that Noah was handing the bands to Weyland. Hide from the Lord of the Faerie and from Louis the fact that Noah was pregnant with Weyland’s child. If and when any of these people found out what secrets she had been keeping…gods, she would be dead.

But, by the gods, what she would achieve if she succeeded.

Freedom.

Freedom to do as she wished.

Freedom to be what she wanted, where she wanted. Freedom from the Troy Game and all it meant.

Freedom to stand behind the throne on the summit of The Naked, to carol in the dawn and the dusk.

Freedom to stand and watch the Lord of the Faerie as he lifted his eyes to hers, and smiled.

She swallowed, looked at Weyland, then nodded at Noah. “Very well,” she said, “I will do it.”

Weyland smiled, but Noah didn’t, and, looking at her, Jane realised that she knew the risks Jane was taking.

“Thank you,” Noah said, and Jane looked away, not knowing if that “thank you” was enough.