heads slowly. “It is too late, Malcolm. You have been a part of this a long, long time now. Would you like to hear how we—”
But Malcolm had stepped back inside, and the kitchen door shut firmly in their faces.
“—prepared the meal?” whispered the imps.
At Faerie Hill Manor Silvius sat by the dying fire in the drawing room, sipping a last glass of whisky, staring unseeing at the coals.
Jack. It was so good to have him home.
Silvius’ mouth gave a quirk of amusement. And so unsettling. He wondered, idly, how long it would take for the oh-so-carefully-constructed veneer of harmony which existed between all the players of the Troy Game to crack apart under the strain of Jack’s presence.
Almost in answer to his thought Silvius heard the door open. He tipped his head slightly, to see who it was.
Weyland, in dressing gown and slippers, and looking as if he’d discovered Catling in his bed by the glower on his face.
He poured himself a whisky then sat in the chair opposite Silvius. “She’s gone to him,” he said, then swallowed the whisky down.
“You couldn’t have expected anything less,” Silvius said, earning himself a further glower from Weyland.
Silvius got up and refilled both their glasses, making a note to himself to bring a couple of good bottles of whisky next time he came to Faerie Hill Manor to replace what he and Weyland were undoubtedly going to get through tonight.
“But surely you trust her,” Silvius said, handing Weyland his whisky and sitting back down. “Weyland…she loves you.”
Weyland gave a shrug.
Silvius didn’t respond for a while, spending the time studying Weyland. Over the past several decades they’d gradually become good friends—apart from Noah, Silvius was Weyland’s only real friend.
“Weyland, she does love you.”
Weyland sighed. “Once I would not have worried. She turned her back on Jack three hundred years ago. But now…”
Now Weyland and Noah had drifted apart. Not much, just a little, but Silvius knew that that “little” ate at Weyland’s confidence.
“What will you do?” Silvius said.
“I don’t know,” Weyland said, but there was something in his face, something in the edge to his voice, that made Silvius wonder if Weyland knew very well what he was going to do.
Upstairs, Grace lay in her bed. She was not asleep, nor had she slept all night.
She could not sleep.
This was not merely due to the shock of what she’d seen earlier, hovering over London, but because of the young woman— Catling —who sat in a chair in the shadows of the room, staring unblinkingly at Grace in her bed, her hands clasped softly in her lap.
Catling had come to sit by Grace’s bed at night a long time ago, ever since Grace was a toddler.
And, as Grace had grown, so also had Catling grown, so that now Catling resembled a young, beautiful woman with long black hair framing her porcelain skin and dark blue eyes.
Beautiful as it might have been, that face radiated nothing but coldness.
“Leave me be,” Grace whispered as, somewhere deep within the Faerie, the Caroller sang in thedawn. “Have you not made me suffer enough this past night? Why sit here now, and torment me?”
Catling stared at her, her eyes wide, as if she thought to affect innocence.
Grace began to cry, silently. Go away, she mouthed and, eventually, as the inhabitants of Faerie Hill Manor started to rise for the day, Catling rose then vanished.
S EVEN
Faerie Hill Manor
Sunday, 3 rd September 1939
“ L ook,” said Jack as he spooned some scrambled egg onto his plate, then moved along the buffet to the toast and slid four slices next to the egg, “I can’t say or do anything until I’ve looked about London. I need to know for myself what is happening with the Troy Game.”
He hesitated over the bacon, then forked several slices of that onto the plate as well. Then he looked back to the table. Everyone he’d met the previous night, except George VI, was already seated and
But Malcolm had stepped back inside, and the kitchen door shut firmly in their faces.
“—prepared the meal?” whispered the imps.
At Faerie Hill Manor Silvius sat by the dying fire in the drawing room, sipping a last glass of whisky, staring unseeing at the coals.
Jack. It was so good to have him home.
Silvius’ mouth gave a quirk of amusement. And so unsettling. He wondered, idly, how long it would take for the oh-so-carefully-constructed veneer of harmony which existed between all the players of the Troy Game to crack apart under the strain of Jack’s presence.
Almost in answer to his thought Silvius heard the door open. He tipped his head slightly, to see who it was.
Weyland, in dressing gown and slippers, and looking as if he’d discovered Catling in his bed by the glower on his face.
He poured himself a whisky then sat in the chair opposite Silvius. “She’s gone to him,” he said, then swallowed the whisky down.
“You couldn’t have expected anything less,” Silvius said, earning himself a further glower from Weyland.
Silvius got up and refilled both their glasses, making a note to himself to bring a couple of good bottles of whisky next time he came to Faerie Hill Manor to replace what he and Weyland were undoubtedly going to get through tonight.
“But surely you trust her,” Silvius said, handing Weyland his whisky and sitting back down. “Weyland…she loves you.”
Weyland gave a shrug.
Silvius didn’t respond for a while, spending the time studying Weyland. Over the past several decades they’d gradually become good friends—apart from Noah, Silvius was Weyland’s only real friend.
“Weyland, she does love you.”
Weyland sighed. “Once I would not have worried. She turned her back on Jack three hundred years ago. But now…”
Now Weyland and Noah had drifted apart. Not much, just a little, but Silvius knew that that “little” ate at Weyland’s confidence.
“What will you do?” Silvius said.
“I don’t know,” Weyland said, but there was something in his face, something in the edge to his voice, that made Silvius wonder if Weyland knew very well what he was going to do.
Upstairs, Grace lay in her bed. She was not asleep, nor had she slept all night.
She could not sleep.
This was not merely due to the shock of what she’d seen earlier, hovering over London, but because of the young woman— Catling —who sat in a chair in the shadows of the room, staring unblinkingly at Grace in her bed, her hands clasped softly in her lap.
Catling had come to sit by Grace’s bed at night a long time ago, ever since Grace was a toddler.
And, as Grace had grown, so also had Catling grown, so that now Catling resembled a young, beautiful woman with long black hair framing her porcelain skin and dark blue eyes.
Beautiful as it might have been, that face radiated nothing but coldness.
“Leave me be,” Grace whispered as, somewhere deep within the Faerie, the Caroller sang in thedawn. “Have you not made me suffer enough this past night? Why sit here now, and torment me?”
Catling stared at her, her eyes wide, as if she thought to affect innocence.
Grace began to cry, silently. Go away, she mouthed and, eventually, as the inhabitants of Faerie Hill Manor started to rise for the day, Catling rose then vanished.
S EVEN
Faerie Hill Manor
Sunday, 3 rd September 1939
“ L ook,” said Jack as he spooned some scrambled egg onto his plate, then moved along the buffet to the toast and slid four slices next to the egg, “I can’t say or do anything until I’ve looked about London. I need to know for myself what is happening with the Troy Game.”
He hesitated over the bacon, then forked several slices of that onto the plate as well. Then he looked back to the table. Everyone he’d met the previous night, except George VI, was already seated and
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