Page 17 of Tomb of Ancients
I recited the bit of Mother’s speech that I remembered and stumbled upon my own memories as I did so. “It all sounds rather like what Mrs. Haylam does with her shadow binding, making a man of shadow, or preserving a person that way. Chijioke could bind an entire human soul in a small bird! Could it be similar magic?”
“This only makes me surer that I should write to Chijioke at once,” Mary said, standing. “Could you assist me with that, Dalton?”
“Fathom can give you Wings, our owl. He’s much faster than the post.”
With that, Mary gave us all a quick, shy smile and dodged out of the room. I had no doubt she was very eager to write to Chijioke and have him receive the letter with magical haste.
“And I think you may be on to something, Louisa,” Dalton added, joining us near the spider. His tea smelled rich withbergamot and lavender, and the scent made my stomach growl. “It will be difficult to find anyone with even a fraction of Mrs. Haylam’s power in the city, but I may know someone across town. We need to gather horses at St. Albans anyway, and it will be along the way. Hello, what’s this, then?”
He had taken the little square of parchment from me with the scribbled notes. Flipping it over, he found the letter I had taken ages ago from Henry, meant for the bookshop that had procured Bennu’s journals. I had promised to deliver it when I reached London and never bothered to out of spite.
“This will be a spot of help,” he said, running his thumb over the address. “It’s been quite some time since I chatted with a shadow binder, but the chaps at Cadwallader’s are the perfect place to start.”
We made an odd sight, I’m sure, Mary and I in borrowed, old frocks that would not have looked out of place on a Covent Garden stage. Khent had also borrowed something suitable from Dalton, though luckily he could disguise the ill-fitting clothes with a heavy black shawled jacket, perfect for the persistent rain. Dalton hid under a hood, and Fathom weathered the wet in a sturdy leather coat that seemed fit for crossing the North Atlantic.
And, of course, Mab.Mother.
Now that my memories of her had returned, it felt uncivil to leave her behind in the safe house cellar, and so she accompaniedus in her cage to Cadwallader’s, which was not far, a short carriage ride to Greenwich, a stone’s throw from the great, glass-domed Royal Observatory. The streets were all but empty as the rain poured down, but even with more threatening clouds hanging overhead, pockets of the shepherd’s followers haunted corners, huddling under overhangs with their white clothes sodden and dripping. I could feel each of us in the carriage flinch whenever we passed another cluster of white chanters.
“Is it just me or are there many more of them today?” I whispered.
“We must be careful,” Dalton told us as the carriage rocked from side to side. We had hired out a cab instead of taking the more conspicuous carriage with magicked white horses. “Cadwallader’s is safe for us, but when we move along the streets, there will be eyes everywhere.”
I pressed one knuckle to my lips, ducking down from the window. “Perhaps we should simply press on to Coldthistle.”
“Wings will return soon with word,” Dalton assured me, his face shadowed by his hood. “I should like to know the state of things there before charging in. Regardless, if we can truly free Mother and return her to power, having another ancient one on our side would be prudent. Sparrow will not be the last of our troubles.”
“Ourtroubles,” Mary corrected him, gesturing to herself, Khent, and me. “You’re one of the Upworlders. Why should you worry?”
It needn’t be said, I knew perfectly well that she wanted to return to Coldthistle and see with her own eyes that Chijioke and Poppy were safe.
“Why?Because we harbored you. Because I turned my back on the shepherd long ago. Because I did nothing to help Sparrow. Because I assist you still. The road to Coldthistle will be dangerous, and Mother could make our chances substantially better.”
“Peace,” I said softly, feeling the uncomfortable, fitful beginnings of a headache, one that I could easily attribute to Father. He relished this discontent, no doubt wishing I would tear Dalton to shreds then and there for his heritage. “Let us not argue. We will do what we can to help Mother and decide how to proceed when Wings returns.”
But Dalton noticed me pinching and massaging my forehead. I had not made an attempt to hide my agitation.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“For now. The sooner we are away from those chanters, the better. I do not trust myself—Father—around them.”
I had said nothing to anyone about Father’s rising desire for blood, yet Dalton watched me closely. Studied me. I tried to give him a consoling smile, but even I knew it was thin and unconvincing. Any moment of peril might unleash Father again, and I said a silent prayer to whoever was listening that the afternoon would go forward smoothly.
The carriage rolled to a stop. Fathom went first, inspectingthe alleyway for anything suspicious, but there was nothing. We paid the driver and ducked one by one under a low canvas awning. The streets ran with sludgy water, the scent of worms and urine making my stomach turn. Above us, the dome of the Observatory shimmered, slick and green as a washed onion. Dalton led us down a long, narrow passage of black stones, away from the Observatory, and into a kind of indoor market. The stalls were largely empty, wisped in cobwebs, caught raindrops winking in the light of lanterns. Gradually, the stalls became utterly decrepit, then off-puttingly so. It occurred to me that nobody would willingly walk this far down into the market, fearing ambush from thieves or worse.
At last we reached an unremarkable door, its knob dingy and rusted. The distinct chatter of mice could be heard through the walls.
“Charming,” I heard Khent mutter under his breath.
“A little patience, please,” Dalton replied.
The inside of Cadwallader’s could not have been more different from the outside. It gleamed with row upon row of glass cases. Though a pleasant dustiness hung on the air, I could see not a speck of grime anywhere in the place. The carpets were comfortably trodden, patterned in ochre paisley. Black wood floors and oak paneling on the walls gave the place a cozy, secluded feel, like a grandmother’s tearoom. Only here there was no tea, just books, of all shapes, sizes, and origins. Paper lanterns constructed from book pages blazed above us, stringsof little paper shapes strung wall to wall like bunting.
“I could live here,” I breathed, standing on the carpets and turning a slow circle. A staircase on either side of the wide room led up to a second floor, though I also glimpsed a passage up to a third.
“Out of curiosity,” Dalton said, standing beside me with his hands in his pockets, “what exactly did Henry want you to do here?”
“Deliver this note,” I said, taking the parchment out from under my cloak. “He wanted to know how Bennu’s journal came to be here.”
