Cuckoo Song (40 page)

‘Well . . .’ Trista hesitated. ‘I think those are the only ones who
aren’t
Besiders.’

Violet grimaced and hissed her breath in through her teeth.

The tea shop was filled with a commonplace-sounding hum of conversation, but when Trista focused she could hear what her fellow diners were really saying to the waitresses that came to take
their order. It was like those moments when Triss’s father tuned the family wireless and brought voices magically into clarity.

‘Bring us butter! Butter! Never mind the bread.’

‘Good afternoon. I am not here to devour you. Now bring me sweetmeats so that I may pass as one of your kind.’

‘A glass of your tears, my honey. What? Oh. Tea then.’

The two waitresses were young, tired-looking women, and Trista noticed that both of them looked tense and strained. They made mistakes, miscounted money, occasionally knocked over a milk pot or
rattled their trays. The other non-Besider customers had the same air of confused unease.

‘We should have brought a rooster!’ hissed Pen.

Trista blinked hard, and realized that the strange, seated figures had something else in common. All of them were wearing overcoats or long shawls in shades of grey or brown, made of the same
dull, tufted fabric. As she watched, a woman at a far table yawned, and her coat seemed to ripple and flutter in a way that was familiar.

‘Look at their coats!’ Trista murmured. ‘I know it’s difficult – your eye doesn’t want to see them – but
look
. I think they’re made of
feathers.
Bird-thing
feathers.’

All three of them jumped when a tea tray was set down with a slight clatter. Trista flinched, wondering how much the waitress had heard.

‘I love children.’ The waitress winked at Violet. ‘They always have a world of their own, don’t they?’ She set out the crumpets, butter and jam in front of the
threesome, and gave Trista and Pen a broad, indulgent smile. ‘You girls make the most of it while you can, that’s all I can say.’

Trista and Pen stared back at her with dark, round, exhausted eyes.

‘I want a spoon, please,’ said Pen dourly.

The waitress had barely turned her back when another figure drifted into the room. At first glance she looked like somebody’s smartly dressed aunt, in tweed hat and coat. As Trista stared,
however, the illusion split like the skin of a rotten fruit. She saw beneath it the red doll-cheek circles painted on to the drowned-looking face, the cat’s tails knotted into the
floor-length black hair. The woman drifted like a mote on the breeze and came to a halt by their table.

Cowslip-yellow eyes passed over Violet and Pen, then fixed on Trista.

‘These two – are they yours?’ asked the woman. Her voice seemed to be made of the sobs of children in some distant cavern. Her gaze crept pointedly towards Violet and Pen.

That’s almost exactly the same question the couple from the boat asked. What does it mean? And why are they all asking me that?

Because they’ve seen something in me that is like them. They think I’m a Besider too. And they want to know if Violet and Pen are my . . . friends? My pets?

‘Yes,’ Trista said defensively, hoping she was giving the safer answer. ‘They’re mine.’

‘I’m n—’ began Pen, then gave a yelp as Trista kicked her. ‘Ow!’

‘I’m still training the small one,’ Trista said quickly, recalling the Architect’s words on the telephone.
Oh, you have her trained then, do you?

Violet put an arm around Pen, perhaps to comfort, perhaps to restrain. Her gaze flicked from Trista’s face to that of the stranger and her brow furrowed in frustrated concentration.

The woman appeared to accept Trista’s answer, giving a slight nod, then put her head on one side.

‘Where is your coat?’ she asked, in her eerie, echoing voice. ‘I was told we were all to wear coats on arrival. So that we would not . . . cause remark.’ The last words
were pronounced carefully, as if she was reciting them from memory.

‘I don’t need one.’ Trista watched the woman closely for any sign of reaction. ‘I didn’t arrive today – I was already here.’

The woman’s yellow eyes became butter-bright with interest.

‘You have been living in this . . .
town
then? And is it true about the bells?’

Trista nodded. ‘They cannot hurt us.’

‘I wanted to believe,’ breathed the woman. She shook her head. ‘I had no choice but to believe, to take a chance. Are you one of our guides then, for the ride
tonight?’

‘No.’ Trista sipped slowly from her teacup to give herself time to think. ‘But I might join the ride . . . for fun. How much have you been told about it?’

‘Only that we should disembark here and wait, and go no further into this town, and draw no attention . . . and at midnight the Architect will arrive in his chariot and lead us to the
haven.’

‘Is the haven the—’ Pen began, then cut off with a little gasp of fear and frustration. Trista guessed what the smaller girl had wanted to ask, for the same question had
flitted through her mind.
Is the haven the Underbelly?
Due to the magic promise, however, she could no more ask the question than Pen could.

‘How much have you been told about the haven?’ Trista asked instead, desperate to know if her guess was correct.

‘Nothing – only that it is safe.’ The woman narrowed her eyes and gave Trista an inquisitive look, clearly inviting her to say more.

‘It
is
safe,’ Trista whispered, hoping that she sounded confident. ‘I shouldn’t say any more about it here though. You will see it soon enough.’

The woman inclined her head, and drifted on through the tea shop. Trista was unnerved to notice the stranger talking to a number of the other seated Besiders, each of whom turned to gaze at
Trista and give her a small, deferential nod.

‘I . . .’ Violet shook her head and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I . . . didn’t catch all of that. It was like listening through fog.’

‘These Besiders are all newly arrived from outside Ellchester,’ Trista whispered. ‘I don’t think they understand towns, and they can’t blend in well, so
they’ve been told to stay here and wait to be picked up.
That’s
why the Architect is leading midnight rides – it’s so he can lead them to a new home – a
haven.’

‘By leading them over the roofs?’ Violet raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s probably the only way to get them all there safely,’ Trista murmured back. ‘I certainly wouldn’t trust them to follow a map. Look at them – some of them
are having trouble with
spoons
.

‘But the important part is,
the Architect is starting the midnight ride here tonight.
We already know that he takes Triss with him when he rides. It means that I might have a
second chance – if I’m still alive at midnight, I can follow the ride across the roofs, and try to save her!’

‘Don’t let her, Violet!’ squealed Pen with deafening force. The waitresses glanced across at her with curiosity, and she dropped her voice again to match the whispers of the
others. ‘She’ll get hurt!’

‘Pen’s right – it’s out of the question!’ Violet’s eyes were wide and serious. ‘Trista, last night the chase nearly tore you apart, and you
still
lost them! We . . . We’ll have to find a way to follow them on the motorbike.’

‘But . . . the fuel tank’s nearly empty . . .’

‘It will
have
to last!’ retorted Violet, and this time Trista caught the edge of panic intertwined with the determination.

Of course. Violet without her motorcycle was Violet with her wings clipped. She needed her wings, so as to be ever on the move. Her nightmares were always a step behind her. The unending,
all-swallowing blizzard, the iron skies and forests of thorned wire, the hungry tempest of ice and darkness and loss . . .

. . . and snow. Soft, treacherous, all-covering, all-revealing snow.

‘Violet,’ Trista said softly, ‘when you stay still, how long does it take before the snow starts to fall?’

‘It varies.’ Violet tipped her head back and studied Trista interrogatively. ‘Sometimes as much as five hours, sometimes as little as two. Why?’

‘I . . .’ Trista bit her lip. ‘I’ve just had an idea. It’s true, I
did
lose the riders last night. They dropped, and rose, and changed direction so quickly
I couldn’t keep track of them, not without moving fast enough to rip myself to pieces. But I
saw
them, Violet! Some of them were flying, but others were leaping from roof to roof,
like me. And the Architect’s car was driving – up walls, over roofs, along the roads. They touch down – and if there’s
snow
, they’ll leave tracks.’

Violet stared at her. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I . . . ?’ She broke off, and was uncharacteristically speechless for a moment. ‘But I can’t!’ she hissed
at last. ‘I don’t
control
this. I don’t summon the snow, it
chases
me.’

‘I know.’ Trista glanced furtively round the room, then clasped Violet’s hand in both of hers. ‘You’re so brave, and fearless, and . . . and I know you’re
ready to drive into any kind of danger. I know you’d fight the Architect and Mr Grace and the bird-things and the police and everybody until they were black and blue. And I know this is the
one thing you
don’t
want to face, and it’s really scary and difficult, but—’

‘But you want me to stop running.’ Violet finished Trista’s sentence and cut it dead. ‘You want me to wait for the snow.’

Trista hugged one of Violet’s arms and buried her face in her jacket.

‘I know you want to protect me,’ she said very quietly, ‘but you can’t. Whatever you do, I only have this day. I want to make it matter. Please, please let me do some
good with it. Let me
choose
.’

Violet said nothing. Nothing was not a yes, but neither was it a no. Trista felt Violet’s hand gently rest on the back of her head. Just for those few seconds their silence felt like a
little fortress against the world.

‘Pen,’ said Violet, in tones of affectionate irritation, ‘will you
please
stop doing that?’

Trista looked up in time to see Pen with her hands pressed against the window, sticking out her tongue at somebody down in the street.

‘He started it!’ Pen exclaimed defiantly. ‘It’s rude to stare!’

‘Pen, the Besiders are staring because they think I’m one of them!’ Trista pointed out.

‘But it wasn’t one of the Besiders.’ Pen dropped back into her chair and filled her mouth with crumpet. ‘It was the man who didn’t eat his lunch.’

‘What?’ A spider-tingle of alarm crept up Trista’s spine.

‘He was over there.’ Pen pointed to a nearby table. ‘And they brought him sausages, but he didn’t eat them. He just went away.’

‘Violet,’ Trista whispered urgently, ‘that’s where the young man was sitting – the one with the . . .’

The newspaper.
Over on the abandoned table, draped over the neglected plate, was a copy of the
Ell Chronicle.
The trio exchanged glances.

‘We need to get out of here
right now
,’ hissed Violet. She rose from her chair and then froze, still half stooped. Looking down into the street, Trista could see exactly
what had caught her eye. Two policemen were hurrying across the road towards the entrance of the tea room.

Violet pressed the heels of both hands against her temples and stared down into the street. She was breathing quickly, in a way that made her nostrils flutter.

‘Violet . . .’ Pen’s voice was a rising curl of panic.

‘I’m thinking,’ Violet said through her teeth. Some resolution clicked into place behind her gaze and she gave a short, sharp nod. ‘Follow me – quick!’

The three of them weaved hastily between the tables towards the back of the dining area, to the dark doors of the ‘conveniences’.

‘In here!’ Violet shoved open the nearest door, and the girls bundled in after her.

Immediately Trista knew they were in the wrong place. The walls were a sombre olive instead of powder-pink. It smelt strange, a little like cologne and men’s hair cream . . .

‘Violet, this is the wrong—’

‘Shh!’ Violet braced herself against the door. Her gaze fell on Trista and Pen and she gave them a dark, wry smile. ‘Both of you – listen to me. When I say run, you
run.
You don’t wait for me. You find somewhere to hide. Do you understand?’

‘But—’

‘Take care of each other.’ Violet turned to place her ear to the door, eyes closed as she listened. ‘And, Trista – good luck in the snow.’

Outside came a soft tumult of steps, then a thunder of knocks at a door, but not the one to which Violet’s ear was pressed. Trista guessed it must be the door to the ladies’
convenience.
Of course it never occurred to them we would come in
here.

‘Miss Parish?’ It was a male voice, polite, youthful and slightly out of breath. ‘If you would be so kind as to come out, we can avoid a scene.’

Violet’s mouth twitched with the shadow of a grin, her hand curled around the door handle.

‘Miss Parish?’ A different male voice, deeper, gruffer and a bit uncle-like. ‘At least send those children out. Then perhaps we can talk more calmly.’

A long pause. A sigh. Then the sound of the ladies’ convenience door being barged open and a clatter of boots on a tiled floor.

Violet’s reaction was instant. She flung open the door and leaped through it, closely followed by Trista and Pen. The two policemen who had charged into the ladies’ powder room
turned in time to see Violet slamming the door behind them. She grabbed a chair from beside a neighbouring table, and wedged it under the door handle. The door jerked in its frame, and there was
the sound of pounding fists and irate voices from the other side.

‘Run!’ she shouted.

Dozens of Besider eyes stared as Violet, Trista and Pen sprinted back through the tea room, knocking over chairs as they went. They all but tobogganed down the stairs, stumbling, slithering and
bruising knees. The bread girls gaped as they raced down the aisle to the front door.

The young man with the newspaper was loitering outside, but was apparently not expecting the three of them to barrel out into the street. He tried to call out, and made a snatch for Pen, but
Violet used her momentum to shoulder-charge him. Violet and the stranger hit the pavement in a sprawl.