Rise of the Darklings (31 page)

“I say,” he said indignantly. “I say, what are you doing, creeping up on someone like that, what what what?”

“Uh …” Emily stared uncertainly at the creature. He was dressed in a similar fashion to the gnome with the fake mustache—Mr. Pemberton. He wore a thick jacket, a silk
cravat, and an immaculate hat. He even had a pipe hanging from his mouth. She looked to Corrigan for help, but the piskie was staring at the creature with a look of disgust.

“Just let us in, will you?” snapped Corrigan. “We’ve got important business.”

The gnome fished around in his waistcoat for a second, then pulled out a gold watch and opened the lid.

“Apologies, good sir. But you call at a most ungodly hour. I’m afraid everyone is now abed.”

Corrigan jumped up to the lip of the booth’s window and grabbed hold of the gnome’s cravat.

“Fetch me Pemberton right now. Otherwise I’ll pull those clothes off and throw them in the mud. Then I’ll take that watch and break it into pieces with that ridiculous pipe.”

The gnome swallowed fearfully. “One moment, if you please,” he said.

Corrigan released him. “Good man. You’re a real gentleman, you are.”

“You think so? Why, thank you, kind sir. I do try. I—”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Of course.”

The gnome bowed nervously and backed out of his booth. Then he turned and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, zigzagging back and forth across the street. Corrigan sighed and shook his head.

“What was all that about?” asked Emily.

“I warned you, didn’t I? They call themselves the Landed Gentry. They live down here and try to copy you lot. And when I say copy, I mean copy
everything
. The way you dress, the way you speak, your society. They even have a Queen who calls herself Victoria. They want to be like you; they want to
be
you.”

“Can we trust them?” Emily asked dubiously.

“Oh, yes. That’s about the only thing I can say for them. They love it here. They have about as much reason as you do to keep London as it is. They’ve already said they’ll have nothing to do with the Queen
or
the Dagda. They’re neutral, like Merrian. That’s why they live down here. Trying to form their own little society.”

“Is that the same Pemberton—?”

“Aye, the same one. Seeing him earlier is what gave me the idea. Can’t stand the irritating creature, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

“Wait, did you just say Merrian was neutral?” asked Emily. “I thought he worked for the Queen.”

“Hmm? Oh, no. He sides with whoever he thinks is right.”

“Did he know that the Queen planned on bringing her armies through to London?”

“Bones, no! He would never have helped the Queen if
he knew that. I’ll have to get word to him that things have changed. He won’t be happy when he finds out what she planned, let me tell you. He’s another one that likes London as it is.” Corrigan looked past the small hut and groaned. “Here we go,” he said.

Emily peered around the hut and saw two gnomes hurrying toward them. One was the gatekeeper, and the other was indeed Mr. Pemberton, in a scarlet dressing gown pulled tight around his belly. He still wore his mustache, and this time it seemed to be staying in one place.

When he saw Emily and Jack, he broke into a huge smile. He bowed to Emily, then took hold of Jack’s hand and pumped it up and down.

“My lady! Good sir! Delighted to see you both. So glad you could join us.” He cast a dark glance at Corrigan. “Shame you had to bring your servant, but we can’t have everything, can we?” He turned his back on Corrigan and gently guided Emily and Jack past the gatehouse and onto the street. Emily looked down and saw it was paved with bottle tops, thousands upon thousands of them.

“Now. Tell me. What can I do for you?”

Emily looked over her shoulder at Corrigan. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation, then nodded. Emily was rather surprised to realize that this was enough for her. It meant she trusted Corrigan. She knew she shouldn’t, not after what
he had done, but the piskie seemed genuinely intent on helping her now. And no matter what Jack said, he
had
risked his life back at Somerset House. If Corrigan said the gnome was trustworthy, then she believed him.

So Emily told Mr. Pemberton the story. Everything.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

E
mily felt as if she had gone back to school.

The room Mr. Pemberton had led them to was an exact copy of a schoolroom, although she supposed
copy
wasn’t the proper word. The building was a school that had been built to, as Mr. Pemberton put it, “educate the fey into the ways of proper Victorian Society,” and Mr. Pemberton was the head teacher.

Emily and Jack each sat down at one of the desks. Luckily for them, the gnomes had pilfered their supplies from London above. They were able to fit quite comfortably, though Emily imagined everything was a bit on the large side for any gnome children.

Emily looked around wistfully at the familiar surroundings. She had enjoyed school. Actually, that wasn’t entirely
accurate. She enjoyed
learning
, even if she wasn’t always fond of the school itself, and the teachers in particular.

“Right,” said Mr. Pemberton. “Excuse me? Pay attention at the back, please.”

Emily turned around to find Corrigan staring out the window. He threw Mr. Pemberton a disgusted look.

“The object of this gathering is to decipher Emily’s puzzle.”

He turned to the huge blackboard, brandishing a stick of chalk. “Emily, if you please?”

Emily unconsciously straightened her back and recited the riddle.

As she talked, Mr. Pemberton wrote the words on the board in neat, cursive script. He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

“Hmm,” he said after a while. “Tricky.”

“Really?” said Corrigan. “And here was me thinking this would be easy.”

“Silence in the classroom!” shouted Mr. Pemberton.

Emily, Jack, and Corrigan all stared at him in surprise. Mr. Pemberton flushed red and shrugged in embarrassment.
“Apologies,” he said. “Old habits die hard.” He turned back to the board. “Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we? The first line is too vague. It could mean anything. We’ll leave that for the moment. ‘A father’s favorite rhyme.’ Does your father have a favorite rhyme?”

“My father disappeared when I was seven. I don’t know what his favorite rhyme was.”

“Oh. I’m very sorry, Emily. I didn’t mean—”

“The clue’s in the first line,” argued Corrigan. “ ‘In the wake of the fire.’ Notice how it says ‘the’ fire, and not ‘a’ fire. What else can it be talking about?”

Mr. Pemberton’s eyes widened. “The Great Fire. Sixteen sixty-six.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine,” said Emily. “Sixteen sixty-six. The Great Fire of London. But how can a bird raise a saint? Does it mean raise a saint from the dead?”

Mr. Pemberton frowned. “I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

“Neither have I,” said Corrigan.

They lapsed into silence. Emily began to grow frustrated. She was good at riddles. She should be able to get this. The riddle was a clue about the location of a key to open the door to Faerie. The door was locked by Christopher Wren. That was fact.

So Christopher Wren himself had written the clue. The Queen had said as much to Emily. And somehow … 
somehow
, he wrote the clue for Emily, knowing that she would be searching for the key.
How
he knew that was another matter altogether. But …

Emily stopped mid-thought and stared at the board. A bird raises a saint. A bird … Christopher Wren. A wren was a bird …

“Christopher Wren,” she said suddenly.

The others looked at her.

“Christopher Wren,” she repeated. She pointed at the board. “A bird raises a saint. A wren is a bird. If Christopher
Wren
wrote the clue, doesn’t it follow that he was referring to himself?”

Corrigan and Mr. Pemberton looked back at the board.

“Could it be?” mused Mr. Pemberton.

“Could it be?” repeated Jack, impressed. “I can’t read or write and even
I
can tell she’s got it.”

Corrigan looked at Emily. “Well done, girl.”

Emily blushed at the praise. “It was nothing. I just—”

“Yes, yes. Don’t get full of yourself, now.”

Emily snapped her mouth shut and glared at Corrigan. He grinned and winked at her.

“Now,” said Mr. Pemberton, “how did Mr. Wren raise a saint?”

Emily thought about it some more. Didn’t Sebastian say that Wren was responsible for rebuilding much of London after the Great Fire? He’d said that he designed and built St. Paul’s Cathedral—

Emily went absolutely still. It was so simple when you knew the answer. She started to smile.

“What are you smiling at?” Corrigan asked suspiciously.

Mr. Pemberton turned from the board and studied her face. “I do believe Miss Snow has the answer.”

“It’s St. Paul’s Cathedral,” said Emily simply. “Christopher Wren raised St. Paul’s after the fire. He built it.”

Corrigan stared at the board. “But he built nearly every other church in London as well,” said Corrigan. “St. Mary’s, St. Peter’s, St. Michael’s …”

Mr. Pemberton cleared his throat. “Maybe so, but none of those matter when we take into account the final line. ‘Speak the rhyme and the whispering shall reveal all.’ That can only refer to the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s. None of his other churches had such a thing.” He turned to the others. “Agreed?”

“What’s the Whispering Gallery?” asked Jack.

“It is a balcony that runs around the inside of the cathedral. Apparently, if you stand on one side and whisper something, anyone standing on the opposite side will be able to hear what you said. Something to do with the acoustics.”

“Yes. Well done,” said Corrigan. “It’s just a pity we don’t know what she’s supposed to whisper, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pemberton’s air of excitement faded, and he fell into one of the chairs. “Good point,” he said.

They both turned expectantly to Emily.

“What?” she said defensively. “I’ve already said I don’t know.”

“You
do
realize how important this is?” said Corrigan.

“Yes!” said Emily. “Yes, I know how important this is. Do you think I’m an idiot? All I did was save your life”—she pointed at Corrigan—“and ever since then, I’ve been chased, lied to, attacked, had my home destroyed, my brother kidnapped, been forced to become a thief. I’m tired of it! I. Don’t.
Know!
”

An embarrassed silence followed. Then Corrigan cleared his throat.

“So what you’re saying is, you don’t know?”

“Leave her alone,” snapped Jack. “She’s doing her best.”