Solace & Grief (34 page)

‘What did she say?’ asked Paige, eyes wide. When Solace told her, she blinked. ‘Oh. That's… kind of pretty, really.’

Abruptly, Solace remembered the previous evening's exchange with Duchess, and wondered at the positive effect it seemed to have wrought on Paige. No longer skittish and frightened, the pink and purple-haired girl was almost entirely back to normal – calmer, even. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that she remained a little in awe of Duchess, if not entirely fond of her culinary preferences.

‘Have you cleaned up the swan?’ asked Electra, watching the little cat warily. Duchess looked up at her through pale green eyes before yawning and washing a paw.

The swan is gone. It was
most
satisfactory>

Dutifully, Manx relayed the sentiment.

‘A secrecy of birds,’ Laine repeated thoughtfully. Freshly scrubbed, her pale skin glowed, bright against the blackness of her now-clean hair. The effect was a softening one, as though her edges had been temporarily worn down. ‘It makes a kind of sense.’

‘How so?’ Harper asked.

Laine shrugged. ‘Because of ravens, you know.’ When everyone continued to look at her, she blinked. ‘Oh. Well,
rookery
literally means a place where crows and ravens live, because corvid birds – black carrion birds, I mean, like crows and ravens – are also called rooks, right? And corbies, actually, because of corvid. But “rook” was a slang term in Victorian England, too, meaning a cheat or thief – probably because crows like to steal shiny things – and seeing as how thieves and other undesirable types like poets and thieves and prostitutes tended to live in slums, they started to call the slum areas and tenement buildings
rookeries
. So, it makes sense. A conspiracy of birds.’ She fell silent. The others stared at her. After a moment, Laine began to blush.

‘How do you even
know
this stuff?’ asked Manx, a little in awe.

‘Dickens,’ said Laine. Evan snickered. The psychic rolled her eyes. ‘
Charles
Dickens, idiot. And, you know. I read a lot of history.’

Unexpectedly, it was Paige who came to the rescue. ‘We're looking for a slum, then?’ she asked, tugging absently on a lock of hair. Laine shot her a grateful look and nodded.

Solace frowned. ‘If we are, that hardly narrows it down.’ She toyed with the pages in her lap, flipping her fingers against the edge as though shuffling a deck of cards.

‘What does that say?’ Evan asked suddenly. Solace stared at him. Sighing at her incomprehension, he gestured for her to turn the pages over.

Obedient, Solace leafed through the upturned sheets. Sure enough, a message was scrawled on the back of one in thick, smudgy pencil, the writing all but illegible.

‘Sharpsoft,’ she murmured.

‘What does it say?’ asked Manx.

‘I'm not sure. I think…’ Squinting, she tried to puzzle out the message. ‘It's almost like… directions? Someone else have a look.’

‘Here.’ Laine held out a hand, leaning across Evan in the process. Solace stretched out and submitted the relevant page, brushing fingertips with her friend. A kind of static electricity passed between them; Solace blinked, catching a look of pity in Laine's eyes, there and gone like a distant flash of lightning. Then the moment passed; Laine dropped her gaze and withdrew the page, leaving Solace momentarily stunned, embarrassed and, once the initial shock had faded, curious. A suspicion began to form in the back of her mind, too immature as yet to be spoken, but difficult to shake. The nape of her neck tingled.

‘You're right,’ said Laine, after a moment. ‘At least, it's part of an address. It just says “Kent Street – early underground”. And then there's the letter R.’

‘Which, along with the number eight, has been the proud sponsor of today's Open Sesame Street,’ mused Evan. ‘Directions to the Rookery, I'm guessing.’

‘Makes sense.’ Laine shrugged and handed back the page. ‘At least it's somewhere we can find.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Manx bemused. ‘We should just head over to Kent Street and peer in the guttering?’

‘No,’ said Jess, sitting up suddenly. ‘Underground car parks. There's a few on Kent.’ Pleased with this reasoning, she glanced at Laine for confirmation. After a moment, the psychic nodded. ‘It might be like Lukin's lab or the entry into the Town Hall – you know, joined to somewhere else. In which case –’

‘The Sign of the Singing Hawk could be a marker,’ Solace finished. They both grinned.

‘So,’ said Harper, speaking for the first time in some minutes. ‘This prophecy says we help Solace fight Sanguisidera. Solace's mother says we should go to the Rookery and look for someone called Liluye, because she – I'm guessing they're a she – can help us on both counts. Sharpsoft says the entrance to the Rookery is in Kent Street. We're not quite sure if we trust him, but thus far, he hasn't actually harmed us so much as been party to a boatload of crazy weirdness, which can be fairly said of everyone in this room. Add in a free house, breakfast, clean clothes and a good night's sleep, and I'd say we're doing all right.’

‘Unto that man give a cigar,’ said Evan, with wry approval.

‘But Tryst and Claire and Phoebe… they're not all right.’ All eyes turned to Paige. While nowhere near as wild and distraught as she'd been the previous evening, there was nonetheless something hard behind her eyes. She looked up. ‘I don't mean to ruin the mood. But we need to remember this isn't a game. Sanguisidera killed our friends.’ She swallowed. ‘Even if we're doing all right now, it's not because we've beaten her, or because some prophecy says we eventually will. It's because of luck, and Duchess, and running away. So we need to be careful. It's real. It's not a game.’

‘Agreed,’ said Solace.

Paige smiled, but briefly.

‘We're heading to Kent Street, then?’ asked Manx. ‘I've heard worse plans,’ said Jess, glancing around the room.

Evan made a face. ‘Does that mean I have to put my pants on?’

His sister groaned. ‘
Please
!’

When you are the kind of student who tells successive high school maths teachers that, as you plan to become an author, you will never have any practical use for their subject
ever
, actually achieving publication means thanking a great many tolerant people. Thanks first to Charles Grahame, as good-humoured a father as anyone could wish for, and to Alison Grahame, a loving mother with endless patience. Thanks also to Janie and Peter Meadows, parents-in-law extraordinaire, for providing moral, artistic and contractual support at every opportunity; and to Pam Zemanek, my godmother, who taught me about the foster system.

As foretold in the ancient prophecies, a special mention to Angus Templeton, the first person to read
Solace & Grief
and the only person to read all of the unpublishable fantasy epic preceding it. Thanks to Brady Hillan and Kirrin Kilpatrick for Cokes owed; to Kathryn Hair for trains almost missed; to Sarah McGrath for phone goats; to Samantha Mott for irrepressible weirdness and stolen ladders; to Kerry Lotzof for creative revelry; and to the Melbourne philosophers for nights on the Old Quad roof. Gratitude also to a chalk of glorious teachers, including but by no means limited to Judy Wilson, Ros Dawes, Christina Kirkland, Narelle Ward, Matthew Schreuder, and Marcel Hennes, all of whom contributed something lasting.

It is fair to say that my focus on writing has often made me something of a special needs employee. Especial thanks to the wonderful women of DHS – Christine Gibbs, Edwina Breitzke and Helen Tovey – for their tolerance once I signed the contract. Deepest gratitude, too, to Paul Collins and the people of Ford Street Publishing, not only for picking up
Solace & Grief
, but for helping to make it better.

Finally, love to Toby – last, but by no means least. I could never have done it without you.