Page 10 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘No, no.’ Silas’s skin burnt to a crisp. ‘I will stop you right there.’

‘Marcus, why are you here?’ Pitch said. ‘I doubt Satty sent you just to deliver a mouse’s corpse and judge where Silas should bestow a hand job.’

Marcus shook his head, and his knotted, matted hair rubbed his chest. ‘The Lady has sent me to summon you to Holly Lodge. She wishes to see you. Now.’

‘You really could have started with that.’ Pitch’s irritation prickled. ‘Instead of the mouse, you daft fu–’

‘Thank you, Marcus,’ Silas said. ‘Please tell the Lady we will be there at once.’

CHAPTER THREE

IT WASnot a long nor a particularly strenuous walk up the hill to where Holly Lodge perched, but as the journey went on, Pitch’s limp grew more obvious. He refused to take Silas’s arm and was breathing heavily by the time they finally reached the Lodge’s impressive portico. The imposing columns that supported the structure were spread wide, right out over the driveway, allowing coach passengers to avoid foul weather as they alighted. Silas had waited, impatiently, in a coach right here for Tobias Astaroth before they had begun the train journey that would take them to Black Annis.

He offered his arm to the daemon to aid him up the short flight of stairs to the double doors.

‘I can manage a few steps.’ Pitch waved him off. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Silas was not insulted by the curt tone. He too was nervous. But he decided Lady Satine would have come to them directly if anything dire had happened to Charlie…or Edward. Tyvain, at the very least, would have screamed the bloody village down if the news were terrible. She didn’t like to show it, but she too had a fondness for the lad.

The double doors swung wide, though no butler was evident behind them. They entered into a surprisingly plain foyer. Silas had been expecting far more elaborate trims and intricate tiling than the contrasting black and white upon the floor and the bare, dull brown walls.

‘Down here, gentlemen. Quickly if you don’t mind.’

Lady Satine’s voice came from a ways down the hallway. The passageway had no floor runners, and the pine floor was in need of a restain, with patches of the teak colouring worn away in places. A paltry number of gaslights, flickering behind rather dirty panes of glass, lit the way. There was a sense of emptiness to the place. Silas glanced back to make sure he’d not drawn too far ahead.

‘I’m coming,’ the daemon grumbled.

‘Move along, will ya?’

Tyvain’s voice guided Silas into a room that was again startling for how plain it was. The parlour was quite bright with natural light and the air not so stale as in the hall, but there was little in the way of furniture, or at least furniture that was being used. There were a great many items hidden under white sheets; a large shape Silas suspected was a piano rested over towards a set of lovely French windows that were as in need of a clean as the sconces; a hulking sheet-draped form against the back wall was a buffet perhaps; and towards the centre of the room, a lumpy muddle was likely a set of chairs and a small table.

There were no paintings here either, and no fire in the hearth, but the room was pleasantly temperate.

Silas took two steps into the room and was rocked back on his feet by the heavy scent of the sea, of salt and brine and ocean life. A melody played, the whistling notes of the wind as it punished the waves into a frothy frenzy.

Silas’s focus was drawn to the Lady Satine, the music taking him there. She lounged upon a chaise at the centre of the room. The sudden smack of ocean scents faded, but her melody rose. Great and tremendous as a tsunami, her tune was astonishingly loud, a grand orchestra of notes, soaring, magnificent for the most part, with an undercurrent of whimsy and delicacy but plagued with irksome off-notes that pained him to hear.

Djinn. Shifter…

There was more, he knew, but the melody lost its way. Silas frowned. The tune of the other djinn he’d met had been clean, precise. Untroubled. Not so here. The very notes themselves seemed uncertain of how to play.

Leviathan.

The high squeal of a violin at its limit, stretching on, breaking. Silas winced, touching at his ear.

‘Something wrong, Silas?’ Pitch’s voice sliced through the unpleasant tune, cutting it free. Bringing blessed silence.

‘No, no. I’m fine.’

‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ Lady Satine wore the same physical guise as when Silas had seen her with Lucifer: rich brown skin, unmissable violet eyes, and a shock of curly white-grey hair. Her gown, the sepia of a river after heavy rain, spilled around her. She lay along the length of the chaise, her bare toes peeking from beneath the gown’s folds.

‘Afternoon.’ Silas greeted her with a dry throat, feeling strangely unsteady. He tugged at his earlobe, still hearing the echo of the Lady’s enormous song. He knew her to be djinn, but what else did it take to be Lady of the Lake?

Silas found a welcome reprieve when regarding Tyvain. There had been talk once of her having a minute amount of djinn blood, but evidently it was so small as not to trigger Silas’s newfound detection. He’d keep that to himself, he decided. The soothsayer would not take the news well that he heard nothing at all with her.

‘Took ya time. Not so speedy on ya feet these days, are ya, daemon?’

Tyvain’s auburn hair was pinned back in a severe style that lifted at the edges of her eyes. She was clad in a prim and proper gown of sensible navy blue, with a high neck and a row of pearl buttons that ran all the way down to her waist, complete with delicate lace gloves. Never had an outfit suited a person less.