Page 61 of The Simurgh

‘Step up to the window, Silas. There’s still a box there from when Reginald went through.’ Bess narrowed one eye and studied him. ‘Mind, you are that tall you might be able to clamber into the fox hole without it.’

‘The fox hole?’

‘You see it, don’t you?’

He did. A darkness within the earthy tones of the bank, worryingly small in size. Pitch might have managed to wriggle through the opening, but Silas was another matter.

‘That is the way in?’ Silas shoved aside the crate that was upended at the foot of the stained-glass window. He was already chest-height to the foxhole.

‘One of the lesser ones into the cockaigne, I gather, yes. This is rather like a servant’s entrance, and I suppose the fox den is apt for a kitsune. The gateway is very crude, and likely to be cramped. I do hope you’ll fit.’

‘I’ll find a way.’

Silas was jittery, impatient beyond measure.

‘I believe you will.’ Old Bess cleared his throat. ‘Let’s get this done then, before this blasted enchantment convinces me otherwise.’

He raised the quill pen, touched its sharp tip to his tongue, and then moved it to the parchment. A visible shudder ran through Old Bess’s body, and a soft whimper came from parted lips.

‘Bess…are you…’

‘Fine…fine, Silas. Hush. I’ve enough in my head with daemon’s enchantment.’ He worked the quill against the parchment, touching the tip to his tongue every few strokes. ‘Gods…this design…it is formidable.’ The usually jovial master of Harvington Hall sank to his knees, the paper curling in on itself as it settled on his skirts. ‘Curse you, Palatyne.’

His motions grew more furious, the scribbling more fevered. Before long his fingertips were coal black with ink.

The faint sound of trickling water caught Silas’s ear. He glanced away from Bess to find the stained-glass window had come to life.

The stream bubbled along; the butterflies flitted over the log; the lamb chewed a wad of verdant grass in its mouth.

The Virgin watched Silas closely, her skirts drifting in a hidden breeze.

‘Got it…now, the den, Silas.’ Old Bess squeezed the words through pressed lips. Sweat ran at his temples. ‘I’ve done what I can, the rest depends on you.’

Silas reached towards the window. His hand slipped through the glass, or rather, through the space where the glass should have been.

‘That’s it, you have it,’ Bess cried. ‘Keep going.’

Silas’s fingertips brushed at the strikingly cold earth that framed the den. A butterfly landed upon the cuff of his coat, orange wings elegant in their sweep back and forth.

The Virgin kept her watch but did not move from where she sat upon her log.

‘Go…go…’ Old Bess gasped. ‘Don’t lose those boots, they’ll bring you both back to us. Go get him, Mercer.’

‘Thank you, Bess.’

‘Go now.’

Silas dug his hands into the ground, the imitation earth made real.

A distant cry came from outside the church.

He turned, the fur trim tickling at his nostrils. Through the wide open doors he glimpsed a lone raven coming to rest upon a dark granite headstone.

‘Go, go on with you,’ Bess hissed, the quill shaking like the proverbial leaf. ‘I’ll do what I can to hold them back.’

Silas threw himself at the den, half expecting to hear the shattering of glass as he did so. The lamb bounced in fright; the butterflies flew up in a startled myriad of colour; but the Virgin simply watched as Silas dragged himself into the scene.

He clawed at the dirt, felt it dig deep beneath his fingernails as he dragged himself into the dark narrowness of the burrow. Dirt rained down as his broadness carved the hollow wider. The realness of it all would have been astonishing, if not for the lack of scent. His nose was mere inches from the ground as he wriggled deeper, but there was no odour, no reassuring hint of the natural world, and all the inherent decay held by the dirt.