Alice’s hesitation lengthened. Whitmore had been inside the grove – maybe at the time Holly had taken the draught – and he was now encouraging her to make the same choice.
‘The tree,’ she said suddenly, remembering. ‘In the grove – is it a miniature of the Summer Tree?’ There had been no mention of the replica in the books Bea had given her to read.
‘It’s . . .’ Bea glanced from the governor to Alice. ‘It was grown from a cutting centuries ago. House Mielikki cares for it. The miniature helps us to monitor the original; they mirror each other perfectly.’
‘But they said it was growing,’ said Alice.
‘An illusion,’ said the governor. ‘The Summer Tree can’t grow.’
Alice nodded. She pulled the drink closer, but paused. The action caused Whitmore to sigh.
‘Don’t worry about the grove,’ said Whitmore, his expression suggesting he’d grown bored of her. ‘If you have no intention of continuing your membership application, which – it seems – you do not, then it doesn’t concern you.’ He glanced at the untouched draught in her hand. ‘Pity,’ he said, turning away from her. ‘I’m heading to my office,’ he told Cecil. ‘Two minutes to finish up here and then we’ll debrief?’
Cecil nodded and the governor swept out, leaving them in silence. Bea sat tight-lipped, apparently unwilling or unsure of whether to intervene and take the cup from Alice.
‘I think we shall leave it there,’ said Cecil. ‘Miss Wyndham, if you could—’
Alice brought the cup to her lips and swiftly downed the liquid. It burned her throat, setting it alight. She winced at the heat on her tongue and her eyes welled up. Bea shoved half a cup of cold rosehip tea at her.
‘Drink,’ she urged.
Alice swallowed, dribbling scarlet tea over her chin as she choked it down.
There was a tense silence as they waited for something to happen. But there were no side effects. No repeat of Holly’s fate. Nor was there a sudden burst of energy. No euphoria, no pleasant delirium. In fact, she felt no different at all.
‘Thank God. Let’s go home,’ said Bea.
Alice stared at the bathroom sink. She’d had precious little sleep, crawling into bed sometime around midnight and then staring at the ceiling for hours. Bea had given her a mild dose of valerian – perfect for insomnia – but she hadn’t taken it until around two in the morning, when the images of Holly’s terrified face grew too disturbing.
She’d neglected to turn off her weekday alarm in the madness of the previous day, so she was now awake far too early for a Saturday. But even so, something felt unusual about the morning. She had the feeling she’d forgotten to do something.
Frowning, Alice dismissed the sensation and went about her morning ablutions. It was only when she spat out the toothpaste that it occurred to her. The bathroom sink was pristine. Usually, she emptied the contents of her stomach into it the moment she rolled out of bed – that or the toilet bowl, depending on how fast she moved. And yet, this morning . . .
Her eyes drifted to the mirror. Crumpled, stripy pyjamas and hair hopelessly dishevelled: so far, so normal. Alice shuffled closer to examine her face. Turning her head this way and that, it soon became clear that the dark circles under her eyes had begun to fade. The once sickly pallor of her skin was now . . . glowing? She looked better than she had done for months.
Sasha, one of her first and most eagle-eyed friends in the Rookery, would definitely notice the change; she visited her on campus every few weeks, occasionally with Jude, always commenting on the fact that Alice looked haggard and exhausted. Alice had explained it away as a consequence of being overworked. Sasha was visiting tonight to see how she’d fared in the first test, and Alice wondered what she might say when she saw the improvements.
She backed away from the mirror and trudged into her room. Instead of taking the pyjamas off, she wrapped herself in a dressing gown, made a hot drink and settled down at the table. Her hands were no longer chapped, she realized as she nursed the cup. The dermatitis she’d been scratching at the day before had cleared up. And – she placed a hand on her forehead – no temperature. She barely remembered what life was like without fevers and headaches, stomach pains and breathlessness.
A sudden balloon of excitement rose in her chest. She quashed it mercilessly. It would do her no good to get her hopes up. She’d only taken one portion of the draught, and there were two others left to take, assuming she didn’t squander the opportunity. This didn’t mean anything. Besides – it felt wrong to be happy about her own good fortune with the binding draught when it had gone so horribly wrong for Holly.
She took a sip of tea and allowed her gaze to wander out of the window. The wind was up and the branches of the mulberry tree were dancing in the breeze. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed as though there were dozens of ripe new berries hanging from it.
‘Tom’s struggling,’ said Bea over the breakfast table.
The Arlington dining hall was wonderfully cosy in the winter: arched ceiling, chequered tiles, rich wooden panels halfway up the stone walls, oil paintings in ornate frames and plain circular chandeliers hanging low over the wooden tables – each of which had a lamp in the centre and leather seats lining each side. In summer, however, it felt too dark, despite the tall windows and many lamps. Alice couldn’t help but feel that the season wasn’t supposed to be cosy; it was supposed to be bright and airy, and fresh with promise. It was why she preferred taking her lunches in the quad.
She reached for a slice of toast and a pot of marmalade. Her eyes were focused over Bea’s shoulder on a long-haired student who was showing off to a girl. He was telling her he’d entered the Cream of the Crops, and doing something to the table – warping the mineral streaks in the wood into different patterns and shapes for her, as though it was a canvas.
‘Is that a portrait? It doesn’t look anything like me.’ The girl laughed. ‘Write my name in it again.’
Alice was so busy watching them she knocked the marmalade into the butter. ‘Did he go home last night?’ she asked, slathering her toast.
‘I think he spent the night drinking,’ said Bea, taking a sip of her tea. ‘I found him sitting on the kerb after the test with his head in his hands, just devastated. He didn’t want to talk.’
‘It’s not his fault,’ said Alice. She shoved her plate away, suddenly losing her appetite. It felt wrong to sit here attempting normality. Holly had once sat in this hall.
‘Of course it’s not his fault,’ agreed Bea. ‘He’s administered dozens of binding draughts without a problem. It was no one’s fault – not unless you want to blame a tree.’ She swallowed a mouthful of tea and peered closely at Alice. ‘How are you feeling about . . . what you saw?’
Alice paled. ‘It was . . .’ She shook her head and stared at the table.
Bea reached over and patted her hand with sympathy. ‘Best to keep your mind busy,’ she said. ‘You become hardened to it eventually, but even then . . .’ She sighed and then fumbled for something on the bench next to her. ‘Here,’ she said, plonking a book on the table. ‘Not as useful as some of the other books I’ve given you, but I was obliged to pass it on.’
‘House Mielikki: Models of Success?’ said Alice, reading the title aloud.
‘A gift from Cecil,’ said Bea. ‘He said he hopes it’ll prove aspirational for you after your difficulties in the first test.’
Alice raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to be insulted or grateful.
‘Just humour him,’ said Bea. ‘Look at the author.’
Alice’s eyes tracked to a few words eclipsed by the cover image of a stately woman in an oval frame, plaited brown hair pinned into a business-like yet elegant style.
‘Cecil Pryor,’ said Alice. ‘He wrote this himself?’
She nodded. ‘I think he sold ten copies. Eight of which I ordered for the library out of kindness. I’m sure he has a few hundred stashed in his office, ready for handing out to every new candidate.’
‘Tell him . . . thanks.’
Bea nodded and reached for a breakfast pastry. ‘About Tom,’ she said. ‘He feels responsible because he prepared the draught, but—’
‘My draught was from the same batch,’ said Alice. ‘And it didn’t harm me the way it did with . . . I feel fine.’
‘I know,’ said Bea. ‘That’s the risk everyone takes. Tom’s just . . . I don’t think anything we say will make him feel better. What happened was so awful. I’ve seen some dreadful things in my time, and I’ve heard stories about others, but to see that . . .’ She shuddered and replaced her pastry, apparently losing her appetite. ‘But Holly knew what she was signing up for,’ said Bea matter-of-factly. ‘As a Mowbray, she’ll have heard the same stories and known the risks. It’s hideous, terrible and tragic, but . . . everyone has to make the choice for themselves about whether to take that draught. I did, Tom did . . . you did.’
There was a flicker of movement and Alice shifted in her seat. Tom had appeared in the corridor outside the dining hall, visible through the open doorway. Even from a distance she could see that all was not well. He was usually smart, buttoned up in a preppy shirt and tweed trousers, his sandy beard neatly trimmed. But now he looked like he’d slept in his clothes and had lost control of the beard. His glasses were slightly askew and his blue eyes were weary. It appeared as though he’d aged ten years overnight, and yet he was a year younger than Bea and still a few years off forty.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Bea. ‘Tom!’ she boomed across the dining hall.
Several heads turned to look, but in the corridor Tom flinched. Spotting them, he shook his head as though warning them to stay away. Alice frowned as the light caught the other side of his face. Tom’s cheek was bruised and his lip was bloodied. Before he hurried off, Alice glimpsed his nightjar, hovering anxiously near his head. There was only one emotion rolling off it in waves: guilt.
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Alice, getting to her feet. It wasn’t his guilty nightjar that concerned her; it was his split lip. Tom hadn’t given it to himself.
Incoherent shouting exploded outside the dining hall, and Alice’s hackles rose. She recognized the timbre of one of those voices. As the noise worsened, others in the dining hall cast awkward looks at each other. Alice ignored them and hurried into the corridor with Bea following close behind.
Most of the students and staff had taken advantage of the warm weather and were eating on the lawns, leaving the corridors unusually empty. In the humdrum atmosphere, Alice quickly found the source of the commotion.
Lester stood midway up the stairs to the staff accommodation, his hand clutching the banister. Hair greased with sweat and a five o’clock shadow on his lantern jaw, he looked terrible. His hulking arms and barrel chest seemed at odds with the growing paunch poking from his T-shirt.
‘Leave him alone, Lester,’ Alice snapped.
Beneath his fingers, the banister spindles had been transformed, the solid wood now as flexible as vines. At Lester’s urging they grew longer, creeping and slithering towards Tom, who was trapped against the wall lower down the staircase. Tendrils already held him in place, lashed around his wrists, while others climbed up his body and curled around his throat.
‘Let him go,’ demanded Bea, her voice steely, ‘or I’ll have Whitmore expel you from the House for assault.’
Lester laughed and turned towards her, his small, piggy eyes bloodshot.
‘What makes you think Whitmore won’t give me a medal for cleaning up the membership?’ he sneered.
His hand twitched and the slithering wood around Tom’s throat tightened. Tom’s face paled and his eyes widened.
‘This bastard was the one who made the draught, and then tried to blame me.’ Lester spoke through gritted teeth, his face suddenly flushed with effort as the wood around Tom lifted him off the floor. Dangling in the air, Tom gasped desperately, his face puce and his feet twitching.
‘He can’t breathe,’ shouted Alice, while Bea ran to help yank the vines from Tom. ‘Let him go or—’
‘Or what, you stupid bitch?’ snarled Lester. ‘You were there last night as well. Touching her. Pretending you wanted to help. Maybe you sabotaged her. Why did you collapse after she did?’
‘I . . . I didn’t—’
‘I saw you,’ he said. ‘I watched you.’
Alice glanced at Tom and Bea. The librarian had dropped to her knees and was raising each wooden stair so that Tom could stand on solid ground.
‘Whitmore—’ Alice started.
‘Go ahead,’ said Lester, with a twisted smile. ‘Tell the governor whatever you want.’
Tom’s eyes flickered and he made a low gurgling sound. Heart slamming against her ribs, Alice looked from him to Lester and grabbed the banister. She could feel the dull tingle of his magic in the wood as she strengthened her grip on the rail. Alice’s fingertips whitened.
‘Someone’s to blame for Mowbray kicking it in the grove,’ said Lester, his voice harsh, ‘but it isn’t me.’
Anger and guilt snuffed out Alice’s sensibilities. She squeezed the banister, her palm smarting with the buzz of magic. Beneath her hand, the wood began to rot. It blackened and flaked, and splintered against her skin. A crack grew, snaking up the length of the banister, spreading decay through the brittle wood. Too fragile for Lester’s weighty grip.
The banister crumbled to dust. Lester’s nightjar, a plain-feathered light brown bird, shrieked a warning he couldn’t hear. A brief expression of shock crossed Lester’s face as he fell over the edge of the staircase. He smashed to the floor, and Alice flinched at the echoing thud. The moment he landed, the vine-like spindles holding Tom turned to ash and the technician also fell to the ground.
Lester was silent, and Alice stared at the strange angle of his neck with dread. His small nightjar fluttered anxiously, pecking at his hair and then his cord. Alice’s pulse raced and her ears buzzed with fear and adrenaline. I had no choice. She looked down at her hands. Did I have no choice? Alice shuddered. She’d either just killed a man or made an enemy.
There was a muffled groan from the heap on the floor and Alice exhaled sharply. Lester was alive. Further down the corridor, office doors had begun to open. Finally drawn by the noise, half a dozen onlookers appeared, curiosity and concern on their faces. ‘I knew that stairwell was dangerous,’ muttered one. ‘I told the janitor it needed looking at.’
‘Is he all right?’ asked another.
Lester answered for him. With a rumbling grunt, he staggered to his feet, patting himself down in confusion. He looked furiously over his shoulder, his eyes locking on Alice, before barging through the crowd and stomping from the building with a limp.
‘It’s not Lester’s fault,’ said Tom, hunched over the table, nursing a cup of coffee.
Bea had dragged Tom and Alice back to the Arlington dining hall for a stiff drink, but in the absence of alcohol they’d had to make do with caffeine.
Alice’s tea had gone cold. She stared into her cup, thinking about the look on Lester’s face as he’d fallen – and the expression of rage as he’d stormed out.
‘Are you suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, darling?’ asked Bea. ‘Of course it was Lester’s fault. I’ll be reporting him first thing tomorrow.’
‘Don’t,’ said Tom, his forehead furrowed. ‘Please. Just leave it.’
Alice glanced at him. He looked utterly defeated. ‘You can’t make yourself Lester’s punch bag,’ she mumbled. ‘You didn’t kill Holly.’ Her stomach clenched and she took a mouthful of cold tea to disguise the tremor in her hands.
‘He didn’t even come here for me,’ said Tom quietly. ‘It was just unlucky I bumped into him.’
‘What was he here for then?’ asked Alice.
‘His books,’ said Tom, glancing up. There was a shadow behind his eyes she hadn’t seen
before. ‘He loaned Holly a stack of books when he was mentoring her.’ Tom shook his head, his voice dull. ‘He was trying to get up the stairs to her apartment to find them, but . . .’ Tom shrugged. ‘He shouldn’t be allowed to root around in there. It’s not right. I asked him to leave but he followed me, and . . .’ Tom trailed away. ‘I hope Lester’s okay,’ he said after a moment.
‘Tom, he nearly killed you,’ said Bea, aghast.
‘I know, but still . . . It wasn’t his fault.’
They lapsed into silence and Alice watched the couple on the other table for several minutes. They hadn’t left despite all the commotion. The long-haired student had taken a wooden coaster from under his coffee cup and turned it into a carved wooden rose. The girl he was trying to impress was refusing to accept it, telling him with a laugh that she preferred orchids to roses.
Roses, Alice thought with a pang. Holly.
‘Are you busy tonight?’ said Alice. ‘I have an idea.’
Sasha was supposed to be coming to the campus for a drink that evening, but there would be time for an important job beforehand.
They were trying very hard to be normal for Tom’s sake, but the atmosphere had become a distorted pantomime.
‘Shhh,’ Bea whispered dramatically as they crept across the gardens. ‘If Eugene sees us, he’ll cave the library ceiling in again as punishment.’
‘I don’t think he actually has a vendetta against you. He’s always very cheerful when I see him,’ said Alice with forced jollity.
‘Rank favouritism,’ said Bea. ‘I once asked him to help me move a shelf and he refused. He took offence because it contained the complete works of Capability Brown, landscape gardener extraordinaire, who is apparently his personal nemesis despite being dead for over two hundred years. Meanwhile, he brings you a full set of dining furniture to your quarters, up how many flights of stairs?’
The Rookery Page 10
