The Girl Who Fell (The Chess Raven Chronicles)

by Violet Grace

  The tour guide beams at her audience, either unaware of or unconcerned by their total lack of interest. I, on the other hand, am enthralled. I silently will her to continue with her story.

  ‘As you can see, the cup is quite intact, but alas, not so the Musgrave family fortune,’ she says gravely, as if personally affected by the fate of one of England’s upper-class families. ‘The Luck of Edenhall, it seems, eventually ran out of luck. Like so many other families, the Musgrave family was bankrupted by the Great Depression after a succession of disastrous investment decisions throughout the 1920s. Their family estate of Edenhall was demolished in 1934. The family loaned the glass to the V&A in 1926 and it was eventually acquired in 1958. The moral of the story? If you mess with fairies, you’ll pay the price … eventually.’

  She erupts with a cackle, then waves her yellow flag and leads the group away. I make a beeline for the display case. The coincidence makes me uneasy. What are the chances of me being brought as a child to see the very same cup that used to belong to my sponsor?

  I trace my index finger along the corner of the glass case and instantly feel a tremor. I draw my hand back and look around to see if anyone else has noticed. But everyone seems to be distracted – except, perhaps, the weird guy with the cane and the cravat. He’s studying a marble sculpture, but I swear I can feel his attention on me.

  I assure myself that I’m not doing anything wrong as I place my hand on the case again. The vibration feels stronger; a frisson of energy faintly pulses out from it, tingling my fingertips. It’s like the cup is trying to communicate with me but I can’t hear it properly. Or perhaps I don’t know its language.

  I look around again. The old guy is still staring at the statue. I flatten my palm gently against the glass to see if I can absorb more of a sensation. My fingers tingle and my whole body shivers, as if a trail of ants just scurried down my spine. My chest tightens. I rip my hand away.

  The tingle in my fingers subsides. I check my hand to see if it has left any physical trace. Get a grip, I tell myself. It’s just a stupid old cup in a glass case.

  Embarrassed to have been sucked in by the tour guide’s bad acting, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, worried that the anxiety I’m feeling is about to morph into a full-blown panic attack. I’m no stranger to panic attacks, although usually they’re triggered by people, not museum pieces. I take a few more deep breaths and the fingers of dread release their grip on my chest.

  I’m still slightly on edge as Marshall strides into the room. Every woman in the room surreptitiously glances in his direction. And, I notice, so does the man with the cravat and the cane. He’s staring straight at Marshall, not bothering to conceal his interest. A strange look comes over the man’s face, but I don’t get time to decipher it before he scuffles for the exit.

  Marshall commands the room as if it were a stage. Fittingly, Time’s cover had shown him positioned with one hand in the pocket of his Zegna suit jacket, those unreadable but somehow welcoming eyes framed by his thick boyish hair, greying at the temples. He’s probably pushing fifty, but he’s not bad looking – for an old guy. The article detailed his various businesses and the property portfolio that spanned the globe’s most exclusive neighbourhoods: London’s Bloomsbury, Shanghai’s Xuhui District, Pollock’s Path in Hong Kong, Singapore’s Paterson’s Hill. He even owns an island somewhere.

  This must be our tenth meeting but Marshall and I are still at that awkward stage where we haven’t yet worked out appropriate greeting etiquette. He leans in to peck my cheek. It’s not creepy but it is so unexpected that I flinch. His kiss lands on my ear and I somehow find myself patting his shoulder instead of shaking his hand. As we break apart, I notice that Marshall is looking as embarrassed as I feel. I sense that he’s trying to position himself less as my mentor and more as my friend. Or worse, a father figure. He probably read something about it in the Second Chances manual under the heading ‘Building Rapport’.

  ‘Happy birthday, Chess,’ he says, regaining his composure. ‘I thought we’d celebrate with lunch.’

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anyone to remember my birthday, certainly not Marshall. He’s probably in the process of negotiating the purchase of a small country and he’s about to put it on hold to celebrate my birthday?

  ‘It’s in your file,’ he says. ‘Your birthday.’

  I have to admit that I woke up this morning and thought how different my life would be if my parents were here. I miss them all the time, but birthdays are the worst. And Christmas. My dad was supposedly a brilliant physicist. As for my mother, I know almost nothing about her. I have some hazy memories, but I can’t tell if they’re real or if I dreamed them up.

  I’ve tried searching for information about my parents, but even with my ability to access computer networks I’ve turned up next to nothing. Just a few mentions in obscure government databases that haven’t led me anywhere. Over the years I’ve heard ridiculous whispers and gossip from social workers and other bureaucrats that, as far as I can piece together, amount to my parents being abducted by the Russians. Or the Chinese. Some hostile foreign government, anyway. They snuck right up the Thames in a submarine and snatched my parents off a boat, apparently. I don’t believe a word of it.

  The only reliable information I have is a brief newspaper article about my parents being reported missing in a boating accident and then, about a week later, a follow-up report saying that extensive sea and air searches had found no trace of them. ‘Missing, presumed drowned’ was the official finding.

  I was three when they died, and any photos, mementos, assets or money I inherited were lost during the next three years, as I was shuffled from one temporary home to another. It wasn’t until I was six that I went to live with Larry and Sue, who became my permanent foster parents. But by that stage all my belongings had disappeared and any memories of my parents were long forgotten.

  As Marshall ushers me across the courtyard on the way to the cafe, I suck in the cool spring air, trying to slow my breathing and ignore the tightening knot that has returned to my gut. The idea of sitting across a table making small talk with my sponsor, who’s posher than Harrods, will do that to a girl. But I relax as soon as I step into the cafe. All the faces painted in the blue and white tiles of the Poynter Room help to put me at ease. They always do.

  The Poynter Room in the cafe is my favourite place in the whole V&A building. The soft light streaming through the stained-glass windows kisses my skin and – I know it sounds nutty – I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched by the people in the tiles. Not in a predatory or threatening way; it’s like they’re watching over me, the way I’ve seen proud parents watch over their little ones. I keep catching glimpses of the goddess Venus in my peripheral vision, waving and pointing at me, but when I turn to look at the painting she’s as still and lifeless as you’d expect. I’m not sure if these delusions make me insane or just really lonely. Either way, I figure it’s best that I don’t mention them to Marshall – or anyone else for that matter.

  Marshall catches the eye of a waitress and, rather than ordering at the counter like everyone else, gives his order directly to her. I’m pretty sure she’s about to tell him there’s no table service, but then she recognises him and produces an old receipt from her back pocket and scribbles his order. Before I have time to read the menu, Marshall orders a toasted panini for me.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says breezily as the waitress hurries away. ‘I don’t have long.’

  I do mind, but I don’t say anything. All my life people have been making decisions for me. They always say they have my ‘best interests’ in mind, but in my experience that was almost never the case. And now that I’m sixteen I figure it’s time I started making my own decisions. But I’ve also learned the hard way that picking fights can make things worse. I’m in Marshall’s debt too, so I’m not about to cause a scene over a sandwich and get reassigned to rubbish duty.

  �
�Thank you,’ I say, leaving it at that. And then, partly to fill the silence that’s fast becoming awkward, and partly to hide my annoyance at being treated like a child, I blurt, ‘I just saw the Luck of Edenhall.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says carefully. ‘What did you make of it?’ He’s doing his best to sound casual. And if you hadn’t spent hours watching videos of Marshall on the internet when you were supposed to be doing data entry, you’d miss that his jaw just clenched ever so slightly.

  It’s not an option to tell him my memories of the cup. There is no way to explain it that makes sense, even to me. So I just say, ‘It’s pretty.’

  He raises one thick eyebrow. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yep.’

  His pupils contract for a tiny instant and his boyish face turns almost reptilian. I blink and his features have returned to normal.

  ‘The Musgrave family owned that once,’ he says.

  ‘According to the story I just heard,’ I tease, trying to lighten the mood, ‘your family’s butler stole it from fairies. Technically that puts the question of ownership in doubt.’ I’m about to say how rude the guide had been about the fate of his family’s fortune, when Marshall levels me with a cool stare. He’s trying to be calm, but his hand strangling his glass says otherwise.

  ‘It wasn’t stolen. They gave it up. Willingly. The fools.’

  They? Did one of the most powerful men in England just let slip that he believes in fairytales? If I didn’t know better I’d assume he was having me on. Marshall clearly has many excellent qualities: Hard-working. Check. Focused. Check. Extraordinary business acumen. Check. Kind, considerate and generous. Check, check and check. But a sense of the absurd definitely isn’t on the list.

  I stare at him, unsure what to say. And then I make the mistake of letting out an awkward laugh. ‘Marshall, you don’t actually believe in fantasy stories, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says. His cool anger tells me I’ve hit a nerve. ‘I hardly need explain to you that I’m not talking about children’s stories. I’m talking about … What I’m talking about are real people with real lives, robbed of their legacy without a second thought.’

  I don’t know where to go with this. I’m not even sure if we’re still talking about the Luck of Edenhall or if he’s talking about something else entirely.

  ‘Well, it’s just a silly story anyway,’ I say, trying to close down the conflict.

  Now it’s Marshall’s turn to look surprised and I realise that I’ve gone too far. I can’t afford to upset my sponsor. He sits back in his seat, and with his hands planted on the table, studies me as if he’s not sure if I’m a fool or a liar.

  ‘Chess, you’re sixteen now. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped playing games?’

  It was a light-hearted bit of teasing, I want to protest. Am I supposed to give up joking around now that I’ve had a birthday? I say nothing and make a mental note never to mention Marshall’s family again. Ever.

  I sense that he wants me to say or do something but I have no idea what. And this worries me. Marshall holds the key to my life for the next seven months. If he decides that I’m not committed to my rehabilitation, I could end up wearing an ugly jumpsuit and a tamper-proof ankle bracelet every day for anywhere between eighteen months and five years.

  Or worse, he could stop Gladys’s supply of medication.

  Just as the waiter arrives with our food, Marshall’s phone buzzes on the table. He checks the message.

  ‘I’ve just got to …’ he says, distracted by the screen. ‘I was hoping this would be more straightforward. And that I didn’t have to do this on your birthday, but time is of the essence.’ He stands and leans across the table to brush his cheek against mine and then, before he leaves, he says, ‘I just want you to be who you are. When the time comes, I’ll be there.’

  chapter 3

  I just want you to be who you are. Who does he think I am? And what does he want to talk about ‘when the time comes’?

  The lunchtime crowd bustles around me as I remain in the cafe, trying to piece together what just happened. I’d like to think Marshall is just a rich eccentric. Who knows? Eton and Oxford with just the right twist of bonkers might be the secret formula for success in the world of business. Or maybe it was just one of those social worker type of things rich people say because they haven’t got a clue. As if they imagine that all the problems in the world can be solved through a pep talk and a spot of personal development, because they’ve never been poor, or had nowhere to sleep, or felt unsafe.

  But I have a feeling there’s more going on here. There was meaning in his words that he expects me to decipher. Which just pisses me off. Why does everyone have to talk in riddles? Social workers, child-protection workers, doctors, magistrates – the whole lot of them. They couldn’t put together a straight sentence to save themselves. All my life, it’s been like this. I’m always the last one to know what’s going on.

  I finish my panini and start eating Marshall’s untouched food. The Time article said that Marshall’s family had struggled financially until he restored the Musgrave wealth. I’d like to know the writer’s definition of ‘struggle’. If Marshall’s childhood was anything like mine, there is no way he could walk away from food the way he just did.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a dull thud on the stained-glass window just above where I’m seated.

  The cafe goes quiet. I look around. Every pair of eyes in the cafe looks warily in my direction, at the source of the sound. Maybe a bird hit the window. A large bird. A moment passes in silence, then the buzz of conversation returns. Half a minute later there’s another thud. Then another, hard enough to rattle the window in its frame. I wince at the force of it, scared the window might shatter above me. I push my chair back and prepare to leave. Time to get that cupcake for Neville.

  Someone lets out a yelp as yet another thud triggers a shower of plaster onto the tables. Other people begin gathering their belongings. The woman behind the counter picks up a phone, her eyes fixed on the window. I’m guessing she’s calling maintenance or security – or both.

  There’s another thud against the window and I freeze in fright. Soon there are slams against all the windows and they’re coming at such regular intervals that it sounds like thunder, or the continuous roar of a heavy hailstorm. Above the noise I hear a high-pitched screech. At first it’s like a ringing in my ears, but soon it grows to a chorus of what sounds like thousands of demonic seagulls. Looks of horror pass between the remaining diners. The Poynter Room plunges into darkness, as every window is blocked by thick curtains of swarming blackness, pierced by red pinpricks of light.

  That’s when the screaming begins. Glass and china smash all around me, knocked to the ground by the stampede of panicked bodies rushing towards the exits.

  I can’t move. Raw fear bolts me to the spot.

  The windows finally give out against the continual blows, exploding into the room. Glass shards rain down on me, followed by a rancid stench. Hundreds, maybe thousands of – what? Ravens? – swarm into the room. A squadron of razor-sharp beaks manoeuvre around people and objects, zooming directly towards me. I suck in a breath and cover my face with my trembling hands as I realise that I am their target, their prey. Inky black wings, flapping manically, smother me. I swing my arms and legs furiously, connecting with their putrid bodies.

  There are too many for me to fend off. As I hit the ground rolling, I feel ravens crush under me. Curling into a ball, I cover my face again. The ravens’ claws graze the skin on my legs and pull on my dress. I scream, struggling to free myself, but the more I move, the tighter their claws grip onto me. Each time I manage to kick one of the vile creatures away, it’s immediately replaced by another. I’m suffocating in a churning, shrieking cloud of vile darkness.

  A flash of searing white light fills the room, followed by an explosion that vibrates through me. My ears pop, and my head fills with static. Speckled white light dances in my eyes. Scrambling, I try to stand
, but the blast has knocked out all my senses. The ravens’ claws seem to have gone, replaced by what feel like long bony fingers, grabbing at my body and dragging me across the room. I thrash and kick through a haze of fear and confusion, trying to get away. I blink, struggling for a clearer look.

  Four walking carcasses. Blistering and pus-covered skin stretches across sinewy muscle and skeletal frames, complete with tangled hair and Neanderthal feet. One grips my leg. Another has my arm in a bony vice grip. The other two walk alongside in some kind of formation, carrying sticks that look like short spears. And they smell as bad as they look. I gag as my nostrils fill with a stench that’s somewhere between rotting flesh and an open sewer. Whatever these things are, would it kill them to bathe?

  ‘Get off!’ I scream, scrambling and swatting my free arm at one of the creatures walking alongside me, before freeing my foot and launching a kick across my body at the groin of another. I connect and it doubles over with a groan, but quickly recovers and grips my free arm. My stomach fills with terror. ‘What do you want?!’

  It just continues, snarling and grunting, to drag me along the ground of … of … a ruin. The V&A has been completely trashed. The floor is covered in mud and grime. Shards of broken tiles dig into my back and sides and my head bounces on clumps of weeds and overgrown vegetation that somehow seem to be sprouting inside the Poynter Room.

  There is a bolt of golden light from somewhere behind me. I let out an involuntary scream. That’s when I notice the grip of the creature on one side weaken and then release. The creature shrieks and hisses before exploding in a cloud of dust, leaving behind the smell of burnt barbeque.