Rise of the Darklings

by Paul Crilley

  “Hmm? Oh, no. He sides with whoever he thinks is right.”

  “Did he know that the Queen planned on bringing her armies through to London?”

  “Bones, no! He would never have helped the Queen if he knew that. I’ll have to get word to him that things have changed. He won’t be happy when he finds out what she planned, let me tell you. He’s another one that likes London as it is.” Corrigan looked past the small hut and groaned. “Here we go,” he said.

  Emily peered around the hut and saw two gnomes hurrying toward them. One was the gatekeeper, and the other was indeed Mr. Pemberton, in a scarlet dressing gown pulled tight around his belly. He still wore his mustache, and this time it seemed to be staying in one place.

  When he saw Emily and Jack, he broke into a huge smile. He bowed to Emily, then took hold of Jack’s hand and pumped it up and down.

  “My lady! Good sir! Delighted to see you both. So glad you could join us.” He cast a dark glance at Corrigan. “Shame you had to bring your servant, but we can’t have everything, can we?” He turned his back on Corrigan and gently guided Emily and Jack past the gatehouse and onto the street. Emily looked down and saw it was paved with bottle tops, thousands upon thousands of them.

  “Now. Tell me. What can I do for you?”

  Emily looked over her shoulder at Corrigan. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation, then nodded. Emily was rather surprised to realize that this was enough for her. It meant she trusted Corrigan. She knew she shouldn’t, not after what he had done, but the piskie seemed genuinely intent on helping her now. And no matter what Jack said, he had risked his life back at Somerset House. If Corrigan said the gnome was trustworthy, then she believed him.

  So Emily told Mr. Pemberton the story. Everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In which Emily, Jack, Corrigan, and Mr. Pemberton struggle to decipher the riddle.

  TEN THIRTY IN THE EVENING

  ON THE SECOND DAY OF EMILY’S ADVENTURES.

  Emily felt as if she had gone back to school.

  The room Mr. Pemberton had led them to was an exact copy of a schoolroom, although she supposed copy wasn’t the proper word. The building was a school that had been built to, as Mr. Pemberton put it, “educate the fey into the ways of proper Victorian Society,” and Mr. Pemberton was the head teacher.

  Emily and Jack each sat down at one of the desks. Luckily for them, the gnomes had pilfered their supplies from London above. They were able to fit quite comfortably, though Emily imagined everything was a bit on the large side for any gnome children.

  Emily looked around wistfully at the familiar surroundings. She had enjoyed school. Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. She enjoyed learning, even if she wasn’t always fond of the school itself, and the teachers in particular.

  “Right,” said Mr. Pemberton. “Excuse me? Pay attention at the back, please.”

  Emily turned around to find Corrigan staring out the window. He threw Mr. Pemberton a disgusted look.

  “The object of this gathering is to decipher Emily’s puzzle.”

  He turned to the huge blackboard, brandishing a stick of chalk. “Emily, if you please?”

  Emily unconsciously straightened her back and recited the riddle.

  “A bird raises a saint in the wake of the fire.

  A father’s favorite rhyme will confirm the truth.

  Speak the rhyme and the whispering shall reveal all.”

  As she talked, Mr. Pemberton wrote the words on the board in neat, cursive script. He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

  “Hmm,” he said after a while. “Tricky.”

  “Really?” said Corrigan. “And here was me thinking this would be easy.”

  “Silence in the classroom!” shouted Mr. Pemberton.

  Emily, Jack, and Corrigan all stared at him in surprise. Mr. Pemberton flushed red and shrugged in embarrassment. “Apologies,” he said. “Old habits die hard.” He turned back to the board. “Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we? The first line is too vague. It could mean anything. We’ll leave that for the moment. ‘A father’s favorite rhyme.’ Does your father have a favorite rhyme?”

  “My father disappeared when I was seven. I don’t know what his favorite rhyme was.”

  “Oh. I’m very sorry, Emily. I didn’t mean—”

  “The clue’s in the first line,” argued Corrigan. “ ‘In the wake of the fire.’ Notice how it says ‘the’ fire, and not ‘a’ fire. What else can it be talking about?”

  Mr. Pemberton’s eyes widened. “The Great Fire. Sixteen sixty-six.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Fine,” said Emily. “Sixteen sixty-six. The Great Fire of London. But how can a bird raise a saint? Does it mean raise a saint from the dead?”

  Mr. Pemberton frowned. “I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

  “Neither have I,” said Corrigan.

  They lapsed into silence. Emily began to grow frustrated. She was good at riddles. She should be able to get this. The riddle was a clue about the location of a key to open the door to Faerie. The door was locked by Christopher Wren. That was fact.

  So Christopher Wren himself had written the clue. The Queen had said as much to Emily. And somehow … somehow, he wrote the clue for Emily, knowing that she would be searching for the key. How he knew that was another matter altogether. But …

  Emily stopped mid-thought and stared at the board. A bird raises a saint. A bird … Christopher Wren. A wren was a bird …

  “Christopher Wren,” she said suddenly.

  The others looked at her.

  “Christopher Wren,” she repeated. She pointed at the board. “A bird raises a saint. A wren is a bird. If Christopher Wren wrote the clue, doesn’t it follow that he was referring to himself?”

  Corrigan and Mr. Pemberton looked back at the board.

  “Could it be?” mused Mr. Pemberton.

  “Could it be?” repeated Jack, impressed. “I can’t read or write and even I can tell she’s got it.”

  Corrigan looked at Emily. “Well done, girl.”

  Emily blushed at the praise. “It was nothing. I just—”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t get full of yourself, now.”

  Emily snapped her mouth shut and glared at Corrigan. He grinned and winked at her.

  “Now,” said Mr. Pemberton, “how did Mr. Wren raise a saint?”

  Emily thought about it some more. Didn’t Sebastian say that Wren was responsible for rebuilding much of London after the Great Fire? He’d said that he designed and built St. Paul’s Cathedral—

  Emily went absolutely still. It was so simple when you knew the answer. She started to smile.

  “What are you smiling at?” Corrigan asked suspiciously.

  Mr. Pemberton turned from the board and studied her face. “I do believe Miss Snow has the answer.”

  “It’s St. Paul’s Cathedral,” said Emily simply. “Christopher Wren raised St. Paul’s after the fire. He built it.”

  Corrigan stared at the board. “But he built nearly every other church in London as well,” said Corrigan. “St. Mary’s, St. Peter’s, St. Michael’s …”

  Mr. Pemberton cleared his throat. “Maybe so, but none of those matter when we take into account the final line. ‘Speak the rhyme and the whispering shall reveal all.’ That can only refer to the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s. None of his other churches had such a thing.” He turned to the others. “Agreed?”

  “What’s the Whispering Gallery?” asked Jack.

  “It is a balcony that runs around the inside of the cathedral. Apparently, if you stand on one side and whisper something, anyone standing on the opposite side will be able to hear what you said. Something to do with the acoustics.”

  “Yes. Well done,” said Corrigan. “It’s just a pity we don’t know what she’s supposed to whisper, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Pemberton’s air of excitement faded, and he fell into one of the chairs. “Good point,” he said.

&nb
sp; They both turned expectantly to Emily.

  “What?” she said defensively. “I’ve already said I don’t know.”

  “You do realize how important this is?” said Corrigan.

  “Yes!” said Emily. “Yes, I know how important this is. Do you think I’m an idiot? All I did was save your life”—she pointed at Corrigan—“and ever since then, I’ve been chased, lied to, attacked, had my home destroyed, my brother kidnapped, been forced to become a thief. I’m tired of it! I. Don’t. Know!”

  An embarrassed silence followed. Then Corrigan cleared his throat.

  “So what you’re saying is, you don’t know?”

  “Leave her alone,” snapped Jack. “She’s doing her best.”

  Emily felt the hot tears begin to flow. She stood up and ran toward the door.

  “Emily?” called Jack.

  “Leave me be!” Emily called. “Just, everyone … leave me alone.” She pulled the door open and stormed out of the classroom, then ran down the hall and out into the street, where she sank down onto the pavement. She was so tired. All she wanted was everything to be back to normal, for everything to return to the way it was.

  She’d felt exactly the same way in the days after their ma disappeared.

  She was ten when it happened. At first all she’d felt was sorrow and fear. She and William hadn’t known what to do, how they would survive. William barely even understood what was going on.

  But after those first few days, the sorrow and the fear were pushed out of the way by more pressing matters. Who would look after them? Who would feed them, clothe them? There was no way Emily would let them take her and William to the workhouse, so it had fallen to her to try and bring some money in.

  That was when the anger set in. Anger that first her da, then her ma, could just leave them like that. She knew, deep down, that something must have happened to them. But that didn’t stop the anger and the resentment. She was just a child. She was supposed to have stories read to her by her da. Instead, she was barely scraping out a living selling watercress.

  It wasn’t the work she minded—she would have had to do that anyway. It was the responsibility. She loved William dearly, but it was hard to have to look after him all the time.

  Then over the next few weeks, the self-pity set in. Why did it have to happen to her? Why not someone horrible, like Victoria Ashdown? What had she done to deserve all this?

  She’d snapped out of that when she came home one day to find William weeping uncontrollably in the corner, calling out for their ma. Emily had held and rocked him until he stopped crying. That was the day she grew up, the day she knew she simply had to do what had to be done.

  What she was feeling now—the anger, the self-pity—she had gone through it all before, and she knew it was pointless.

  Emily straightened up and wiped her eyes. The road she had been staring at was made from old shields—round, oval, square, rectangular—all of them laid down and held in place with some kind of clear glue. About twenty paces farther up the street, the shields changed to metal dinner trays, brass and silver, many of them lacquered or painted and all of them covered with the same substance.

  She became gradually aware of an itch at the back of her mind trying to get her attention. Something had triggered it. Something she had just been thinking about. Was it something about William? No, she didn’t think so. Her ma? Her da?

  Something stirred. Something to do with her da, then? What had she been thinking about? Her da disappearing? No. What else then? Having stories read to her by her da?

  That was it. Something about stories.

  The stories her da used to read to her came from one battered book, a book that Ma said had belonged to his father before him. She felt a twinge of sorrow. The book was probably destroyed now, lost in the mess that used to be their home.

  But something about the book was important. She tried to remember what it had looked like. The cover was made from battered and scuffed red leather. A verse from an old nursery rhyme had been scrawled onto the first page.

  Emily’s eyes opened wide. She vaguely remembered her father telling her that those few lines of rhyme were his favorite.

  She closed her eyes to think. What was the rhyme? She tried to imagine the page in her mind, to see the untidy scrawl on the yellowing paper. She remembered thinking it was a curiously sad rhyme. How did it go?

  She had it!

  Emily ran back inside the classroom. Corrigan was standing on a desk trying to wrest a piece of chalk out of Mr. Pemberton’s hand. Jack was watching them with an amused look in his eyes.

  “I said no,” snapped Mr. Pemberton. “The chalk isn’t for drawing lewd pictures with.”

  “I’ve got it! I remember the rhyme!” Emily shouted.

  All three of them turned to face her in surprise.

  “If clouds or mists do dark the sky,

  Great store of birds and beasts shall die.

  And if the winds do file aloft,

  Then war shall vex the kingdom oft.”

  Corrigan released Mr. Pemberton’s hand. “You’re sure?”

  Emily nodded. “It was in a book my da used to read to us.”

  “I think you’ve cracked it,” said Mr. Pemberton thoughtfully, turning to the board. “This line here. ‘A father’s favorite rhyme will confirm the truth.’ ” He stared at them expectantly. “That confirms that it’s St. Paul’s Cathedral, surely?”

  “Why?” snapped Corrigan. “Explain yourself, gnome.”

  “Well, the verse Emily just recited. It’s only one verse of a rhyme … hold on.”

  Mr. Pemberton turned to one of the bookcases and ran his finger along the spines until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out the book and paged through it.

  “Here we go.” He cleared his throat.

  “If St. Paul’s day be fair and clear,

  It does betide a happy year.

  But if it chance to snow or rain,

  Then will be dear all kinds of grain.

  “If clouds or mists do dark the sky,

  Great store of birds and beasts shall die.

  And if the winds do file aloft,

  Then war shall vex the kingdom oft.”

  He closed the book with a satisfied thud. “Emily’s riddle starts off with the line, ‘A father’s favorite rhyme will confirm the truth.’ We deduced that the rest of the riddle referred to St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Whispering Gallery, yes? This nursery rhyme—her father’s favorite rhyme—confirms our deduction as definite. I mean, I know it doesn’t refer to the cathedral as such, but it does mention St. Paul. And when you look at St. Paul’s Cathedral as the answer, then everything else makes perfect sense.”

  “So does that mean the key is hidden at St. Paul’s?” asked Jack.

  “It would appear so,” said Mr. Pemberton. “At least, that is my interpretation.”

  “But how will we find it?”

  “ ‘Speak the rhyme and the whispering shall reveal all,’ ” quoted Emily. “We speak the rhyme in the Whispering Gallery and see what happens.”

  Mr. Pemberton smiled at Emily. “Exactly. Congratulations, dear girl. You’ve solved the puzzle.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In which our heroes sneak inside St. Paul’s Cathedral and much whispering is done despite a nasty surprise awaiting them.

  MIDNIGHT ON THE THIRD DAY OF EMILY’S ADVENTURES.

  St. Paul’s Cathedral stood at the top of Ludgate Hill, its dome and cross stark against the night sky. Emily thought it looked like an upside-down goblet.

  Ludgate Hill wasn’t really a hill. At least, not from the position Emily, Corrigan, Jack, and Mr. Pemberton had taken, outside a tailor’s shop in Carter Lane. The wide lane headed in a straight, even line to the front of the cathedral, whose stairs led up to a row of pillars that stretched across the front of the building.

  The cathedral was daunting. Not just because of its size—although that was certainly enough to daunt anyone—but also bec
ause of what it represented. Emily had the feeling God would be watching them, disapproving of their entry into his place of worship.

  There was a scuffling sound behind her. She turned to find Mr. Pemberton leaning on his walking stick, hopping from foot to foot.

  “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “It’s all the excitement.”

  “Where are the others?” asked Corrigan from his usual place on Emily’s shoulder.

  “Oh, don’t you worry,” said Pemberton. “They’re around. Hidden, like shadows in the night,” he said melodramatically.

  Corrigan snorted his irritation. Emily knew he didn’t want Mr. Pemberton here. And he certainly didn’t want the small army of gnomes Mr. Pemberton had roused from their sleep right after Emily deciphered the riddle. The two had argued for a full ten minutes back at the school.

  “But we can help,” Mr. Pemberton had argued. “We can act as lookouts, protect you should anything untoward occur.”

  “The only thing untoward will be you lot tripping over your own feet and giving us away,” Corrigan had responded.

  Mr. Pemberton was adamant, and he had won out in the end. Emily thought this was because Corrigan didn’t want to talk to him anymore. He had simply walked off in mid-argument, leaving Mr. Pemberton to scramble around and organize his people.

  And now here they were, the four of them, about to sneak into the largest cathedral in the city.

  At least the fog had lifted, thought Emily, trying to look for something positive.

  “Should we get on with it?” said Jack.

  “A sound idea, young sir. The Devil waits for no man, as they say.”

  “Um … yes. Fine,” said Emily.

  They left the cover of the tailor’s shop and hurried along the pavement toward St. Paul’s. It towered over them as they approached, gradually blocking out the night sky. They drew to a stop at the bottom of the wide set of stairs that led up to the portico.

  Emily shivered, unsettled by the silent streets. London wasn’t meant to be quiet. It was meant to be filled with life, with shouting and laughter. She squinted up the stairs into the ominous shadows beneath the pillars.