And then: it was still dark. But a long way off a child was crying, and there was something wet on Ned’s face and hands. He sat up, his head cracking against the wall, and said, wonderingly, “Rain."
He was in the station, at the surface, and water was curling along the wrought iron awning. “Kira?" Ned called, and then jerked back as she bolted across the deserted space of the ticket hall and landed next to him. “I thought I’d killed you!" she wailed, and Ned leaned back against the wall and breathed.
“It’s all right, little one," he said, very softly, “I’m very difficult to kill."
As she cried, he put an arm around her and made wordless, soothing noises, for himself as well as her; there was a great deal of pain, somewhere, that he was ignoring in favour of concentrating on Kira’s bright presence, and the rain falling into his eyes.
“Help me up," he said, reaching out for a cane that wasn’t there. He leaned on her shoulder to cross the space of the station floor, and came to rest in front of what had been, earlier that day, a London Underground lift. “Oh, my."
“First we knew of it," said a voice from behind him; Ned turned to meet Whitworth’s eyes, “the lift hit the top of the shaft like the coming of the end times. Then the doors opened, and your girl –" Whitworth shook his head. “Well, perhaps she’d better tell you herself."
“I got us out," Kira said, almost apologetically. There was a strange mixture of emotions on her little face, something between defiance, pride, and misery. “I did… do it right, didn’t I?"
Ned limped up to the lift shaft. The outer doors had been pushed back with enormous force and bore signs of having witnessed a very rapid exit. Beyond them was only a great writhing blackness, suggestive of further movement far below. Of the lift cab itself, there was no sign. Ned pictured a mangled mass far beneath the earth, and said, sincerely, “Kira, I think you may have saved both of our lives. Thank you."
“Oh," Kira said, more shocked than pleased.
“Mr Whitworth," Ned said. “Grace, and Thanet— "
“Mr Thanet is helping with the evacuation," Whitworth said, with sympathy and concern, “but Miss May hasn’t – not yet."
Ned nodded and sat down on the floor. Kira came to perch on her haunches beside him, still with that uncertainty in her face.
“Mr Devlin," she said. “Back when you could still do magic, were you very good?"
Ned leaned back on his elbows and considered.
“I was about the best of my generation," he said, after a minute. “But I think you’ll be better than I was."
“Oh," Kira said, again more shocked than pleased, and Ned sat back again and breathed.
Presently, they heard footsteps rising from the stairwell. Whitworth looked hopeful, stepping forwards, and then the first of the people emerged from the Underground. They were the usual mixture of travellers, dignified old ladies and paint-spattered workers, some holding their tickets and some not, but all with the same open-eyed, uplifted expressions. Above them, birds were fluttering, their feathers translucent and crystalline, hovering to guide the way. Ned smiled at them and said, to Kira, “Thanet."
“They brought us out of there," said a woman in a green coat, to no one in particular.
A boy with a splint on his leg was being helped by two other passengers up the stairs. A man in a pork pie hat held up his hands with reverence to the rain. Ned thought he and Kira must present an odd picture, huddled in the corner of the ticket hall on the floor, but no one gave them a second look, and then he was thinking about the signalbox in Boulogne, waking with his mouth full of saltwater, and no thought of being alive.
“What now?" Kira asked, finally, when the great flood of people petered into nothingness, as both trains below emptied out.
“Now, we wait," Ned said. Kira nodded and settled in beside him.
___
“That’s the last of them," Thanet called, sending off another handful of guide birds into the stairwell, and began his descent back into the station. “They should make it out in time – oh." His feet had hit water. “Grace! Where are you?"
“Here," Grace said, gasping for breath, appearing at the end of the upper passageway that led to the control room. “It’s not –" she coughed and spluttered “—deep enough to cover."
“Yet," Thanet said, and took another risky step downwards. Grace looked up. A light appeared above her head, illuminating the black water, sloshing ominously from side to side. The electricity in the tunnels had been switched off, leaving only magical light.
“It’s not too late, Thanet," Grace said. "Mr Whitworth and his signal operators have already gone up. You can—"
“Shut up," Thanet snapped. “Until you go, I stay."
He shivered and took another step, so water began to creep over the tops of his boots.
“No one here but us chickens," he said, hoping it would not carry, but whispering made the echoes more sinister than ever. “Lead the way."
“I think it’s just the floodgate seals that have failed," Grace said, stepping out along the passage, raising small waves. “Nothing else. If I can just stop it responding to any more magic, I can fix it. By Salt, or otherwise."
Thanet nodded before realising Grace couldn’t see him. “Wait," he said, and caught up, so they were walking side by side. “It’s better this way," he said; Grace looked sidelong at him and gave him a wan smile.
At the platform level, the water was now hip-deep, and the shock of the cold held them both in place for a moment.
“Do you think," Grace said, through her chattering teeth, “it’s getting harder to breathe?"
It was, the air now foetid and thick around them, but Thanet only nodded. He reached out to grab Grace’s hand before they kept on going, steadying her on the steps beneath the weight of water. Another light hung over the water in front of them, against a background of green and cream tiles running off into blackness.
“Careful of the platform edge," Grace said, just before Thanet went over it.
For a second, he was only falling. The track rails came up to meet his feet, sending a bone-deep jolt of horror through him despite what his rational mind was trying to tell him about the power being switched off, and then the water closed over his mouth and nose. His limbs were going slack when a pair of strong arms grabbed him and hauled mercilessly.
“Breathe, damn you!" Grace yelled, her voice shattering into echoes, and then Thanet was on his knees on the platform, the water up to his waist, coughing and coughing while Grace clapped him on the back.
“It’s getting deeper," he said, and jumped when Grace shrieked.
“Sorry," she said, spitting water and pushing her braids away from her eyes. “Sorry, that was either algae going past my leg, or an eel" – and Thanet began to laugh.
“Sorry," he said, breathlessly. “And thank you, thank you."
“You’re welcome," Grace said, smiling at him, and they set off again. “Thanet," she said, after a while. “We’ll reach the floodgates soon. If Ned’s right, this isn’t even our sort of magic. What if I can’t fix it?"
Thanet shrugged. “We’ll have to improvise. Perhaps –" he mimed a fingernail across a palm “—it’s really not superstitious nonsense, after all."
“Urgh," said Grace, feelingly, and kept on. “Although," she said, shivering in earnest now, “given the rate the water is rising, and how long we took to get down here – well. If, we don’t seal it—"
“I know," Thanet said, without surprise. “Well, well. Ned will write us a beautiful eulogy, I’m sure."
Grace chuckled. “In beautiful Latin."
Thanet nodded. “Oh, yes. Elegant rhyming couplets."
“I’d have done that for him," Grace said, still grinning, but sounding quite sincere. “Even if I had to learn my Latin to do it. I’m glad I didn’t have to."
“Me too," Thanet said, splashing forwards. “But we would have survived it, you know. Oh, dear."
Grace looked up. “Oh, goodness."
They had reached the floodgates. On one side, the water rushed merrily into the dark through the new tunnel. On the other, water was coming through the rusting gaps in the metal. The flow was moderate, but Thanet could see how the force of it would break through all at once, as with a dam in a river.
“Well," he said uselessly. “Here goes."
Grace was quite still, somehow no longer shivering, an expression of utmost concentration visible on her face even in the dimness and the murk. “Got your penknife?" she asked.
Thanet understood the need for desperate measures. He passed the knife to Grace with a shudder, trying not to think about the filth in the water, and Grace closed her eyes and drew the blade across her palm.
“All right," she said, a little shakily, and then lifted her hands. “Thanet, ask me who I am."
Thanet caught on instantly. “Who are you?"
“My name is Grace."
“What calls you?"
“Salt. Although," Grace hesitated. “Perhaps, more than Salt. Perhaps whatever will be the end of this transformation."
“What do you give?"
Thanet followed Grace’s gaze down to the black, rank water, then up to the tunnel above, thinking about London, the city that had survived so much: Zeppelins and bombs, strikes and fire.
Grace said, “Everything I have."
“That’s what – you know." Thanet said, understanding this for the first time. “That’s what Ned gave away."
Grace nodded. “Yes. And even so."
Thanet shivered. “And what do you ask?"
“Safety. And time." Grace inhaled, audibly, above the rush of water. “I ask that the floodgates be closed, that the city be allowed the time for transformation, that those who do magic are only those who know what they do."
Thanet reached out for her then pulled away, aware that this might be the last magic Grace ever raised; or the last thing she ever did. He watched as she placed her bloodied hands on the floodgates.
“Oh," Thanet said, and then all he knew was the screech of metal and the rise of water, and then rankness and darkness and fear, and then, nothing at all.
___
(v) Remembrance
At eleven o’clock in the morning on the eleventh of November, 1919, the government’s Birds-in-Flight practitioners raised an elegant and beautiful piece of magic, casting great spectral ravens about the city and the City, not as coercion, but as reminder: when silence fell, it was not frightening but expected, even welcome. In the streets the motorbuses rattled to a halt and the street traders stopped hawking their wares; on the river the boats drifted; and in the courts all dockets were suspended, waiting. In the chambers and inside the Temple gardens, even the clocks were stilled. For two minutes they counted out their silence: two minutes for everything that had been lost.
Then Grace breathed out, settled back into her armchair, and said to Ned: “Well. We survived it."
“It and everything after," Ned said. He was sitting on the floor in front of her, hands raised. “Do you want to try it now?"
Grace considered. “All right."
She closed her eyes and concentrated. When she opened them again, there was light where there hadn’t been light. As she and Ned watched, it spluttered and failed, sending them back into darkness. But Ned reached over and pulled the curtains, letting in the wintry sunlight, and settled back on the floor. “Well done," he said, and they returned to silence for a while after that.
“A light," Grace said finally, sneezed, and then let out a breath. “I thought – I thought I wouldn’t be able to do magic again. Tell me if I’m being horrible and tactless," she added.
Ned shook his head. “It was quite a working you did, Grace. Thanet carried you up all those stairs and by the time she got up to ground level she was dry as a bone."
“So was everything else," said Thanet, from the doorway. “They’re talking about reopening the station in the new year."
“I might walk down to the next one along, even if they do," Grace said, a little embarrassed. “Where are you off to, anyway?"
“Back on my rounds." Thanet grinned and rubbed her hands together. “And Kira wants to visit her mum, I said I’d take her. We’ll be back this afternoon."
She bowed, grabbed her hat and went out. A kind of fresh determination had come into her movements, Grace thought, since her registration had been restored: a refusal to compromise in the work that she did.
“Grace," said Ned, getting to his feet and colonising another armchair. “Are you quite sure you’re all right?"
“I’m – not all right," Grace said, flexing her hands and considering. The cuts she had made, done with an unwashed penknife and then bathed with dirty river water, had become infected with a vengeance, but they were healing better now, with some sanitising magic and patience. “But I will be, I hope."
“You will be," Ned said, certain. “Perhaps we all will. Even Mistress Ferguson – she’s drawing her widow’s pension, I’m told. Her husband has been entirely exonerated of any voluntary role in the accident."
“How did it go with the railway company?" Grace asked, anxiously.
Ned groaned, and put a hand to his head. “Let us say that I may not be the most welcome passenger on the Southwestern Railway for the next few – ah, decades. But suffice it to say, I am not being brought up on professional malpractice, and Thanet’s name has been restored to the roll. They did accept that the accident wasn’t our fault, in the end, though that might be something to do with Thanet talking at great length about our dear Miss May risking her life for the good of the railway…"
“Good." Grace smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Ned, I want to ask you something."
Ned inclined his head. “Mmm?"
Grace hesitated. “I don’t know if you want to tell me, or if you can. But if you can – what did they do to you, in the war?"
“Ah," Ned said, and didn’t speak for a minute, rummaging in pockets, and then lit a cigarette. Mrs Throckley didn’t like it when they smoked inside, but Grace didn’t bring up the point.
“Dear Grace," Ned said, with almost a laugh. “You’ve been so terribly kind. You’ve never asked me that."
“I’m asking now."
Ned nodded, and took a drag of the cigarette. “I think the last time I saw you before the Armistice was when the Germans bombed the Guildhall."
“Yes," Grace said. “I thought you might return to practice then. Be invalided out, or however they put it. You were quite beaten up by the whole affair."
Ned smiled at her. “I thought so too. When they asked me to come up to the Horseguards I thought it was something in the way of light duty they had in mind. The Minister for War had dabbled in transport before 1914. He was greatly taken with the silver-bell Salt signalling and recommended me to the War Office. That’s how I got sent to France."
“To the front lines?"
“Not all the time," Ned said, still blowing smoke. “It was quite a simple system. Each battalion had its men, its commanding officer, and its practitioner. Salt and Birds alike, though the men liked it to be Salt, Birds could give them courage but Salt could fix the holes in their boots. But every so often the brass behind the lines pulled me out and asked me to think about long-term magical strategies. To devise ways in which we could fight a better war."
“A better war?"
Ned shrugged and overturned his palms. “You shouldn’t be able to regret the magic you’ve done, not really," he said. “You’ve given a gift of something of yourself: you’ve done a true thing, no matter what. But there’s magic you can do without the full recitation, you know. You don’t give a gift. You can drain the salt from a man’s bones – Salt and salt both – and force him to sacrifice himself."
“And that..." Grace paused. “That changes people – into what you are now?"
Ned shook his head. “No. It kills them where they stand. The Birds did it humanely, if there is such a thing. Put up great fields of magic and if the soldiers wandered i
n, they just… well, they lost interest in fighting. I heard German soldiers telling their pals all about how they wanted to take up birdwatching, somewhere far away. But I… well." He shook his head. “The men used to come to me, ask for magic. They knew I was turning men just like them into ash and dust, a half-mile away in no-man’s land, and they saw the bar in my ear and they still came to me.
“Then in the autumn of 1918 they started saying it would be over soon. I didn’t believe it. That war couldn’t end. I was at Boulogne, at any rate. It was a terrible place." Ned dipped his head for a moment, then lifted it. “German soldiers died in the Salt fields without a mark on them. Men were buried three-deep in the frozen ground. It was a better war."
It was said with a faint irony. Grace didn’t interrupt.
“Then the message came. The armistice was to be at eleven in the morning: hostilities would cease, and it would be passed down the lines on silver bells. And I –I couldn’t sleep." Ned looked up. “The guns would stop. But all that magic – all that Salt in the earth along with the barbed wire. Nothing would grow. Children would have their mothers’ fields explode beneath their feet. That war couldn’t end, not like that."
“Ned?" Grace said, when he didn’t say anything for a minute. “What did you do?"
Ned sighed. “I went to the signalbox, the morning of the armistice. The girl there was from Liverpool, like you. She called me a witch. And then I—I made it safe, I suppose." He looked up and met her eyes. “I raised all the magic on every battlefield. I pulled it into my hands, into my mouth. I put it in a bowl of water. I’d seen some terrible things by then, I thought drowning would be an easy way to die."
“And then?" Grace asked.
“I didn’t," Ned said, bleakly. “When I woke up I didn’t believe it. But the girl from Liverpool rang the bells, and the war ended, and I poured the water into the harbour."
“It took your own magic with it," Grace said. “That’s right, isn’t it?"
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