The Uncanny Raven Winston

by Tammie Painter

  Olivia looked like she wanted to shout at me. Her nostrils were flaring, truly flaring. Her jaw muscles quavered from clenching her teeth so tightly. She closed her eyes and pulled several deep breaths through her nose. When she opened her eyes, she looked only at Mr. Tenpenny, as if looking at me might set her off again.

  "I will go inform the guards that the exhibit will have to be closed today. I will then send the pixies in to work on tidying this up."

  "I could help," I offered, trying to be useful. I probably wouldn’t be allowed to magic anything back into place, but I knew how to use a broom.

  "We will manage without your help, Ms. Black."

  And with that, Mr. Tenpenny showed me out of the White Tower. Tourists were already heading in our direction. They all let out a collective groan when one of the Yeoman Warders told them the White Tower’s armory was undergoing some renovations for the day.

  That’s right, it was barely half past nine in the morning, and I’d already ruined a historic display and put a giant hitch in hundreds of people’s sightseeing plans. This was not how I imagined spending my first trip to London.

  22 - THE FILE ROOM

  AS SOON AS I’d been shown out of the White Tower, my phone pinged. I found a bench, checked my messages, and my gut plummeted when I saw several were from Mr. Wood. All I could think was something terrible had happened. Either to him or to the funeral home. Had Morelli’s interference set Mr. Wood’s recovery back? Was he now in worse pain than before? Had the health authorities come snooping again? Were the medical bills too much and he’d filed for bankruptcy?

  My fingers flew over the keypad to tap in my passcode. But other than a single, "Hi, Cassie," there were no other texts from my boss, just a series of pictures.

  I scrolled through the photos. Several were of ever-increasingly tall variations on the classic BLT. I don’t even know what was inside some of them, but I swear one was sandwiched between two maple bars instead of bread. Most of the other photos were of clumps of yarn that were starting to look more like squares and circles rather than one of Pablo’s hairballs, but just barely.

  I texted back that it looked like he was having fun and keeping fed. I also told him I was sorry for missing the photos earlier but my phone hadn’t alerted me to his messages. I asked how he was feeling, hoped he was doing well, and told him I’d be home soon. Judging by my horsey fiasco I might not be, but I wouldn’t have him fretting.

  Below all of Mr. Wood’s photos was a single image from Lola with the caption, "Having a roaring good time with Auntie Lola." The image? Pablo dressed in a fluffy lion’s mane and posed before a Serengeti-style background. And again, the cat looked quite pleased with himself. I texted back that I would report her to the Humane Society if this kept up, but added a winking emoji to show I was only joking.

  Then, feeling like a complete imbecile as more people grumbled their way away from the White Tower, I wandered toward the Waterloo Barracks to see the Crown Jewels. Unfortunately, about ten tour buses worth of tourists were queuing up to get in. The sea of people was so deep I couldn’t even see the entrance.

  Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, I turned on my heel and strolled around the grounds, counting garden gnomes (six) and catching snippets of speeches from various tour guides who held bright umbrellas or silly flags above their heads as a signpost for their group to follow.

  As I came around the back side of the White Tower, I saw Alastair. My gut did one of its annoying little jumps of excitement at seeing him, but I managed a show of nonchalance as I strolled casually over to catch up with him.

  "Cassie," he said with delight. Clearly he’d decided to forget my little outburst from the day before. Which was good because the warmth in his eyes at the sight of me, the look in them that said his day was already better for my having found him, the tilt of his head that looked almost like he wanted to bend down to kiss me, all wiped away any thoughts of my Seabiscuit screw up. "I heard you had a little trouble."

  Well, that was a nice few milliseconds away from my angst.

  "I’d rather not talk about it. Look, can we, you know, meet later?" My words prodded the warmth in his eyes into glowing hot embers. "I mean, sort of like a briefing. I want to keep on track with what you’ve found out about my parents."

  "I— Yeah, sure." Those intense eyes shifted to glance over my shoulder. Alastair smiled brightly and waved his arm to signal someone. "Rafi, over here."

  Damn you, Rafi.

  "Hey Al. And you must be Cyclone Cassie. I’m Rafi," he said in a voice that carried a pleasing mix of Indian and Welsh accents. He held out his hand to shake and, as the scent of sandalwood enveloped me, he wore a grin that showed he thought he was being terribly clever. "I’m just heading over to grab a coffee. You want to come?" This invitation was made to Alastair, as Rafi angled his slim shoulders just enough to exclude me.

  "Sounds great. Cassie, you want to come?"

  "I’ll pass," I said, annoyed that Alastair was ignoring my question about my parents to go have coffee.

  The two walked off, laughing about something and leaving me wondering if Alastair had been doing anything to search for information on my mom and dad — the people he said had been his friends.

  "Cassie."

  Completely lost in my grumpy thoughts, the sound of the voice behind me scared me so hard, I whipped around and nearly let loose a Shoving Charm. Nearly. But I didn’t. See? Control. I am a master of my own magic at least once a day.

  "What’s up, Tobey?" I said, then scuttled aside as someone with a selfie stick kept backing up right into the spot where I’d been standing. I was tempted to magically tie the stick in a knot, but performing magic in front of non-magics isn’t allowed. Still, I think selfie sticks should be the exception to that rule.

  "Look," he whispered, "everyone’s busy either cleaning up or discussing the mess you made of the armory horses."

  "Does gossip defy the laws of physics to travel faster than the speed of light in the magic world?"

  "We do really like our gossip," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Anyway, they’re occupied, which means I can get you into the file room and we can get a start on a few of the drawers."

  So while Alastair, the guy who was supposed to be here to search with me for my parents, was off having a latte with his little buddy, Tobey the Terrible was actively doing something to help me out. I will never understand people.

  "Are you serious?" I asked, somewhat surprised.

  "Yes, I’m serious." He then told me how to find the file room. As he spoke, from the corner of my eye, I caught a raven swooping low, then soaring back up with a croaking cry. Tobey glanced up at the sound, then started backing away from me. "I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes," he said quickly. "It’ll be less obvious if we don’t go together. Got it?"

  I told him I did, and Tobey headed off toward the White Tower, using the side door you wouldn’t know existed if you weren’t part of the magic world.

  I strode across a small, grassy area, biding my time by pretending to be looking at the remains of an old gate.

  "These are the foundations for a scaffold that was built to execute Oliver Cromwell," said Nigel. Perched on his shoulder was Winston who was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe how inaccurate Nigel could be with his history. Nigel glanced up doubtfully at the bird, then to me. "Is that not correct?"

  "Close, but not quite."

  "Do you know," said Nigel after I’d explained to him what the stones once were, "you remind me of an old friend of mine. Didn’t know her long, but she always took the time to help me with my facts. I guess they just didn’t sink in. But enough nostalgia, would you like a tour?"

  "As entertaining and educational as that might be, I have to be somewhere."

  "I don’t think you should go." This time Winston was bobbing his body and nodding his head.

  "Why shouldn’t I go?"

 
"Because the tour is really spectacular. And I just think you should wait for Alastair to help you."

  "Were you eavesdropping on me?"

  "No. Winston may have been, though," he added cheekily.

  Before I could question how Winston might have relayed his information to the ghostly warden, from the other side of the lawn, I caught sight of Alastair and Rafi, coffee cups in hand, chatting and chortling away.

  "Well, Alastair’s a bit busy right now. Hold on." I pulled the sheet that was supposed to list my classes from my pocket to see if anything had been added. The page was still empty. "Look, I won’t be long and I’m free afterward. As soon as I’m done, you can give me the tour and we can work on your version of events."

  This pleased him immensely and his apple cheeks warmed with pride. Winston, however, was again shaking his head.

  I told Nigel I’d meet him in the same spot sometime after lunch. As I jogged toward the White Tower’s door, Winston let out a blood-curdling series of caws that got the other ravens squawking from all corners of the Tower. Several children started crying and one wailed that he wanted to leave "before the pterodactyls" got him.

  * * *

  I made a few wrong turns and I swear I was going down a staircase only to end up looking out over Tower Green from two stories up. Then I had the sensation of going up stairs only to end up in one of the lower levels of the White Tower. I was just cursing Tobey for playing a trick on me when, down a corridor that seemed to go on forever, I found a door labeled File Room.

  I looked up and down the hallway. No one was around, so I darted into the room. A bank of half-hearted incandescent lights ran the length of the narrow space. One wall was covered in a yellowing map of London, a table where people could look over files stood a few feet in from the door, and lining each side of the room were your standard-issue, five-drawer, metal file cabinets.

  "What took you so long?" Tobey asked impatiently.

  "Nigel wanted to give me a tour."

  Tobey pulled a strange face at this. "You probably want to avoid that guy." Apparently Tobey was aware of Nigel’s trouble with historic facts and figures. He then gestured toward the file cabinets. "Ready to get started? I say we go alphabetically to make sure we don’t miss anything."

  "That’ll take too long. Can’t we just look under S for Starling?"

  "We could try, but it would probably only pull up their personnel file. Most anything they did would have gone under a code name. Why don’t you take one side and I’ll do the other. We probably have an hour, but be ready to go when I say."

  Tobey pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet nearest him. He wanted me to start on the cabinet behind him, but the area was so narrow the drawers extending from the cabinets would have left no room to work. He grumbled a bit when I told him I’d start at the other end to keep out of each others’ way, but grumbling wasn’t an unusual response from Tobey Tenpenny.

  Moving away from Tobey not only gave me more elbow room, it also meant I could satisfy my own curiosity. I didn’t know anything about my parents, so even if it didn’t provide any clues as to their current whereabouts, I wanted to see their personnel file. I headed down the row and stopped at S, then found the St drawer.

  The moment I opened the drawer I caught the scent of chocolate with a hint of raspberries. Alastair had been here. And recently. If he had found something and hadn’t told me, if he had found something and decided to go off and have coffee with stupid Rafi—

  Fuming, I jerked open the drawer and sifted through the files in search of my parents’ dossier.

  Stark, Starkly, Stenton, Sturgious.

  What the—?

  I thumbed twice through all the tabs with names that started with St, but there was no Starling. Had Alastair taken it? Furious with his do-it-my-way attitude, I threw the drawer shut, stomped down to the end of the row, and started in on the Z files.

  Big surprise, there was no file for Zeller either, Alastair’s surname. But neither did I scent him on this drawer. Maybe HQ didn’t keep files on people who weren’t agents. Or maybe he got rid of it long ago.

  Oddly, in the magic world, there are a lot of people with names that end in Z. My eyelids felt heavy, probably from the time shift, but I willed them to stay open. I’d just gotten to Zollo when Tobey called down that we needed to get going. I don’t know if he had a timer or if he’d heard something, but I eased my drawer shut and hurried to join him.

  "Anything?" I asked.

  "No, we can start in again tonight if you want."

  "Can’t I just come any time?" I was exhausted and imagined there was an early bedtime ahead of me. "I mean, you probably have better things to do here."

  "Not really. Besides, it’s my grandfather’s key that lets me in. He’d know if it went missing for more than a couple hours. So, later tonight?"

  "Yeah, we’ll see," I said noncommittally, forcing myself to accept that Tobey was now part of my covert operation.

  At least he was proving useful for once.

  23 - MAKING PLANS

  AFTER A LONG, roundabout trek along corridors and stairways, I found my way back to the White Tower’s secret exit. That morning’s slice of toast was long gone, and my hunger joined in with the weird tiredness that had hit me in the file room to deliver a throbbing headache.

  Recalling the direction Alastair and Rafi had gone to get their coffees, I slipped around the White Tower and followed my nose to a cafe. My appetite took over as I moved through the food line and I ended up loading my tray with a double portion of fish and chips, a green salad, apple juice, black tea, and a pile of cookies. It was only as I reached the cashier that I hoped my debit card would work. After all, in the rush of Mr. Green’s funeral, packing, and getting Mr. Wood settled, I hadn’t exactly thought to put a travel alert on my account.

  The cashier, dressed in a colorful sari, was an older woman of Indian descent. I held my little rectangle of plastic out to her, but she took one sniff and waved the card away.

  "No need to pay."

  "But…" I wasn’t normally one to question free food, but this was a tourist site, places not generally known for handing out meal bargains.

  "I have a line of customers, so please move along." She then lowered her dancing voice. "And next time you choose to eat here instead of in your room, don’t make it during the lunch rush. I hate having to explain to Norms why the person ahead of them got a free meal."

  She snapped her head to the side in a sharp get-out-of-here gesture. Duly chastised, I got out of her sight, but as I scanned the dining area for a table, I heard her telling a disgruntled diner that I had won a free lunch voucher from BBC Radio 4.

  Once finished with my gut-busting meal, I left the cafe and headed back to where I’d left Nigel that morning. Even if his facts were completely inaccurate, I needed something to take my mind off things, especially after seeing tourists still approaching the White Tower and being turned away. Some simply shrugged their shoulders and went off to snap pictures of other parts of the Tower, but some (embarrassingly, mostly ones with American accents) were declaring they’d sue for false advertising. And the poor Yeoman Warders were having to take it all in stride.

  With it being the middle of a summer day full of sunshine, the Tower was crowded with tourists. Despite the warm weather, a familiar chill brushed over my skin just before Nigel appeared beside me. To avoid being jostled by other humans as well as to avoid looking like a nutter who spoke to herself, he guided me around to an area behind the main buildings that was off limits to visitors.

  He recited a speech on the founding of the Tower and I corrected him that it wasn’t William of Orange who started construction, but William the Conqueror; that William had won the Battle of Hastings, not the Battle of the Bulge; and that the White Tower was named for the bright white stone used, not because white people were the original occupants — although, technically, that fact wasn’t en
tirely off the mark.

  In between the history lessons, he pointed out where his friend had resided while she was here, showed me the gate she passed through the last time he saw her, and made little jokes that if she hadn’t already been married, he might have had a chance with her. I wondered if this woman had been the wife of one of the other Yeoman Warders who had long since retired.

  It was late afternoon by the time we worked our way back around to Traitor’s Gate where Nigel thanked me for helping him with his history and made his goodbyes. Once he’d vanished, I passed under a gateway that led to the heart of the Tower.

  "Cassie, hey, there you are," Alastair said, greeting me with a warm look in his eyes as if he hadn’t seen me in weeks.

  "Done with your coffee?"