Mike Shevdon: Sixty-One Nails

"What does that have to do with me?"

"We, in this room, made a decision some time ago, to allow our bloodlines to mix with those of humanity and repair the damage that was done. We allowed, and in some cases even encouraged, a liaison between the races."

"I know. That's why the Seventh Court rebelled."

"The Feyre has become more and more specialised as certain traits only manifest themselves inside a single court. It has made us fragile."

"You don't appear fragile to me."

"I don't mean fragile as individuals. I mean as a race. We have lost the ability to reproduce because parts of our makeup have become unstable."

"But breeding with humans fixes that?"

"We took a calculated risk. We have known for a long time that the union between Feyre and Human was fertile and had the potential to restore the fertility lost to us. Humans spread like moss on a damp tree. If we could acquire some of their fecundity then we would be restored. That was a prize worth the taking. Human blood has the missing pieces, as far as we are concerned. You are a demonstration of that. You already have a daughter and there's another child on the way."

"Blackbird told you?"

"We already knew. The prospect of a birth is important news amongst the courts of the Feyre."

"Then you asked me here to congratulate me?"

The answer was not a warm one. "The nature of the babe is uncertain."

"You mean it could turn out like me, wraithkin, rather than like Blackbird."

"It's more complicated than that. When we mixed our bloodlines with humanity, the capacity to have children was not the only thing altered. It was the risk we took when we allowed it."

"What else changed?"

"The Feyre are defined by physical form. Fey'ree are small and delicate like Yonna here," she gestured to the pale, slim figure with the green eyes, "whereas ogres like Barthia are much larger and stronger." She gestured to the huge woman, who accepted the complement with a nod.

I looked back at Yonna. I could see now the resemblance from when Blackbird had transformed herself in the room above the inn, when we were in Shropshire. The pale skin and the way the eyes were elongated. "I am Fey'ree," she'd told me. "A creature of Fire and Air."

Kimlesh continued. "Humans, though, do not inherit the full form of the Feyre. They can acquire aspects of it, of course, and some are more Fey than others, but none are quite like us."

"Is that a problem?"

"It makes it much harder to determine what gifts they have inherited, especially as human blood adds its own twist, bringing forth gifts that were formerly dormant."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that your Fey forebear could have come from any court, not just that of Altair, our missing brother. Your human blood threw the dice and you are the result. Just because you are wraithkin and Blackbird is Fey'ree does not mean your child will be one or the other. Human heredity has thrown us back into the hands of fortune. Your daughter, Alexandra, could take after any of us. As could your unborn son."

"My son? It's a boy?"

"Did Kareesh not tell you? Yes, if Blackbird survives to deliver him, you will have a son. Be warned, though, birth among the Feyre is a hazardous business. Blackbird must be careful."

"I'll look after her."

"You?" It was the first time the feral man in the red shirt had spoken. "You're not leaving this room."

Teoth broke the silence that followed that remark.

"Unfortunately, Krane is right. We cannot allow you to leave."

"I'm sorry? Why not?"

"Blood price alone demands your heart," said Krane.

"We talked about this, Krane," said Yonna. "Fenlock initiated the attack. Even Carris agrees. She cannot claim blood price."

"It doesn't matter," said Krane. "He knows about the ceremony. He knows about the barrier and the arrangements we made. He cannot be allowed to leave this room with that knowledge. He could bring the whole thing down around our ears and there would be nothing we could do to prevent it. Are you prepared to set him free with that knowledge?"

"He has a point," said the deep booming voice of the ogre. "Our position would be significantly undermined."

"What about Blackbird?" I asked. "She knows as much as I do. What will you do? Wait until the babe is born and then kill her too?"

"Her position is different," said Yonna. "She is bound to the Court of Fire and Air. We have taken her word that she will tell no one else. It's her life if she breaks that oath and she knows it."

"Then do the same with me. Will you not accept my oath?"

None of them would meet my eyes. Even Krane looked away.

Barthia broke the silence that followed. "There is only one court that could have you, and that seat is vacant."

"Because I'm wraithkin."

"Even so," she said.

Claire Radisson looked up to the gallery of Court Four to see if she could see Ben Highsmith. At that distance and in this light her eyesight wasn't good enough to distinguish faces, even with her contact lenses. She smiled anyway, hoping he could see her and not realise how nervous she was. She and Jerry had conducted the Quit Rents Ceremony many times before, but it had never had the significance it had today.

When Ben Highsmith had appeared on Sunday, his clothes soaked through with river water, he had caused quite a stir. Security had refused to let him in and he had been threatened with arrest. It was only when he'd asked for her by name and they had promised to bring her to see him that he'd calmed down enough to allow himself to be led to a side room away from the busy entrance.

She'd found him standing in the security office, a grim smile on his face and the towel she had lent Niall in his gnarled hands. The knives had been wrapped in it. He'd told her what had happened and insisted the ceremony must go ahead.

Elizabeth had expressed her concerns. The grey tinge underlying Jerry's complexion worried Claire too, but Blackbird's message had been clear. The best protection for Jerry, his family, and everyone else was the restoration of the knife and the performance of the Ceremony of the Quit Rents.

Whatever Blackbird had said to Elizabeth in the hospital must have been enough because she acceded, though she could see her sitting in the front row, the set of her shoulders a testament to the enforced leave Jerry would be taking as soon as his duties were completed.

Behind Elizabeth, the two figures dressed in red grandeur stood with chains of office hung about their necks. These were the candidates for the Sheriff of the City of London and for Middlesex. They were being presented to the Queen's Remembrancer, in his role as representative of the monarch, for approval. Since the City of London had picked the wrong side in the conflict between Simon de Montfort and Henry III, they had been required by the reigning monarch to present their sheriffs for ratification. They would have been brought up the river from the Square Mile and then walked through the Inns of Court in procession with all the pageantry this group of wealthy middle-aged men could muster.

"And can you confirm for me," the Queen's Remembrancer called out in tones that carried up to the rafters, "that there was no repetition, when crossing Temple, of the disgraceful scenes of 1756?"

The Comptroller of the City of London, wrapped in his bearskin cloak, shook his head and smiled.

"I can assure Your Lordship, these fine men have behaved impeccably and were received with courtesy and respect wherever they walked."

The Comptroller went on to extol the virtues of the two men being put forward. One was an accountant for a big consultancy and the other was a tax auditor, but they each stood and listened in silence to their lives being described in bold terms. They certainly looked the part, even if the most dangerous thing they would be called upon to do was to decide whether to accept another glass of port or move on to the brandy.