Fiona McIntosh - Scrivener’s Tale

‘I cannot believe she is speaking with you.’

‘Believe it. I’m not shocked. Many youngsters choose their moment to reveal themselves. Sometimes it’s with the most unlikely partner. She obviously feels safe here.’

Reynard stared at him. ‘And your advice is?’

He shrugged. ‘Bring her back. I was on the brink of learning more when you interrupted. Let me have a second session with her and see what can be achieved.’

Reynard looked tired and old suddenly. Gone was the pleasantness and confidence of the previous evening. Now he looked intense and worried.

‘It’s entirely up to you. If you want me to see her again, I will. But I won’t push.’ Reverse psychology, Gabe thought.

‘All right. When?’

‘Thursday. It will have to be the evening. I’m sorry that I can’t offer more convenient sessions.’

‘I understand. In two days then.’

‘Seven okay?’

Reynard nodded. ‘We’ll be here. Remember my warning, though, Gabriel. It is not given lightly. Come then, Angelina.’

She drifted over to them like a child with her attention riveted in her own thoughts.

‘Why don’t you say a proper farewell. I gather that you can,’ Reynard said with only a hint of sarcasm.

She looked at him with loathing. A quick glance was all Gabe was given but it was enough. He saw only humour in it.

‘Thank you,’ Reynard said to him, trying to smile but failing. ‘I can’t be sitting out in a draughty hallway each time,’ he added.

‘Well, you could just trust me with Angelina,’ Gabe replied.

Reynard pulled Gabe aside and dropped his voice. ‘It’s not about trusting you, Gabriel. It’s about not trusting her.’

‘There you go again. What are you so frightened of?’

‘She will bring you harm,’ Reynard hissed in warning as they watched her hit the lift button.

Gabe shook his head. ‘Not on my watch, she won’t.’

‘Well, see you Thursday,’ Reynard said.

Gabe was tiring of him. ‘You can read the papers or just people-watch in the café across the street. No interruptions this time. You must trust me.’ He looked at Angelina. ‘See you soon.’ He watched the light flash to say the lift was imminent. ‘Ah, wait. Hold the doors,’ he urged, dashing back into the apartment to grab the pastries, which he threw back into their bag. He returned just as the lift doors opened. ‘Take this for a sugary hit later,’ he said, winking at Angelina and noticed the glimmer of a smile touch her eyes.

He wondered briefly if he should charge a fee for this work. He decided he wouldn’t. He would regard it purely as a favour and then he owed Reynard nothing — they were square. Gabe closed the metal doors and watched the lift jerk before its captives began their descent.

He turned back into the apartment and was surprised to see a crow seated as still as a statue on the tall tree that reached up to his apartment. Its winter-bare branches clawed the air but provided good purchase for the crow. He’d never seen one in this neighbourhood previously; they tended to show themselves in and around the main tourist traps. He stepped closer to the window. It didn’t so much as blink.

And it had a lightish grey end to its beak, not at all like the highly glossy beak of the crows he was familiar with, and it was smaller. It seemed to be staring through his window and right into his soul.

He clapped his hands. ‘Shoo!’ he exclaimed. He stepped forward and banged on the window.

It jumped into the air at his yell and with an almost slow-motion beat of its wings, effortlessly dragged itself away from his building. The winter light caught its feathers and he saw a purple glow shine off its back, which was oddly beautiful. His interest piqued, Gabe immediately opened his laptop and searched the net for ‘crows’, unexpectedly becoming fascinated by the family Corvidae.

He finally found what he was looking for. His spy had not been a carrion crow as he’d first thought. He was now sure that the visitor was a raven, which had feathers that were described as iridescent. His bird’s beak was definitely curved, as the information said it should be, and it certainly had shaggy plumage at the throat. He’d noticed the bird’s feathers at the low point of the neck were pale, near enough to grey. Yes, definitely a raven.

Odd that it was alone, for apparently these birds moved like wolves, with certain laws of the pack guiding their lives. Perhaps it was a sentinel? His reading told him that while others trawled for food at lower levels, a few of the birds stayed higher in trees to keep watch.

And yet this one seemed to be watching him, not its companions, if there were any.

Gabe lost himself in an hour of research on ravens, strongly attracted to these mysterious old-world birds, once commonplace in Europe during the Middle Ages, now less so. He noted in particular their place in myth and legend, especially their association with death as escorts to the departing soul.

It never occurred to him to recall the death dream.

Loup arrived silently at dusk but Cassien was waiting, sitting quietly on the stoop of the hut; he had sensed the man’s approach long before. He felt a flutter of nervous energy at what he planned to say, wondering if Loup could write an angry response fast enough. He didn’t plan on taking ‘No’ for an answer.

Loup nodded at Cassien’s wave.

‘Good evening, Loup. Welcome back.’

The man stopped at the edge of the clearing where Cassien’s hut stood. ‘It’s always good to see you, Cassien,’ he said.

Cassien’s mouth dropped open in astonishment as he stared at Loup, who gave him a sheepish look.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘All these years,’ Cassien murmured, shock racing through him.

‘I half wondered if you might sense it.’ Loup looked down at his big hands. ‘They were my orders.’

‘Brother Josse must be so proud of you.’ He was disgusted at the deception and wanted this man to know it.

‘As he is you,’ Loup said, still not coming nearer.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Cassien replied.

‘I am as obedient and committed as you are, Cassien,’ Loup grumbled.

Cassien stood abruptly and turned away. ‘There’s food in the pot,’ he growled over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me, I need to be alone.’ And then he was gone, grabbing his dagger and bow, blending into the forest in a blink and running silently, as far from Loup as possible.

It never failed to impress him that Romaine could know his mood. Many times she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere when he had found himself particularly unhappy, or hurting deeply from his injuries. Romaine would come, sometimes across many miles. She would lick his wounds and sit close to him, allowing Cassien to hug her, bury his face into her thick fur if he wept. The training had so often felt as though it had no purpose and now he felt betrayed. Loup — his one connection with the world outside the forest — had been lying to him. He was walking now, had stopped running as soon as he’d distanced himself from the man.

He heard a soft growl and Romaine emerged from the darkness. Light was fading from the day anyway, but here, this deep into the forest, it was almost always dark. Her pale coat looked luminous in the faint light.

‘Romaine,’ he whispered.

She whined softly with pleasure as he crouched down to embrace her.

‘Oh, those cubs are close,’ he said, forgetting his troubles and gently touching her swollen belly. ‘But you came to find me anyway, didn’t you, girl?’ Now he stroked the broad, almost arrow-shaped head, which tapered to her nose and pale grey muzzle.

She ran a large, dry tongue over his face in welcome as he dug his fingers into the bushy fur at the base of her head; she welcomed his rough scratching around her neck and ears.