She leaned forward on her seat, and opened the small glass window between her and her driver, who didn’t seem in the least perturbed to be in control of a conveyance far different to the one he had started driving.
As he heard the window slide open, the driver turned his head slightly, and, with a jolt of surprise, Noah saw that he’d turned into one of the grey wraiths of St Dunstan’s bone house.
“Madam?” he said.
“Turn left down Earl’s Court Road,” she said, “and drop me off at the station.”
He nodded, and Noah sat back, slightly fascinated, despite her initial uneasiness, by the style of housing along the roads down which they drove. So substantial, such big windows and porticoed entrances, so…staid.
And the roads. Noah was used to the crowded streets of London, but never had she seen traffic move so fast. She remembered the time in her previous life when she’d had to cross to Gospel Oak station, and had frozen in the middle of the road, terrified by the traffic.
Fortunately, the driver pulled up at the footpath right by Earl’s Court station (apparently breaking some kind of honour code as he did so, for several of the black monsters blared screeching horns at him as he turned about in front of them), and Noah was spared another crossing.
“Wait for me,” she said to him as she climbed out of the vehicle (making several attempts before she worked out how the door opened), straightened, and with no apparent hesitation, walked into the gaping entrance of Earl’s Court underground station.
There was a low-ceilinged vestibule, then the station opened out into a large concourse which overlooked the railway platforms themselves. To her right there were five windows at which people queued; directly in front of her were stairs leading down to the platforms; and to her left was a teahouse.
There were several small tables set out here, and at one of them sat a very tall man dressed in a tightly belted coat and with a soft hat pulled well down over his eyes.
Before him, on the table, stood a steaming cup of tea.
Noah drew in a deep breath, steadying herself, then walked over to the table.
It looked as if the man was asleep, and Noah stretched down a careful, silent hand, reaching for the cup and saucer.
The man—the Sidlesaghe—raised his face to her, his eyes large and mournful.
“What do you, Eaving? Why take the golden band of Troy now?”
Her hand closed about the saucer, and it shifted fractionally towards her.
The Sidlesaghe put his large, long-fingered hand over her wrist, and the cup and saucer slid to a halt. “Eaving—”
“Friend,” Noah said softly, “release the band to me, please.”
“Eaving, we fear what you do.”
“I will shelter it,” she said. “I promise this.”
Reluctantly the Sidlesaghe lifted his hand, and Noah slid the cup and saucer towards her, then lifted them into her hands.
Instantly they transformed into one of the heavy golden bands of Troy, emblazoned about its outer diameter with the icon of the stylised labyrinth with the spinning crown above it.
Noah gave the Sidlesaghe a nod, and then she was gone.
The journey back to Idol Lane was precisely the reverse of her journey through time and space to Earl’s Court. The wraith was waiting for her in his vehicle at the kerbside—he leapt out to open the back door for Noah so she could sit inside.
The wraith set the black vehicle in motion and drove northwards to Kensington Road where he turned right and headed back into the city.
As they drove so the dirty, stuccoed buildings faded away and the winter fields appeared once more. At the junction of Portugal Street and Piccadilly, the townhouses of outer London began to appear. As the outer transformation took place, so also did that of the vehicle in which Noah travelled. The horses reappeared, the roof and confining walls of the black monster slid away, and Noah was left, grateful, to sit in the open carriage in the cold sharp sunlight of a winter’s day.
All the while she kept close hold of the band.
All the while she kept shut out, as much as she could, the soft cries of Louis that prodded at her mind from his magical journey through the Ringwalk.
Why, Noah? Why? Why? Why?
“Because I choose,” she whispered.
Noah opened the front door, and looked up the
flight of stairs.
Weyland was still standing at their head, as if he had not moved the entire time she’d been gone.
“Jane?” Noah said softly.
“Gone to market,” Weyland replied. “Noah—”
“I have it,” she said, and held it forth.
Weyland visibly sagged, and Noah realised how tense he’d been. She walked up the stairs, faced him, and held it out so he could see.
Weyland swallowed, then reached out a hand and touched it.
The instant his fingers made contact with the metal he sprang back, with a soft exclamation.
“What is it?” Noah said.
“It bit me!” Weyland said, looking between the golden band and the tips of his fingers, which were reddened and slightly swollen.
“Then I shall have to keep it safe,” she said, “if it will not allow you to touch it.”
“Noah—”
“I will shelter it, Weyland.”
“And when I ask for it?”
“Then I shall bring it forth, and we can see again if the band shall allow you to handle it. It will not go far. Trust me.”
Weyland opened his mouth to say something, but just then the front door opened, and before either he or Noah could react, Jane entered, looked up the stairs, and gave an audible gasp of horror. “Noah! What have you done?”
Noah sent a quick, hard look at Weyland—let me speak with her, Weyland, I beg you—and then she was running lightly down the stairs, one hand clutching the band, the other held out in appeal to Jane.
But Jane did not see. She slammed the front door closed and marched through the parlour into the kitchen.
“Jane…” Breathless—and that through shock rather than through exertion—Noah stood in the doorway between kitchen and parlour, watching Jane as she thumped goods out of her basket onto the table.
“I cannot believe what you have done!” Jane said.
Noah took a step into the room. “Jane—”
“You are giving Weyland the bands of Troy? You are giving them to him?”
“No,” said Noah. “I am taking them into my own hands.”
“Ha!” said Jane.
“I am no longer willing to allow the Troy Game to dictate what happens, Jane. The bands are too valuable to lie about various places.”
Jane stopped what she was doing and stared at Noah. “Has the power of the labyrinth gone to your head, Noah? Have you lost what little wits you possessed? I saw you! Standing there, holding out one of the bands to Weyland! How many of the other bands does he have? How many betrayals have you managed before I saw that particular little touching scene?”
“Jane—”
“What have you done, Noah?”
“For all the gods’ sakes, Jane, it is not what it seems!”
“No? Then explain it to me.”
“I—”
Noah got no further, for at that moment Weyland appeared behind her, and, sliding his arms about her waist, drew her close back against him.
Noah winced and closed her eyes, as if she could not believe Weyland’s actions. Not now, Weyland, not now…
“Noah and I have become…close,” said Weyland. He was sick of pretending. Moreover, some part of him felt that if he pushed, then he would discover sooner rather than later if he had left himself critically open to betrayal.
Jane was staring at the pair before her as if she could not believe this further development, either.
“You have been sleeping with him,” Jane whispered. “You lied to me.”
Before Noah could stop him, one of Weyland’s hands had cupped her slightly rounded belly. “She’s carrying my child, Jane,” he said. “A real child. Not an imp.”
Jane gaped, her face white.
“Jane,” Noah said, wriggling out of Weyland’s grasp. “Please, I need you to trust in what I am—”
“Trust?” Jane said. “Trust? Wait until Brutus hears what—”
“Jane!” Noah’s voice snapped out the distance between them. “Jane, I beg you…” Keep silent about this, Jane. Please!
“Why?” Jane said, very softly. She’d caught the unspoken words.
“Jane, I need you to keep this secret for me.” I need you to keep all my secrets, and tell no one.
Jane glanced at Weyland. He was looking between them, but Noah was using her powers as Eaving to send her thoughts, and Jane was fairly sure Weyland could not catch them. You want me to keep silent about the fact you are handing Weyland the bands, and carrying his child? You have lost all your wits, indeed.
“Please, Jane,” Noah said. Keep this secret for me.