The White Queen stood on the deck of a burning ship in St Katharine’s Docks. The entire area east of the Tower of London was ablaze, and the cargoes of wool and oils in the ships in St Katharine’s Docks had exploded, adding further fury to the inferno.
The White Queen paid no heed to the flames. She stared westwards to where she could see three couples swaying on the Savoy’s dance floor to the rhythms of the labyrinth and the beat of the bombs as they pounded down on the city.
“Grace,” the White Queen whispered, “don’t you see? Don’t you understand? Jack? Jack? Don’t you realise?”
Jack did not know how much time had passed. He was aware only of Grace in his arms, of the sweet harmonies they spun with their movements, and of the power that danced through and about them. He thought he could dance like this, with Grace, for an eternity, and leave the rest of life behind, regretting nothing.
“Look at this,” Grace whispered. “Everyone else has gone, and there remains only you and me, my parents, and your father and Ariadne, dancing across the floor.”
Jack did not care. In his world there was only Grace.
“Fancy,” she whispered, the words barely reaching him, “even the band has gone home, and we dance only to the sound of the bombs.”
That tweaked at something deep in Jack’s subconsciousness, but as soon as it disturbed him, it had gone, and Jack thought nothing more of it.
“Three Mistresses of the Labyrinth,” Grace murmured, “and three Kingmen, if you want to count my father.”
Jack remembered that day, a long time ago, almost a year, now, when he’d asked Weyland if he had Kingman powers. What was it that Weyland had answered? What?
Ah, yes.
I could not do it prettily—perhaps you might offer me further training—but do it I could. Remember also that I would bring my Darkcraft behind whatever I could do as Kingman. I could be a very, very effective—and somewhat bleak—Kingman. Jack, why do you ask?
Why had he asked? Jack could not remember. There was nothing for him at the moment but the music and Grace.
But there was no music, there was only the distant sound of bombs and destruction.
“Grace,” he said, pulling her to a halt as he stopped suddenly. “Let’s get out of here.”
The Savoy was dark, all but closed down, but the cloakroom girl had left out Grace’s coat and Jack’s hat on a chair by the counter.
“Jack,” Grace said, slipping her arms through the sleeves of her fur coat as Jack held it for her. “Why stop now? The dance was so perfect…”
He grabbed his cap, then took her hand and pulled her towards the door. “I was tired of sharing you with your parents and Silvius and Ariadne,” he said. “I wanted to find somewhere to dance more privately.” Jack had parked the Austin in the basement of the Savoy, but he did not lead her there.
Instead they walked down towards the deserted Embankment where they stopped and stared at the fires further east in the docklands and the East End. The flames were reflected along the entire length of the Thames between where they stood and the docklands, giving the impression that the entire river was aflame. Overhead Jack could hear the drone of planes, and the sharp rattle of ack-ack arching up into the night sky.
“Listen to the music of the bombs,” said Grace. “Listen to them dance.”
Jack looked at her. She was staring at the inferno raging in the docklands, her head tilted to one side and her body swaying slightly as if she was, indeed, listening to music. He tugged at her hand gently. “Grace, come with me, please.”
She turned her face towards him, and he saw the distant flames reflected in her dark blue eyes.
“No,” she whispered, “here.”
And then she stepped forward, gripping the lapels of his jacket in both hands, and lifted her face to his.
He seized her, crushing her body against his, his mouth against hers. He’d kissed her before, but never like this, and never had he had her respond like this. He had a single moment of coherent thought, where he regretted with every fibre of his being that this hadn’t happened within decent distance of a bed, then he was lost in her, in the heat of her body, the fervour of her mouth, the teasing touch of her hands which had now slid inside his shirt, the continuing magic of their shared labyrinthine power as it twisted about them.
Then, suddenly, terribly, she was pulling back from him, and once more looking to the east.
“Gods, Grace…”
Again her head tilted to one side, then she looked up, studying the clouds, and then, finally, back to him.
“The drone of the planes has gone. There are no more bombs.”
He tried to catch at her, to pull her back into his arms. “Grace, please…”
“The raid has finished, Jack.”
“Grace…”
She stepped forward and kissed him, very gently, very lingeringly, and with none of the passion she had displayed a moment earlier. “Not tonight, Jack. I’m sorry.”
“Christ, Grace.”
Again she kissed him, and he wished she’d stop that.
“Not tonight,” she said. “Soon. But not tonight.”
He sighed, wishing he could let go his arousal as easily as, apparently, Grace could let go hers. “When, then?”
“The next raid, perhaps. Then.”
He studied her carefully, all thought of lovemaking now gone. “Why then, Grace? What is the importance of waiting for the next raid?”
“Didn’t you feel it, Jack?”
He gave a soft laugh. “I felt many things tonight. Too many. It will take me a week or more to sort them out.”
Once more Grace tilted her head to the east, then up to the clouds. “My shadow sister has built a strange Game, indeed.”
“Grace? What do you know?”
She smiled, very slow, very seductive. “Why don’t I show you,” she said, “on the night of the next raid?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I never thought I could wish so desperately for another raid.”
She laughed, and took his hand. “Come. Drive me home. Malcolm has left sandwiches out, and I am ravenous.”
NINE
The Thames and Southwark, London
Wednesday, 19th March 1941
GRACE SPEAKS
I’d felt something that night. Not just arousal—that I felt as never before—but something that danced about the corners of my mind, like a moth at a light that could never quite be caught in form and colour. Something my sister was trying to show me, but I couldn’t quite grasp.
But it had something to do with the bombs. Something to do with the pain and destruction and loss of life. Something…something to do with the air raids.
The Lord of the Faerie came to Copt Hall the next day and begged Jack to do something. The Faerie was now in desperate straits. During the previous night when Jack and I had danced to the music of the bombs, cracks had appeared in the sky of the Faerie and utter bleakness threatened to tumble through. There were shadows of fingers, the Lord of the Faerie told us, groping at the cracks. None of us knew what awaited on the other side, what was attached to those shadowy fingers, and none of us wanted to find out, either.
Jack couldn’t answer—what could he say?—and so I leaned over and took the Faerie Lord’s hand. “Soon,” I said.
“That’s not good enough,” he said, snatching his hand away from mine and leaving the room.
“Grace,” Jack whispered, “please tell me what you felt last night?”
“I felt the touch of my sister,” I said. “I felt hope.”
He gave a bitter, brittle laugh, for the Lord of the Faerie’s news—and his pain—were tormenting him. “Hope? From her?”
I was sitting next to him on the sofa, and I took his face in both my hands and kissed his mouth softly. “Hope from me, then.”
He rested his forehead against mine for a very long moment, then leaned back, his face a fraction more relaxed than it had been. “I want to sleep with you so badly,” he said.
I knew he didn’t refer only to sex, but to something greater. It was comfort he wanted, the comfort of entwining his life so completely with another’s that they—we—became one.
I kissed him again. “Soon,” I said.
Four days later, Hitler threw the entire Luftwaffe against London.
Jack drove us down to the Thames where, in a small dock in Southwark, we found a rowing boat.
It was late at night, and the Luftwaffe had been overhead for more than two hours.
London was ablaze.
I marvelled that the city had sustained so much damage, and yet still there was material to burn. I marvelled that the city still lived, and wondered what magic sustained it.