Jack was obsessed with timing. He berated everyone—save for me—for lack of concentration, or application, or the occasional stumbling which tore apart the critical sequence of events needed to ensure success. He snapped and snarled, he cajoled, he even wept in frustration, but in the end he had what he wanted. By Friday the ninth of May he said that he was as satisfied as he could possibly be.
There was one last thing we needed to do, he said.
We needed, all three couples, to go dancing in the Savoy’s ballroom one last time.
It was a rehearsal for what we’d need to do—oh, gods—tomorrow night, when the White Queen had told us a major raid was due. Where better than the dance floor of the Savoy’s ballroom?
I should have been nervous, depressed (my fate would be decided tomorrow) but instead I found the experience calming and settling.
All the other dancers melted away as we took to the dance floor. Silvius, Weyland and Jack were in evening dress; Noah, Ariadne and I in svelte black gowns. I wonder what the onlookers thought of us, three couples all dancing separately, but somehow so connected, so allied, that when one of us made a step, so also did five others.
It worked. It worked beautifully. I began dancing with my father, and Jack with my mother, but as the dance progressed Jack and my father changed places smoothly, effortlessly, missing not a beat or jarring our entwined harmonies. As Jack took me in his arms I saw the relief in his eyes, felt him relax against me, and suddenly, blindingly, I believed that everything would work.
It had to. This was too perfect to be an illusion.
NINE
St Paul’s and Southwark
Saturday, 10th May 1941
They stood under the dome of St Paul’s. About them wandered members of the cathedral Watch, uneasy and vigilant as the air raid above intensified; they did not see the man and woman standing so close together.
Jack and Noah stood facing each other, cheek to cheek, touching in myriad different places, taking comfort from each other’s warmth. They were dressed as Kingman and Mistress of the Labyrinth, wearing little else save their white linen wraps. In her left hand Noah dangled a large spray of early spring columbines.
They were peculiarly still, their eyes downcast, their breathing slow and deep. Even the marks on Jack’s shoulders were quiescent.
They were waiting for the moment when they might start, and the other two pairs with them.
They were communing, both with themselves and with the other two sets of dancers: Weyland and Grace at Southwark, preparing to step onto the labyrinth lit by the water sprites, and Ariadne and Silvius atop the ancient Keep within the Tower of London, where they could draw on the power of the ancient God Well far below the structure’s foundations.
Jack and Noah were deepening themselves with the land, preparing to pull behind them all their powers as Ringwalker and Eaving.
They were making peace with each other, marking both a start and an end. For almost four thousand years they had battled with each other and with the world about them. Now they would battle no more.
At precisely the same instant, each lifted their right hand and slowly, caressingly, ran it up their partner’s left arm to the shoulder.
At Southwark, Weyland and Grace lifted their hands to their partner, and at the Tower, so also did Ariadne and Silvius.
Catling was deep in the dark heart of the Troy Game. She watched Jack and Noah above her, as if all the layers of rock and stone in between were transparent, and between her fingers the red wool twisted and frayed into complex patterns.
Catling muttered as she wove the wool, the words tripping unintelligibly from her tongue.
High above, on the marble floor under the dome of the cathedral, Noah and Jack turned slowly away from each other, their hands dropping reluctantly from their partner’s shoulder, walking—a movement so sensuous, so lyrical, it was more dance than walk—to opposite sides of the dome. As they had in late December, Noah moved to the eastern sector of the dome, Jack to the western.
Again, as in December, once they had reached their places, Noah stood still, her eyes on Jack, as he raised the labyrinth from the depths. Five months ago this had been difficult work for him, but now Jack had the six bands—and something else, Noah thought, although she couldn’t quite define that “else”. Jack had somehow grown in the past few months—not just in power, but in…
Serenity, Noah thought. He has grown in serenity and contentment. When they’d tried this in December, Jack had been distraught and agitated…unsure.
Now, he was at peace with himself, and it showed in every movement, and in the ease with which he handled his power.
On the banks of the Thames at Southwark, Grace and Weyland mirrored precisely Jack’s and Noah’s movements. As Jack and Noah turned away from each other, they moved onto the water, over the labyrinth surrounding the crypt of St Thomas’, their feet supported by the hands of thousands of water sprites who hovered just below the surface.
When Weyland had moved to the western sector of the water over which they danced, he raised his hands at precisely the same time as did Jack in St Paul’s, and as the labyrinth rose under the dome of St Paul’s, so the labyrinth rose from the depths under the water, lit by the eyes of the sprites.
Power flowed smoothly between Jack and Weyland; although it was Weyland standing on the water opposite Grace, it was Jack’s spirit and power which acted through him.
Atop the ancient Keep in the Tower of London, Ariadne and Silvius did not move. They remained close to each other, locked in contemplation as they continued to draw power from the God Well deep under the Keep.
Their time was yet to come.
Deep in the dark heart of the Troy Game, Catling abruptly stilled.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
TEN
St Paul’s, Southwark, and the Tower of London
Saturday, 10th May 1941
Jack and Noah (shadowed by Weyland and Grace) danced about the perimeter of the labyrinth, their movements slow, fluid, seductive, their eyes not leaving the other. As she danced, Noah (and, in turn, her daughter, Grace) allowed single columbines to flutter downwards from the sprays they each carried.
They marked the external perimeter of the labyrinth, the head of each spray of flowers turning so that it faced towards the dark heart in the centre of the labyrinth.
In St Paul’s, a seething blackness arose from the labyrinth which showed glimpses of something red and twisting in its heart.
At Southwark, as Grace and Weyland danced about the perimeter of the labyrinth, the waters opened over the crypt of St Thomas’, twisting downwards in a motionless vortex.
In St Paul’s crypt Catling rose to her feet, her face ashen, her eyes glittering between incredulity and anger.
“How?” she whispered as she saw before her a vision of the labyrinth rising under the Thames. Catling had expected many, many treacheries from Jack and Noah, but not this.
Not a new Game.
High above Catling, under the dome of the cathedral, and at Southwark, over the buried crypt of St Thomas’, the flowers which the Mistresses had scattered about the perimeter of the labyrinths now slowly started to slide towards the entrances of each labyrinth.
Each pair of dancers now moved towards the entrance of their respective labyrinth also, their movements still seductive and measured, their eyes still on those of their partner.
As they came to within ten paces of each entrance, the flowers slowly began to rise, weaving themselves into a gate.
“Grace? Grace?” said Catling. “What is this you do?”
Catling had finally, devastatingly, realised what was happening—there was another Game…how? How?—and all she could think of was Grace. Not what Jack and Noah might be doing, but what Grace was doing.
Dancing the closure, damn it, of a new Game, one meant to trap Catling.
“You think to trap me?” Catling said, her voice stronger now. “You really think you can do that?”
Then, in her next heartbeat, Catling knew they could, for the Shadow Game sent forth the first of its irresistible, deadly siren calls, twisting its hooks into Catling’s soul.
Tugging gently for the moment, but Catling knew all too well how soon those gentle tugs would turn into an agonising wrenching.
And all Catling could think of was Grace. Grace was dancing this Game.
“Don’t you know what I can do to you?” Catling said, and she raised her hands, the deadly tangle of red wool between them.
As the two Flower Gates began to rise, Ariadne and Silvius finally moved. In their minds’ eye they could see Grace as she danced with Weyland, and they concentrated on her with all their power. At the same time they began to dance. Although the rhythm of their movements were similar to those of the other four dancers, the dance they executed was strikingly dissimilar. They did not dance about a gigantic labyrinth, but instead executed a tight dance directly over the God Well, their hands constantly touching as they wove back and forth, and in and out, as if they were acting out the weaving of a gigantic basket.