Chapter 19
Sharyn backed from the huge bird. The raven eyed her with a cold, black gaze. His neck feathers ruffled with warning. The bird kept his wings slightly parted, as if ready to lunge, which could prove dangerous. The creature’s long black beak looked sharp enough to rip off a finger.
Moira reached up and rubbed the crown of the raven’s head. “Quiet now, boyo.”
The bird shook his body and leaned into her fingers.
The man at the other end of the table, no doubt the current Constable of the Tower, called across to them. “Moira, my dear, please return Hugh to his perch. I’ve set aside a couple biscuits to encourage him to behave.”
“Yes, Father.” Moira guided them alongside the table.
The raven chuckled, sounding eerily human, clearly happy in the woman’s presence—or maybe he recognized the word biscuit. He then barked like a dog several times, sounding quite demanding.
“I didn’t know ravens could talk,” Naomi whispered.
Moira heard her. “Ravens are great mimics. Better than most parrots. And after twenty-one years, Hugh can swear up a bloody streak when riled or sing like an operatic soprano when truly enamored with someone.”
Sharyn studied the bird closer, who was clearly old. One of his eyes was clouded over. A claw was missing two nails. “Is Hugh one of the ravens of the Tower?”
“He was once. But ailment—along with bereavement—has turned him into the sentinel of the King’s House.
His brother, Muninn, died a few years back, and Huginn slowly went into a decline.
When my father arrived, he decided to take him inside.
Turned a bedroom into an aviary, one with access to a fenced balcony.
Of course, we still take him outside for supervised jaunts.
But with the occasional fox roaming the Tower, an aged bird would make for easy prey. ”
Tag circled on Moira’s far side, tapping his umbrella on the planked wood floor. “Muninn and Huginn? They were named after the two ravens that served the Norse god, Odin.”
“Very good, young man,” Sir Ronan Kelly called out, his voice rich and deep, made for command. “They were indeed. The loss of Muninn was mourned across Britain. But it struck his brother exceptionally hard.”
“Ravens bond very deeply,” Moira explained. “Even mating for life.”
Sharyn glanced to Sir Kelly, who did not rise to greet them. He simply sipped from his cup, cradling its warmth in his palms. The reason became clear when they reached the far side of the table.
Moira’s father sat in a motorized wheelchair.
Still, no one would mistake him for an invalid.
Broad of shoulder, with silver hair and goatee, he looked like an elder statesman.
He was dressed casually in a navy V-neck and khakis.
Still, he wore a crimson necktie, knotted squarely under his chin, with the tail tucked under the woolen sweater.
The constable cleared his throat and nodded to the raven as Moira shifted the large bird to a multibranched perch, festooned with dangling toys. “My dear, I left the biscuits sitting below. Best soak them first. You know what he likes.”
“I do, Father.”
Moira reached to a small plate of dry, brown biscuits. She dunked them in a porcelain cup full of a reddish-black fluid.
“Is that tea?” Archie asked, his voice sounding envious. “I wouldn’t mind a cuppa, if you have any to spare.”
“It’s not tea.” Moira lifted the dripping biscuit. “It’s pig’s blood.”
Archie grimaced and backed a step. “Then no thank you.”
Moira held up the soaked treat to Hugh, who snatched it with his large beak, while warbling a sound like a Swiss yodeler.
“That’s my good boy,” Moira said with a warm smile.
She then wiped her fingers on a folded cloth and turned to them.
“As to your arrival, I took a call from Monsieur Laurent. A worker’s strike in Paris has delayed him, but he should join us in the next couple of hours.
Once here, he’ll take responsibility for Saint-Germain’s diary, get it out of the country. ”
Sharyn shared a look with Duncan.
She must be talking about the Frenchman from the phone call . . .
Duncan raised another concern. “That’s fine for the book, but what about us? We’re still wanted by the police and hunted by an unknown enemy.”
“The Confrérie des Illuminés,” Sir Kelly intoned.
His daughter translated, “The Brotherhood of the Enlightened.”
“That name,” Archie groused. “Such a load of tosh. They sound proper full of themselves, don’t they?”
The old man shifted in his chair. “Indeed. But they’re not to be underestimated. Due to the speed of changing events, you’ve managed to outmaneuver them. For that you should be commended.”
“But who exactly are they?” Sharyn asked. “For that matter, who is the alchemist who wrote this book?”
“The answer to both your questions are tied tightly together.” Sir Kelly waved to the table. “Sit. If you might indulge me, I would very much like to see this notorious tome. I’ve only viewed it once, briefly, long ago.”
Their group spread out to the chairs closest to the constable, while Moira moved to stand at her father’s shoulder.
Before taking a seat, Sharyn tugged the crossbody strap and drew the bag into view.
With a twinge of trepidation, she unzippered it and slipped the book out.
She placed it on the table. The tome’s copper bands shone dully in the weak light flowing through a bank of windows at the back of the hall.
Still, the crystal orb gathered all that meager light and glowed on its own.
Sir Kelly reached for the book, but Sharyn placed her palm atop it and drew it closer to her. “First, tell us about who wrote this.”