The Girl at Midnight (5 page)

“You got some good mileage out of that sea metaphor. I’m impressed,” Echo said.

The Ala sighed. “Is everything a joke to you?”

“Only the things that matter.” Echo shrugged. “So, let’s say this firebird thingy is real. What are we going to do about it?”

“
We
are going to do nothing.” The Ala shook her head, peering around the room. Her eyes came to rest on the dark walnut sideboard so loaded with candles of every size and shape that their combined flames emitted as much light as a roaring fire. “For now, just keep this to yourself. I don’t need the general finding out I have it.”

“Altair?” Echo asked. “What does he have to do with anything?”

The Ala pursed her lips and huffed out a frustrated breath. “Let’s just say that Altair has been interested in the firebird for some time now. He’s what one would call a true believer, and searching for the firebird has been a priority of his for over a century. At one time, the other members of the Council of Elders agreed with him, and he managed to sway even the most ardent of skeptics. A vote was held about a hundred years ago that determined the hunt was worthy of a military operation.”

“Really?” Echo said. “I can’t imagine the councilors in charge of things like food distribution and living arrangements would be game for military shenanigans.”

The Ala’s expression hardened. “Five of the six councilors voted to send out an operative whose sole mission was to find the firebird. I was the lone dissenter.”

“Why?” Echo said. “Wouldn’t finding the firebird be a good thing?”

“Finding it wasn’t what I took issue with,” the Ala said. “I didn’t—and don’t—believe that Altair is the best person to control it. The Avicen government is run by the council, but he can be persuasive when he wants to be. I fear that in his hands, the firebird would become a weapon. I hope that one day this conflict finds its resolution, but I prefer to
seek out peace, not more death.” She motioned toward the map. “The notes on that map were written by that operative.” She paused. Sadness flitted across her face for the briefest second before she schooled her features. Echo wanted to ask what was wrong, but the moment passed and the Ala continued. “The last communication we received from her was sent from a safe house in Kyoto that was Avicen-controlled until the Drakharin won that territory from us in the 1920s. After the operative disappeared, the trail of the firebird went cold, and the council lost interest in Altair’s zealous quest soon after. He has sent spies into Kyoto once or twice since then, but the Drakharin have strengthened the wards around their territory so much that it’s practically impossible for Avicen to sneak past them undetected.”

Echo nodded. The Ala had always been candid with her, but she’d never before shared this much information about the inner workings of the Avicen government. “Okay, my lips are sealed, but if Altair asked you about it, couldn’t you just tell him to mind his own damn business?”

The Ala sighed. “Unfortunately, dear, that’s not how a government by committee works. Altair and I are both members of the council, and as such our word holds equal weight.”

“Yeah, but someone’s word should lose a little weight if he’s an asshole,” said Echo.

The Ala tutted, but she couldn’t hold back a tiny smile. Her long-standing dislike of the general was a poorly guarded secret. “Ah, if only we were a dictatorship like the Drakharin.”

“Well, I think you’d be a benevolent dictator,” Echo said. “At least for a few years. Before your inner Stalin kicked in.” She took a final bite of whoopie pie. “Power corrupts.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” said the Ala. “But
what I would appreciate more right now is a little silence while I figure out how to proceed. This message was left behind like this—and not sent to Altair—for a reason.”

“Do you think the firebird is in Kyoto?” Echo asked.

The Ala shook her head. “No, if it were, Altair would have found it years ago.” She heaved a weary sigh and waved in the general direction of the door. “I need time to think. Go, run along.”

“Works for me.” Echo pushed herself up from the chaise longue. “I’ve got a bag of stolen candy that’s not gonna eat itself.” She hefted her backpack over her shoulder and made her way to the door. With one hand on the knob, she turned back to look at the Ala, stooped over the map. There was so much she wanted to ask, but she’d never before seen such sadness on the Ala’s face. Prying didn’t feel quite right.

“Hey, Ala?”

The Ala hmmed in response but didn’t look up from the map.

Echo tapped her fingers against the knob.
One for sorrow, two for mirth
. “The person who was sent after the firebird … did you know her well?”

The Ala tore her eyes away from the map, blinking up at Echo as though she were surfacing from the bottom of a pool. When she spoke, her voice was far away, as if weighed down by sadness. “I thought I did,” the Ala said. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to ever really know anyone.”

Echo was no more than two steps beyond the Ala’s door when she was besieged by a pack of children. They might as well have been raised by wolves, for all the supervision they received from the elder Avicen. Like frenzied urchins, they clung to Echo’s legs, clamoring for her attention. The downy feathers tufted on their arms and heads came in all hues. They were the sapphire shades of bluebirds, and the vivid red of cardinals, and even the soft bubble-gum pink of flamingo feathers. And each of the children was vying to be heard over the rest.

“Echo, Echo!”

“What did you bring us?”

“—is there candy, you said there’d be candy, last time there was no candy—”

“—Echo, Flint pushed me, and then I pulled on his feathers, but then he—”

“Enough, enough!” Echo shouted with a laugh. “Yes,
I brought you candy”—a cheer rose through the tiny crowd—“and, Flint, you shouldn’t push people, if you have a crush on Daisy, you’ll stand a better chance if you just tell her nicely”—a small red-feathered Aviceling grumbled in protest—“and, Daisy, good girl, somebody hits you, you hit ’em back, just like I taught you.”

Echo pulled a paper bag full of colorful rock candy from her backpack. “Here, you fiends.” She tossed the bag into the cluster of Avicelings. “Eat it all at once. Make yourselves sick. That’ll teach you the dangers of your gluttony. Little beasts.”

A quiet laugh came from one of the archways leading deeper into the Nest. Echo broke into a grin when she spotted an Avicen with familiar white feathers and the jet-black eyes of a dove.

“Greetings,” Echo said, bending into an exaggerated bow, “my sister from another mister.”

“Greeting, Echo, queen of the orphans.” Ivy curtsied. They’d been best friends since the day Echo had arrived at the Nest as a child, bonding the way only two seven-year-olds could. Ivy waved at Daisy, who pushed Flint aside long enough to wave back, grinning toothily around a bright pink chunk of rock candy. “You’re like Oliver Twist to those kids.”

Echo extracted herself from the gaggle of children that had lost interest in her the second she’d relinquished her candy. She skipped over to Ivy, linking their arms together.

“I always saw myself as more of an Artful Dodger.” Echo pulled Ivy down the stone hallway that would take them to the heart of the Nest. It was designed a bit like a wagon wheel. All roads led to the center, which housed the massive gateway that acted as the Avicen’s primary point of access to the in-between and the world beyond. “You’re Oliver Twist.”

“Whatever you say, Artful Dodger.” Ivy laughed. “I take it you stole that candy.”

“I liberated it.” Echo rummaged through her bag once more, fingers closing around a carefully wrapped honey cake. “I also liberated this.” She handed the cake to Ivy, whose efficient fingers made quick work of the pink paper wrapping before she took an obscenely large bite.

Around a mouthful of half-chewed cake, Ivy said, “Please, sir, may I have another?”

“Ew.” Echo wrinkled her nose. Someone had to maintain an air of civility. “It’s almost like you were raised with a deficit of adult supervision.”

“Been reading your big fancy books with their big fancy words again?” Ivy swallowed the cake in a single gulp. It was like she hadn’t even bothered chewing. “And yeah, it was exactly like that, actually.”

Echo had not been the first lost child the Ala had taken in, nor, she suspected, would she be the last. War had a way of making orphans. Like Daisy. Like Flint. Like Ivy. They walked along the warmly lit corridor, and Echo nodded at the few passing Avicen she recognized. There was the green-feathered Tulip, who made a living selling odds and ends like buttons and mismatched tea sets. An older Avicen named Willow, who draped herself in brightly colored scarves and crooned for dollars in the subway. The blue-eyed Fennel, who obsessively collected purple straws.

“I’m feeling decidedly celebratory,” Echo said.

“Thievery go well, then?” Ivy asked.

“
Well
might be an exaggeration. I had a run-in with a warlock and some cops and just barely made it out by the skin of my teeth.”

Ivy’s brows drew together in concern. “Echo—”

Echo took Ivy by the hand and twirled her. It was just as Fred Astaire had twirled Ginger Rogers. Echo’s knowledge of dancing was almost entirely informed by the library’s collection of old movies. “Chill, Ivy. Don’t lay an egg.”

Ivy twirled away from Echo, moving to a tune only she could hear. “That wasn’t funny the first five hundred times.”

“Yes, it was,” Echo said. “But anyway, I got the booty, made it back in one piece, and I’m thinking victory drinks are in order.”

Ivy snorted. “Ha. Booty.”

“You’re a disgrace.”

“Whatever,” Ivy said, spinning to a wobbly stop in front of Echo. They’d reached the gateway, an architectural wonder that never failed to take Echo’s breath away. Two black swans, fashioned from delicately rendered iron, held their necks aloft, beaks meeting at the very top and forming an arch. On their backs sat two massive cast-iron braziers holding fires that burned perpetually. Echo and Ivy joined the queue. Two Avicen stood in front of them: one as wide as he was tall, which was not very, and a stately older woman with hair-feathers that were a lovely shade of dusty pink.

“You were saying something about victory drinks?” Ivy stepped forward as the Avicen woman threw her handful of dust into a bowl of fire. The air between the swans’ necks shimmered as she stepped into it before a cloud of black smoke rose. When the cloud dispersed, the Avicen was gone. “I hear London is lovely this time of year.”

Echo weighed the pouch of shadow dust in her pocket. Just enough to make the trip. “Maison Bertaux?”

Ivy nodded. “Maison Bertaux.”

Maison Bertaux sat on a narrow side street in Soho, sandwiched between an Indian restaurant and an old-fashioned British pub, a neat microcosm of modern-day London. Its display case, decorated with cheerfully fluttering Union Jacks, was bursting with pastries of every kind. Delicate marzipan sculptures. Cream puffs overflowing with custard. Sinfully rich chocolate cakes. Fruit tarts so sweet, they exploded on the tongue.

Ivy pored over the decadent array of desserts for precisely three and a half minutes before placing her order, even though she always got the same thing: a pot of peppermint tea and a chocolate éclair. But every time, she dawdled before the display, weighing the benefits of each and every pastry Maison Bertaux could boast, which was endearing, if a touch annoying. Echo ordered a cream puff to go with her single-serving pot of tea. Pastries in hand, they marched up to the second floor, which was blissfully empty. They
sat at their favorite table in the far corner, the one with the hand-painted chessboard on its surface, nestled against the window looking down on the street below.

Across from Echo, Ivy wrapped her gloved hands around her steaming teacup, inhaling the sweet aroma wafting from it. Echo knew Ivy’s lids would be drooping in pleasure behind the sunglasses she wore to hide her inhuman eyes. She had piled spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her tea—Echo had stopped counting after four—to the point where Echo wondered if there was, in fact, any tea left in the cup at all. How Ivy managed to swallow that down with the massive chocolate éclair she had ordered, Echo would never know. Her own Earl Grey was blessedly devoid of sugary interference. She dribbled only the smallest hint of milk into her cup, swirling around the clouds of white until her tea was a smooth sandy beige.
Perfection
.

“Uh-oh,” Ivy said, taking a delicate sip of her sugar water. She pointed her chin at something over Echo’s shoulder. “Incoming.”

Before Echo could turn around, two hands were placed ever so gently over her eyes. The voice that accompanied them was a perfect match: warm, solid, butterfly-inducing.

“Guess who?” the disembodied voice asked right in her ear, breathy and delicious and far too close. A featherlight kiss was dropped on her cheek.

“Hmm,” Echo mused, “is it … Abraham Lincoln?”

The soft puffs of his laughter sent shivers up Echo’s body, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. It was excruciating how easily he made her insides topple like dominoes, even after two months of dating.
He must never know
. They’d known each other since the age of seven, just
like she and Ivy. Their relationship was new, but occasionally, the weight of their friendship overwhelmed it, and he would act more like a
friend
than a
boyfriend
, ribbing her about the crazed butterflies in her stomach, even if he delighted in their presence.

“Nope,” he said.

Echo didn’t need to see Ivy’s face to know that she was rolling her eyes so hard she could probably see her own brain.

“Is it … Spider-Man?”

The hands disappeared, and Echo blinked away the bright afternoon sunlight. Ivy was, rather dramatically, sprawled on the table, facedown, gagging.

“Nope,” the owner of the disembodied voice replied, plopping down next to her. “Just your friendly neighborhood Rowan. Though I
do
think I’d look cute in spandex.” He reclined on the bench, long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on the table behind him.