Held authors in considerable awe
But it was all just an act
For as a matter of fact
He hated every writer he saw
“AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT WE WERE TAUGHT AT SCHOOL,” CONTINUED Merlin. He rummaged in the yak-hair bag, found a tortoiseshell comb, and carefully began to groom his oversized moustache.
“There haven’t been any mythic-mortal offspring for a long time,” said Vivien. “Recorded by us, anyway. The last one was in 1818, if I remember correctly. I’d have to look it up.”
“So,” said Susan. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Heavens, no,” said Vivien. “Those were simpler times, and we had more leeway. Imagine the fuss now. Besides, if you had the power of an Old One, I’d feel it. And you don’t.”
“I don’t kill my friends,” said Merlin. “Not on purpose anyway.”
“But Thurston and Merrihew are not only very old, they are very old-fashioned, and perhaps even more important, very bloody lazy. They’d probably want you locked up at the least because that would be the easiest thing, and they might even go for the traditional solution to the problem,” said Vivien. “So it’s better they don’t know about your lineage for as long as possible. Which by my estimation will be about two days, since Merrihew has gone back to Wooten, ostensibly to take charge of the school but in practice to fish; and the New Bookshop has bought Sir Anthony Blunt’s library, so Thurston will be busy cataloging and gloating for at least that long, possibly longer. Both of them are far more interested in their ordinary pursuits than they are in our more esoteric responsibilities.”
“Which is why they should retire and let more competent people take charge,” said Merlin. “But that’s another story. Anyway, we have around forty-eight hours to find out exactly who your father is.”
“How will that help?” asked Susan. She felt very detached as she spoke, as if it wasn’t really her in this situation. Too many things had happened, too quickly, and now there was the threat of being killed by people she had supposed to be a force for good. It was as if Inspector Greene had calmly announced that the police had orders to shoot her on sight.
Then there was the news about her father.
A mythic being, not even human . . .
“Well, some of the Ancient Sovereigns are far more malign than others,” said Vivien. “Many are passive, and there are even some that are benign. The Oath-Makers, for example, so-called because they affirm oaths made by others, rather than enslaving lesser entities or people.”
“Oath-Makers often inhabit stones or the like,” offered Merlin. “Which would become confused with their singular property, so to swear upon Fingael’s Stone, for example, would be known to make an unbreakable oath, because Fingael . . . er . . . resides, I suppose is the best way to put it . . . in the stone.”
“Are you saying my father could be a stone?”
“Well, mythic entities usually have a primary physical locus: a stone, a hill, an ancient tree, a section of river, a spring or well . . . all that sort of thing. . . . Obviously, your father wouldn’t be only a stone or a pool or whatever, since he would have to take full mortal shape to . . .”
Merlin’s voice trailed off as Vivien gave him a scathing look.
“I’m still not sure I understand how finding who my father is will help,” said Susan. “I mean, if he’s one of the bad ones, that’ll make matters worse, won’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Vivien. “Knowledge is power, as they say. And we generally prefer to come to agreements with mythic entities, rather than taking harsher action.”
“Besides,” added Merlin. “It’s not only about your father. I’m sure he . . . and you . . . are somehow connected to the people who murdered our mother.”
“Merlin—” Vivien started to say, but Susan forestalled her.
“You might be right. I’ve been thinking about those trips to London. That one in 1977, when I was twelve, it was different. Mother was excited about meeting someone—I’m pretty sure not a man, because she would have behaved differently—and then she was sad when it didn’t happen. And . . . I’d forgotten till you talked about the florist . . . we got a truly amazing bunch of flowers at the hotel that afternoon, and the desk clerk was impressed it came from such a famous florist in Kensington, one that was all the rage back then. I never knew who sent them, but I guess . . . I guess it could have been from your mum.”
“What!” exclaimed Merlin. “But there was nothing in the police report . . .”
“She was coming out of the florist’s,” said Vivien, her eyes fixed on the far wall, avoiding Susan’s. “But she wasn’t carrying flowers. She must have ordered them to be delivered to someone else.”
“Those incompetent flatfoots,” said Merlin savagely. “They never investigated it properly as a murder, right from the start.”
“Six years ago,” said Vivien. “I doubt the florist would have any records now. But I’ll check with them. I don’t suppose your mother would remember?”
“Probably not,” said Susan. “But it’s impossible to know what she will or won’t recall. I’ll call her tonight or tomorrow, and ask.”
“The question is, why would your mum be meeting ours?” asked Merlin.
“Was she left-handed or right-handed?” asked Susan.
“Both,” said Vivien. “Yes, it’s possible. Unusual. Mum was one of the even-handed, but at that time she mostly worked with the right-handed, not out in the field.”
“Do you know what she was working on, or interested in?”
“We were at school,” replied Vivien. “So no.”
“When I started to look into everything last year, I asked around,” said Merlin. “But no one wanted to talk about it. I mean, the Greats thought I was wasting my time, and everyone took their lead from that. But Cousin Onyeka did say that mum liked to work alone; she enjoyed ‘teasing out mysteries.’”
“We all like to ‘tease out mysteries,’” scoffed Vivien. “That’s practically a definition of being one of the right-handed.”
“Not alone, though,” said Merlin. “I mean, you all love your intellectual one-upmanship, destroying each other’s theories. Not to mention all the
