“Don’t look and you’ll be fine,” said Merlin, close behind her. His words were somewhat belied by how swiftly he had drawn the old sword, which he held high in his left hand, and his right hand closed more tightly on Susan’s.
“Keep your eyes down. As Vivien said, it can’t touch us on the road, only lure us to leave it.”
“What is it?” asked Susan. She hoped she sounded calm and conversational. She could feel the thing’s presence, keeping pace with them, a vast shape of shadow that loomed as close as it dared to the road.
“Something ancient and forgotten, something banished long ago,” said Vivien. “Pay it no attention. As I was saying, Helen recognized the etching on your cigarette case as a stylized work after J. M. W. Turner’s A View in the Lake District.”
“And?” asked Susan. She was finding it hard not to look aside; it took considerable effort to keep her gaze focused on Vivien’s back. There was something about those violet eyes that she wanted to see again. . . .
“Head down!” snapped Merlin.
Susan almost wrenched her neck looking down again. She hadn’t realized she was starting to look up, which was deeply disturbing.
“So, Turner, A View in the Lake District,” she said, talking more loudly to distract herself from the lure of the creature who stalked beside them.
“It’s commonly believed to be a view of the Old Man of Coniston,” said Vivien.
“Which is a mountain,” said Susan.
“True,” said Vivien. “But the Old Man of Coniston is also one of the Ancient Sovereigns. And ‘Rex’ means ‘King’ in Latin.”
“My father is the Old Man of Coniston?” blurted out Susan. “That’s almost as bad as being a stone.”
But though she said that, there was something about the phrase “the Old Man of Coniston” that resonated inside her; she felt that fizzy, expectant sensation grow stronger, as if recognizing that its time drew ever nearer.
“He’s not actually the mountain,” said Merlin. “I mean, he kind of . . . um . . . inhabits it metaphysically; it’s the locus of his power. Did the aunts have anything else to add?”
“Yes,” replied Vivien. “I hadn’t got very far with the microfiche copies of the Harshton and Hoole records when I heard about the incursion at . . . at the safe house. But I asked Cousin Linda to keep going, and to tell Helen what she found. Which was almost nothing, which is suspicious in itself. A very selective fire, obviously—”
“What did she find?” asked Susan urgently. She was having trouble keeping her eyes on Vivien’s feet, and now she thought she could hear faint music coming from the darkness, lilting, soft music that made her want to turn her head to catch it better, to fix the melody in her mind.
“A carbon copy of a lockbox inventory at the main Birmingham workshop that included two silver-gilt cigarette cases, ‘for purposes of propitiation,’ and they were marked as delivered.”
“What does that mean?” asked Susan loudly. She shook her head to try to get the music out of it. It was like the worst earworm ever, made more intriguing because she couldn’t quite make all of it out. The urge to stop and listen and turn her head was intense, like an unbearable itch. Distraction was the only thing that kept her from pursuing that music, from looking at the eyes she knew were mere feet away, staring at her. . . .
“And two? Why two cigarette cases?” added Susan. “Two! Two!”
Behind her, Merlin started to sing Gilbert and Sullivan again, “A British Tar Is a Soaring Soul” from H.M.S. Pinafore in a gruff, very flat voice quite different from the tuneful baritone he’d employed back in the hotel. It was, Susan realized, more effective in blocking the siren call of the creature that accompanied them in the shadows by the road. The otherworldly music latched on to the true notes, but was repelled by flats and sharps.
“Nearly all mythic entities can be propitiated or distracted with gifts; it’s in their nature,” said Vivien. She had adopted a droning, boring lecture tone, again clearly a tactic to counter the siren call. “They love precious metals and jewelry, and fine weapons and so on, which Harshton and Hoole make to help us when we need to do deals.”
“So the booksellers were trying to organize something between my father and . . . who?” asked Susan. She was almost shouting, but neither Merlin nor Vivien objected. It helped block the lure.
“I don’t know,” said Vivien, with great frustration. “But someone does. I mean, one of us.”
“Thurston, I reckon,” said Merlin. He took a breath and sang on, “‘And his fist be ever ready, for a knock-down blow!’”
“Maybe,” replied Vivien. “It might not even be one of the Greats.”
“So my father is the Old Man of Coniston,” shouted Susan. “The Old Man of Conisto-on-on-on-on!”
“It seems that is precisely so,” droned Vivien. “Let me cast my mind back to the Index of Ancient Sovereigns and Principalities of England. I cannot entirely recall the entry on your father, because he is not listed as malevolent, and we only made a particular study of the malevolents, of which there are approximately six hundred and nineteen. As of 1926, when the last edition of the Index was published. A new one is somewhat overdue.”
“‘He never should bow down to a domineering frown!’” roared Merlin.
“How interesting!” shouted Susan. “Do go on!”
The alluring melody was growing stronger, too, attempting to break through the cacophony of Merlin’s singing, Vivien’s droning lecture, and Susan’s shouting. It was beautiful, but incomplete, and every part of Susan ached to hear it properly, to give in and listen to the most beautiful song she had ever partially heard. But she resisted it, and the violet eyes, opening her mouth to make a soft coughing sound in time to Merlin’s singing, and lidding her eyes so that all she saw were the backs of Vivien’s heels.
“The Old Man of Coniston rules two leagues north and
