“I don’t get it,” says Adam.
“We’re not here for the Jewel.”
“What are we here for?”
“That.” Magpie nods at the tree.
The fake tree at the centre of the conservatory has mostly been ignored by its visitors. Separated by another black railing, its dark and tangled roots have become the resting place for discarded receipts and ticket stubs. Its blossoming pink canopy casts intricate shadows over everything, and by all accounts it should be the focus of the room, were it not for the Jewel.
The tree, at a glance, is nothing more than a piece of decoration, so Adam peers closer, observing the quality of its petals and small, red fruits. And as he follows the gnarls and twists of its branches, he realises that he recognises it. He knows those roots, because he sat among them once, in the bright sunshine of Eden. He knows those fruits because he used to pluck them, and savour them, and spit the hard stones at the centre of each. And he knows those branches because he remembers the birds perched upon them: all those brilliant birds of paradise, preening among the pink petals and calling to each other in joyous conversation.
The tree is not fake, after all. In fact, it is perhaps the most genuine object in the room. Its pink petals, which from time to time drop and spiral and join the rubbish at its roots, blossom eternally, and its sweet, waxy red fruits are tiny temptations, still as sweet as they ever were in Eden. There is a sign attached to the railing surrounding the tree, which reads: DO NOT TOUCH.
“Why is this here?” Adam frowns.
“Hubris,” says Magpie. “I expect the Sinclairs and their friends love the idea of strangers ogling at a piece of glass in a cabinet while a genuine piece of paradise stands ignored and unseen before them. I imagine them standing around, sipping champagne, patting each other on the back and laughing with each other about how clever they are. How enlightened they must be.” Magpie sneers. “Thankfully, that hubris has made them stupid. This tree being here gives us a brilliant opportunity.”
“You want to steal a tree?”
Magpie’s dagger-smile gleams in the gloom. “Absolutely.”
Adam raises his hand to catch a petal as it falls from the tree, and it comes to rest on his palm, as gentle as a whisper. When he closes his hand around it, he feels the silken texture of it fold easily into the recesses of his scarred skin, and tries to remember the taste of the tree’s cherries.
IX
Magpie’s apartment is palatial, but specifically in the sense that it feels as if the contents of an entire palace have been crushed into it. There are Fabergé eggs in the fridge, and oil paintings of castles stacked up against the walls, and wherever Adam goes he finds himself tripping over rolled-up rugs and tapestries. Magpie himself is spending the evening pacing around his dining room, chattering excitedly into his phone. After a while watching Magpie accidentally sweep ornaments from the dining table, and mantelpiece, and cabinets with the edge of his gilded robe, Adam decides to explore the rest of the apartment, in search of something to pass the time.
Soon, he knows, they will steal Eden’s cherry tree.
At the rear of the apartment is a door half hidden behind a tall stack of unopened crates, and beyond that door is an office crammed, from wall to wall, with papers and journals and leather-bound books. Adam idly sifts through it, and discovers that most of the papers bear the Corvid & Corvid letterhead. The books are filled with grossly outdated statutes and case-law, and the deeper Adam explores, the older they get. He manages to shift enough paperwork to clear the chair behind the desk, and sits there in the warm light of a dim lamp, flicking through Magpie’s old work journals before settling in to reading one.
The journal he chooses is a ledger of belongings written by Magpie on behalf of Corvid & Corvid in an attempt to catalogue the estate of an heirless millionaire. It’s fairly banal legal work, but as Adam reads the listings, he slowly becomes absorbed in the client’s life. There are all the hallmarks of wealth – the statues, the portraits, the exotic rugs, enormous mirrors and custom pieces of golfing equipment. But there are signs of life, as well: dog collars, and endless spare tennis balls; stacks of discarded typewriters and computers; heaps of unfinished manuscripts and newspapers from bygone eras. The man had too many coats, and stashed in some of the pockets were dusty wads of cash. At the bottom of a drawer filled with screws and bits of string, rested an out-of-date passport, still pristine, with no stamps or visas.
As Adam continues reading, he grows familiar with the belongings, and the walls of the great house rise around him, enclosing him like the walls of a prison. He is helplessly lonely, crippled by an anxiety that makes him unable to go out into the world for fear of rejection, and unable to complete any of his manuscripts for fear of inadequacy. Sometimes he will go to the golf club and golf alone, celebrating good days with expensive cognac and bad days with expensive wine. His four dogs are his ceaseless companions, and the reason he doesn’t end his life. Some days he will stand beneath his apple tree with a length of rope, and on others he will pluck
