Page 41 of Gwen and Art Are Not in Love

‘Er …’ she said, holding her hand out in front of her as the other women had done. ‘So it’s – one good thing, one bad?’

‘Ascribing “bad” and “good” to parts of ourselves isn’t helpful,’ said the woman, in a slightly condescending tone. ‘Perhaps – one thing that helps you, and one thing that you feel hinders you.’

Gwen thought this was just a dressed-up way of saying ‘good’ and ‘bad’, but she had reached the end of her stalling; her thoughts were a blur as she tried desperately to think of something good to say about herself. She was – punctual? Organised? The crowd was getting impatient now, and in her panic, Gwen spoke without knowing what was going to come out of her mouth.

‘I’m – I’m consistent with my embroidery,’ she said, throwing the handful of sage into the fire and then coughing when it spat out a dark plume of smoke in return. She was still keeping her head firmly down to avoid detection, but she didn’t need to look up to know how that particular observation had landed. ‘And,’ Gwen said, looking backinto the flames and taking a deep breath, ‘I’m – I’m a coward.’

A few people clapped, but the reaction was fittingly lacklustre.

‘Well,’ said the grey-haired woman, holding out another handful of sage for Bridget. ‘Youareactually supposed to do it the other way around, but I suppose—’

‘I’m stubborn,’ Bridget said, immediately tossing the leaves into the flames. ‘And I know who I am. Come on.’

She took Gwen by the arm without another word, and they slipped from the glow of the firelight into the welcoming shadows beyond.

Having quickly ascertained that he wasn’t the least bit interested in reading anything in Old English, Arthur had accidentally started to doze instead. The sound of Gabriel turning pages, his quill scratching against parchment when he went to make a note, and the distant footsteps that occasionally passed the quiet library were too strong a sedative to resist. It was all rather pleasant, until the moment when Gabriel shut a book too loudly, startling Arthur awake so suddenly that he almost fell off the chair.

‘I’m finished,’ Gabriel said.

‘Right,’ said Arthur blearily. ‘Yes, me too.’ He staggered up and stretched, noticing Gabriel’s eyes flicker briefly to his midriff where his tunic had ridden up, and then away again. ‘To bed, then?’

‘I actually – I’m going to the mews,’ said Gabriel.

Arthur had vague memories of the mews. Gwen had kept a tiny sparrowhawk when she was a child, although she seemed utterly terrified of it. Arthur would have given anything to have a bird, but had pretended to find the whole thing beneath him to disguise his jealousy, and once he had committed to his disdain it was hard to shake. He was stillsneery whenever anybody talked about falconry. It certainly helped that when people really liked birds they became absolute bores about things likefeeding schedulesandflying weights.

‘As you’re up,’ Gabriel said slowly, ‘would you mind – you might be able to help me with something.’

‘Ah,’ Arthur said, taken aback once again. He had assumed that Gabriel was just tolerating his company – and yet now he was asking for more of it. Intriguing. ‘Yes?’

‘Right then,’ Gabriel said, looking embarrassed but leading the way.

When they reached the building that housed the mews, a wonky stone structure near the orchard, Arthur expected Gabriel to ring for somebody – or for a servant to just appear out of thin air, anticipating his arrival even at such an unsociable hour – but instead he produced a key from his jacket and unlocked the door.

Inside it was dark and there was an odd, animal smell; a musty combination of wood, leather and bird droppings. As Arthur’s eyes adjusted he started to see the shuffling, uneasy shapes of birds on their perches, housed behind slatted wooden gates. They were hooded and blind but could clearly sense the intruders, and Arthur felt a strange urge to hold his hands up to demonstrate that he was a friend, not a foe.

‘Which one is yours?’ he said, and the bird closest to him extended its wings a little in protest before shuddering and settling back on to its perch.

‘She’s a peregrine falcon,’ Gabriel said quietly. ‘The large one, at the far end. My father gave her to me when I was thirteen. Her name is Edith.’

Arthur peered into the gloom and glimpsed a bird further down the row, hunched over and somehow bristling with anger even in dingy silhouette. He shivered involuntarily.

‘She looks friendly.’

‘She’s not,’ Gabriel said shortly. ‘Well – she likesme.’

‘Are we – are we going over there?’

‘No,’ Gabriel said, approaching another door. Arthur followed closely behind him, reluctant to be left alone in this room full of sinister raptors. The door opened with a creak, and there was a sudden burst of flapping wings and strange, high-pitched shrieking.

Arthur jumped about a foot in the air, and grabbed Gabriel’s arm without meaning to.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Gabriel crooned, and Arthur turned to stare at him; he realised a beat later that Gabriel was absolutelynottalking to him, and released his arm. Gabriel closed the door behind them; it was lighter in this room, the moonlight filtering through a tiny, barred window, and illuminating the demonic creature that had attacked them.

‘What’sthat?’

Gabriel laughed softly. ‘She’s a fledgling crow.’

‘It doesn’t have a hat on,’ Arthur said warily. The crow wasn’t tethered, either; it was standing in the middle of the small room looking up at them, turning its head rapidly from side to side as it tried to decide which eye it wanted to observe them through.