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 actual collaborations. Is there anyone right-handed in either bookshop now or any of the out-stations who’s doing anything someone else doesn’t know about, is involved in, or wants to interfere with?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Vivien. “No one works entirely solo. I hadn’t really thought about it. Mum never talked that much, though. She was a very reserved person.”
“So say she found evidence of a child of an Ancient Sovereign, born at dawn on May Day, near Glastonbury,” said Susan. “She’d want to follow that up, wouldn’t she?”
“Absolutely. But what evidence?” asked Vivien. “What could have led her to learn about your existence, Susan, and who your mother was?”
Susan couldn’t answer.
“If we can find out exactly who Susan’s father is, that might tell us,” replied Merlin. “And then we might also be able to work out who in the crime world—or from the Old World but who is working with criminals—wants Susan out of the picture.”
“Out of the picture?” asked Susan.
“I didn’t want to say dead,” said Merlin, with a bright smile. “Besides, I don’t think whoever it is does want you dead, or they’d have shot you from a distance or something like that. Those two thugs, the van, that was an attempted kidnapping. And the goblins . . . maybe that was to put you on ice, or it might have been a temporary prison, before they handed you on.”
“What about the Raud Alfar you say was shooting at me? That was to kill.”
“That’s separate, but it makes sense. The Raud Alfar are fiercely independent. They would fear the child of an Ancient Sovereign—you might claim their allegiance and make them serve you. So the opportunity to kill you before you came into your powers—and that’s another interesting question, the nature and extent of whatever your potential powers are—would be welcome to them.”
“So the Raud Alfar of Highgate Wood must know who you are, and thus who your father is,” said Vivien thoughtfully. “I wonder how?”
“You could go ask them,” suggested Merlin.
“I value my life too much, brother,” said Vivien. “You know Midsummer Eve is the only day we’d not be met by arrows, and that’s too far away.”
“So we’re back where we were before,” said Susan. “We need to find out who my father is. The only thing that’s changed is that now you might have to kill me once we do.”
As she spoke, she felt a realization crystallize in her head. She needed to not only find out who her father was, she needed to find him. Whether the booksellers wanted her to meet him or not.
“That’s about it,” said Merlin cheerfully. “Let’s go and have lunch and we can work out how to identify your father and not have to kill you. Oh, and I found this so you won’t even have to pay.”
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-pound note with a flourish, waving it in front of Susan and Vivien.
“After you,” said Vivien. She leaned back to whisper to Susan. “Told you. He always has money squirreled away somewhere. Never pay for him. He’ll get used to it.”