The curly-haired woman delivered another hit to her partner. Itwasbread. A cob loaf to be precise. ‘Listen to me, Craig.’
But stubborn Craig wasn’t listening to either of them. He walked forward, spreading his arms wide. Silas was considering the unpleasant idea of simply running the man down when there was a loud grinding sound, the heavy grate of a bolt shifting. The seer had taken matters into her own hands.
The woman put her shoulder into her effort to unbolt the gates. ‘Let him out, damn ya. He has to go or I’ll scratch myself to pieces. He’s gonna run ya down anyways, look at his face. He has places to be, and I don’t think you should keep him from them.’
‘She is right in that. Move, man.’
Silas urged Lalassu on, but she was already moving. The man yelled and jumped out of the way as the mare trotted the short length of corridor.
‘This is terrible improper,’ Craig cried. ‘You’re going to get me losing my job, Margret, you fool git.’
‘You said you were bored,’ Margret’s sandle-clad feet skidded against the cobbles as she struggled to get leverage enough to shift the bolt further.
‘Stand aside.’
Silas’s command had Margret shrieking, whirling about to stare goggle-eyed at the great mass of horseflesh before her. ‘Christ, I’m trying to help you, you going to squash me flat?’
‘Of course not. Please, move aside.’
The clatter of more hooves announced the arrival of the carriage behind.
‘What? Half the bloody town is leavin’?’ Craig threw his hat to the ground, stomping on it. ‘Fine, go on then.’
Margret’s eyes were saucer wide as she darted glances between Silas and the others who followed.
‘Now, Margret.’ The seer scampered out of the way at Silas’s soft command. ‘Thank you.’
Lalassu lowered her head, planting the length of her nose against the seam between the panels of the gate. Her mane spreading to touch at the wood.
There was a laborious groan as Walmgate Bar opened. Lalassu returned to a trot, and Silas peered over his shoulder. Lady Howard’s carriage fit snugly into the confined corridor, following after him. Craig and Margret were forced to run ahead, dashing out into the openness beyond the gates, or risk having their toes squashed by the carriage wheels. The black geldings held their heads high.
‘On we go then, Mr Mercer,’ Phillipa cried, Isaac a puddle of dark cloth at her side on the driver’s seat.
Their carriage broke clear of the barbican, and Silas caught a glimpse of another rider in their wake. The Dullahan was still with them. Suitably mysterious beneath his deep hood, white gloves stark on his reins. Craig and Margret shrank back from him as he passed on his roan steed with its nail-studded hooves.
And with that they were free of the walled streets of York. There were still rows of houses to contend with, rutted streets to negotiate, but with the night settling in, barely a hint of dusk’s light was left to illuminate the world, most people had headed indoors.
Lalassu came to a halt at a crossroads, and Silas bit down on acrid disappointment. Foolishly, he’d held hope the mare might burst off in a certain direction once she was clear of the Order’s Sanctuary.
Silas inhaled, seeking to cease the pounding of his heart. The scent of the graveyard played at his nostrils. A place where he might gather himself. Where Sybilla could be given a chance to feel for trace of her magic.
‘This way then.’
Silas touched at the reins, urging Lalassu down a packed-earth street where the houses were mostly darkened, one or two candles evident in some windows. He followed his nose, taking deeper and deeper breaths, soothed by the approach of the land of the dead.
Isaac and Phillipa brought the carriage along, and after a few minutes of this way and that, they reached the main gates of York Cemetery. Lalassu moved them beneath a great iron archway that declared the place, but even if it were light enough to read, the lettering would be lost on Silas. All he knew was that the moment they crossed the threshold a weight lifted from him.
A grim appeared almost at once, a ginger cat with one ear missing and some scarring upon its face. The deceased animal was vividly clear, as though illuminated by the noon sun, and not the shadow-lumped light of early evening. The grim jumped from headstone to headstone until it was level with them. The cat leaped upon Lalassu’s haunches and climbed up Silas’s back. Despite the ghostly nature of the grim he felt the pinch of its claws upon his skin, puncturing his dreary brown coat, as it clambered aboard and settled on his shoulder. Silas drew Lalassu to a halt, on the weed-ridden lawn that surrounded a Corinthian style mausoleum, its stained walls in need of cleaning.
Tyvain was first out of the carriage, jumping out before Isaac had drawn it to a halt on the gravelled road that cut through the centre of the cemetery. The lanterns’ flames glowed bright, illuminating several rows of graves before succumbing to the growing darkness beyond.
‘What are we doin’ ’ere, then?’ Tyvain screwed up her face, rubbing the heel of her hand at her nose. ‘Feck,’ she sniffed. ‘I think I’m allergic to those bastard birds.’
‘Or the cat perhaps.’
‘What cat?’ Tyvain braced. ‘Don’t bring it nowhere near me. Me and cats don’t get along much at all.’
‘That one on Silas’s shoulder,’ Phillipa called, pointing. ‘I’ve always been partial to gingers.’
