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Harlow's breath hissed out between his teeth. There was more than one voice calling for help, therefore there was more than one woman. Four women, and four of them.
Of course, he'd have to be the only voice of reason this time, too. Stan had already claimed the girl at his feet, which left three. The redhead went to Wystan, in memory of the wife he'd lost. The witch who'd summoned them, her call the clearest of all, and likely more trouble than the rest put together, would be Grant's responsibility. Which left him to help the one driving the tiny horseless carriage two of the girls had crowded into. A strange conveyance to his eyes, though the roads were full of similar ones.
How much time had passed for trains to take over from horses and carriages? These looked very different from the locomotive he'd once seen in Glasgow. No smoke, for a start. And if a slip of a girl could drive one...
When the others seemed set on following the women into the house, Harlow stopped them. "Gargoyles go on the roof, not inside a lady's bedchamber!" he snapped.
Wystan had landed beside him, appreciating the wisdom of maintaining his distance.
Grant just smirked and said, "You do what you wish. I will answer my lady's call, no matter what she asks of me," before vanishing into the house.
Harlow waited and waited, but the fool did not return. Likely the witch had cast some sort of curse on him. A curse he richly deserved, no doubt.
Harlow considered entering the house to save him, as he'd done a thousand times before. Grant would get into scrapes, and Harlow would always get him out again.
Not this time. After getting himself and Harlow killed, Grant was on his own. He could save himself, if he was capable of such a thing.
"Aren't you going to go after him?" Wystan asked, as though reading Harlow's mind.
Harlow could never be sure how much Wystan perceived. Half the time, he seemed to still be mourning his wife, but sometimes...sometimes he seemed like the level-headed man Harlow had once known, before love had addled his brain.
Harlow drew in a deep breath. He'd promised his parents he'd watch over Grant, especially in this dangerous land of Western Australia, so far from home. But his parents were long dead. Hell, he and Grant had been long dead, brought back to life only by his witch's spell. Death negated all oaths, even promises exacted on one's deathbed. He was free of his promises. Free to follow the girl in the horseless carriage as she drove it away from the house, into the darkness.
Harlow spread his wings. "No. I must protect her. A woman driving in the dark could be beset by all kinds of dangers." One flap, then another, and he soared off after her.
THREE
Everything in the studio above the café looked exactly like she'd left it, before Octavia headed north. Well, almost exactly. The bed linen looked freshly washed, and Rochelle had made the bed way more neatly than Octavia ever did. All the coffee cups that usually sat on the desk were gone, too, and the rings wiped away. The joys of working above a café owned by her sister – she had a never ending supply of good coffee, even in the middle of the night, and a proper espresso machine to make it with, any time she wanted.
Anything was better than the instant stuff she'd had to endure in the mining camp.
With great care, as it had been several weeks since she'd last made a decent coffee, Octavia brewed herself a mocha, then carried it upstairs. Her computer had finished updating, so she clicked open the 3D rendering program and surveyed her progress on the pilot. Not bad, actually. The people looked realistic enough, but the vegetation could do with some work. And the lighting...it just wasn't quite right. In 1829, they'd had sunlight and firelight. That was it. It had to look real, so when you put on the headset and stepped into the world, it was like you were standing in the Swan River Colony, instead of a simulation. Nothing less would do. This was about her family's history, the women who'd gone against the odds to survive and raise children who'd become her ancestors. Left a legacy like Tacey would.
Thinking of all the women who'd come before her, whose stories hadn't been told by the men who'd put their names to roads and monuments, harbours and history books, who were the real heroes of that time, Octavia took a deep breath. Then she sent a call to the universe, to help her bring their stories to light.
FOUR
Every second well-lit sign proclaimed that this was Fremantle, but the town of tents and converted horse boxes had come a long way from the place Harlow remembered. The Round House on Arthur Head had witnessed it all, for it still stood, looking more like a fort than the prison it had once been. Even the brothels on Bannister Street were gone, though the taverns remained. No longer tents, they'd gained walls and become stately hotels with balconies lining South Terrace. This shining town would put soot-smeared Glasgow to shame.
Harlow was quite happy admiring the place from his eyrie atop of the roof of the building his charge had entered. When she'd left her vehicle and dared to walk the dark street alone, he'd worried for her welfare, but she'd reached the building without mishap, and locked the door behind her, before climbing the stairs to the small apartment he'd glimpsed above the shop.
The lights within her apartment were as bright as those outside, and they gave off less smoke than even the finest whale oil. This was a remarkable time to be alive.
Help.
Without the other girls' voices to drown her out, he heard her call clearly. A rich, husky voice he had not expected from someone who looked so young. Nor did he expect her commanding tone – as though she fully expected him to respond.
He found himself moving from the roof to her side, before he'd even thought about responding, such was her pull.
Had he been mistaken in sending Grant after the witch, when this woman seemed even more powerful?
Harlow closed his eyes. He would simply be properly respectful, so as not to arouse her ire, and all would be well. He would answer her call, fulfil whatever task she required, and he'd be up on the roof, admiring the view again in next to no time.
Harlow stepped out of the wall, dropping to one knee like she was the Queen.
She didn't say a word.
He dared to glance up. She had her back to him, her gaze fixed on a sort of glowing tablet before her. Harlow squinted at it. By all that was holy – it was like she'd read his mind. On the tablet was an almost perfect picture of Fremantle as he remembered it, right down to the brackish swamp where this building now stood.
