A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(99)

At least twenty feet above Robin’s head was a jagged pattern of black lead between thick panes of clear glass, crisscrossed busily by feet. It was the view he’d sketched for Edwin in the library, after seeing it in a vision. The floor where he stood had the dull polish bestowed by years and years of shoes. There were no stairs, no corridors winding away. The marble swept from wall to wall like a field of wheat, and standing within it at random intervals and angles like a parliament of scarecrows were . . . doors. Just doors, of dark wood with bronze knobs, within their frames. From time to time a door would open and one or more people would emerge from it. Sometimes they would cradle a spell before opening a different door, which they would step through into nothing that Robin could see. Attendants liveried in muted dark blue stood around the walls and sometimes stepped in to converse with the people.

Robin found his palms pressed hard to the sides of his legs. Even after everything he’d already been through, the strangeness was tangible. It was like seeing a dog whistle blown: no sound, even as one’s eyes told the ears they should be hearing something. Here Robin’s eyes were seeing and his skin was aching, trying to sense something he was born without the ability to sense. There was just a hint of it, humming and warm, the bright opposite of the terror he’d felt in the hedge maze.

It felt like standing in the sculpture hall of the British Museum with the weight of history rising up and pressing in on all sides, almost brutal in its beauty. The world was larger than he’d thought.

Miss Morrissey led him a few steps to the side, where a bench sat snug against the wall, and deposited him onto it. She sat beside him and began to unbutton her coat in the warmth of the building’s interior.

“I think,” said Robin carefully, “that I’m revisiting the meaning of unbusheling.”

“The Barrel’s office doors are some of the most magical items in the world. Oak, you know. It can hold a lot of power. We live in modern times, and in a city as close-packed as London, magic’s often more bother than it’s worth. It takes so much of it to do anything really huge. But sometimes we put the effort in. Sink the power in slowly. Imbue every inch.” She shrugged her coat off and folded it on her knees. Her voice was soft. “Everyone deserves somewhere where they can be reminded of their potential.”

We, she’d said, not they. Robin tried to put together a question about her heritage, about knowing magic this closely and having none of it to call her own, but knew he’d only fumble it. And they were here for a reason. He removed his own coat and hat.

“How do we find Edwin?”

“We ask my sister,” said Miss Morrissey. “Follow me.” She marched them up to a door, seemingly at random, and signalled to an attendant. “Good evening,” she said primly, the gilt back on her voice. “Fourth-floor main entry, please. Sir Robert and I have an appointment. I’m afraid we were delayed.”

Titles and doors, indeed. The man hastened to cradle up a silver glow, which he smeared across the door, leaving a glowing rune in its wake, and opened it onto an unremarkable hallway. Robin followed Miss Morrissey through.

It was just after five o’clock; they were weaving against the traffic in the building, which was full of people chatting and fastening coats and donning hats. Miss Morrissey led him to an office where two men stood back with a tilt of hat-brims to let them enter, then left via the same door, leaving them with the sound of a woman speaking and the louder sound of a typewriter’s keys.

“Wotcher, Kitty,” said Miss Morrissey.

The sole remaining occupant of the office glanced up, and Robin’s heart jolted. That woman, with her white shirtwaist and blue tie. This room. And this typewriter, paused now, which had clearly been imbued in a similar way to Edwin’s note-taking pen. It was the third time Robin had found his own experience lining up with one of his visions; the others had been the maze, and the view up through the Barrel, only minutes ago. Tension locked his shoulders. He had seen something relevant. He had managed to steer it.

“Hullo, Addy.”

“Kitty, this is the new Home Office liaison,” said Miss Morrissey, continuing to blithely ignore the existence of Robin’s resignation letter. “Sir Robert Blyth.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss—”

“Mrs.,” she said swiftly, and yes, there was a ring on her hand. “Kaur. How d’you do.” Mrs. Kitty Kaur had an arrangement of lovely features beneath the same coiled nest of black hair. She, if Robin remembered correctly, was the one who’d inherited all the magic that Adelaide Morrissey lacked.

“Kitty,” said Miss Morrissey. “Edwin Courcey’s gone missing, and we think he could be in danger.”

“You know I don’t work for the Coopers anymore. Don’t you?”

“But you still have access to the lockroom. Don’t you?”

A pause. Robin had had enough silent conversations with his own sister to realise when one was happening in front of him. He’d expected a lot more in the way of arguments and persuasion, and was prepared to embarrass himself in any number of ways if it would help, but the sisters Morrissey had a searching shorthand of glances that bypassed all of it.

“Addy,” said Mrs. Kaur. “I’ll still have to log it, and account for it later.”

“Blame me,” said Robin at once.

One thick black eyebrow arched.