Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh

tell me how you want me to protect the queen? Should I call her a queen or an empress?’

      Fynch nodded. ‘Confusing, I agree. In Morgravia she is addressed as its queen. But she also sits on the imperial throne and is an empress by right, although that increasingly seems to be in title only. The union of the three realms, so strong under Cailech, has been whittled away gradually. She hasn’t travelled enough to each for people in Briavel or the Razors to know their empress.’

      ‘How is she addressed?’

      ‘In Morgravia as Queen Florentyna.’

      ‘And surely she has an army to command,’ Cassien retorted.

      ‘She does. But no number of mortal men can fully protect Florentyna. The Crown needs the aid of skills that go beyond.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Darcelle is only the closest threat but by no means the most fearsome. The greatest danger to Florentyna will come from the spiritual world, where gods and demons play.’

      Cassien stopped walking. ‘I’m very confused.’

      Fynch chuckled and Cassien heard a soft note of underlying despair. ‘I have seen the signs. No-one is better placed than I who straddle the two worlds of men and spirits. The threat is real. The enemy is hungry. The queen is vulnerable …’ Fynch trailed off.

      Cassien could see the soft drift of smoke coming from the hut’s rudimentary chimney. ‘What does the enemy want?’ He still didn’t understand what this was all about.

      ‘Oh, the usual. Destruction, damnation.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I suspect because magic was unleashed into Morgravia a long time ago — a very powerful magic that disrupted the natural order of life decades previously.’

      ‘Wyl’s magic?’ he wondered aloud in a blind thrust.

      ‘Wyl didn’t possess magic and he didn’t wield it. That was the tragedy of his life. He was a good man, who never sought power or wealth or status; all seemed to find him. But it was brought about originally by a curse being set upon him as a young man by a witch called Myrren. From thereon he was a puppet, dancing to the tune of her sinister magic. It controlled him. He moved through several lives, not by choice and each death he brought — including his sister’s — was heartbreaking in its own way. He tried to avoid it, but lives were given so Myrren could take her revenge on Morgravians.

      ‘The curse’s dark path was finally cut short when he entered the body of King Cailech and became sovereign.’ Fynch gave a sad smile. ‘I know I say that casually and I know it requires a lot more explanation but we don’t have time now. Wyl died of old age as Cailech.’

      ‘So it’s over? The curse I mean.’

      Fynch frowned. ‘Myrren’s curse has ended but that dark style of magic may not be. I don’t know where the threat is coming from and I don’t really know why I feel it, but I do feel it … even as removed as I am in the Wild. All the signs are there.’ Fynch looked up from the leaf he’d been studying and fixed Cassien with a firm, disconcerting gaze. ‘The magic is alive.’

      Wednesday night closed in early and Parisians knew winter had surely arrived as the icy cold wrapped its claws around the city. A ripe yellow moon was intermittently shuttered by heavy clouds drifting across its face and threatening rain. Gabe couldn’t wait to close the shop. He’d promised himself an indulgent risotto and on the way home had resisted the urge to take the shortcut; instead, wrapping his scarf tight around his mouth to keep out the chill, he ran to the nearest Monoprix to grab his fresh ingredients.

      The clouds burst while he was paying for his groceries and he’d forgotten his umbrella; he pictured it on his desk at the shop and remembered that Cat had distracted him as he was packing up to leave. Cursing his luck, he had to walk home in the rain, but rather than allow himself to slip into misery at being cold and wet, he pictured himself turning on the fire, sipping a glass of wine as he chopped leeks and garlic, the intoxicating aroma spreading as both began to warm in the olive oil and release their fragrances and flavours. His mouth watered. Gabe delved into his coat pocket for his house keys and hit the stairs outside his building, taking them two at a time, and nearly tripped over her at the top. He only just managed to stop himself from sending the bag of food sprawling across the landing.

      ‘Angelina?’

      She pushed herself to standing on the stair. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured but didn’t seem embarrassed; more amused if anything.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Gabe asked, quickly adjusting his voice from surprise to a neutral tone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently, suddenly worried for her.

      She shrugged.

      He looked around. ‘Where’s René?’

      ‘Not here,’ she answered and he heard defiance.

      Gabe’s lips twisted slightly in thought. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, making up his mind. He opened the front door of his building and looked over his shoulder. ‘Come on, unless you want to sit here all night. It’s too cold to sit in the hallway.’

      ‘Not for René, though?’

      ‘Cruel guardians don’t count,’ Gabe answered with a wink.

      ‘He’s not my guardian,’ she said quickly.

      ‘All right. How would you describe him?’ he said. ‘I prefer the stairs to the lift,’ he warned.

      She shrugged as if it mattered not to her and followed him.

      ‘Go on, how do you describe his relationship to you,’ he encouraged as they made their ascent to his apartment.

      ‘Keeper is too gentle a word. Jailer is probably too harsh.’

      ‘Supervisor?’ he offered helpfully but equally wry in his tone. ‘Minder?’ he added, flicking through his bunch of keys for the right one to open his door.

      Angelina shook her head as she arrived alongside. ‘Guard.’

      ‘Guard?’ he repeated as the door opened. ‘Odd word. What is he guarding against, I wonder?’ She shrugged again as he tapped in the alarm code and deactivated the security. ‘Get that wet coat off,’ he suggested, letting the topic go for now. He dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and flicked on the gas fire. ‘I’m just going to dry off.’

      He strode to his bathroom and closed the door, reaching for a towel to dry his hair. As he dragged it across his face he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused, only his eyes visible over the top of the towel.

      ‘What are you doing?’ he murmured to his reflection. ‘This flies against everything you know to be correct protocol.’ He took a deep breath, knowing he had to make a decision. He finished drying off his hair, neatened it with his fingers by pushing it behind his ears and nodded at himself. ‘It’s your funeral,’ he said, echoing a favourite threat he and his wife used to throw at each other when one was in disagreement with the other’s decision.

      He emerged. ‘Okay?’

      She smiled back. ‘Fine.’

      Gabe watched her from the corner of his eye as he unpacked his groceries. Angelina had taken off her coat and stood with her back to the fire looking around his room as though seeing it for the first time. She didn’t appear in the least uncomfortable or embarrassed to be here with him alone.

      ‘So are you going to tell me?’

      ‘What?’ she said, turning to gaze at him with her smoky, dark eyes so full of promise that Gabe found himself clearing his throat. Today she was wearing a pair of narrow, tight jeans that clung to her petite, beautiful shape with vigour. Her mauve cashmere knit top was short and tight, revealing a few centimetres of bare midriff and accentuating her full breasts. He tried not to stare but this garb was entirely different to her almost childlike clothes