Chapter Six

Expressing my doubts about Simon's plan did little good. He asked me if I could think of anything better; I was forced to own that I could not. In that case, he said, I should stop complaining about it.

We will not be carrying out the plan for a while in any case; Simon assigned an agent to check on the elder Crombie as well as the younger (again, without informing me until well after the fact), and has found that he is away on business and will not be back in Partington until tomorrow. In the meantime, we must speak to Adeline; what Simon has told me of her makes me quite curious indeed.

It strikes me as humorous that Simon, who can easily obtain an audience with the most prominent men in the city on no notice whatsoever, has to go through so much trouble to speak to one little girl.

We don't have to go through as much of the aforesaid trouble as we did last time, but what we do go through is bad enough – at least for me. The heat wave makes going outside for anything a challenge, and in Wollmere Park one must contend with the additional nuisance of the many biting insects that make their homes in the park's drought-browned foliage.

"Are you sure she'll be here?" I ask Simon as I swat at an offending mosquito. We've been round the park twice and haven't seen a sign of Adeline or her governess. "If I were her mother, I'd be too worried about her contracting heat sickness to let her out of the house." Judging from the noticeable lack of children engaged in play here – there are a few, but not nearly as many as is usual for this time of year – a number of parents share that concern.

"Then let us be thankful that you are not Adeline's mother, and that Mrs. DeWinter does not share your concerns about heat sickness," Simon replies. "She's more concerned about her daughter's tendency towards mischief when she is not otherwise occupied."

I do not think that is such a good excuse, but then again, I suppose that a psychic would be capable of getting up to some rather unusual kinds of mischief. Something involving poltergeists, perhaps.

At this point we are passing through a patch of woods (though it's not really big enough to merit the term "woods"), where the winding flagstone path is bordered by thick trees and shrubs. I can hear the shouts of children on the open green up ahead. Last time we passed through they were mostly scattered about the park, playing hide-and-seek, but judging by their shouts it seems that they have since congregated on the field for a game of tag.

Simon, who is walking ahead of me, comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the woods and signals for me to stop as well. His attention is fixed on something – or someone – out on the green ahead and to the left. I want to ask what is going on, but think the better of it; if Simon has called a halt because of some potential danger, it would be more prudent of me to keep quiet.

After a tense moment Simon drops his forestalling hand and takes a half-step backward –away from whatever he is observing – so that he is standing right on the border of the path. "Look," he says, still facing out towards the green. "Ten yards from us. The girl in the yellow dress, with the straw bonnet."

Along most of its length the path is just broad enough for two people to walk side by side, but at the exit of the woods the path is squeezed a bit by the pair of gnarled apple trees that flank it. I edge sideways into the space Simon has left me. He puts his hand on my shoulder to keep me from stepping out too far. This restriction forces me to lean sideways at an uncomfortable angle in order to see around the trunk.

There are a number of children running around on the wide green (playing tag, as I suspected), but I manage to spot the girl Simon described almost immediately – Adeline. She is not participating in the game of tag, nor is she skipping rope with the small knot of other girls nearby. Instead she is wandering aimlessly, poking at the ground with a long branch she picked up somewhere, to all appearances completely oblivious to what is going on around her.

A dozen other children engaged in the tag game charge in Adeline's direction in their efforts to evade being caught by "it." She does not seem to notice them, and makes no move to get out of the way. I draw a sharp, nervous breath as the stampeding children collide with her.

Or, rather, they miraculously fail to collide with her. Adeline weaves her way through the stampede, avoiding the other children without any noticeable effort, all the while absorbed in her examination of the ground. I blink in amazement as the small herd of boys and girls runs off, leaving her completely unscathed and still, it seems, completely unaware of their passing.

I haven't even really met the girl yet and I already find her rather unnerving. "How did she do that?"

By now I should know better than to ask hypothetical questions while in Simon's presence – he has a frustrating habit of answering them. "I imagine she does it the same way I did when I was her age," is his cryptic reply.

Surprised, I turn my head to look up and over my shoulder at him – not easy, since I am all but wedged between him and the tree in front of me. "And how did you…"

Simon edges past me a bit, so he will be more easily visible from the green, and waves in Adeline's direction. "She's noticed us," he says as he slips back further into the woods. I follow Simon to a spot where the flagstone path is comfortably wide, trying to imagine a juvenile version of him doing what Adeline just did. My rational faculties can easily accept the notion that he did uncanny things of a similar nature on a regular basis during his childhood years. Unfortunately my mind is not, and probably never will be, adequate to the task of imagining Simon as a child.

Adeline materializes between the apple trees that mark the border between the patch of woods and the green. She does not immediately join us at our chosen spot further back along the path – instead she remains where she is for a few seconds. I imagine that she is examining us (or, since she knows Simon, examining me), but it is hard to be certain, since the sun is behind her and I can see her only in silhouette. Apparently satisfied with her examination, she tosses aside the branch that she used earlier to probe the ground and walks towards us.

Her features become clearer once she enters the shade of the trees. I expected her to be pale and perhaps a bit unearthly in classic mystical fashion – especially after her activities on the green a minute ago – but in truth she looks quite ordinary. She is by my estimate eight or nine years old. A few wisps of light-brown hair peek out from under her bonnet, framing a button-nosed and childishly plump face. Her round hazel eyes display no sign of unusual perception or wisdom. The way in which she stands at a cautious distance from us, with her feet together and her hands behind her back, is typical of a shy child.

That apparent timidity is shown for an illusion the moment she opens her mouth. "Hello, Thimon." It takes me a moment to pierce through her severe lisp and understand what she's saying. When I do I am shocked by the casual manner of her address – how does this little girl have leave to use Simon's given name?!

Even as I am thinking this, Adeline turns her attention to me. "You mutht be Emma," she concludes (again, it takes me a moment to smooth out her mangled sibilants). I'm not surprised that she knows of me, but I am very surprised to hear her address with the same easy familiarity that she did Simon.

"This is Miss Bishop, yes," Simon confirms. I'm glad that he at least hinted to Adeline the manner in which I should be addressed. Although he doesn't seem to mind the way in which she talks to him. Simon turns to me. "Miss Bishop, this is the much-renowned Adeline Bethesma DeWinter."

Simon's deadpan statement provokes a giggle from Adeline. "Pleathed to meet you, Mith Bishop," she says, bobbing a quick curtsey. While this greeting is not perfectly appropriate to the situation, it is appreciably more polite in tone than anything she has said thus far. I'm also becoming more accustomed to her speech, to the point where I can understand it without overstraining my ears or my mind.

I return Adeline's curtsey. "Pleased to meet you as well. I've heard a great deal about you." While I may find Adeline a bit unsettling, I have been curious about her since Simon first mentioned her, and I am glad for the opportunity to satisfy that curiosity.

"Now that we've gotten over the business of introductions, I have a question for you: what do you know about gargoyles?" Though his words are somewhat flippant, Simon's tone of voice indicates his regard for – perhaps even respect for – Adeline.

Her eyebrows lift with mild surprise. "I knew thomething wath going on!" she cries. "They've been worried for thome reathon, but I don't know…." She breaks off as she notices my expression of bewilderment. "I lithten to them thometimeth."

Simon's eyes glitter with a mix of keen interest and amusement. "Then we have obviously come to the right person. How exactly do you 'listen' to the gargoyles?"

Adeline's smile of quiet amusement and sagacity is disturbing to behold on a person of such tender age. "I'd tell you," she says, crossing her arms in a smug fashion, "but I don't think you'd believe me."

To my great astonishment, Simon does not seem in the least irritated by Adeline's non-answer. "If I felt the same way, Adeline, I would not be here seeking your advice. As always, it is the phenomena themselves I am after; whether or not I agree with your explanations of those phenomena is beside the point. Tell me what you know, even if you doubt that I will believe it."

"I don't thee the differenth," Adeline objects, "But if you inthitht…gargoyleth are very thenthitive to mag-" – she glances at Simon – "pthychic energieth. More tho than other animalth. Or motht people." The way Adeline speaks gives an impression of maturity, confidence and professional expertise that suffers not at all from her severe lisp. "They altho uthe them to talk to each other. Not with anything like wordth, though. It'th more like…like…" Adeline trails off, frowns in puzzlement, and proceeds to chew thoughtfully on the tip of her right index finger as she searches for the correct word.

I try to help her along. "Feelings? Sensations?"

The girl brightens up and drops her finger from her mouth. "Yeth. Thenthationth is about right. They're alwayth thending out what they thee, thmell, and hear. If one of them ith in trouble, or angry, it thendth that out too. A flock of gargoylth ith like a crowd of people talking all at onth."

Simon is giving Adeline's words very serious consideration – the geste de pense makes that quite obvious. "Is it possible that the gargoyles could organize and execute a collective action, using the sort of communication you described?"

"Thort of," Adeline says. "Thmall groupth or flockth can dethide to move thomewhere, or thtake out and defend their territory. They can't really do anything that needth planning."

"I see. In that case, is it possible to make them do something more complex than they would be capable of doing unaided?'"

Now Adeline's brow furrows with puzzlement and concern. "How complexth, exthactly?"

"Well, there is no quantitative scale for such things, so I will rephrase the question. Can a flock of gargoyles be compelled to, say, break into a house and rob it?"

I can tell from Adeline's expression that though she may not know all the particulars, she now comprehends the gravity of our situation. "I don't know," she answers. "I could get one or two to do trickth, but what you're talking about ith…" She shrugs.

I am no great authority on magic or the supernatural, but I just may know enough to ask the right questions. "Could you conceivably do it, with sufficient practice or focus?" I ask. Simon glances at me with – I wouldn't swear to it – a hint of approval.

"No…well, maybe. Right now I can only manage three at onth, and I can't get them to do that much. I thertainly can't make one thteal thingth."

"By this you mean that making gargoyles commit a robbery would be prohibitively difficult, but not necessarily impossible," Simon says.

Adeline shrugs. "I thuppothe. But whoever'th uthing the gargoyleth ithn't doing it the way I'd do it…" She looks sheepishly at Simon. "Um. Exthept I wouldn't actually…never mind. What I mean ith, it would take a very powerful pthychic to do it my way, and if thomeone like that were in the thity I'd notithe them."

I'm not sure if Adeline's confidence is justified. "What if they're manipulating the gargoyles from somewhere beyond Partington, outside your range?"

"No, no, no," Adeline insists with a vigorous shake of her head. "I don't think anyone could do that no matter how powerful they are. When I try to make gargoyleth do trickth I have to be able to thee them, and if they're more than a hundred yardth away, I can't make them do anything at all. They aren't able to hear me. Even thomeone ten timeth ath powerful ath I am would have to be pretty clothe to make it work."

Simon considers this for a few moments. "Then the one controlling the gargoyles is using some other method."

"I thuppothe." Adeline sighs in disappointment. "But I don't know any other wayth to control gargoyleth. Jutht my way. I'm thorry."

Her air of defeat makes her seem like an ordinary little girl; if she were, I would act on my impulse to comfort her – but I get the distinct impression that she would take my comfort as badly as Simon does. "Do you know anything else that might help us?" I ask.

Adeline pouts and shakes her head. Then she jerks as if slapped and twists around to look behind her, in the direction of the green. I am confused until I pick up on the distant but shrill voice that startled Adeline so. "Addie!" shouts a woman somewhere on the green. "Addie, where are you? Come here this instant!" I know that voice doesn't belong to Adeline's mother; it must be her governess.

"I have to go," Adeline tells Simon with some urgency. "Willa'th about to have a fit."

Simon shoots an irritated glance in the direction of the green. He looks resignedly at Adeline. "As always, I thank you for your assistance. Please remember to keep this conversation to yourself."

"Yeth, I know," Adeline says. "Goodbye Thimon." She turns to me. "You too, Mith Bishop. I'm thorry I couldn't help you."

I try to cheer her a bit with a smile and some reassurance. "That's all right – you've been very helpful. Now go on, before you get into trouble."

Adeline grins at me and nods to Simon before turning around and running back the way she came – but she remembers her manners in time to skid to a stop at the edge of the grove and curtsey to us. Then she spins around again and disappears.

It quickly becomes obvious to me that our educational talk with Adeline has set the gears whirring in Simon's mind. Of course he will not tell me what new track his thoughts are running on. He does give me a hint of his plans in the form of a suggestion that we stop at Panaccio's for dinner on the way back to the Residence, a sure indication that we will be busy tonight.

All but a few bites of Simon's dinner ends up cold on the table, for he is too busy pondering to eat, and does not say more than a dozen words to me in the hour and a quarter between our sitting down in the restaurant and our arrival at the front door of the Residence. If he intends to go into the think tank for the second night in a row, as I fear he does, there is going to be trouble.

"I think I shall do the rounds tonight," he informs me, breaking his long silence as if it had been a pause of no more than a moment. I resist the urge to wince: by "doing the rounds" Simon means going out in disguise, consulting his contacts throughout the city or reconnoitring on his own. It's better than the think tank, but only marginally so.

"Splendid," I grumble. "Have you something worthwhile for me to do while you're out, or am I to sit here twiddling my thumbs?"

"You speak as if the two were mutually exclusive: in this case, they are the same. I need you here to stay here and meet Cecil when he reports in this evening." He smiles in that subtle, mischievous way that I find particularly infuriating. "Don't be so disappointed, Emma – you'll have plenty to do tomorrow."

Ah, how could I forget my upcoming interview with Fenton Crombie? "Oh, that," I say with venomous sarcasm. "I'm positively breathless with anticipation."

Simon does not retaliate in his usual fashion. "If you really wish to make yourself useful at the present moment, you can choose my disguise for this evening," he suggests. Something in his expression makes me certain that he is not teasing me, but instead making a genuine attempt to mollify me.

On the surface the choice Simon offers is a small, meaningless concession – but it reflects a consideration for my feelings that is as touching as it is unexpected. It's almost enough to put me in a good mood. "All right," I say. "What are the options?"

"Anything within reason," Simon answers. "Sailor, beggar, peddler…"

"Old crone?" I suggest saucily.

Simon's petulant frown tells me I've just scored a point against him. "That's only for special occasions."

"Pity. An old man, then?"

"How old?"

"A little over sixty."

"What profession?" He asks the question eagerly, as if he can hardly wait for my answer.

"Let me think…I know, a carpenter. Will I get to see you in this costume?" Simon rarely ever lets me know beforehand when he's going out incognito: often he simply vanishes for a while and I learn about his activities (and his disguise) through inquiry after the fact – if he even chooses to tell me what he's been up to. Either that or I encounter some stranger who, with a wry remark in a familiar voice, will reveal himself to be my partner. The second option is as disconcerting to me as it is amusing to Simon.

But it seems I need not worry about such things this time. "Of course you will," Simon says, as if he can't fathom the reasons for my uncertainty. "I shall never hear the end of it if you don't." With this he turns around and descends the central flight of stairs down into the cathedral's catacombs, where Simon keeps most of his laboratories, his workshops and Lord only knows what else. Halfway down, he looks over his shoulder at me. "Meet me back here in an hour," he says. I smile as he continues down the stairs and vanishes into the shadows.

Once he is out of sight, the pleasantness of the past few minutes collides with the terrible inevitability that has been lurking in the back of my mind all day. I tell myself that I shouldn't worry so much about parting ways with him. Now that Lightbourne and the Prism are gone forever, Simon doesn't need me to protect him from the effects of the malevolent gem…or his own worst impulses, which I suppose are one and the same.

I fail miserably in my attempt to console myself. One way or another, I will be leaving soon. Even if I didn't want my powers back (and I do, for I feel cold and empty whenever I'm aware of their absence), I don't think Danik would let me….

Are you so sure you still want to go through with this, Emma? The thought seems to come out of nowhere, and it feels like a slap in the face. "I haven't done all this for nothing," I snap at myself. "Of course I still want to."

I realize I am speaking aloud to myself and press my hand to my mouth in profound embarrassment – which is, paradoxically, only increased by the fact that there is nobody around to hear me.

I return to the vestibule precisely one hour later, just as Simon ascends the stairs from the catacombs – no longer himself, but a weathered, elderly man dressed in a simple brown suit. His overgrown, iron-grey hair is topped by an all but shapeless chequered cap, and his face is lined and brown from hard work and exposure to the elements. When he stands before me and spreads his hands for my inspection I notice they too are brown and worn-looking, and that his left index finger is wrapped in a bandage. Only his eyes are the same, for he has not chosen to wear coloured lenses on them as he sometimes does.

Simon's costume is so perfectly constructed that for several seconds I am two-thirds convinced he is what he appears to be. Then he shifts his feet and puts his hands in his trouser pockets, assuming a posture that I would have recognized instantly even if I had not already known his true identity beneath the mask, and looks at me with a satisfied expression. This juxtaposition of a stranger's face and a friend's mannerisms is decidedly eerie.

"Well?" he asks, breaking the spell completely and betraying his disguise for what it is: a change of clothing, a wig, and some ingenious application of resin, rubber and makeup. Now I can admire the effect without being unsettled by it.

When I step closer to Simon for a better look at his mask I detect a faint but unmistakable scent on his clothes. "Sawdust." I smile. "Only you would think of something like that." After a moment's consideration I add, "Well, you or a carpenter. The bandage is a nice touch, too."

"The art of disguise, like the art of investigation, requires the utmost attention to detail." Simon makes it sound like a catechism; for him, it probably is. "Apropos of that," he says with a small, mischievous smile, "would you have been able to guess my profession if you had not specified it for me?"

I return his smile with a similar one of my own and throw caution to the winds by making a flippant reply: "Credit me with some intelligence, Simon. After three years of working with you, I can't possibly be ignorant of the fact that you're a detective."

Simon actually chuckles – a very rare occurrence and a pleasant surprise. "Fair enough," he says, "but I shall be a carpenter when I get into character." It is almost no sooner said than done: in a span of heartbeats he seems almost to deflate, becoming somehow shorter and thinner. The rubber-and-resin mask becomes a real, living face in itself, with all the lines and wrinkles of age. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them I half-expect that they will be of a different colour than they were before. They aren't, of course, but they seem profoundly different nonetheless.

Simon – or whoever he has become – grins at me and tugs the brim of his cap. "'Fraid I must be orf now, Miz Emma," he says in a rough brogue that bears no resemblance whatsoever to his real voice. "Got some important bizness t'attend to." I've known for years that he could do things like this, but this is the first time I have actually been impressed by it. On previous occasions I was too upset with him for using this talent to deceive and shock me to really feel anything positive about it.

I smile, curtsey, and play along. "Good evening, then. Come back before twelve – you ought to try and get some sleep tonight." All right, so I was only half playing along.

With that remark I know I have crossed the line. Simon breaks character for a moment and scowls. "Do not play the nursemaid with me, Miss Bishop." He reassumes his false persona almost instantly, makes an about-face and descends into the catacombs, from which he will leave the Residence by some concealed exit. I hope he didn't notice that I was trying very hard not to laugh.