The crows flew low and fast. Quaker’s place was a long shot, but Caw recalled the strange objects he’d seen on display at Gort House the first time he’d visited: the golden lion mask, the crystal shield, the Crow’s Beak. All monuments to feral history. Glum was right—there had to be a clue there somewhere.
Still, as they approached, Caw’s hopes evaporated. The gates were still hanging open, and now police tape was stretched across them.
The crows set them down in the driveway and then touched down silently across the ornamental gardens. Caw ducked beneath the tape slowly and crept toward the house. All the lights were off.
Looks deserted, said Screech, perched on a low wall.
The crow was right. If the police had been here again, it looked like they were long gone. “Let’s go in carefully,” said Caw. He turned to the crows. “Wait here. Keep your eyes peeled for flies.”
No way—I’m coming in, said Shimmer, hopping ahead.
Not without me, you’re not, said Screech, limping to keep up.
Well, I’ll do as I’m told, said Glum, settling on top of a bush.
There was more police tape over the front door, which was hanging on one hinge, where the authorities had smashed it down. Caw remembered the cops’ brutality in arresting Quaker. Back then he’d thought they were just being heavy-handed, but now he realized it was personal—an order from the top.
“Is this guy some sort of criminal?” said Selina.
“More like an academic,” said Caw. “Quaker collects feral artifacts. Your mother must have thought that Quaker could help her find the stone. Or me, at least.”
He tore the tape aside. “Felix?” he called.
His voice echoed in the cold hallway, and no one replied. Hardly surprising.
Inside, the wooden floorboards creaked slightly underfoot. A mahogany staircase rose, then turned to the second floor. Dirty footprints muddied the once pristine carpet. To the left, Caw saw Quaker’s study—desk drawers hanging out and papers littering the floor. Ash and blackened wood had been smeared across the rug in front of the hearth, and a lamp lay smashed on the floor. The police had even torn the pictures from the walls.
Caw led the others down a narrow set of stairs toward the kitchen. As he descended, a curious feeling of loss swept over him. It was here that Quaker had told Caw about his parents and his true name—Jack Carmichael. It was the first time he had really ever felt a sense of belonging and connection to the city that existed around him.
He owed the old man for that, at least.
The kitchen was empty too, but a plate of chopped apples and what might have been cheese and bread lay on the table, half-eaten and growing a skin of furry mold across its surface. The teapot had been knocked over.
“Looks like he never came back,” said Lydia.
Caw cast a quick glance around. “He was obviously really scared. Let’s check the rest of the place.”
“The study seemed promising,” said Lydia.
“Okay,” said Caw. “Let’s start in there.”
“I’ll go upstairs,” said Selina.
Lydia frowned.
“Seriously,” said Selina. “You honestly think I’m going to run?”
“Shout if you find anything,” said Caw, as Selina set off up the stairs.
Caw and Lydia went to the study. The police had obviously done a thorough job going through the place, but it was possible they’d missed something. They began to sift through the mess. A lot of the documents were handwritten notes, completely indecipherable, even for Lydia.
“This is hopeless,” she said, tossing a piece of paper aside.
“Just keep looking,” said Caw, checking the drawers.
But as the minutes passed, his despair grew. What was the chance, really, that they’d find anything?
“I’m going upstairs,” he said.
Lydia puffed out her cheeks. “Okay.” She squinted at a page. “I’m not sure this is even English!”
Caw trooped up the wide stairwell with Shimmer flapping ahead. More pictures had been taken down, their canvases slit and their frames broken. Where Caw remembered display cases filled with curious objects, now there was only broken glass crunching underfoot. The whole collection was gone—years of work. If Quaker saw what they’d done, he would be inconsolable.
He came across Selina in what must have been Felix’s bedroom, just as ransacked as the other rooms. She was sitting on a bed frame, riffling through a pile of papers on the dressing table. A chest of drawers had been dismantled, and clothes were strewn across the floor. A wardrobe lay on its side, and the mattress had been slashed apart. From the ceiling hung a bare light bulb, and the carpet had been pulled up in places, revealing ancient floorboards.
“Find anything?” he asked.
She shook her head, and Caw noticed suddenly that she was trying to stop herself crying.
“Selina?” he said.
What’s she got to be so sad about? said Shimmer.
Caw pointed downstairs. “Give me some privacy, will you?” he muttered.
As Shimmer flew away, he went into the room and sat beside Selina on the edge of the bed. He saw that the papers were just old bills.
“I suppose I’ve always known,” she said quietly. “Not that she was a feral. But that she was . . . not nice.”
“Your mother?”
“Ha!” Selina barked a laugh. “Mother! She loves those flies more than me.”
Caw put a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to comfort her, but he hardly knew how.
“She fooled a lot of people,” he said.
Selina sniffed. “We were never close,” she said. “I went to boarding school at five, and even on the holidays she was mostly working. I used to stay with aunts and uncles. Or play by myself. When she said she had an important job for me, I said right away I’d do it. I guess I just wanted her to notice me.”
Caw sat there, awkwardly, with his hand still resting on her shoulder.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “I never really knew my parents. I always thought they were one thing, when they were something else completely.”
“Your parents were good people,” said Selina. “My mother is evil.”
“But you’re not,” said Caw. He reached to touch her hand but stopped himself.
Selina looked up at him. “You mean that?” she said. “After everything?”
Caw imagined what Velma Strickham would say. She’s the Mother of Flies’ daughter—she cannot be your friend.
But he wasn’t the fox feral.
“I do,” he said.
Lydia coughed from the doorway, and Caw and Selina broke apart. “Sorry to interrupt your little . . . whatever this is,” she said.
Caw shrugged. “It’s fine. Any good news?”
Lydia shook her head and gestured back over her shoulder. “The library’s there, though. Got to be worth a look.”
They followed her across the landing. Inside the bookshelves had been pulled down and lay across mountains of leather-bound volumes. “We might be here a while,” said Lydia.
Caw was just about to reach for a book when a soft meow made them all jump. A single gray cat stood behind them in the doorway.
“Hello, kitty,” said Selina.
The cat stared at them a moment, blue eyes shining with intelligence. Then it padded silently toward them. Shimmer jumped off the floor, flapping.
The cat ignored the crows and entwined itself with Selina’s legs. She stroked the top of its head. “Is she a stray, do you think?” asked Selina.
“No,” said Caw, frowning as he recognized the cat. It was the one that had jumped off the car hood to avoid the policeman’s nightstick. “He belongs to Felix Quaker. His name is Freddie.”
Selina was crouching, fiddling with his collar. “That isn’t what it says here.” She squinted and the cat purred. “The little tag says its name is Wythe.”
“Are you sure?” said Lydia.
Selina gave her a sharp look. “Yes, I can read.”
The cat hopped up onto one of the fallen bookcases and approached Caw. Its striking blue eyes watched him closely.
“What do you think, Screech?” Caw said. “He’s the one from outside, isn’t he?”
Looks like it to me, said Screech, keeping his distance.
“I wonder why he’s stayed here?” said Lydia. “I would have thought Quaker would take all his cats with him.”
“Freddie?” said Caw. The cat brushed against him, arching its spine. “Perhaps this is Quaker’s way of offering help,” he said.
Fat lot of good one kitty’s going to be, said Shimmer.
“No,” said Caw. “I mean, a message of some sort. If he was too frightened to help us face-to-face.”
Optimistic, said Glum.
Caw looked at the metal tag. Sure enough, someone had scratched away some writing on one side of the tag. On the other, carved roughly, were the letters of the word “Wythe.”
“It looks like it was done in a hurry,” said Caw. He stared at the word, certain he’d read it before—but where?
Never heard of a Wythe, said Screech.
The cat hissed and placed its paw on Caw’s sleeve.
Maybe he just wants food, said Screech. You know what cats are like—loyal to anyone who’ll feed them. Not like crows . . .
Caw tried to focus on the name in his mind’s eye. He searched his memory for its presence and imagined Quaker there too, urging him on: Come on, lad. Use your brain! It’s right in front of you. . . .
Caw felt a smile tickling his lips. Now he remembered where he knew the word “Wythe” from. He had seen it—the letters in a looping script. And it made perfect sense.
What are you grinning like a mad fool for? asked Screech.
Clever, clever Quaker!
“I think I know where we can find out about the stone,” he said.