"Alternatively, everything could go to hell in a handcart," Church said acidly.
Tom shrugged. "Did you expect easy choices?"
"No, but I don't expect you to be glib, either," Church replied. He knew the decision would ultimately rest with him and he didn't feel up to making it. So much seemed to lie on every choice. He wished he could just return to the pathetic little life he had before.
"Do you know where Maponus is imprisoned?" Shavi asked.
"Not exactly. Not to the foot. But I know the place." He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "A place called Rosslyn Chapel."
"I have heard of it," Shavi mused. "A place of many mysteries. But it was founded many years after the time of which you speak."
"And the Good Son was there long before the first stone of Rosslyn Chapel was laid. The building was devised as a resting place."
"I remember now." Shavi took the bottled water Veitch handed him from the mini-bar. "The chapel is famous for its blend of Celtic, Christian and Masonic iconography in its structure. For a supposedly Christian place of worship there are pagan symbols everywhere, more representations of the Green Man than anywhere else in the land."
"And The Green Man," Church said, "is another way of saying Cernunnos-"
"Cernunnos was an important element in the ritual of binding. He is, to be glib-" he glanced at Church "-the flip side of Maponus. The thick, dark forests to the sunlit plains. Winter to summer. Night to day."
"His brother," Church ventured.
"As if that term means anything to them."
"I am impressed that the memory of Maponus survived the centuries strong enough to prompt the erection of such a magnificent, codified building," Shavi said.
Tom nodded thoughfully. "A good point. Of those few who held the knowledge, a separate group was established in perpetuity. The members were called, in our parlance, Watchmen. Their aim was not only to keep the knowledge of the old god's imprisonment, but that a line of civil defence would be established to prepare for any further incursions from Otherworld. They were of their own creed to begin with, but as the role was essentially spiritual, when Christianity began to become established, representatives were chosen from the new Church. And from all the other faiths that eventually set up roots in this land. Over time, each faith's Watchmen became almost separate entities, unaware of those groups formed by their rivals. But they all kept the same knowledge and the same mission."
"It was one of the Watchmen who pointed us in the right direction at Glastonbury." Shavi moistened his throat with the water. Some of the blood seemed to have returned to his features, much to Church's relief. "And it was another group which built Rosslyn Chapel?"
Tom nodded. "Under the direction of Sir William St. Clair, a prince of Orkney. In the increasingly Godless twentieth century most of the groups have withered. I have no idea if one still exists at Rosslyn-"
The faint knock at the door made him tense, as if he had heard a gun being cocked. Before anyone could speak, Veitch was already moving on perfectly balanced limbs until he was poised at the door jamb, ready to act. He looked to Church for guidance.
Church waited a moment then called out, "Who's there?"
"Laura." Her voice sounded like paper in the wind.
Veitch wrenched open the door and she almost collapsed in. Church moved forward quickly to catch her.
She looked into his face before her eyelids flickered and a faint smile spread across her lips. "You know, I always saw it like this."
It was midmorning before she had recovered. Faintly contrite but determined not to show it, Laura sat in a sunbeam on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her skin like snow, her pupils still dilated so much her eyes seemed black. She had attempted to tell them the full horror of what had happened at the club, but so much had been tied into her trip she couldn't separate reality from hallucination herself. "Maybe that spy was right," she said. "Maybe it is all how we see it in our heads. Who knows what's really happening?"
"Exactly!" Shavi began excitedly. "Liquid nitrogen would cause-"
Veitch pushed forward, barely able to contain his irritation. "What's wrong with you? Look at the state of you-off your face, talking bollocks. This isn't a holiday. You can't just carry on having a good time-"
Church clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not now, Ryan."
Veitch glared. "Jumping to her protection just because you're shagging her, even though you know I'm right?"
"It's not like that. We all know she could have made some better choices, but this isn't the time."
Veitch shook his head angrily. "This is war. We've got to have some strict rules. Because if one person fucks up, it could drag the rest of us down."
"He's right," Tom said. "We have to have discipline-"
"And that's one thing I haven't got, right?" Laura said sharply. "You lot are such blokes."
She desperately wanted to talk about her fears, about what was happening to her body, but everyone seemed more ready to criticise than to listen. She didn't feel any different, but the shock of seeing what happened to her blood lay heavy on her. Part of her wondered if she had contracted some hideous new virus which had crossed over from Otherworld; there were so many new rules, so many things still hidden, it was impossible to put any event into any kind of context. Perhaps it had lain in her, dormant, but was now beginning to ravage her body. But with all their talk of discipline and missions and responsibility to the cause, how could she even bring it up? It was something she had to deal with herself.
Veitch leaned against one of the lobby's marble columns, adopting a look of cool detachment while secretly believing the attendants were all sneering at him, whispering behind their hands that he shouldn't be there, that someone ought to throw him out. It made him feel angry and hunted and at any other time he wouldn't have subjected himself to it, but those feelings paled in comparison to the betrayal he felt at Church's dismissal of Ruth's plight. He understood in an oblique way what Church said about obligation and responsibility, but loyalty to friends overrode it all; and love was even more important than that.
He was suddenly aware of an old man moving across the lobby towards him. His gait was lazily elegant, although he looked in his seventies. The sharp cut of his expensive suit, the delicate way he held his silver-topped cane, the perfect grooming of his swept-back white hair and old-style handlebar moustache, all suggested a man of breeding.
Here we go, Veitch thought. Somebody who wants the riff-raff thrown out.
But as the elderly gentleman neared, Veitch saw he was smiling warmly. "I am an excellent judge of a man's face," he said in the well-formed vowels of a privileged Edinburgh brogue, "and I can see we've both been touched by magic." His eyes twinkled as he took Witch's left hand in both of his; Veitch was so shocked he didn't snatch it back as he normally would have. "I can see troubles too," the gentleman continued. "And if it is any comfort, hear the words of someone who has grown wise in his long life: never give up believing." He tapped Veitch once on his forearm and then, with a polite nod, turned and moved gracefully back across the lobby.
"What was that all about?" Church had come up on Veitch while he curiously surveyed the gentleman's retreat.