Page 13 of Tattered Huntress
Slightly out of breath but exhilarated, I reached the boulder. I could push the stone out of the way and the necklace would probably be underneath it. I smiled and crouched down.
‘Fuck!’ My expletive was whipped away by the wind. I picked up the flattened can of cola from where it was wedged by the side of the boulder and glared at it, silently cursing whichever hiker had left it there. Damned litterbug.
I gritted my teeth and shoved the can into my pocket todispose of later then I tried again. Okay. There was something on the slope of the hill opposite me, perhaps five hundred metres away. I drew in a breath and jogged towards it. Come on, baby. Come on, baby. Come on…
Eugh. A used condom? Who the hell was having a sexy time out here? I scowled in annoyance and spun around. I wouldn’t be defeated. Third time lucky. I clenched my jaw and flared out magic once again.
It wasn’tthird time lucky; neither was it fourth time lucky, or fifth, or sixth or bloody fifteenth time lucky.
Almost three hours later, I’d criss-crossed the deep hollow more than twenty times. I was covered in sweat and dirt, my mouth was dry because I’d not brought anything to drink or eat, and I was certain I’d developed matching blisters on both feet. I’d found five crisp packets, two cigarette lighters, seven cigarette butts, a watch strap, two marbles, three plastic bottles and a piece of wire. I’d even found a small gold wedding ring. What I hadn’t found was the stupid necklace that would wipe the stupid smile off Hugo Pemberville’s stupid face.
When I’d stomped out of the SDS warehouse for the final time that morning, coming here had seemed like a great idea. Now it only felt foolish. Perhaps this wasn’t the right place. Perhaps I wasn’t quite as clever as I thought I was.
I sat down cross-legged on a hump of prickly grass and wiped the sweat from my brow. It was incredibly tempting to give up and pretend that I’d never come – but what was the alternative? I could go home with my tail between my legs and start the arduous task of job hunting, but I doubted McIlvanney would give me a reference. I certainly didn’t fancy signing on the dole, and any meagre benefits wouldn’t be enough topay for my spider’s silk pills. I scrunched up my face. I had to keep going. I had to keep trying.
I sighed heavily and willed myself to stand up again. It didn’t quite work and I debated reaching for another pill, but I couldn’t afford to deplete all my stock. Instead, I cast out yet another net of earth magic from where I was sitting. The irritating pain flared in my chest again as the next spot revealed itself to be somewhere behind me. Great: now I had to climb the steep slope to get to what would doubtless be something as exciting as a discarded sweet wrapper.
I tried to imagine Hugo Pemberville’s smug face and how his expression would change when he realised I’d pipped him to the post and found the necklace before he had. That gave me the energy to propel myself to my feet. I turned around and started to climb.
It took fifteen minutes of scrambling, slipping and heavy breathing to reach the spot in question. Digging my feet into the side of the steep hill, I looked around for the litter that had drawn me there but I couldn’t see anything. I hastily quashed a flash of cautious hope and knelt down, using my fingers to pull away the tufts of sturdy grass that clung to the hillside. It hadn’t rained for a while, but fortunately the ground was crumbly and soft rather than compacted and difficult to dig through.
I scooped away an inch of dirt. Then another. And another. And that was when my fingertips felt the edge of something hard and unyielding. Suddenly, my flagging energy soared into a frenetic spurt of activity. Clumps of dirt and wads of tough grass flew in all directions – and before too long, my efforts revealed a slender wooden box.
I tugged hard to release it from its burial place and lost my footing in the process. I tumbled backwards, rolling several metres down the hillside in an ungainly fashion that wouldhave had my old gymnastics teacher crying with shame – but I didn’t lose my grip on the box.
When I finally came to a stop, I paid no attention to my aching bones or the cuts on my skin from the jagged stones and sharp blades of grass. Instead, I hugged the box to my chest and hummed with delight as I allowed myself a moment or two of triumph before I sat up and examined it.
It was a simple affair, roughly made with no adornments, only a small catch holding it closed. It certainly didn’t look like it contained valuable treasure. I lifted it up, checked the underside to make sure there was nothing to be wary about then held my breath and opened it to reveal … a simple silver locket.
I frowned. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting but it was something grander than this. The necklace was pretty and appeared to be well made, but there were no embellishments, no inscriptions, no jewels.
I thumbed the locket open. Although there was a space on both sides for a tiny photo or perhaps a lock of hair, it was empty. All that trouble just for this? Weird. Still, I’d found what I’d come here for.
Now it was time to return to Edinburgh and use the necklace to get what I really wanted.
Chapter
Six
Istepped off the train at Edinburgh Waverley, held my phone to my ear and affected my best plummy accent. ‘Good evening. My name is Gertrude Van Winkle and I’m a researcher with the British Museum. I am trying to locate Sir Nigel Hannigan but he isn’t answering his phone. I have some very exciting information for him relating to some Celtic runestones we’ve been translating. I know he’ll want to hear what I have to say as soon as possible.’
Marianne, bless her, didn’t question my credentials; neither did she recognise my voice. ‘I’m afraid Sir Nigel isn’t here. He has accommodation in Edinburgh until Sunday.’
That was good news; it meant I had a chance of talking to him without any interruptions from Hugo cumbubbling Pemberville. Assuming I could find Sir Nigel, of course. ‘Is that the Balmoral Hotel as usual?’ I asked, taking an educated guess.
‘No, he’s staying at the Royal Elvish Institute.’
Yahtzee. I did a little dance of triumph. I knew exactly where that was, even though I’d never had cause to step through its hallowed doors. I could be there within the hour.
‘He’s having dinner with Mr Pemberville and the other Primes,’ Marianne added helpfully.
My grin changed to a grimace. Oh well, I couldn’t have everything.
‘Good, good,’ I said smoothly. ‘I’ll call the Institute directly. Thank you so much.’ I hung up quickly before she had time to get suspicious then set off at a brisk march in the direction of the Elvish Institute.
Edinburgh is full of dramatic, imposing buildings, most of which appear large enough and solid enough to withstand an apocalyptic event. The Royal Elvish Institute is no exception. Occupying a corner of Charlotte Square in Edinburgh’s New Town, it is a grand townhouse with dramatic architecture that demands attention.
Everything I knew about it came from passing its impeccable stone façade or from odd snatches of gossip I’d picked up. I knew that there were state rooms in which high elves and highly-placed officials were permitted to stay when they were visiting the city, and that there was a private members’ club that admitted high elves and their guests for a princely annual fee. In short, it was the sort of place – and the sort of organisation – that starkly delineated the difference between those with power and those without.
