I don’t see why not.” She led the way to her house. “That’s a nice accent you’ve got, by the way. Irish, is it? My grandmother was Irish. I was named after her. Bridget.”
“I’m Valkyrie. This is Temper, Omen and Never.”
Bridget beamed. “What delightful names! Your parents must have been hippies. We get that a lot around here. Come on in. Wipe your feet.”
She took them into the back room of her warm house, which smelled of old people and cookies. Three suitcases were stacked in a wardrobe so big it could have opened up into Narnia. The case Temper searched contained nothing but clothes, but the cases that Valkyrie, Omen and Never looked through were full of papers and notebooks and pictures.
Never examined a framed photograph of two handsome, smiling men. “Which is which?” he asked.
Temper reached over, tapped the image of the slightly better-looking one. “Savant,” he said.
“Lovely men,” Bridget said, hands clasped over her bosom. “They’d do anything for you. I used to have terrible trouble with my pipes, and they’d come in here and fix it all up. Wouldn’t even let me pay them for their trouble.”
“Did you ever meet any of their friends?” Valkyrie asked, sifting through a handful of documents.
Bridget nodded. “All the time. They hosted the best dinner parties, and knew the most fabulously interesting people.”
“I know some of those same people,” Temper said.
“You do? You don’t look half old enough.”
Temper chuckled. “I remember them from when I was a kid. A couple of them were a bit much, don’t you think? They were a little – I don’t know what the right word is … scary?”
Bridget gave a nod so quick she reminded Omen of a bird pecking at a crumb. “A few of them were,” she confided, like she’d been given permission to gossip. “A few of them were downright weird – and I know weird. I grew up here. I was living in this house during the Summer of Love. I was a Deadhead. I thought I’d seen it all … but there were one or two of those friends who just gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Do you remember any names?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. A lot of hippy names, though – that I do remember.”
Omen pulled a small photo album from the case and flicked through it. The first third, or thereabouts, was filled with old pictures – black and white and sepia-tinged – of Melior and Vega. The first few were posed and stiff, the pair unsmiling, but gradually they eased, until their smiles were broad and their arms were around each other’s shoulders. There was even a kiss here and there. Colour started seeping in as the decades brought their own advancements, and the hairstyles got progressively sillier. One photo, discoloured by age and sunlight, showed Melior and Vega standing with two other men and a woman. The men were all wearing bowling shirts and holding a trophy aloft, and the woman, who had a gigantic Afro and hoop earrings, was laughing. Omen frowned, and looked closer. The man standing to Savant’s right was Parthenios Lilt.
“Found something,” he said, and handed the album to Valkyrie. Her eyes widened.
“See something interesting?” Temper asked.
For a moment, Valkyrie didn’t answer, then she flipped the album so he could see. “Recognise anyone?”
“That’s Lilt,” Never said, pointing.
Temper’s own eyes narrowed. “The woman,” he said. “She’s an old friend. Her name’s Tessa Mehrbano. You know her?”
“Not her,” said Valkyrie, “and not Lilt.” Her finger jabbed at the image of the small, smiling man next to Richard Melior. “Him.”
Temper took a moment, and his eyebrows slowly rose. “Wow. Nice hair.”
Omen and Never crowded round.
“Who is he?” Never asked.
Valkyrie pulled the photograph from the album, looking at Bridget as she did so. “Can I borrow this?”
“I guess so,” the old woman said. “Is everything OK? You look ill.”
“I’m fine,” said Valkyrie. “Just eager to talk to some people. Thank you very much for your help.”
“Of course,” said Bridget. “If you track them down, please tell them I was asking after them. They were such lovely boys.”
“We will,” said Valkyrie, and led the way out. The moment they were out of Bridget’s view – she stood in her doorway, waving as they walked – they dodged off the street, hurrying up the steps into the cover of Buena Vista Park.
Valkyrie spun to Temper. “This old friend of yours, what’s her name again?”
“Tessa Mehrbano.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Yeah. New York.”
“Talk to her. We’ll head back to Roarhaven, get things sorted out there. Maybe Mehrbano knows something that’ll help us, maybe she doesn’t, but it won’t hurt to try.”
Temper hesitated. “I haven’t really been her favourite person for a few years now.”
“I doubt you’re anyone’s favourite person except your own,” Valkyrie said, “but you still have to go.”
“OK, that was especially harsh.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Not thinking straight. Never, take him.”
“I’m not a taxicab,” Never snapped.
Valkyrie stiffened, and turned her gaze to him slowly. “Take Temper to New York,” she said, “then come back for us. When I have time to ask nicely, I will ask nicely. But right now, do what I say or get out of my sight.”
Never flushed. “Hey, you’re the one who came to me for help.”
“And if you’re going to give that help then you’re going to do it without sulking every time you look at me. Now take him to New York.”
Glaring, Never reached out and Temper took his hand, and they vanished.
Valkyrie deflated all of a sudden, sagging back against a tree. Omen got the feeling she’d forgotten he was there. A familiar sensation.
“Um,” he said.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“I was … I was just going to ask. The guy in the picture. Who is he?”
“You really don’t know? Have you ever been to the High Sanctuary?”
“No.”
“If you had, you’d have seen him,” Valkyrie said. She frowned, and looked around. “Huh,” she said.
“What’s
