Moira turned to her as they reached the doorway. “That’s true.”
“Then who is—”
Duncan stepped across the threshold into a large timber-roofed hall. A long wooden dining table spanned its length. A broad painting over a massive fireplace depicted the execution of Guy Fawkes.
As they entered, a dark shadow burst from the far side of the room, where a silver-haired man sat before a tea service and an assortment of biscuits.
“Traitors!” shouted from above.
Moira lifted an arm. “That’s enough, Hugh. Come here.”
The black shadow swept across the rafters, over the dining table, and landed on Moira’s arm. The large raven dwarfed the woman’s head, dancing with sharp claws.
Moira turned to them. “This is Huginn. Though, we simply call him Hugh.”
19
4:05 p.m.
Sharyn backed from the huge bird. The raven eyed her with a cold, black gaze. His neck feathers ruffled with warning. The bird kept his wings slightly parted, as if ready to lunge, which could prove dangerous. The creature’s long black beak looked sharp enough to rip off a finger.
Moira reached up and rubbed the crown of the raven’s head. “Quiet now, boyo.”
The bird shook his body and leaned into her fingers.
The man at the other end of the table, no doubt the current Constable of the Tower, called across to them. “Moira, my dear, please return Hugh to his perch. I’ve set aside a couple biscuits to encourage him to behave.”
“Yes, Father.” Moira guided them alongside the table.
The raven chuckled, sounding eerily human, clearly happy in the woman’s presence—or maybe he recognized the wordbiscuit. He then barked like a dog several times, sounding quite demanding.
“I didn’t know ravens could talk,” Naomi whispered.
Moira heard her. “Ravens are great mimics. Better than most parrots. And after twenty-one years, Hugh can swear up a bloody streak when riled or sing like an operatic soprano when truly enamored with someone.”
Sharyn studied the bird closer, who was clearly old. One of his eyes was clouded over. A claw was missing two nails. “Is Hugh one of the ravens of the Tower?”
“He was once. But ailment—along with bereavement—has turned him into the sentinel of the King’s House. His brother, Muninn, died a few years back, and Huginn slowly went into a decline. When my father arrived, he decided to take him inside. Turned a bedroom into an aviary, one with access to a fenced balcony. Of course, we still take him outside for supervised jaunts. But with the occasional fox roaming the Tower, an aged bird would make for easy prey.”
Tag circled on Moira’s far side, tapping his umbrella on the planked wood floor. “Muninn and Huginn? They were named after the two ravens that served the Norse god, Odin.”
“Very good, young man,” Sir Ronan Kelly called out, his voice rich and deep, made for command. “They were indeed. The loss of Muninn was mourned across Britain. But it struck his brother exceptionally hard.”
“Ravens bond very deeply,” Moira explained. “Even mating for life.”
Sharyn glanced to Sir Kelly, who did not rise to greet them. He simply sipped from his cup, cradling its warmth in his palms. The reason became clear when they reached the far side of the table.
Moira’s father sat in a motorized wheelchair. Still, no one would mistake him for an invalid. Broad of shoulder, with silver hair and goatee, he looked like an elder statesman. He was dressed casually in a navy V-neck and khakis. Still, he wore a crimson necktie, knotted squarely under his chin, with the tail tucked under the woolen sweater.
The constable cleared his throat and nodded to the raven as Moira shifted the large bird to a multibranched perch, festooned with dangling toys. “My dear, I left the biscuits sitting below. Best soak them first. You know what he likes.”
“I do, Father.”
Moira reached to a small plate of dry, brown biscuits. She dunked them in a porcelain cup full of a reddish-black fluid.
“Is that tea?” Archie asked, his voice sounding envious. “I wouldn’t mind a cuppa, if you have any to spare.”
“It’s not tea.” Moira lifted the dripping biscuit. “It’s pig’s blood.”
