Bird of the Gods

Chapter Seventeen

The rain was falling relentlessly, a blind fury from the heavens that caught everything and everyone in its rage. Fiona ran from the taxi, newspaper over her hair, as water bounced off the pavement and the tourists huddled in their disposable plastic raincoats.

She dashed through the courtyard, dancing over the puddles as best as she could, until she reached the front door; the porters stepped out of her way, and she stood in the lobby of the Rosewood London hotel.

Conrad strolled up behind her, irritatingly unfazed by the lashing weather.

'Britain, huh. I guess they get, what, three days a year when it doesn't rain?' he said.

'Shush. It wasn't the last time I was here,' she said, but he wasn't paying attention.

It was half past four in the afternoon, but it was already twilight outside; London was a darkened blur of Christmas decorations, tail lights and phone screens as humanity shuffled past, trying to keep as dry as it could.

In contrast, the Rosewood lobby felt like a calm paradise. Walls of dark wood and glass, amber lighting, black and white tiles on the floor; it was impeccable and mannered and restrained, and it almost calmed her down. Almost.

She glanced at the Christmas tree in the corner of the lobby, a cheerful splash of green in a sea of brown and gold; that's what I feel like, she thought, normality surrounded by this grandeur. When this is all done I need to find somewhere where I can get a drink that doesn't come with a straw.

Conrad was carrying the bird in a box, a battered plastic thing, packed inside with newspaper. He strolled up to the reception desk, and put it down on the great wooden surface. Fiona knew that Conrad was hoping for a reaction from the receptionist, a shocked look of 'you aren't allowed here'; but he barely batted an eyelid.

'We're here to see Paul Grenville-Temple,' said Conrad.

The receptionist nodded, and ran his eyes over the computer.

'Good. Some of your party's already here. You're in the Sir James room. It's down there, up the marble staircase, and then look for the door signs.'

'Thank you,' said Fiona.

The hotel was quiet, but then this wasn't surprising on a Tuesday afternoon in early December. Fiona tried to remember if she'd ever been here before, as a little girl. Probably not, she decided. She'd have remembered the omnipresent marble.

The St James room was not far. It was not large, but it was as grand as everything else in this place; a chandelier, a long oval, dark wooden table, huge windows looking out over the courtyard.

There, at the farside of the table in his wheelchair, sipping a coffee, was Paul. Rhonda was pouring out some water.

He smiled at them both.

'So glad to see you, Fiona. And you must be Mr Williams, I presume? I'm delighted to make your acquaintance.'

His eyes fell on the box. He nodded.

'Thank you so much for bringing this to me. I appreciate it more than you realize.'

Conrad set it down on the table; then, he sat on one of the chairs, and stared hard at Paul.

'So I finally get to meet the famous Paul Grenville-Temple,' he said. 'I'm a big fan of your work.'

Paul ignored the barb, and instead looked at Rhonda, who had seated herself next to him.

'Rhonda, could you pass me the package, please? I don't think I can quite reach that.'

But before she was able to move, the door swung open; Amanda swanned in. She stopped as soon as she saw Fiona and Conrad. Fiona's blood went cold.