Silversong (The Fable Series, Book 3)

Chapter 9

After disembarking the jet, we're met on the tarmac by a smartly-dressed chauffeur, who takes our luggage and ushers us into the waiting black limo.

"Take us to the Angel," Nessy says to the driver, and he nods.

Angel?! She can't possibly mean Alastaire, right? It's got to be something else. Maybe it's a British thing... unfamiliar slang... like calling french fries chips or saying that something is a load of codswallop.

I want to ask her, but I don't want to look ignorant, so I keep quiet instead.

Nessy's unusually quiet during the drive, only speaking when she asks the driver to slow down so I can get a better look at the glittering Thames River. Over the past few hours I've gotten used to the constant murmur of her chattering on about everything and anything, always talking very quickly, a sparkling stream of one-sided conversation, strangely comforting - maybe because it allows a quiet introvert like myself to just sit back, listen and go with the flow.

So her relative silence now unnerves me, and I try to distract myself by studying the scenery.

The quick glimpses of London I catch from inside the limo are utterly spectacular - a bewildering clash of ultra-modern minimalist buildings and grand old stone monuments, a perfect marriage of past and future. The cloudy sky overhead has turned slate grey, and I'm grateful my mom insisted I take a small fold-up umbrella in my luggage.

"Look over there," Nessy finally says, pointing out the window. "That's the Tower of London on the left." 

The driver slows down, allowing me a moment to take in the ornate stone turrets and battlements peeping out from behind soaring castle walls. As we drive by, Nessy points to a magnificent building opposite the tower - all white stone, Corinthian columns at least fifty feet tall and black wrought iron porticos.

"That's Witchwood Manor," she says, then pauses expectantly. She seems to study my face, as if looking for a reaction.

I'm not sure what I'm meant to say, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Is that the hotel?" I ask.

"The hotel?" she asks, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

"Where I'm staying," I say, noticing how tense she's suddenly become.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and then she laughs.

"Hotel? No, no," she says, visibly relaxing. "No, the hotel you'll be staying in is still a few minutes away. Very elite. Invite only. It's privately owned by the Faull Foundation, reserved for only their most important clients and business acquaintances."

"The Faull Foundation?" I ask. " As in-"

"Jeremy Faull, yes," she says with a little smile. "You could say it's part of the family business. In fact, Jeremy's family modelled it on their ancestral home in France. Unparalleled luxury. You're really getting the royal treatment, Ashling. Usually we just chuck our esteemed guests into The Four Seasons or The Savoy. You're some kind of special, aren't you?"

I don't know how to answer that, so I just ignore the sort-of-question, and ponder what she said about Jeremy Faull having an ancestral home in France.

That's weird. I never thought he was French. He always sounded British in interviews. But I can't ask her about that, I don't want her to think I'm so clueless.

"No, no, the Faull family are as British as fish and chips, trust me," she says, as if in reply to my silent thoughts. "They've been here for ages. The family was driven out - I mean to say, they left France, in the 1790's, during the French Revolution. Not a wonderful time for the aristocracy. They never did get Château d'Argent back, supposedly it's a museum now, but still, they've done pretty well for themselves anyway, wouldn't you say?"