Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

found work as a servant and sat in on the conversations when she could. The debates, she told Adam, were mostly philosophical in nature, and while physical specimens were not closely examined, the school at Kos still gave her so much joy. It was progress, she told him, towards discovering the true nature of illness. Adam knew that she secretly hoped to one day find out that death was no more than a disease that could be cured. Meanwhile, he was happy because she was happy, and content to spend his days idling among the ships.

The automatic doors at the entrance to the complex grind open, and beyond them is a cavernous shopping centre. Tinny music drones from frayed speakers, and light is cast unevenly across the tiles from the yellowed windows above. Most of the shopfronts are vacant and mirror-black, but somebody has taken the time to arrange flowers in front of them. As Adam passes by, he notices that the flowers, though bright, all have plastic petals and wire veins. There’s even a layer of dust across them. “Behold a mausoleum,” says Magpie, and Adam thinks he’s right. This place is a mausoleum: a mausoleum for a century that he barely remembers.

Those few shops that are still open cast warm glows, promising sales and discounts and relief from the tomb-like halls. Downcast mothers wheeling prams and shoppers clutching bags move furtively through the enormous empty space, their footsteps echoing. Where there’s a fenced-off play area, three children huddle in a corner. Their play-set casts long shadows, and the colours of the plastic castle have faded into sickly greens and yellows.

Stepping over the fence, Magpie sits on a plastic log in a pillar of sunlight. From somewhere inside his sharp coat, he retrieves two small marionettes. The first is a proud knight, with shining silver armour that flashes the same way that Magpie’s crowns do, and the second is a fair maiden with a white dress and a length of braided yellow hair. In the cavernous hall, the marionettes are aglow. Fascinated, Adam watches as Magpie’s clever fingers operate them, bringing them to life. Slowly, the children break free of their huddle and emerge into the light, to sit and watch and even laugh.

The knight is foolish and clumsy, swinging his sword at shadows and banishing them only by accident. The maiden dances, whirling and wheeling through the gloom and sending shadows scattering in fright. The marionettes turn and leap and collide, and Magpie smiles all the while, black eyes glinting. Eventually, the children begin their own games. They become clumsy knights and graceful maidens themselves, and by their joy the tomb-like shopping centre is brightened.

“I like your marionettes,” says Adam. “Did you make them?”

“Antiques,” says Magpie. “I started collecting objects of mummery a while ago. Masks and bells and puppets.” Pocketing the marionettes, he continues through the shopping centre. “They do come in useful, every once in a while.”

Through a set of double doors is an octagonal food hall, where the light of the sky reaches every corner. The flowers here are real, and there are even a few aquariums embedded in the walls where exotic fish flit. The food stands here are shut down; the garish signs belonging to each franchise no longer glow. Yet at the rear of the hall is a single long countertop, upon which gleam fresh fruits embedded in sticky pastries, among overstuffed baguettes and piles of oranges ready to be squeezed into glasses. If the shopping centre is an island at the centre of a sea of traffic, then this is the verdant grove at its heart, Adam thinks.

“How did you find this place?”

Magpie orders fruit juice, and pancakes, and pastries. “I’ve had a lot of time to kill recently,” he says, “so I’ve taken to tasting every corner of this little country.” They take seat at one of the wooden benches overlooking the sea of traffic. Cars roll up and down the highways silently beyond the panes, and Magpie follows them with his eyes as he munches at a tart.

“Why are we here?” asks Adam.

“Lunch,” says Magpie. “We can’t go breaking into the Sinclairs’ vault on an empty stomach. And it would probably be prudent to put together a plan, as well.”

Adam tries one of his pancakes. It tastes great, he thinks.

“Perhaps,” says Magpie, “you should draw a map of the place.”

“Got a pen?”

Magpie considers the question carefully, as if there’s real weight to it. “No.”

“Then I can’t draw you a map.”

“Describe the layout to me, at least.”

The pancakes really are very good. The cream is freshly whipped, as well. As Adam considers the layout of the Sinclairs’ greenhouse, he finds himself beginning to arrange napkins, and when he has run out of napkins he uses the salt and pepper shakers, and the ketchup bottle, and the wooden box they came in, and the menus, and even their plates. Soon, he is so absorbed in creating his map that he forgets to finish his food. The corner of a pancake becomes a lawn, and a trickle of syrup becomes a river, and his knife and fork become walls.

“There,” he says, when he’s done.

Magpie wipes cream away from the corner of his mouth, hardly able to contain his smile. “Where’s the rose?” he asks.

“Here.” Adam points at a small blob of cream.

“Hmm.” Swirling his fruit juice around in its glass, Magpie observes the map thoughtfully. “What…” He leans forward, tilting his cup at a torn-up pile of napkins. “…is that?”

“Construction site. They’re still building it.”

“Ah.” Magpie’s grin broadens. “There it is. That’s how we’ll get in.” Draining his cup, he withdraws a huge wad of cash from his coat. Loosening the elastic band around it, he selects two large notes and leaves them on the table. “Lunch is on my brother,” he says, with a chuckle. “Come on, then. By the time we get there, it should be dark.”

“You want to go there right now?”

“No time like the present!”

Adam studies his crude