Excerpt from The Feather and the Fall (Prologue)

Prologue

The turn of dawn stirred the lamplighters into their daily ritual of extinguishing street lamps all across London, a slow procession of dying flames giving way to a sickly grey light that oozed over London’s crooked rooftops. The streets were hushed, the city still holding its breath before the chaos of the coming day. Only the faint whistle of a weary constable on his routine plod carried on the fog, song brittle and reedy, drifting like a ghost between the ribs of the buildings.

Constable Harrow rounded the corner of Arlington Street with a yawn cracking his jaw. His boots scuffed against cobblestone, and he cursed under his breath and bent to inspect it. By now, he was only half-attentive, eager for home and the comfort of thin tea and his bed.

He brushed the scuff on his boot over with his thumb. Sighed. Rose. Stretched out his back until it cracked. He glanced around at the fancy towering townhouses either side of him and continued on, picking up his little tune again.

But this time, the whistle answered back.

Almost.

Harrow paused both his song and his footsteps. Looked around.

The whistling continued.

He furrowed his brows and squinted in the half-dark. He’d not seen another person stirring his whole shift. Rarely did people come out in the predawn – not when it wasn’t market day for sellers to be travelling to their stalls.

Harrow turned on the spot. Peered up and down the street. There wasn’t a pub house in this area – far too fancy – so it wouldn’t be a drunk just waking up from crashing in an alley. And this whistling was far too good to be a drunk.

If a little haunting.

A self-condescending smile quirked at his lips. He was going crazy, wasn’t he? It was dawnlight, so someone was bound to be up and about. Ghosts didn’t just walk the streets. It was the tail end of his rotation getting to him. He just needed to keep going, get to the station, switch over. Then he could go home and get to bed.

No more dark thoughts about haunting whistling.

He stepped forward again. Let his eyes roam over the metal numbers on the fancy wrought-iron gates.

Sixteen … Fourteen … Twelve …

Harrow paused again.

Stared through the gaps in the black wrought-iron gate of number twelve.

Three small bodies in white nightgowns lay crumpled like broken dolls in the pristine garden ahead of him. Their limbs were twisted unnaturally, ringletted yellow curls splayed about them, broken necks forcing their faces skyward.

Bare feet stained with earth and blood.

And in the weak morning light, their frozen smiles looked almost holy.

Harrow’s exhale shuddered, and a chill prickled at the back of his neck.

The whistling had stopped, and the silence near broke him.

He staggered back, eyes crawling up the façade of the townhouse to the gaping third-story window thrown open above. Lace curtains fluttered innocently in the light breeze. He stepped forward. Checked the garden. No footprints. No ladder. No sign of forced entry.

Only a single white feather caught on the gate’s handle, trembling.

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