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Even as Indarin shouted, the others rolled out of slumber, weapons at the ready. But hed never see Jeren again, never hold her, never press his lips to hers. In the background, sitting on a bench a little way down the platform, a girl with long dark hair turns in his direction, features blurred, with the shot focussing on the foreground. Jeren stood very still, wondering for a moment—just a moment—if somehow it was all over. Im only 12, points out Violet, as she gives in to a smile. She likes Eve immensely now. Yes, Mr. Dade. I guess you called that news crew outside? Don grinned. Youre going to look pretty stupid. He held up a report. “And you might want to talk to the lab again before you do that conference. I asked them yesterday to send a forensic entomology expert to the site to judge how long those bones had been there. According to preliminary tests, less than a month.” He reached out for her hands and Jeren leaned towards him, tangling her fingers with his. Energy, pure and unadulterated magic, flooded into her, pouring through her veins and muscles, making her heart race and her chest ache. At the same time she drank it down, feeling it fill her, illuminate her. Her magic spun itself around it, controlling it. Ah yes, now she understood. Now she could control it. After so long, so many people telling her she couldnt do it that she believed them. But here she was, revelling in raw power. His voice gentled.You should rest. The Snow Child almost claimed you. A bitter laugh shook its way out of him. “She almost had us both. Its only thanks to Anala and the owl that were alive at all. Shan dragged in a breath, the air like razors in his lungs. At the back of his mind, he could feel the growing horror.She was coming A couple sat at the bar chatting with the landlord: a squat man with permanent bedhead. Guess if you owned the pub you could look how you pleased. At the tables beyond sat a couple of groups engaged in passionate discussion. One guy stood, gesturing wildly to illustrate his point, much to the amusement of his inebriated company. A small cluster occupied the quiz machine as always, glory hunters always looking for the big score. The jukebox was taken by a tall girl who seemed to be flicking back and forth through the mechanical pages of track listings. Shed decide on the same old: Killing in the Name of, “Girl from Mars, or “All Apologies”, the pub signatures songs. All so familiar and welcoming. Even Lily sat in their usual booth, a half-drank bottle of Metz on the table in front of her, hand stroking Mikes cheek as they kissed. Among the names on Derricks list was one Cormac Pearl. He went missing in June 1985, disappearing from the family home near Blackpool, aged 19. The mugshot shows a good-looking, dark-eyed lad; young for his age, with longish curly hair and slender, strangely feminine features. Hes smiling for the camera: an incongruous thumbs-up obscuring a portion of his lower face. Hes bare-chested, but the image is black and white so it’s impossible to say if it was an intimate snap, or simply a candid moment on a sunny day. Beside it is a graphic projection of what Cormac might look like now. Digital software has been employed to age his fine features. Hairless, a little jowelly, the fifty-something version of Cormac Pearl looks thoroughly unremarkable and any hopes Rowan held that he might recognize him were quickly dismissed as fanciful. Despite that, he is getting better acquainted with the young man’s disappearance, cross-referencing the name against the National Crime Agency’s missing persons archive: a grisly database full of digitally reconstructed faces of corpses as yet unidentified. He knows that Cormac was the only son of Deaglan and Siobhan Pearl, but can find little other information online about the family. He’s managed to track down an In Memoriam announcement in the Blackpool Gazette, dated 1992. Siobhan died at a private nursing facility after a short illness. She was 44. The family asked that donations be made to a charity set up in memory of their son. The accompanying memento mori was in Gaelic but translated as: No matter how long the day, the evening comes. He glances at the screen again and begins to think about the Irish families he has had dealings with – great sprawling clans of half-cousins and step-nephews spread out across the globe, united by the faintest bonds of blood. He widens the internet search and changes the language settings. Quickly finds mention of Siobhan Pearl and her untimely death: the accompanying classified notice incomprehensible to his English eyes. He runs it through a translation service and the jumble of consonants turn into names he can search for. Sisters, brothers, nieces. He sits forward, all other thoughts forgotten. Types a half dozen keywords into a generic search engine and finds himself grinning as he spots what he’s looking for. He often hopes to proven wrong in his cynicism about the nature of people but it hasn’t happened yet. People need to share. They need to have their stories told. The internet has been a true leveler: an equalizing platform granting the illusion of an audience to those who may otherwise have had to stand at bus-stops shouting their stories into the air. The family history website administered by one Tegan Pearl, based in Boston, USA, is ab abominable collusionof lurid yellows and pinks and seems designed entirely to give the user a migraine. Rowan has to squint to navigate his way through the mess of anecdotes, family trees and links to other, paid-for sites, with links to the family surname. He searches under the name Cormac’. It comes up with twohits. One is under the heading:A Prayer for Cormac. She managed to look indignant, even through the agony. Care to share where you were going? Gabriel sipped the coffee..