Chapter Text
The itch behind old bricks wanders through the walls, along empty corridors from the sealed door in the basement all the way up to the roof and back. It moves from the comfortable kitchen to the peaceful library, from the grand atrium to hidden servant quarters to unneeded practice rooms.
It is a little pain, an unceasing little restlessness, a remnant of something that used to be so much bigger, so much more alive.
It is barely a flicker.
And yet....
When Peter Grant enters the building for the first time, the secret itch takes on a different quality. Had there been a consciousness it would have felt.... curiosity....relief....hope?
But there isn't one. Nondum....not yet.
The itch follows Peter through the building. It is with him when he meets Molly. It is with him when he makes his first werelight.
If anyone had been there, besides Peter, they might have felt the quiet pride of a teacher, or the excitement of a student, or the childlike delight of magic. They might have winced in sympathy as Peter shoves his hand into the water with a painful grimace.
But there was no one there. Not yet.
When Nightingale gets shot in the back the restless little pain flares up to an all-encompassing big pain.
If there'd been a person to scream, the walls would have shook from outrage. How dare he. How DARE HE...! But there wasn't of course.
The echoes of the Covent Garden Riots ripple throughout all of London, like a stone, nay, a boulder, dropped into a river. Magic is back, really back, back on the playing field once and for all. The house groans and creaks like all houses do. Molly is the only one left to worry.
Gradually. Very very slowly. Day for week, month for year. The little flicker grows in size. With every new person officially or unofficially joining the ranks of the new Folly, with every new ally and every new person introduced to magic something grows and grows and grows behind the walls.
Magic is real, whisper the cumulative voices of wizards from a bygone age.
"Magic is real." Says Peter, showing the new recruits of his vestigia training course a werelight.
And the last puzzle piece slides into place.
A couple of days later Abigail Kamara let's herself into the Folly and heads for the General Library. (She has to consult the dead white wizards on an urgent matter involving about 26 foxes and a haunted food truck) She is halfway across the atrium when it hits her. She looks up at the statue of Isaac Newton that she's passed so many times she doesn't even usually consciously look at it anymore.
A small figure cheekily waves back from atop the statues shoulders.
Abigail stops dead in her tracks.
The child looks a little like Peter, a little like Nightingale....and a whole lot like Molly when she breaks into a sharp-toothed grin and waves down to Abigail from her perch atop Isaac Newtons shoulders. Everything about her, even beyond her appearance, is entirely familiar. Abigail finds her jaw slack on the floor.
"Hi Abigail!"says the little figure. She giggles. "Didn't expect that, did you?"
"No." Abigail admits. She gets out her phone and dials Peter.
When she's finished the short call she fixes the kid with her best big-sisterly glare. "You come down from there right now."
"Grandpa Isaac can handle it."
"I doubt it." Abigail crosses her arms. "He's a way old man."
The kid considers this for a moment, then shrugs.
"Besides, if you come down from there in the next minute I could introduce you to the wonderful world of candy later?"
The girls eyes grow wide. "Ok!" She swings one leg over Newtons head and lets herself fall down to the ground.
She smiles another crocodilan smile.
Abigail smiles too.
"How about we go to the kitchen? Molly will definitely have something to eat."
"Hurray!" The kid throws her arms up in the air and then runs ahead.
Abigail stares into space for a few seconds. Then she follows.
It takes Nightingale 10 minutes to arrive, Peter 23. Once they are both there Abigail leads them to the kitchen. She pauses in front of the door.
She turns, one hand on the handle and gives them both a look.
"Right. So. I want you both to stay calm, right? There's no danger so just relax. There's just someone you've both got to meet."
"Ok...?" Says Peter. Nightingale nods.
Abigail opens the door.
Molly briefly looks up from her pots and pans. Then she tilts her head downward, indicating the little figure sitting on the kitchen floor next to her.
"Hi!" says the sticky-handed little girl and waves. Theres stains around her mouth. Clearly she's just sampled the cooking.
Peter crouches down before her and asks her for her name. "Tssk tssk tssk Peter." says the little girl with the kind of tone kids are prone to use when faced with dimwitted adults. "You've known my name for years."
And then looking past Peter to Nightingale who's still in the kitchen doorway: "Thomas. Thank you for listening to me so many years ago."
Nightingale is as outwardly stoic as ever. But a shadow of.... something....passes over his face.
Peter's brow is furrowed. And then his jaw drops, much like Abigails had half an hour before.
"You're...."
The girl nods. "Yup! That's me"
"Well fuck me." says Peter, before he can stop himself. "Our house has come to life."
Folly laughs, and in her laugh there is the chatter of a crowd, the telltale tingle of a forma building, and the calls of birds.
"Well." says Nightingale, stoically as always. "Before we do anything else, you should clean those hands young Miss Folly."
"Yes sir, Thomas, sir" Folly gives a mock salute. Then she runs off to the other side of the kitchen, to wash her hands in the sink.
As soon as she isn't looking anymore Nightingale exhales deeply. Almost like he's been holding his breath. He braces himself against the doorframe.
"I'll say...." He mumbles almost to himself. "What an unexpected development"
"Have you met her before?" Asks Peter quietly.
"She certainly seems to think so." Nightingale replies equally quiet. "But I can't seem to remember."
Peter thinks of Lady Cecilia Tyburn McAllister Thames and Sir William Tyburn, one a cutthroat businesswoman, the other a long gone warrior.
These people. There is a repetition to them. A cycle. Maybe.....
He dismisses the thought for now, sets it aside to contemplate later when there is time, and gives Nightingale a grin he hopes is reassuring.
"We'll figure it out somehow."
Nightingale looks up and gives him a look that says "I know what you're trying to do."
"Well we have to." Peter says. "We have to."