The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers

by Frances Jones

  Ahead of us, the path plunged through the trees, dark and shadowy for the most part but lit with stabs of sunlight where the last rays of the day had managed to escape through the tree cover a little further ahead.

  ‘Will we use Devere’s folly to get back to England?’ I asked George as we walked. He had been extremely interested to hear about Devere’s secret escape route when Eliza, Tabatha and I had told him the tale of our journey to the tourney glade.

  ‘Yes, I think we will make use of it to shorten our journey home,’ he replied. ‘I am anxious to get back and start the journey to Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford? What are you going there for?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘To see to the safe removal of the monsters Professor Goldwick collected for one thing,’ George replied. ‘It wouldn’t do to leave them floating around in his study for anyone to find.’

  I had quite forgotten about the glowing orbs, the worlds that the monsters Professor Goldwick encountered had been trapped inside. So much had happened since Eliza and I had seen them in his study that it felt like years ago.

  ‘But more pressing to my mind,’ George continued, ‘are the souls of Claribel’s victims still trapped in Professor Goldwick’s house. They must be released if they are ever to find peace. I will leave for Oxford as soon as we get back to the Gatehouse.’

  We saw no sign of goblins, the Wild Hunt or rampaging cyclones as we travelled back through Paimpont the next day, much to my relief, though I regretted that neither did we see the mysterious Sylphen or the Wolf Tribe again. When we finally reached the end of the forest path and stepped out into proper, unimpeded daylight, we were met by a small stable of horses along with a man from a nearby village, with whom George had a prior arrangement to get us back to St. Malo.

  We kept to the roads for the entire journey, only leaving them to give a wide berth to the town where Emerson, Tabatha, Jack, Eliza and I had been brought before the judge. A day later we had reached the folly and passed back into England.

  The Devere mansion stood silent and brooding, just as we had left it, the jackdaws flitting in and out of holes in the crumbling stonework. None of us had any desire to linger there, and we took no time in making our way to Erith, from where George paid our way onto a ship sailing to London. There, the now familiar stench and noise of the city hit me before I had even stepped off the gangplank and lingered until we passed into the quieter streets surrounding the Gatehouse.

  Before we had even set foot inside, Tabatha had disappeared into the stables and returned a few minutes later with Colonel, caressing his muzzle and whispering softly to him.

  ‘I must leave now; I have been away from the catacombs too long,’ she said

  ‘When will we see you again?’ I asked, unable to disguise my disappointment. I had hoped Tabatha would stay with us for at least a few more days.

  ‘Won’t you stay a little while?’ said Eliza.

  Tabatha shook her head. ‘You will be seeing me soon, I’m quite sure. But now home is calling. Goodbye, Tom. Goodbye, Eliza.’

  She turned to George and embraced him. As she pulled away, she hesitated a moment as though poised to say something but jumped into Colonel’s saddle instead, then, with a wave of her hand, she galloped off down the lane and was gone.

  ‘I do hope she will be alright,’ said Eliza staring after the retreating figure on horseback.

  ‘Tabatha is a survivor,’ said George. ‘She wouldn’t stay even if the whole Guild begged her to. She has all she needs in the catacombs and Colonel and Bandit. Emerson’s death has cut her deep, but ‘tis best she is left to grieve in her own way. Come, you needn’t worry. As she said herself, I’ve no doubt we will be seeing her again before too long.’

  Chapter 38

  Before dawn the next morning George, Eliza and I were packing into the back of the carriage a padlocked wooden trunk, in which to store the floating orbs from Professor Goldwick’s study, and a net woven by Mr Ellery with which to capture them.

  ‘That net has been used to capture everything from recklessly cast spells to errant will o’ the wisps, but I must say, catching a world in it will be a first!’ said Mr Ellery cheerfully as he stood on the doorstep to wave us off.

  Eliza sat in the back of the carriage with the trunk while I climbed into the basket beside George. He flicked the reins, and we set off down the lane, waving to Mr Ellery until he and the Gatehouse disappeared as we turned the corner into the adjoining street.

  ‘What will you do with the orbs when we have removed them from Professor Goldwick’s house?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll see to it that they get to Chateau Blanche,’ said George. ‘They will be safe there. Albinus will take care of them.’

  The sun had only just peeped over the horizon as we left the city behind and once more struck out onto the high road. George hoped to reach Oxford by nightfall the next day, though he warned us that our journey would be slower on account of the carriage, which forced us to abandon the more direct but less accessible paths Eliza and I had used. Nonetheless, we reached Marlow only a little after dusk and stopped the night there again, leaving once more as the sun was rising.

  The air was thick with willow down floating on the breeze, and the evening sun came slanting across the meadows as we rode through the city gates. The warmest day of the year so far looked set to be followed by a glorious sun set.

  We made our way towards the house at the end of Trinity Lane, which stood in the shadow of the surrounding trees, the sun winking through their nodding branches. George stopped the carriage and glanced up and down the lane to check for prying eyes, but it was deserted. Eliza climbed out, and together we hoisted the trunk out of the carriage and up the garden path. George drew a sprig of the Agriculturian’s moonwort from his pocket, set it to the lock, and the door to Professor Goldwick’s house opened with a creak. To my relief, there was no sign of the cook, nor that anyone had been there since Professor Goldwick’s and Claribel’s absence.

  ‘It’s this way,’ I said, leading George and Eliza up the staircase to Professor Goldwick’s study.

  That door was also locked. Once more, George drew the moonwort, and the door swung open, revealing the orbs spinning and shimmering in the fading light. As with the Bookish Magician and the Watchmaker, there was no sign of the awful fate Professor Goldwick had met. I imagined him remonstrating with Claribel about what she had done, his daughter and protégé, responsible for the murder of five magicians. I imagined Claribel opening the music box. Perhaps there was a struggle but she overcame him, her own father reduced to nothing more than her puppet.

  ‘Open the trunk,’ said George, rousing me from my thoughts. ‘And stand back.’

  Taking Mr Ellery’s net, he lowered it carefully over the nearest orb and drew it towards the trunk, depositing it inside at once. Its gentle spinning was mesmerising to watch. One by one, George captured the other orbs and stowed them safely away. Soon, the room was empty and dark but for the soft glow spilling out through the keyhole of the locked trunk.

  ‘Now, for the souls of the victims,’ said George.

  ‘What will we do with them?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘We will free them in the meadow,’ George replied. ‘Tom, lead the way.’

  George and Eliza followed me out of the study and up the staircase to the very top of the house where a locked door stood at the end of a short corridor.

  ‘This must be the room,’ I said.

  Again, the door opened at the touch of the moonwort, revealing an empty room with a single dirty window looking down onto Trinity Lane. It was locked, and six milk-white butterflies fluttered around the grimy panes of glass, scrambling at the last flush of daylight. With the utmost care, George gathered them into the net and knotted it firmly at the top to prevent their escape.

  ‘Eliza, take this,’ he said, handing her the net. ‘Tom and I will take the trunk.’

  We returned to Professor Goldwick’s study and carried the trunk back down the stairs. George peeped round th
e front door to be sure we would not be seen leaving, then we returned the trunk to the back of the carriage and made our way to the edge of the meadow.

  The sun had now set, and the pale strip of lilac sky on the western horizon was all that remained of the day. The butterflies in Mr Ellery’s net glowed like fireflies in the dusk. George took the net from Eliza and opened it. At once, the butterflies rose into the air, fluttering in a spiralling motion up and up until they disappeared into the darkening sky. I watched the spot where they vanished until it was too dark to see any more.

  ‘It is done,’ said George quietly. ‘The souls of the dead may find peace at last.’

  Chapter 39

  It was evening once more when we arrived back at the Gatehouse. George set about making preparations to transport the orbs to France at once while Eliza and I ate our supper in the kitchen in near silence, tired and aching from the journey.

  ‘Goodnight, Tom,’ said Eliza wearily, pushing away her empty plate. ‘If I don’t go to bed now, I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep where I sit.’

  ‘Night, Eliza,’ I yawned as she shuffled out of the kitchen to bed. I wouldn’t be far behind her, but now that I was alone for the first time since we had returned from the tournament, there was something I wanted to do.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. After the failure of Zimmer’s Pendulum, George and Bridget had tried several different memory charms on me during the journey back from France in an attempt to recover my memories of my family. Even the Agriculturian had prepared a tincture he thought might help, but nothing I tried had enabled me to recall a single one of my family’s faces. I hadn’t dared to try again since then, too afraid that the same vague, misty veil would cloud them and I must acknowledge the painful truth that I would never be able to remember them again.

  I concentrated hard on thinking of my mother, father and Lizzie. I screwed my eyes up, focusing every scrap of energy on remembering as I tried to force my brain to recover my memories, but it was no use. Just as before, I seemed to be seeing my family through an obscuring fog which my eyes could not penetrate.

  Angry and frustrated, I pushed back my chair and sloped off to the dormitory where I threw myself onto my bed, not bothering to undress. I shut my eyes and was asleep within minutes, but even in sleep there was no reaching the memories I had sold for Eliza’s freedom. The family in my dreams were faceless strangers, and I was a thief trying to find a way into an unassailable fortress in which the prize I sought was guarded ceaselessly.

  When I woke again, the patch of sky visible through the little grille below the ceiling was just starting to lighten. I climbed out of bed and plunged my face into the bowl of water on the wash stand. As I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of me, I paused. The shadow across my face may have gone, but the scar in my memory, my murdered family whose faces I could no longer recall, was as sharp as ever. Frustrated, I pulled the mirror off the wall and laid it face-down on the wash stand then made my way up to the alchemy laboratory.

  Eliza found me there some time later, immersed in a particularly tricky transmutation which had at least succeeded in distracting me from my thoughts, even if I hadn’t quite grasped the complex process yet.

  ‘This just arrived for you,’ she said, handing me a tiny package, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, wrapped in paper and tied with string. There was no label or indication of who might have sent it anywhere to be seen.

  ‘Are you sure it’s for me?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, the messenger said it was for Tom Wild. I asked who sent it, but he didn’t know.’

  ‘Who would have sent me a parcel?’ I said, bemused.

  ‘Maybe if you open it you’ll find out,’ she replied impatiently.

  I untied the string and peeled back the paper to reveal a split walnut shell, polished to a high shine, with a tiny hinge so that it opened like a box. I lifted the lid. The shell was empty apart from a tiny slip of paper, folded many times.

  ‘What does it say?’ Eliza asked eagerly.

  ‘Dear Tom, I retrieved this from the fair folk. Expecting you will be missing it. Please pass on my regards to Peggy,’ I read aloud.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ said Eliza, confused.

  ‘Nor have I.’

  ‘Is there anything else inside? Does it say who sent it?’

  ‘No to both,’ I replied shortly. I was re-reading the note, wondering if it was a joke or perhaps a mistake. Please pass on my regards to Peggy. For a few minutes I racked my brains for an explanation, then I laughed suddenly and turned to Eliza in excitement.

  ‘My memory!’ I cried. ‘He’s returned my memory!’

  ‘Who has? What are you talking about?’ she said, her brows knotted in puzzlement.

  ‘Cranus, the pedlar we met in Paimpont! I can remember them again! I can see their faces!’

  ‘What? Your family?’ said Eliza uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, all of them. It must be Cranus. Look, he says to pass his regards on to Peggy! Remember you told him about me having to give the fairies my memory in payment for them freeing you? It’s him!’

  I ran out of the laboratory and tore down the stairs, across the hall and into the dormitory.

  ‘Tom? What are you doing?’ Eliza called from behind.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I said breathlessly as I picked up the telescope on the nightstand and pressed my eye to it.

  I thought of my father in the fishing boat beside me and saw his face as clearly as I had in life. I thought of my mother hanging washing out in the garden and Lizzie playing with Peggy on the rug before the hearth. The mist which had shrouded their faces was gone, my memories restored, but as I moved the telescope from my eye, I hesitated, drawn back by a new image that had appeared unbidden.

  I saw the Forest of Paimpont, bathed in its eerie green twilight, and the light swish of a silver tail. I looked closer, mesmerised by this sudden and uninvited vision, and saw the translucent body to which the tail was attached, the trees almost visible through it. One Sylphen and then another appeared. The herd was moving slowly, the young taking two strides to every one of the adults in order to keep up as they made their slow, plodding way past a familiar-looking hollow tree.

  As I realised with horror that it was the one George had burnt Devere’s skull and amulet inside, a sinister, mirthless laugh rung in my ears. The Sylphen, evidently startled by the same noise, took flight. There was nothing to be seen now but the empty bough and slight sway of the branches in the forest twilight.

  I trembled, hardly daring to move my eye from the telescope. I knew that laugh, I knew from whose mouth it came. Had Edward’s telescope showed me the Sylphen fleeing Devere’s spirit at some point in the past? I had a horrible feeling that wasn’t so. What I saw was the present, I felt sure of it. A shiver of dread prickled down my spine as the laughter echoed in my mind.

  ‘Tom, what is it?’ said Eliza.

  I pulled the telescope away from my eye and stared at her. For those few moments I had forgotten she was there, or that I stood in the dormitory with a strip of sunlight beaming through the grille onto the wall beside me, and that the day was bright and I was far from Paimpont.

  ‘I heard him,’ I said in a low voice. ‘In the forest.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Devere. He has returned.’

  Eliza looked at me, incredulous. ‘What do you mean? We burnt the skull and amulet. There is nothing left for him to possess,’ she replied, though there was a tone of uncertainty to her voice which didn’t match the conviction of her words.

  ‘I saw the tree George burnt them inside. I wasn’t thinking of it, I was thinking of my family; I wanted to see their faces, but the tree just appeared in the telescope. It wasn’t in the past; I saw it as it is now, in the present. And then I heard Devere’s laugh! The Sylphen did too, and they fled. He’s prowling the forest, Eliza, and he won’t rest until he has had his revenge. I know it. I can feel it.’

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sp; Eliza’s eyes met mine, wide and frightened. ‘But he’s dead,’ she whispered.

  ‘His spirit isn’t. It possessed Claribel. It possessed me too. He drove me to…’ I turned away and set the telescope back in its place on the night stand, unable to vocalise what I had done to Jack Fletcher.

  ‘Do you think he will come back here?’ Eliza whispered as though the very walls were listening.

  I realised my hand was balled into a fist as I clenched it tighter in suppressed rage. A surge of defiance rose up inside me, and in that moment I didn’t feel afraid of Devere, only hatred and a longing to finally destroy him.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘He will come back here, I’m sure. But on my life, when he does I’ll be waiting for him.’

  Thank you for reading The Puppeteer. If you have enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review. Want to learn more? Visit www.francesjonesauthor.com.