by Garth Nix
They sat in silence for several seconds, looking at the Totteridge Yew and the booksellers and police bustling about it, with Una shouting orders, and Greene trying to talk to her, and a completely white-haired right-handed bookseller joined them, and there were more ambulances and police cars coming in from everywhere with sirens on, and an RAF helicopter began to circle the column of smoke from the crash site over to the west, and all was bedlam.
“I thought . . . I thought you’d broken the cauldron,” said Merlin. “And . . .”
He choked back a sob and took a breath, holding it for a second before he continued, his voice regaining some of his normal, insouciant tone. “I thought it was a rather extreme way to avoid having a drink with me.”
“I’d simply stand you up,” agreed Susan cheerfully. “Much easier. Particularly since I seem to have broken my collarbone.”
“How did you not . . . die?” said Merlin. “I saw you dive for the cauldron—”
“I couldn’t think of anything else sufficiently distracting,” said Susan. “But I thought there was a chance it wouldn’t break, and it wouldn’t kill me. Two chances, actually. One, because it is rightfully my father’s and he gave me some of his power. He made the cauldron, you know; he isn’t just the Keeper.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how I know that,” said Susan thoughtfully. “But it’s true. Southaw could never have bound Dad if he hadn’t been so far from his own demesne, taking human form so he could be with Mum. I wonder how they met in the first place? She’s never even been to the Lake District as far as I know.”
“What was the second reason?” asked Merlin very slowly. He was finding it hard to concentrate. The pain in his legs was sharper and demanded more attention. It was so nice having Susan next to him. . . .
He started as Susan shook him very gently.
“Sorry, what was that . . . I . . .”
“Passed out,” said Vivien, leaning in. “Stay still, Great-Aunt Evangeline is going to fix up your legs.”
“As much as I can, for now,” said the white-haired right-handed bookseller, clearly Great-Aunt Evangeline. “I’ll see to your collarbone, too, young lady. And I’ll offer you my preliminary thanks as well, for saving us all from continuing down the road to disaster paved by the unlamented Merrihew, more official thanks to be forthcoming in due course.”
“They never liked each other,” whispered Vivien to Susan.
“That is entirely untrue, Vivien,” said Evangeline. She laid her glowing hand on Merlin’s left leg, took a sudden intake of breath, and slowly let it out. Merlin grimaced, then sighed in relief as the magic took effect. “Merrihew and I were quite amicable as children, indeed might even be described as friends until she stole my young man, shortly before Waterloo. Is that better, Merlin?”
“Much, thank you, Great-Aunt,” gasped Merlin. “Susan, what did you say, what was the second reason?”
Evangeline moved her hand to his right leg, muttering, “You still won’t be able to walk for a week or so, but I think this will spare you a plaster cast. Two casts.”
“It was what you said,” said Susan, smiling at him. “You said total immersion in the cauldron would break it and kill whoever went in. So I grabbed the rim as I fell and kept my hand out. That’s how I broke my collarbone.”
“What was it like?” asked Vivien. “I can’t really remember when I put my hands in our grail.”
Susan shrugged, forgetting her broken collarbone, and yowled with the sudden pain.
“Ow! Ow! I can’t really remember, either. I was only in it for a second or two, I pulled myself out as quickly as I could. It was full of light. Glorious light. It felt like . . . it felt like being at home. You know, when you get in after a bad day, and it’s warm and well-lit and safe. . . .”
“Stay still,” instructed Evangeline, moving on to Susan. “I can knit the bone, and take some of the pain away, but you will need a sling for a few days and it will hurt. You’ll need to take some aspirin.”
“Thank you,” said Susan as Evangeline rested her right hand very lightly on her clavicle. “Could you . . . can you also tell if . . . if the cauldron has . . . has done anything to me?”
Evangeline took a breath and held it for several long seconds, the glow from her hand painting Susan’s anxious face silver. When she exhaled, the old bookseller smiled gently.
“You are what you have always been, child of Ancient Sovereign and mortal,” she said. “The cauldron has made you no more, and no less. But you have a rare heritage. I do not think anyone can tell you all the ins and outs of it. Our Grail-Keeper, perhaps, or your father. Though as I think you already know, though they may take human shape, they do not necessarily think or act as we do, and communication with them is rarely easy.”
“I will have to take the cauldron back to Dad,” said Susan. She moved her arm a little. It hurt far less, but it still hurt. “I hope you’ll allow me to do that?”
“We will help you,” said Evangeline. “Your father kept it hidden for close to two thousand years, after all, and short of breaking it—which we would not do save in direst need, for fear of unintended consequences—it is far better in his hands than any others. But for the time being, if you do not object, we shall store it with our other treasures in the New Bookshop. I suspect Grandmother will like to see it again, for one thing. And as your father has retired, I believe, until the end of the year, there is no point returning it any sooner to Coniston. But right now, both of you young people need to be taken to hospital—”
“Actually, Great-Aunt,” interrupted Merlin, talking swiftly and exerting all his charm. “I was wondering if we could put Susan up at the Northumberland because she can’t go back to Greene’s safe house anyway. You know those adjoining suites on the top floor, perhaps I could have one as well, temporarily of course, while I recuperate—”
“Merlin,” interrupted Susan. She looked at him fondly, then over to Inspector Greene and Una, who had come over to scowl down at them both, as if they expected to see them mortally wounded, and together would have to do the paperwork to explain this fact to sundry secular powers. Though there had already been a discussion along the lines of the vicar’s serendipitous comment, that maybe it could all be explained as a big budget film shoot that had gotten out of control.
“Merlin,” repeated Susan. “I’m going to take the advice I was given when I first got here, and go home to my mum.”
Merlin’s face fell, his expression equally disbelieving that his charms had been so comprehensively rebuffed, and shattered because he truly did care for her.
Susan enjoyed this for a very brief moment before she added, “Only for a week or two, until I’ve recovered. And I’d like you to come with me.”
“She got you good, brother,” said Vivien admiringly, as Susan and Merlin kissed.
Epilogue
THE BROOK BURBLED LOUDER AS THE TAXI DROVE UP AND SWUNG around in the graveled parking area in front of the farmhouse. It was a black cab, a London one at that, which was highly unusual here, close to Bath. The crows on the chimney of the barn Jassmine used as a studio eyed the vehicle askance, and several small stones rolled down the hill where the earth shivered, as if it was about to move more weightily.
But the entities of water, air, and earth settled back with a collective sigh of relief as Susan got out of the back of the cab, away from the mass of shielding iron. It was not a sigh that could be heard or seen by ordinary mortals, but Susan felt it, and looked to the brook and the ravens and up the hill, and waved to each in turn, before leaning back in to get Merlin’s crutches out of the car. He edged out gingerly after them, and took the crutches from her, got himself up and balanced, and slowly moved from the graveled car park to the flagstoned path leading to the front door.
Susan was wearing a new blue boiler suit, another one exactly her size being found easily, much to Merlin’s surprise. He had adopted a dashing ensemble he was sure would impress Susan’s mother, a pale blue l
ong-sleeved shirt with ruffled cuffs, a Black Watch kilt, and despite Susan’s frowns he’d cross-gartered dark green ribbons over the bandages that ran from ankle to knee, above carpet slippers, also in tartan. The ubiquitous tie-dyed yak-hair bag was over his shoulder, where it annoyingly swung against his crutches every now and then.
Audrey got out and removed Susan’s backpack and Merlin’s suitcase that had perhaps once been Noël Coward’s out, and four cardboard book boxes. These had handwritten labels in bold marker pen over the publishing house logos: “Sayers-Allingham-Marsh-Christie,” “Vivien’s Recs—None too difficult for Merlin,” “Rare Edns, We Want These Back,” and “Best Novels in English and Translation 1920–1950.” As soon as she had stacked the boxes up, Mister Nimbus jumped up on top and surveyed what might be his new territory, though he did incline his head to the ravens, suggesting he had the wisdom to share.
“Meter says two hundred and sixty pounds,” said Audrey cheerfully. “But I’ll settle for a cuppa char before I go back.”
“You can have several,” promised Susan. “And probably some cake, or at least biscuits. It rather depends on what Mum’s been—”
“Susan!”
Jassmine came flying out the farmhouse door, struggling to take off her painting smock to show the vintage violet silk dress beneath but succeeding only in breaking the necklace she wore, sending beads spraying everywhere. She laughed and let the smock fall, enfolding Susan in a careful embrace that avoided her slung-up arm and shoulder.
“My shoulder’s a lot better,” said Susan, forestalling Jassmine’s question. “Mum, this is Merlin. Merlin, this is Jassmine.”
“Oh, poor Lenny,” said Jassmine, staring at Merlin appreciatively. “Though I did hear he’s already taken up with Kerry O’Neill. She plays clarinet, you know.”
“Does she?” asked Merlin blandly. “I understand clarinet goes very well with the French horn.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” said Jassmine.
“And this is Merlin’s aunt Audrey,” said Susan. “Who was kind enough to drive us here.”
“Delighted to meet you, Jassmine,” said Audrey, without a trace of Cockney at all. She offered her hand, but it was not the bare right that Jassmine looked at, but the gloved left. She hadn’t noticed Merlin’s, because he was gripping his crutches and leaning forward.
“Oh,” she said faintly, stepping back. “You’re one of those booksellers. Like the one . . . the one . . .”
“No, not like Merrihew,” said Susan quickly, taking her mother’s arm. “Merrihew was a . . . a . . .”
“Traitor,” said Merlin bleakly. “And we will do everything we can to try to make amends for what she did.”
“I didn’t remember,” said Jassmine slowly. She had a faraway look in her eyes, but also seemed to Susan to have come more into herself, to be fully present, always a rare occurrence in the past. “I couldn’t remember . . . but a few days ago it started coming back. . . .”
“I found Dad,” said Susan quietly. “He was made to leave you, Mum. It wasn’t his fault.”
Jassmine nodded slowly. She wiped a tear away, and smiled, a smile of fond remembrance.
“I know,” she said. “It would never have lasted anyway.”
“What?” asked Susan.
“Rex and me,” said Jassmine. “We had fun, but we were from different worlds. Him and his mountain and the lake, and me all for the city and the music scene and everything. Back then. To be honest, he was often rather selfish. We never would have stayed together.”
Susan stared at her. This was not how she had imagined her mother taking the news of her father’s discovery and potential reappearance.
“But I got you from it, darling!” said Jassmine brightly. “That was the best thing!”
“I agree,” said Merlin. He pointed to the fallen beads with the ferrule of his right crutch. “Should we pick those up? I say we, but I mean Audrey.”
“Oh no,” said Jassmine. “Leave them for the ravens, they like that sort of thing. Come and have some tea! I’m dying to hear about everything that’s happened. I’ve made the blue room up for you and Merlin, Susan—not yours; I thought you’d prefer the big bed—”
“Good idea,” said Susan gravely, while Merlin pretended to be scandalized.
Acknowledgments
I first visited the United Kingdom (from Australia) in 1983, when I was nineteen. I was very fortunate that my aunt Judy married Gerry Heavey, an Englishman who returned home for a visit at the same time I was there, and he and his parents extended their kind hospitality in London, providing me with a base of operations for my travels over the next six months. I owe many thanks to Gerry, and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Heavey (as I called them; it was a more formal era). It was during this time that I decided I wanted to try to become a writer. In fact I wrote the first short story I ever sold during that trip, on a Silver-Reed typewriter that I had to sell in order to buy a bus ticket to Heathrow, having a return air ticket to Sydney but otherwise having spent every penny.
I walked up the Old Man of Coniston in 1983, and again when I returned the next time, in 1993. I have to thank Arthur Ransome for that, for the Swallows and Amazons books I loved as a child (and still do), which provided an impetus to visit the Lake District that first time, and numerous times since, including my honeymoon in 2000, when my wife, Anna, and I stayed in a hotel on the shores of Lake Windermere and a sudden fog came up and rolled over the lawns, across our balcony, and into our second-floor room. . . .
I have returned to the United Kingdom and to London in particular numerous times since that first visit, these visits often made easier and more pleasant due to the hospitality of my sister-in-law, Belinda McFarlane. Not to mention extremely cultural, since she is a violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra and always gets us tickets for wonderful concerts and performances.
Many of my visitations to the United Kingdom have been working ones, to promote my books, and I have been fortunate to have been so well looked after by publicists, editors, and other staff from my various publishers over the years: HarperCollins, Egmont, Bonnier (Hot Key and Piccadilly Press), and now also Gollancz.
The initial idea for this book actually came when I was on tour for my book Goldenhand. I was signing stock at the Ocean Terminal Waterstones in Leith, and I noticed the bookseller was left-handed, and commented on it. He said all the booksellers in the shop that day were left-handed. Please forgive me that I didn’t note your surname, Stephen the bookseller of Leith, and thank you for the spark that led to this book.
I also am grateful to my friends Inspector Roger Nield MBE (Surrey Police, rtd) and WPC Lucy Nield (Surrey Police, rtd) for answering my questions about British policing. If I’ve gotten something right, it’s thanks to Roger and Lucy; if wrong, it’s all my fault. Or it’s different in this somewhat alternate 1983. . . .
I must thank my agents for their expertise, encouragement, and unfailing business acumen: Jill Grinberg and her team at Jill Grinberg Literary Management in New York; Fiona Inglis and the gang at Curtis Brown Australia; and Matthew Snyder and his associates, who look after film/TV for me at CAA in Los Angeles.
My publishers help me in many different ways to do my job and make beautiful books; they also market and sell them superbly, and I am honored to be on their lists: Katherine Tegen and the HarperCollins crew in the USA; Eva Mills and everyone at Allen & Unwin in Australia; and Gillian Redfearn and the team at Gollancz in the United Kingdom. I have also been very lucky to work with fantastic audiobook publishers, at Listening Library/Random House, Bolinda, and Brilliance. I am also very grateful to the translators and publishers who make my books work in other languages and countries.
Booksellers have been absolutely essential in helping my books reach readers. I am grateful to all booksellers, not only for supporting my own books but for everything you do to connect people and reading. I would particularly like to thank Margaret and Teki Dalton and the Dalton family, and everyone I worked with at Dalt
on’s Bookshop in Canberra, way back in 1987 when the height of bookshop technology was calling the Penguin warehouse every evening to recite a list of ISBNs for restocking.
I should also mention that the modern-era Foyles bookshops have all the good aspects of the fabled older store at 121 Charing Cross Road, but not what might perhaps be called the negative eccentricities. The St. Jacques booksellers are also biased, of course.
Similarly, the actual ancient yew, village, and church of Totteridge, and whoever was vicar in 1983, are not the same as in this book, which depicts an alternate, imagined 1983 and not the real places or persons.
I am eternally grateful to my wife, Anna McFarlane, who not only manages a very busy career as a publisher, but also our family; and to our sons, Thomas and Edward, who are very understanding of their father’s foibles and limitations, so often related to at least half my mind being absent in a book.
About the Author
PHOTO CREDIT WENDY MCDOUGALL
GARTH NIX is the New York Times bestselling author of the Old Kingdom series, beginning with Sabriel, and many other fantasy novels for teens and children, including the Seventh Tower series and the Keys to the Kingdom series. More than six million copies of his books have been sold worldwide and his work has been translated into forty-two languages. You can find him online at www.garthnix.com.
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Books by Garth Nix
THE OLD KINGDOM SERIES
Sabriel
Lirael
Abhorsen
Clariel
Goldenhand
The Old Kingdom Collection
To Hold the Bridge
