by Violet Grace
Gladys clicks her tongue. ‘Fake news. It astounds me, the rubbish humans believe.’
Tom and I exchange a glance. It’s clear Gladys has no clue about our history. And Tom doesn’t seem to be in any rush to tell her.
The news bulletin cuts to an interview with a nurse outside the hospital fretting about how she shouldn’t have to work alongside killers. The reporter interjects with the word ‘alleged’ before Tom turns off the television and slams the remote onto the bench. It shatters and the batteries fly across the room from the force.
The oxygen drains from the room as I stare at Tom. He’s as still and cold as stone but his fists are clenched. He’s seething with rage. Whatever connection we had re-established before Gladys arrived has gone. Yesterday he was free to move between the realms. Today he’s an outlaw. And it’s all because he thought I asked him to murder someone for me. For a horrifying moment, I wonder if perhaps I did.
‘There must be something we can do,’ I say, my voice thin. ‘Surely we can explain …’ I have no idea how to finish the sentence. Explain what? I think to myself. Knowing what I know now, explaining things would be about the worst thing we could do.
And who would we explain it to? The police would think we were crazy if we started talking about magic, hallucinogenic potions. And the Agency isn’t about to let up until I give them some key which I’m still clueless about.
I rub my hands through my greasy hair, trying to think through this methodically, like breaking a system. But I don’t have all the parameters and variables. And the ones I do know don’t make any sense. I still have no idea what I’ve stumbled into here. Or what I’m supposed to do and be.
‘Perhaps I could talk to Marshall,’ I start again, clinging to the world I know. ‘He has contacts.’
‘Not the kind of contacts we want,’ says Gladys quietly. Her response is predictable. Gladys has never approved of Marshall. She wasn’t thrilled when she found out I was getting the drugs to help her from Marshall’s company. Her only comment was that it was poetic justice, because ‘his lot’ were thieves anyway. Then, when he was the only thing standing between me and prison, she called him a do-gooder trying to make amends for past crimes.
But after what the tour guide said at the V&A, I begin to see Gladys’s prejudice against Marshall in a new light.
‘You’re not seriously holding a grudge against Marshall because of the old legend about stealing the Luck of Edenhall, are you?’
‘It is not a legend. It is history. Your history.’
‘Whatever,’ I say, dropping it. ‘It’s not like we can afford to be choosy about our friends right now.’
‘Better to be friendless than to choose friends who should not be,’ she mutters.
‘You’re being completely unreason—’
‘Dear, you can never go back,’ Gladys interrupts.
Hesitantly, I look at Tom. He stands, jaw clenched in a frosty rage, and says nothing. He’s so angry he won’t even look at me, the perfect picture of someone who wishes he’d never met me. He must blame me for ruining his life. And in a way, he’s right.
I have the first moment of clarity since all this craziness began. What Gladys said is true: there’s no life for me here anymore. Hiding and hoping that things will resolve themselves has never worked for me. I’d be stupid to think it would this time.
And unless I find the key for the Agency there’ll be no life for Tom either. As Princess Francesca, I will have a shot at appeasing the Agency and clearing Tom’s name. As Chess, it would be impossible.
I turn to Gladys. ‘Okay. So if I accept all of this, what now?’
‘You have a war to stop,’ she says with a confidence that sounds completely delusional.
Tom raises his hand, signalling for us to be quiet. He cocks his head to one side, listening. I swear his ears prick up ever so slightly.
I can’t hear a thing. I don’t think Gladys can either, but the tensing of her posture tells me that she believes that Tom can.
And whatever it is, it’s not good.
chapter 13
Then I hear it: sirens, in the distance, joined now by the rumble of what sounds like low-flying helicopters.
‘Come, dear, this way.’ Gladys is all business, acting as though Tom isn’t here. She’s taken control of the situation.
Tom grabs his keys, readying to leave, when the house is rocked by vibrations. Worst-case scenarios rush through my mind, like being trapped in another cage or being separated from Tom and losing him all over again. I take the bug from the interrogation room out of my pocket and, without him noticing, slip it into Tom’s. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the bug when I lifted it, but this seems like a good use for it. If we get separated again, I should be able to find him by triangulating the bug’s signal. And then we can work out a hack for that stupid spell.
Gladys is halfway up the stairs. I go to follow, when the front door smashes in, battered clean off its hinges, large splinters flying. Men in black commando gear storm in, stomping over the fallen door. At the rear, I spy Agent Eight.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says, drawing a gun level with my chest.
Gladys turns around on the stairs and Tom takes a step towards me.
‘You won’t kill me,’ I say with stupid confidence. ‘If you do you’ll never get your hands on your precious key.’
Agent Eight’s face breaks into a sinister smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen her teeth. She’s a smoker, I’d bet.
She lowers her gun and for a split second I think I’ve called her bluff. A moment later, there’s a blast and I’m sprawling on the floor. I’m cold and numb all over, except for my leg, which is burning. I look down and see blood – my blood, pooling on the floor.
Tom is by my side. He rips his t-shirt off and ties it around my leg as a tourniquet, his athletic arms and shoulders working with effortless efficiency to stop the gushing blood. He’s not looking at me. I can’t tell if he’s still furious with me for ruining his life or if he’s just in doctor mode.
‘Unprovoked violence is a violation of the Treaty,’ Gladys says, outraged.
Agent Eight shrugs. ‘After what she did at our facility, nobody will dispute that it was self-defence.’
She orders her guards to cuff us.
Tom lunges at the guards as they approach. He doesn’t stand a chance. Three meatheads pin him to the ground while Agent Eight kicks him in the ribs.
I try to get to Tom but my leg is burning and throbbing, and my body is unwilling or unable to do what my mind tells it.
With surprising agility for someone who looks just shy of 100, Gladys bounds down the stairs, clamps a hand around my arm and lifts me into a standing position.
I make another attempt to move to Tom, but Gladys has other plans. Waving her hairpin like an orchestra conductor, she traces out the shape of a square in the air, then grabs the back of my dress and shoves me headfirst into the wall.
I close my eyes and put my hands up protectively, bracing for impact. But I fall forward and keep falling, well past the point where I should have hit the plaster.
I open my eyes. The wall has opened into a tunnel. Gladys is behind me, propping me up and pushing me forwards. Looking back, I make out the room we just left, receding from view as a slow-moving, thick mist envelops us. Before the room fades from sight entirely, I see Agent Eight running her hands along the wall, trying to follow us. But whatever door or portal Gladys opened is closed. Behind Agent Eight, Tom is being shackled by the guards.
‘Tom!’ I scream, before slamming face-first into … grass?
Dewy grass.
I twist around. My leg is killing me and I cry out again as I thrash about, clenching my jaw so much that it hurts, and clinging to my wound. My hand is slick with warm, sticky blood. I bite down on my lip.
Gladys lands gracefully on her feet beside me. She kneels at my side, inspecting my leg. Her twinset is drenched with blood. But it’s not all from me.
<
br /> ‘Your nose is bleeding.’
‘Yes,’ she says simply. She holds me tightly in her arms. ‘Don’t worry, dear, help is on its way.’
I feel lightheaded. ‘Tom – we’ve got to go back and help Tom!’ I try to sit up, sending another bolt of pain through my leg and body.
‘Later, dear. You’re in no condition. We have other priorities now.’ And then she adds, ‘He’s more than capable of looking after himself.’
I want to insist, but nausea washes over me and I know I would be no help to Tom like this.
‘Send someone else. Do something!’ I say helplessly.
‘Help’s coming,’ Gladys repeats as she tightens her grip around me.
We’re in some kind of clearing but I feel too faint to look around. Through a haze of pain, I hear the distant rumble of an engine. A motorbike. And then I see it, racing towards us, grass and mud flying off the wheels.
For a moment, I forget the pain at the sight of a rider in leathers and a passenger seated behind in what looks to be a ball gown the colour of buttercups. A long skirt billows out behind them.
The bike screeches to a halt, sending grass and moss into the air. The one in the leather suit leaps from the seat of her bike and removes her helmet. It’s the same woman as at the V&A.
Jules.
The one in the dress removes her helmet, revealing a mop of blonde curls and a heart-shaped face. She looks a few years older than me and I wonder vaguely how she feels about the mud splattered all up her dress.
‘Bullet,’ Gladys says.
The blonde strides over to me and yanks off her necklace, detaching what looks to be a tiny wooden treasure chest charm from the chain. She places the chest on the grass beside me and reaches into her boot, retrieving a metal wand, inlaid with grooves and swirls.
She touches the charm with the wand, releasing delicate, shimmering dust. Immediately the lid of the charm unfolds and then folds back again, and again, expanding in size each time. It quadruples in size and then quadruples again until it has the dimensions of a small chest. If I wasn’t already moaning from pain I would yelp from the surprise of it.
The wooden lid of the chest creaks as the blonde pries it open. More iridescent dust appears on the inside of the chest as wooden dividers materialise and then slide into a chessboard pattern. Tiny glass vials of multi-coloured liquid and powders sprout like mushrooms after summer rain.
White-hot pain runs down my leg. I shiver; the rest of my body suddenly cold. From what I can make out, we’re in a park. Nowhere near a doctor, I imagine.
‘Hospital?’ I croak at Gladys.
Jules and the other woman exchange quizzical glances.
Gladys squeezes my hand. ‘It’s okay, dear. Abby is a master apothecary.’
Jules unwraps Tom’s bloodied t-shirt to reveal my wound. What’s happened to Tom? I wonder. What has Agent Eight done to him? I need to fix the mess I’ve created for us.
For him.
The blonde, who must be Abby the apothecary, stares at Tom’s t-shirt, seemingly more interested in the Celtic symbol on it than in my bullet wound. She looks at me, then at the t-shirt again, and then back to me with an expression so lethal that I momentarily forget that I’m in pain.
‘Your first duty is to the Apothecary Guild,’ Gladys says in a tone that instantly puts an end to whatever Abby was thinking.
Abby mutters something under her breath before returning her attention to her chest of vials.
‘You better not bleed on my dress, Princess,’ Abby says as she retrieves a pewter dish from the chest. She measures out three pinches of a green power, a splash of black liquid, two drops of a red serum and what looks like an ordinary leaf from an oak tree into the dish and stirs it all together with her wand. After sniffing the concoction like a pretentious wine connoisseur, she tosses the dish into the air. But instead of falling back onto the moss, it hovers, suspended above the ground. Abby points her wand at the dish. Golden light streams out, illuminating it. Wisps of smoke rise from the mixture, accompanied by a sweet, pungent aroma. The dish gently lowers from the air onto the moss, seemingly all on its own. Abby collects the contents in a vintage amber eye-dropper.
‘This’ll save your leg,’ she says to me, ‘but it’s going to sting so much you’ll wish I let you bleed out and die.’
I barely have time to take in her words when she releases one drop of the potion onto my wound.
I scream, my yelps of pain echoing around the clearing. It’s as if a thousand fire ants all stung me at once. I instinctively curl to the side in preparation to get up and run away, but Gladys forces me back, flat on the ground.
Abby inspects my bullet wound, which has started to blister from the potion.
‘Perfect,’ she says, clearly satisfied with her work. ‘You’re going to have to suck it up, Princess, because that wasn’t even the worst bit.’
Without warning, she squeezes out the remaining potion onto my wound. My back arches, my teeth clench and my eyes water. The pain takes me to the brink of unconsciousness before changing into a tingling sensation. My skin turns hot and tight, and the bullet slug pops out of my leg. Jules catches it mid-flight with one hand.
There’s more tingling and the skin itches and tightens even more. I watch as sinew and skin knit back together, all trace of the wound disappearing before my eyes. Abby turns her attention to the cut on my temple, then the burn on my neck. There are more potions and more pain. I rub my hand along my neck and feel only smoothness.
The instant she’s finished, Abby stands up and straightens her gown, which is now flecked with as much blood as mud. With a flick of her wand, her chest of potions begins to fold, collapsing in on itself until it has returned to its original miniature size. She reattaches it to her necklace and faces Gladys.
‘I have discharged my duty,’ she says, and after a brief glance at Jules, Abby spins around on the heel of her boot and stalks off into the forest.
Gladys impassively watches her go. I stand, gingerly transferring my weight onto my bad leg.
‘I counsel that we do not linger, Your Highness,’ Jules says.
Gladys nods her agreement.
I take a tentative half-step, half-limp, and wait for the pain. But it doesn’t come. My leg seems to be completely fine. It’s hard to get my head around being completely pain-free only minutes after being shot.
I take a better look at my surroundings. We’re in a mossy clearing in a glade. The air is cool and crisp. I’d guess we’re in the English countryside, the kind you see in tourist brochures, but I’ve never seen any English countryside where the enormous tree trunks are planted into the ground like the legs of giants, with leaves the size of car tires, and butterflies so big they should be on a leash.
Iridesca.
I’m back in Iridesca.
Surprisingly, it feels like home.
chapter 14
‘Nice house,’ I say as we emerge from the forest and an enormous stone castle comes into view. Jules is pushing her motorbike on one side of me and Gladys is on the other. They both seem to know where they’re going.
We’re greeted by a pebbled path meandering towards the castle. A marble fountain filled with impossibly crystal-blue water sits halfway along the path. Water tinkles from the mouths of sculpted mermaids fanning out from the centre of the fountain. Four paths fork out from the fountain, each lined with shrubs the size of delivery vans.
‘What now?’ I ask, staring at the flowerbeds filled with overgrown roses with thorns the size of shark fins.
‘Inside,’ Gladys says matter-of-factly.
‘Inside? Who lives here?’
Jules looks at me, her face lined with confusion.
‘You,’ Gladys replies. ‘Windsor Castle is your family’s primary residence.’ She strides towards the castle with the ease of someone popping around to a friend’s house for a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Primary residence? Mind. Officially. Blown. The immensity of the castle is overwhelmin
g; it projects its grandeur almost like a silent rebuke to the enormous trees that dwarf it.
Gladys looks back at my bare feet. ‘That will never do,’ she says, pulling her hairpin out of her bun.
‘I want my shoes,’ I insist, before she has a chance to magic up something to her taste. With her laundry-lady dowdy and bizarre fairy matriarch aesthetics, who knows what I’d get.
‘You are Princess Francesca of House Raven now.’
‘I’m still Chess.’
‘Very well,’ she concedes, conjuring my trusty old commando boots. She slips her hairpin into her bun and continues towards the castle.
‘Did I really live here? In a castle?’ I say to Jules.
‘You do live here,’ she says with a quick smile, motioning towards the massive banners attached to the castle.
Knowing that I am the girl on the banners, and not her doppelganger, makes the sight even creepier than before. And the words ‘Our Salvation’ in big bold letters does nothing to settle my anxiety.
Guards stand to attention on one side of the castle. On the other side are horses.
I do a double take. They’re not horses.
Like Tom, they’re bulkier than horses, and their horns make them look like gentle mystical creatures but dangerous at the same time. Two of them are midnight black, another two are white as snow and the final one is a rusty red colour. They’re all wearing gold breastplates embossed with the same insignia that Jules has pinned to her uniform – a unicorn in a circle. My guess is that the red unicorn is in charge. He’s wearing a chain bridle made from big golden loops, but it looks more decorative than functional.
‘If I may be so bold, Your Highness?’ Jules says beside me, her voice hushed.
‘Sure,’ I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the unicorns.
‘Not everyone will be happy you’ve returned. The unicorns in the Protectorate, they’re not to be trusted, Your Highness. Since the – since your mother was …’
