Mirror Magic

by Claire Fayers

  Mr Bones was one of the Fair Folk. That meant he could be summoned into a mirror, and if he could be summoned, he could be commanded.

  Charles glanced down at Mrs Footer. The little dog shook herself and twitched her shoulders as if she was trying to shrug.

  It was worth a try, Charles decided. Instead of continuing to Waning Crescent, he turned and hurried off in the direction of the Footers’ home.

  Howell clutched The Book in both arms and led Ava through the narrow lanes of Unwyse. Mist swirled around them, forming faces and strange animals and long strands that looked like branches about to burst into flower. The moon was only just visible right overhead: an almost perfect circle of silver light.

  After Ava’s outburst at Will she’d been quiet, and she barely looked at Howell as they walked. Howell remembered how sick he’d felt the first morning he’d woken up in Wyse and it had hit him that he was in a different world. He unwound an arm from The Book and offered Ava his hand.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Lunette wouldn’t send us to Madame Brille if it wasn’t safe.’ He quite enjoyed the feeling of being in charge for a change.

  Footsteps crunched in the mist behind. Howell pulled Ava back against the wall as a voice rang out.

  ‘What are you two doing?’

  Guards.

  Howell couldn’t see, but he was sure if the mist cleared he’d see red uniforms. He stood rigid.

  ‘You should be at home. Don’t you know there’s a curfew?’

  And another voice answered. ‘We’re on our way, aren’t we? We’ve just finished work.’

  Howell let all his breath out in a rush. The guards hadn’t seen him and Ava. They’d stopped someone else on the street, just by the end of the lane.

  The conversation continued. The guards wanted to search the people they’d stopped, and the people complained and finally gave in.

  ‘You can go,’ one of the guards said at last. ‘Hurry on home.’

  A few more muffled words, and the footsteps moved away.

  Howell waited until silence returned, then he shifted his feet cautiously. He could make out the dark shape of the guards in the mist, turning away.

  ‘I think it’s safe now,’ Ava whispered.

  A guard stopped, turned and took a step towards the lane. ‘Who’s there?’

  Howell clenched his fists.

  Ava stepped away from him out into the lane. Howell caught at her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You should run,’ she said, her voice tight and frightened. ‘I’ve caused you enough trouble. Mr Bones already has Matthew, so I don’t mind if I’m caught.’

  ‘I mind,’ Howell said. He rooted about in the rubbish for a stone and threw it in the direction of the guards. Then he grabbed Ava’s hand and ran. The guards shouted and gave chase.

  Howell’s heart pounded. Ava tripped and he nearly lost his grip on her. He imagined more guards coming, threading through the lanes to cut off their escape.

  Then another stone sailed over Howell’s head and bounced off the wall. A guard shouted behind them.

  More stones flew. Howell ducked down low, trying to see what was happening. Figures ran through the mist. A boy appeared beside Howell – one of the group who’d attacked him the night he met Lunette.

  Howell groaned. ‘Can you beat me up later? I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘You’re in luck,’ the boy said. ‘We’re not with the anti-humanists today. Madame Brille said to hurry.’

  He raced at the guards, then at the last moment swerved down a side alley. Other boys joined him, jeering and throwing stones. The guards ran after them, and in a moment the lane was empty.

  ‘Who was that?’ Ava whispered.

  Howell pressed his back against the wall, trying to stop himself shaking. ‘Someone I met once. I think we’re nearly there.’

  They walked on, Ava feeling her way with one hand on the wall.

  Howell’s stomach churned, and not just from the close escape. Mad Madame Brille, he thought, who turned people into earwigs. He’d spent his life avoiding the road where she lived and now he was hurrying along it.

  And there it was – a narrow door with the number 77 glowing in the mist. Howell wiped his palms on his trousers and raised his hand to knock.

  The door flew open and a pair of thin arms hauled them both inside.

  CHAPTER 29

  Lord Skinner backs away, one hand to his mouth. The skeleton ignores him and walks back through the banqueting hall to pick up Lunette. She dangles from the bone shoulder. Slowly the skeleton climbs the stairs to the door that stands open at the top.

  Sometime later, Lord Skinner will check the room and find it empty.

  The Book

  It took a full minute of knocking on Mr Footer’s door before the conjuror opened it: Charles timed it. The conjuror looked as if he hadn’t slept – or washed, or shaved – in a week. His moustache bristled as if it was trying to escape from his face, and his eyes looked red and bloodshot.

  ‘You’re the Brunels’ boy,’ he said, peering at Charles in exhausted bewilderment. ‘What do you want?’

  Charles took a deep breath. ‘I know you won’t believe me, but this dog really is your mother. She got accidentally enchanted.’

  Mr Footer rubbed his eyes, not really seeming to see the dog or Charles properly. ‘There’s no enchantment on the animal,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what joke you think you’re playing, but this is not funny. Now go home or I’ll tell your mother you were bothering me.’

  Charles didn’t move. He hadn’t expected Mr Footer to believe him, but an investigator doesn’t give up after their first try.

  ‘I can prove it,’ he said. ‘I just need you to conjure a fairy for me.’

  ‘You need me to do what?’ Mr Footer’s moustache jumped. ‘My mother is missing, the whole town is going mad and you come here talking about dogs and conjuring. Go home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t.’ A good policeman is always polite, always persistent. Charles took out his notebook. ‘My friends and I have been collecting clues. Lord Skinner is not all he seems to be. We know he was using you to send secret orders to Unwyse. The townspeople are already on their way to Waning Crescent to demand answers, but I thought it might be faster if you used your mirror.’

  He put on his most earnest expression.

  Mr Footer dropped his gaze and sighed. ‘Maybe you’re only trying to help, but it’s no use. Lord Skinner called a meeting of all the conjurors today and he confiscated our mirrors – for investigation, he said. None of us can conjure anything.’ He ran his hand over his face. ‘I don’t know what my mother would say about this if she were here.’

  It occurred to Charles that he’d rarely seen Mr Footer without his mother. Mrs Footer was always fussing around him, answering questions before he could speak, telling him what to do. Mr Footer must be quite lost without her. Charles felt a moment’s sympathy for him. Mrs Footer growled and tried to bite the conjuror’s ankle.

  ‘Sorry,’ Charles said, moving her away. He skimmed through his notes for the next question. ‘How long have you been sending messages to Unwyse for Lord Skinner?’

  Mr Footer drew himself up proudly. ‘My work is confidential. I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Lord Skinner is a fine gentleman.’

  Why did people have to ignore what was right in front of them? Charles wondered. But if Mr Footer wouldn’t believe the evidence, Charles would have to find another way to persuade him.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ he agreed. ‘And he’s responsible for all the conjurors, isn’t he? He must be an expert on magic.’

  ‘Not really.’ Mr Footer still scowled, but he appeared a little less sure of himself. ‘I don’t believe Lord Skinner knows very much about fairy magic. Certainly not as much as I do.’

  ‘Then it would be a good idea to help him find out what’s going on here,’ Charles said. ‘After all, you’re the expert, not him. That’s why he asked you to send orders to Unwyse, because he knows you’re
the best conjuror in Wyse.’

  Everyone had a weak point, Charles’s books on investigation said, and Charles had just found Mr Footer’s: his vanity. The conjuror’s chest puffed up even more. ‘That’s true. I don’t know why he didn’t come to me.’

  ‘Some of the other conjurors are on their way to Waning Crescent now,’ Charles said.

  They might be – his parents would be rounding up half the town to visit Lord Skinner, after all. He watched Mr Footer’s expression change. He knew exactly what the conjuror was thinking: if other conjurors were going to Waning Crescent, he should go too. Otherwise, they might solve the crisis and get all the credit for it.

  ‘Or do you think there are enough conjurors involved already?’ Charles said. ‘I think I heard Mr Langhile say he could handle this on his own.’

  It was the last prod Mr Footer needed.

  ‘Mr Langhile is a bumbling fool,’ he growled. ‘Wait there, boy. I’ll get my coat.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The last mirrors are dying. My magic is dying. What is written must come to pass. I don’t feel well. Can books get sick? If so, I think I’m coming down with something. If anyone can help, please make your way to Unwyse through the nearest working mirror. This is an emergency.

  The Book

  Howell had only ever seen Madame Brille from a distance before – usually when he was running away from her. Close-up, he thought he had never seen anyone so old before, or so ugly. Three pairs of spectacles wobbled on a nose that was huge and almost perfectly round, and a pair of dark eyes glinted at him through the layers of glass.

  He stood uncertainly, clutching The Book and rubbing his arm where the old woman’s hand had bruised him. ‘Are you Madame Brille?’

  ‘Who were you expecting?’ Her face was as round as her nose, crinkly with deep wrinkles. Her hair, pure white, was pulled up into a lumpy bun on the top of her head and two more pairs of spectacles – one bright red, one yellow – peeped out. ‘Take a good look,’ she said. ‘We have plenty of time. It’s not as if Mr Bones is hunting you or anything.’ She stank of lavender, even her breath.

  Howell’s face filled up with heat. ‘Sorry. I’m Howell and this is Ava. And this . . .’

  ‘. . . is The Book, I know.’ She took off one of the pairs of glasses and replaced it with the red pair from her hair. ‘The moment my niece turned up saying she needed an enchantment, I knew it would lead to trouble, and I wasn’t even wearing my trouble-predicting glasses. You’d better come up.’

  She started to stamp up the stairs.

  ‘Trouble-predicting glasses?’ Ava mouthed to Howell. ‘What if this is a trap?’

  ‘I heard that,’ Madame Brille shouted.

  Howell gave a nervous grin. ‘I think we’ll be safe.’ Lunette had told them to come here. And, besides, after spending time in Wyse seeing people covered up with cheap enchantments, he got the feeling that Madame Brille was the opposite of all that. She was exactly what she appeared to be.

  Upstairs, a fire crackled in the grate and bowls of dried flower heads stood on every surface. A table held a tea tray with a pot and three cups and saucers. It appeared that Madame Brille had been expecting them. Howell gave Ava what he hoped was a reassuring look and pushed her on into the room.

  ‘Come in and try not to get muck on the carpets,’ Madame Brille said. ‘I’ll just find my glasses.’

  She opened a wooden box on the table and rummaged about inside. Howell saw that it contained spectacles – hundreds of them, all lined up in rows. ‘What are they for?’ he asked.

  ‘Reading glasses, distance glasses, glasses for seeing friends, glasses for seeing customers, glasses for seeing when somebody’s lying. Glasses for spells, glasses for enchantments, glasses for cooking, glasses for eating. Don’t laugh. You’ll be sorry when you’re old and need glasses.’

  She tried on several pairs before settling on a set with plain brown rims. ‘Not what you expected an Unworld house to look like?’ she asked Ava, who was staring wide-eyed. ‘I bet you imagined our armchairs walked and our teapots sang to amuse us.’

  Ava turned pink. ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘No,’ Madame Brille said, changing glasses again and peering at her, ‘maybe you didn’t. There’s more to you than meets the eyes, isn’t there? Even my eyes. You can sit down if you like: the chairs won’t eat you.’

  Ava cast Howell a confused glance and they both sat down. Madame Brille began rummaging through her box of spectacles. ‘Glasses for meeting new people,’ she muttered, pulling out a pair with orange heart-shaped frames. ‘No – wait, I need glasses for questioning visitors. Blue hearts.’ She swapped them over and sat down, her eyes suddenly sharp and bright. ‘How did my truth-showing enchantment work?’

  Howell wasn’t sure what to say. ‘It . . . um . . . worked.’

  ‘Good. I told my niece: I don’t give refunds.’ Madame Brille reached for the teapot and poured a bright stream of pink tea into cups. ‘Euphorbia leaf – eyebright. It’s quite safe to drink – might even do you some good. Now –’ she settled into a low armchair – ‘you’d better tell me everything.’

  They took turns to talk while Madame Brille sat, lifting her various pairs of glasses up and down and occasionally stopping their story to change a pair.

  ‘You’re in quite a lot of trouble, aren’t you?’ she said when they’d finished. She jabbed a finger at The Book. ‘You too.’

  Don’t blame me. I only foretell the future – I don’t create it.

  A lump formed in Howell’s throat. ‘What’s going to happen to Matthew and Lunette?’

  ‘As I don’t own a magic book of prophecy,’ Madame Brille said with a pointed glare at The Book, ‘I have no idea.’

  You’ll find them in Waxing Gibbous, obviously. Mr Bones has them. Where else did you think they’d be?

  Howell’s stomach turned over. ‘It could be worse,’ he said. At least they knew now. And Waxing Gibbous was always so busy with people, that they might be able to sneak in unnoticed.

  ‘More tea,’ Madame Brille said. ‘You two carry on talking. I’ll be back in a minute.’ She bustled out of the room.

  Howell swallowed the last mouthful in his cup. It was almost cold and the bitter aftertaste made him cough.

  Howell is afraid, wrote The Book. And now Howell wishes he could throw me out of the nearest window and forget about me.

  Howell realized he was gripping the edge of The Book hard enough to leave dents in it. He unclenched his fingers.

  ‘Yes, Book, I’m afraid,’ he said. He looked up at Ava. ‘I’ve been afraid since this all started. I wish I wasn’t, but I can’t help it, so I’m just going to have to carry on and do everything while I’m afraid, because if I wait until I feel braver it’ll be too late.’

  He fell silent.

  Ava let out a long breath. ‘I’m afraid too,’ she said quietly.

  They sat and looked at each other for a moment. At least he wasn’t on his own in this, Howell thought. It made the knot in his stomach untie. He pushed The Book off his lap and sat back. ‘Do you think we’re really connected somehow?’

  Ava looked down and started to shake her head, but then she stopped and gazed straight back at him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The apology was so unexpected, Howell’s mouth fell open. ‘Sorry? What for?’

  ‘I think I did something.’ She pulled at her skirt. ‘Something terrible. Magic was taken from a boy. You remember the letter I found on Mr Footer’s desk? And Lord Skinner said I’m alive because of magic. It’s true. I was very ill when I was little and I should have died, but I suddenly recovered. And then my father sold everything and moved away from Wyse. My father, who used to be a conjuror.’

  ‘Your father was a conjuror?’ Howell asked.

  She nodded. ‘But everyone knows fairy magic is only illusion and can’t really change things.’

  ‘Some fairy magic,’ Madame Brille corrected, bustling back into the room with another tea tray. ‘The truth-showing enchant
ment, for example, I put a bit of myself into that, just a few strands of hair to give it a boost. And then there’s the magic inherent in all of us. If that magic is taken, it can change reality forever.’

  Howell sat quite still. She was talking about him, he knew, but his mind rebelled against it. It was as if he knew but didn’t want to know.

  ‘Unwyse is the most magic-infested town in the whole Unworld,’ Madame Brille said. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that you’d grow up here and be the only person without magic?’

  ‘But I’m not the only one,’ Howell protested.

  ‘Aren’t you? How many people do you know who have no magic at all? Ten years ago, magic was taken from a two-year-old Unworld boy. Ten years ago, a two-year-old girl in Wyse miraculously recovered. I know, because I helped make the enchantment myself. I took your magic, Howell, and I gave it to Ava’s father.’

  The room felt as if it was spinning. This was the secret Ava had been hiding from him. In a way, it was worse than all Lord Skinner’s secrets. Lord Skinner had stolen magic from the mirrors to keep himself alive. Ava’s father had stolen it from Howell.

  ‘You can blame me,’ Madame Brille said. ‘I’m the one who did it, not Ava.’

  Howell nodded. He ought to feel angry, but he didn’t. He wondered why that was. His magic – all of it – taken and given away. It felt as if someone was banging a drum inside his head, too loud for him to think.

  Then he realized the sound was coming from downstairs. Somebody was banging on the door.

  CHAPTER 31

  It’s getting worse. Or possibly better. Or possibly later. In any case, it’s probably time to start screaming for help now.

  The Book

  Charles hurried through the thickening mist with Mr Footer at his side while Mrs Footer trotted ahead, tugging on her lead as if she was eager to get this over with.

  ‘This is a complete waste of time,’ Mr Footer muttered to himself. ‘Lord Skinner is a fine gentleman. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this.’