The Grimoire of Kensington Market

by Lauren B. Davis

  “I know only what you know: that he has gone north.”

  Her heart falls. “Then I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What an odd question. Where else would I be? Although you’re taking wonderful care of the old place I still consider it home, you know.”

  Then she understands. “Right, of course, it’s my dream and I’ve conjured you.”

  “Not precisely.” He winks and says, “Wallis Tilden has certain powers of … shall we say, introduction? Why don’t we go downstairs and have a cup of tea?”

  He turns and steps into the hallway, which is much brighter than the real hallway, and decorated with a mural of lush green ivy, dotted here and there with butterflies and tiny birds. It’s cunningly done, such perfect trompe l’oeil. Maggie reaches out to run her fingers across it, which is when one of the butterflies – blue as a sapphire – flies off a leaf and flutters up to a higher one. Maggie jumps back and then touches the vine with her finger. Real. Or as real as anything is here. Mr. Mustby’s head disappears down the staircase and she hurries to keep up with him.

  Downstairs is just as surprising. For one thing, it’s so … tidy. Not a speck of dust, every book perfectly aligned on shelves sparkling in the light of a hundred candles burning from wrought-iron candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Bright blue and green rugs lie on the floor and the whole place smells not of dust and mice, but of apples and cinnamon. The kitchen is the least changed of the rooms, but then it’s always been rather cheery – the yellow walls, the wooden chairs and table, the blue cupboards. The only odd thing is a vase of flowers in the middle of the table. They are like lilies, pink and white and yellow and blue. They turn in Maggie’s direction as she enters, nod and then huddle together, as if discussing her.

  “Bizarre.” It’s hard to believe her mind has created such a homey, pretty place and that is, in a way, even more worrying. How will any of this lead her to Kyle?

  Mr. Mustby pours boiling water from the kettle into a pot, stirs the tea leaves and then brings the pot and two mugs to the table, where a sugar bowl and a milk jug stand next to the whispering flowers.

  “Don’t they know it’s not polite to whisper?” Maggie says, and as soon as she speaks the flowers become still.

  “Oh, they don’t mean any harm.” He taps the side of the vase, much as one would a fishbowl, and chuckles. “They do think themselves quite important.” The flowers turn their heads away, giving the impression they’re pouting.

  She feels light-headed. “It’s good to see you, although talking to ghosts, even dreamt-up ones, is a bit disconcerting.”

  Mr. Mustby hands her a cup of tea. “Death isn’t what you may imagine.”

  Maggie reminds herself she’s talking to a dream image; one can’t expect it to make a great deal of sense. “Right,” she snorts.

  Thwack! Maggie nearly drops the teacup when Mr. Mustby slams the top of the table with his palm. “You have not dreamed me up, girl!”

  He’s never spoken to her so sharply. “What are you talking about? Of course I have.”

  His bushy eyebrows shoot upward. “You are a smart young woman, Maggie, even if you have done something remarkably stupid. No … silence! There’s little time and I must tell you several things. Drink your tea; you’re going to need it. Now, obviously, things are not normal, beginning with your brother’s ability to send messages from the Silver World. If he’s the one who sent them.”

  “The Silver World. So, this is a pipe dream.”

  “It is not.”

  “It must be … or else how could I –”

  Mr. Mustby cuts off her words with a wave of his hand. “It’s not supposed to happen. And to many of us it is deeply worrying that it has.”

  Maggie’s curiosity snags on the word us. Whomever does he mean?

  “I imagine you’d like very much to know who us is, but we don’t have time,” he says. “Suffice it to say you have not been alone prior to this and you are not alone now. The world is far more complicated than you or I know, and when I say world I mean the several levels of world you and I are aware of and a few we aren’t. There is, of course, the world you live in, which I also used to live in, known as the Immanent World, because it is the core world, the one which contains in microcosm all the other worlds, and all the intentions of God. Then there is this, the Silver World, which is not for the uninitiated. No one from the Immanent World should be here, outside of sleeping dreams, and you wouldn’t be, had not Srebrenka unleashed certain substances.” He clears his throat. “Third, there is the Below World, which is where all this present trouble originated. Most important of all, of course, is the Bright World, where the Ineffable resides, cause and root of all other worlds. There are more, but they don’t concern us just now.”

  Maggie tries very hard to follow what he says, but it isn’t easy. Multiple worlds? Present trouble? Uninitiated? Immanent? What on earth? Or perhaps more accurately, what not on earth?

  “The Forest,” Mr. Mustby continues, “became a thin place between worlds some time ago, when elysium first arrived. Now it’s more than a thin place. It started as a doorway into the Silver World, which is expanding, becoming more of the Silver World, and less of the Immanent World. You’ve gone through a door that shouldn’t be there. They’re overlapping. The borderland you entered, where Mother Ratigan found you, is a kind of boundary place, which ended when you entered the market square of Wallis Tilden’s hotel. At that point, you entered the Silver World proper, and you shouldn’t be here, just as there are things in the Forest of the Immanent World that shouldn’t be there. Things come up from Below. We fear the rest of the Immanent World will be absorbed into the Forest, and the boundaries between worlds will dissolve completely, which must not happen, for all worlds have their purpose, and are not interchangeable. A person is in one or the other, depending on their needs and their talents. In the wrong world, a person may never learn what is necessary to find their way home – back to that sacred source from which we all came. Srebrenka does not want anyone going home. She wants to draw the broken to her, rather than to the sacred, since misery most definitely loves company, and elysium is her wedge, her battering ram. Mother Ratigan answers to Srebrenka, of course. A sort of crossing guard.

  “I can see I’ve baffled you. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. One must go on. In a nutshell – there are things in the Below World that are supposed to stay in the Below World. Srebrenka has dragged elysium up from Below. She is an envious, restless, irritable and discontent soul. Always wants what isn’t good for her or anybody else and is never satisfied. She is, to be blunt, nothing but a bottomless pit of insatiable hunger, the essence of addiction.”

  If Maggie was dizzy before, now she also had a headache. Wallis had said Srebrenka fed on hunger, hadn’t she? Maggie tells Mr. Mustby of the shrinking garden.

  “She’s focused on you especially, then. Things are urgent.” Mr. Mustby raises an eyebrow. “And then there’s the matter of the mirror. She was apparently rather displeased with her reflection in a mirror one of her wights stole from the Bright World, and that’s when the trouble began.”

  “How so?”

  “The mirror, being a truthful sort of mirror, showed her reflection as she truly is, not as she pretends to be, and I understand it was not a pretty sight. Srebrenka smashed the mirror. To punish the world for not being as she wished it to be she fashioned her own mirror out of some pretty nasty materials – spite and malice and bile. Then, in a fit of what can only be described as selfish bloody pique, she smashed it into countless pieces and scattered those shards on the wind that blows between the worlds so that they made their way to the Immanent World. For a long time now, those shards have been floating about, attracted to a certain kind of person as metal shavings are to a magnet.”

  “What sort of person?”

/>   Mr. Mustby drops his head and purses his lips. “Sad souls, lost, insecure, selfish, broken –”

  “Isn’t that all of us, in one way or another?” asks Maggie.

  Mr. Mustby drains the last of his tea and sighs. “Yes, I suppose, but some, perhaps those protected by love, or grace, or an innate sense of empathy for others, seem to repel the shards. It’s most curious.”

  Maggie gasps and nearly drops her cup. “Kyle! I had a dream about Kyle and a shard of glass.” Quickly, she relates the dream of a single flake of snow turning into a beautiful woman, with terrible, hollow eyes. She tells how the ice woman tried to stab Kyle, but in the end Maggie herself had broken the window, which sent a shard of glass deep into Kyle’s chest.

  Mr. Mustby looks grim. “That does sound like her all right, and she does like to blame others. But this isn’t your fault, although she wants you to think it is. Hence that bit about the broken window. Srebrenka would like you to feel guilt and shame and resentment, since these powerful emotions so quickly undo us.”

  “She’s in my dreams?” Maggie shudders.

  “That’s what happens, my dear, when elysium has become part of your story. Srebrenka is impatient; not content to let the shards float about willy-nilly, she sent elysium into the Immanent World.” Mr. Mustby’s face had gone quite red and his eyes spark with fury. “Some people, you may have noticed, are not susceptible to its allure. But we suspect those who suffer from an acute sensitivity to … well … yearning. They’re born with a sense of incompleteness, of being outside, of not belonging. From the expression on your face, may I conclude that sounds familiar?”

  “Well, again, doesn’t everyone feel that way, to one extent or another, at some time or another?”

  “Perhaps, but not everyone becomes a Piper, do they? For those who are susceptible, elysium breaks down resistance, releases those selfish, self-serving tendencies that otherwise a person might be able to control. Once you’ve ridden the smoke, you send a beacon into the mists between the worlds and the shards come flying. They catch sight of the beacon and latch onto you.”

  “And that’s how she got into my dreams.”

  He nods. “Indeed. And once the shard is embedded, it changes your perspective on everything. Beautiful becomes ugly, good becomes absurd and cruelty becomes pleasure.” He rubs his hands along his thighs and blows his cheeks out as though trying to calm himself. “And once you’ve ridden the smoke, Srebrenka and her wights always know how to find you. You can lock them out by staying away, but they’ll never forget about you.”

  Maggie thinks back to how Kyle changed from the little boy who grieved over the dead baby sparrow to a slouching, cruel man who looked upon beauty and saw only flaws. He wrapped himself in squalor and called it comfort. He told her she dressed like an undertaker. He considered the book of poems she gave him no more than cheap sentiment. Maggie has a terrible thought. “Why wasn’t I infected by the mirror, then?”

  “What makes you think you weren’t?”

  “I’m not like that. I don’t see things in such a horrible light.”

  “That’s exactly what you did, when you first came to me.”

  She feels cold. What he says has the ring of truth. “Was it?”

  “You cried so many tears, for so many weeks, if it was a small shard, it might well have been washed away. We shall hope for that. Tears have their own power, especially when they’re shed in humility and remorse. But remember, Maggie, in the end, Kyle is responsible for his own actions, just as you are responsible for yours.”

  “What choice do I have, except to follow Kyle?”

  He regards her calmly. “Only you can answer that, my dear. I merely seek to warn you. But it’s time you were on your way.” He stands and walks out of the kitchen into the shop.

  Maggie follows, noticing again how much tidier, how much brighter and newer everything looks in this Silver World version of the Grimoire. “Mr. Mustby, why is the shop here? I mean, this world is all about made-up things, myths and dreams and so forth.”

  “This world is about things that tell the truth, although perhaps not the facts, which is why you are not supposed to be here unless you’re naturally asleep and dreaming.”

  “Am I not doing that now?”

  “Under Wallis’s roof?” He snorts. “Not quite a natural dream. You saw the figures flitting through the hallways.”

  “Which doesn’t explain the shop at all.”

  “Does it not?” He turns to look at her, surprise on his face. “I would have thought it made everything quite clear. This is a place full of stories, Maggie. There are some who say it contains all the stories in the world, although I’ve never had the time to go through every book since new books keep appearing.” Mr. Mustby harrumphs. “Well, being a place, being the place of stories, it is in all worlds, expanding with every story told and contracting with every story lost. It is, in other words, a doorway, a liminal space. It is that kind of shop.” He smiles as though that clears the matter up completely, and perhaps it does. The smile doesn’t last, however. “You have been summoned, called by someone – it may be Kyle, but it may not be – and you have chosen to answer the call. This means powers from Below have infiltrated your world and the Silver World. No one knows how far this infection has spread, but I suspect at least some of what you’ll find here has been put here not only with you in mind, but with an intention of strengthening the infestation.” They are at the front door now, which is made entirely of silver engraved with shifting images. Mr. Mustby notices her staring. “The door of tales. Story is alive.” He sighs. “You will not be alone.” He takes her hands. “Just be sure, whatever you do, to be true, not in the way of plodding facts, but in the way of soul knowing.”

  “I do wish you’d speak clearly.”

  Mr. Mustby opens the door. A path runs up a slope into the meadows. The landscape is bleak, sunless and coldly silver.

  “Do you know at least how long I have?”

  “I suspect it will be as long as you need and much longer than you’d like. I only pray it isn’t too long.” With that he embraces her swiftly, and gently pushes her out the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHEN MAGGIE WOKE IN THE LUXURIOUS surroundings provided by Wallis Tilden, Badger was lying at the foot of the bed, tail thumping. She rolled over. Dreams, she thought, dreams … Badger whined and then shook himself awake. She sat on the side of the bed and he put his head in her lap as she petted him. Had Badger had his own dream?

  But … she cocked her head, trying to remember … Mr. Mustby. The Grimoire … And then it all returned, everything he’d told her.

  A pang of longing gripped her. The Silver World. The Forest. Borderlands. The Below World. The Bright World. Her head hurt. And Kyle was bait.

  She smelled food and noticed a silver tray with a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and plates of buttered toast, poached eggs, jam and cheese. She ate with determination and as she finished she licked the butter, which had a note of clover and roses, off her fingers and walked to the window. Outside, the rolling springtime meadow was gone. The window looked out, with the view of a third- or fourth-storey window, on a small walled garden tidily planted with bushes wrapped in burlap. Brown leaves gathered in corners by the stone wall. The limbs of the four plane trees were bare. Beyond the garden lay houses and shops, all the buildings made of grey stone, and looking as though they’d been there for hundreds of years. The roofs were tiled, and vines, as bare as the trees, covered many of the walls. The windows were glazed, and some were shuttered. As far as the eye could see nothing but walls and roofs and streets as the land rose gently into the distance.

  Reality was apparently quite plastic. A disturbing thought. One could go mad thinking such thoughts. She decided the sensible thing was to wash her face and do what she normally did in the morning.

  A short time late
r she opened the door to find the bellboy, Jacob, standing at attention in the hall.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Miss Tilden says she hopes you slept well and had pleasant dreams,” said Jacob.

  “I slept very well.”

  “She hopes you will consider staying with her a while longer.”

  Wallis Tilden might be useful, and less dangerous that Mother Ratigan, but this garden of earthly delights held its own perils. “No, with thanks. Long journey ahead and I have to get started.”

  “Miss Tilden does understand and suspected that might be your answer. She waits for you now in the lobby.” He bowed slightly and gestured. “Will you follow me, please?”

  No dreams flitted about the halls, and the lobby was deserted, the only evidence of the previous night’s escapades being the now-empty chaise longues and a certain musky scent. If Mother Ratigan lured her guests with promises of childlike security, the promises Wallis Tilden made were decidedly more adult.

  The hotelier herself waited for them by the door. Her dress was blue silk trimmed with ermine, wrapped tightly around her breasts and rib cage and although of a heavier material than the pearly confection she had worn the night before, it clung just as closely to every curve.

  “I trust you slept well,” she said.

  “Very well, thanks.”

  “Everyone does here. I make sure my guests are comfortable. Whatever dream you had, however, wasn’t one of mine. I sensed an old friend wanted to speak with you.”

  “Then you know whom I dreamed of.”

  “Yes, I believe so. Did you learn many things? Knowledge can be such a pleasure.”

  “It can also be alarming.”

  “You mustn’t be afraid of your dreams.”

  “I’m not afraid, but I’m not a slave to them, either.”

  “What an interesting concept.” Wallis bent to let Badger sniff her open palm and then scratched him under the chin while she gazed into his eyes. “He is a very loyal dog. He would die for you.”