The Threads of Magic

by Alison Croggon

  “What can we do, then?” said Oni.

  “Perhaps the first thing to do is to make Clovis less frightened. Maybe he needs a friend.”

  “I want to find El,” said Pip. “I don’t care about the spell. I don’t care about some silly dead prince or Spectres or anything. I just want El back.”

  Missus Orphint hesitated, and then spoke very gently. “I don’t know if we can get her back, Pip.”

  “She’s somewhere,” said Pip. “If she’s not dead, she’s somewhere, and that means she can come back.”

  Missus Orphint opened her mouth to reply, but Oni let out a squeak, as if she had been pinched, and then held out her hand, palm open, so Missus Orphint could see. Words were scratching themselves on Oni’s skin, fading almost as soon as they could be read.

  Out. You safe?

  “Is that your ma?” said Pip.

  “Yes,” said Oni, with a warm rush of relief that made her eyes prickle with tears. “Yes, it is.”

  Missus Orphint let out a breath, and Oni realized that she had been as anxious about Amina as she was.

  “Well, at least Amina can look after herself,” said Pip bitterly. “El can’t. She’s alone and frightened and she won’t know what to do, any more than a baby kitten.”

  “Stop it, Pip,” said Oni. “It doesn’t help.” She was tracing an answer on her palm. “Ma says she’s going to the Undercroft. Why doesn’t she come here?”

  “The Midsummer Festival’s on tonight,” said Missus Orphint. “Some of us were going to meet there, before your ma was arrested and our plans got upturned.”

  “Are we going to the Undercroft, then?”

  “I think I should,” said Missus Orphint. “I was supposed to be there hours ago. And now, it’s even more urgent I speak to the council. They need to know what happened here. But I shouldn’t leave you two alone…”

  “I’m not a baby,” said Oni sharply. “Why can’t we come too?”

  “I daren’t take you out of the safe house. Not until we know what’s going on.” Missus Orphint tapped her fingers on the table, frowning in thought. All trace of the mild, vague woman who had greeted them at the door the evening before had vanished entirely: she looked stern and sharp. Pip realized that her vagueness really was a kind of disguise.

  “I think I must go,” she said at last. “I’ll be as quick as I can be. Don’t do anything rash, either of you. I mean it. Oni, you will have to be on guard, and Pip, you listen to what she says.” Here she looked hard at Pip.

  “I want to see Ma,” said Oni, her jaw jutting ominously. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “No, I can’t. You’re quite right.” Missus Orphint put on her hat. “I’m requesting you as politely as I can to heed my words. You two should go to bed and get some sleep. We’ve already lost El, and Amina would never forgive me if I lost her daughter too.”

  She opened the kitchen door and stood for a moment, looking out. The moon was peeping out from behind the swags of clouds, letting down a silvery light. She stepped outside, and disappeared into the darkness. They heard her footsteps retreating, followed by a long silence that was punctuated by the drip drip drip of rain from the trees.

  Oni stood up and shut the back door. “I thought she was going to fly. Missus Pledge is an owl-shaper,” she said, as she returned to her chair.

  “A what?”

  “She turns into an owl. Maybe she thought it was too dangerous to use magic.”

  Two hours before, Pip would have been amazed and fascinated, but now he didn’t care what witches could do. None of it was any use if they couldn’t rescue El. It was witches that had caused all this trouble, anyway. It was a witch that had made the Heart.

  “Pip.”

  He ignored her, so Oni plucked at his sleeve.

  “Pip, I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about El. I’m sorry about everything.”

  “Like that does any good.”

  “Maybe we could try to look for her.”

  “You just said you didn’t know how. And anyway Missus Orphint said not to do anything.”

  “Missus Orphint said you should try to talk to Clovis.”

  “He’s not there. And why would I talk to someone who probably murdered my sister?”

  “Try, Pip. Surely it’s worth a try? For El’s sake?”

  Pip met her eyes. “Why?”

  “You heard what Missus Orphint said. Maybe he needs to be less frightened. Maybe he needs a friend.”

  Oni didn’t say out loud what she was thinking, because she was too afraid. Pip was more than sad and angry: he didn’t seem quite himself. And Oni had begun to wonder why.

  Maybe Clovis had disappeared from the Heart because he was now inside Pip. Maybe Clovis was beginning to take over Pip’s body, just like Clovis’s father had planned to take over Clovis’s body.

  Oni bit her lip, trying to think clearly, instead of panicking. All the stories she knew about the Heart said that the child prince wasn’t yet a Spectre. They said he had been touched by the Spectre’s blood magic, but not devoured by it. But now Oni had begun to wonder if it was already too late when Old Missus Pledge made the spell. Maybe the soul trapped inside the Heart wasn’t a little boy: or at least, it wasn’t only a little boy. Maybe Prince Clovis was also the Spectre King, and now both of them were inside Pip.

  If that were so, then Clovis’s father hadn’t been killed after all. Not properly. Maybe, Oni thought, the Cardinal didn’t want the Heart because he was afraid it would destroy the Spectres. Maybe he wanted it because it was a way of bringing back the Spectre King.

  Or something worse.

  The longer she thought, the worse the possibilities that unravelled before her. If she could find out more about what was happening inside Pip’s mind…

  “Pip,” she said, clasping his arm. “Maybe we can help El.”

  Pip brushed her hand off irritably. “Don’t do that, Oni. It’s annoying. Of course I’ll try it. I just don’t know where to start.”

  Oni sighed with relief. Her fears suddenly seemed silly. He was just Pip; rude, sharp-faced, irritating Pip, the same as always.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s try.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  MISSUS ORPHINT ARRIVED AT THE UNDERCROFT shortly after Amina. The carnival was still in full swing, but Missus Orphint was not in a carnival mood. The disappearance of El had shaken her more than she had permitted Oni and Pip to see. A Rupture in her own safe house? That was bad. That was very bad.

  She didn’t like leaving those two children alone, either. Oni was smart, very much her mother’s daughter, but not even the most experienced witch knew much about Ruptures. Ruptures were what happened when magic strained the fibres of reality too far and broke them, and they were completely unpredictable. Spectre magic, which ignored all the Laws, made small Ruptures all the time, although even Spectres tried to avoid them. A Rupture that was driven by a mind, let alone the mind of a damaged child – that was something else. Something much more dangerous.

  Missus Orphint had some very strong views on what Old Missus Pledge had done when she made the Heart, and none of them were complimentary to Old Missus Pledge. She understood why the witch had taken the risk, but that didn’t mean she approved. But whether she approved or not, it was imperative that the witches find Old Missus Pledge’s spell before the Office for Witchcraft Extermination got hold of it.

  At the Council Tent, a slim, fair girl with deep shadows under her eyes was standing a little distance away from the others. She was dressed in breeches and a shirt, and her hair was wound into ringlet rags. She was obviously the Princess Georgette, but she didn’t look much like a princess without all her finery; she looked forlorn, exhausted and lost.

  Missus Orphint didn’t approve of royals either, and she especially didn’t approve of royals descended from the Spectre. But despite herself, she felt a pang of compassion.

  “I promise that I wouldn’t betray anyone here,” Georgette was saying. She was hold
ing herself very straight. “I just wouldn’t.”

  “How do we know that?” said Amiable. She seemed in an irritable mood. If she had been in cat form, her tail would have been thrashing. “That’s exactly what a traitor would say.”

  “Hush, Amiable,” said Amina. “Georgie has no love for our enemies.”

  Georgette pressed her hands hard together, trying to control the wobble in her jaw. “They are my enemies too,” she said. “None of them wish me good. My father wants me to marry a Spectre and to send me away to another country where I’ll be all by myself, totally in his power.”

  Helios looked sad. “Your own father?”

  “He said he’d have me beheaded if I didn’t,” she said. “I don’t think he would really, but if he catches me now, after I’ve run away, I’ll be locked up and forced to marry King Oswald. I’d much rather have my head cut off.”

  All the witches could hear the suppressed terror in Georgette’s voice. Even Amiable looked taken aback.

  Amina, seeing that Georgette was on the brink of tears, stepped forward and took her hand. “It’s all right, Georgie,” she said. “Of course people are going to be suspicious. We all have suffered greatly at the hands of the royals. And trust is hard to earn.”

  Georgette swallowed. “Of course,” she said, trying to speak proudly, as a princess would.

  “Well, I understand why she wants our help. I still don’t get why we’re helping her,” said Amiable. “What’s in it for us?” A couple of others murmured in agreement.

  Amina was about to answer when she saw the look on Missus Orphint’s face. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  Missus Orphint nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid Eleanor Wastan has been taken by a Rupture.”

  Amina went still, and her jaw tightened. “This happened in your house? You left them alone, after that?”

  “I’m sorry, Amina. I had no choice. I didn’t dare to take them out of the safe house. It was imperative that the council knew, and I came as fast as I could. I think we must find Old Missus Pledge’s spell now, as a matter of urgency.”

  “But how?” said Helios. “It’s been missing all these years, and no one knows where to find it…”

  “Oni told me about Missus Pledge’s papers,” said Missus Orphint. “I think she had the spell in her house all that time.”

  “I do, too,” said Amina. “But if we are right, those papers are now in the hands of Cardinal Lamir, at the Office for Witchcraft Extermination.”

  “Then we really are in the basket,” said Juin. “Even if they haven’t worked out how to read the spell, how under heaven do we find it, let alone get it back?”

  A desolate silence fell. Georgette, who was still standing a little aside, spoke hesitantly. “I think I know where it might be,” she said.

  “You?” said Amiable. “Why?”

  Georgette lifted her chin. She was getting a little tired of Amiable’s needling. “A couple of years ago I found out that my tutor, Sibelius d’Artan, works for Cardinal Lamir. He translates papers for him, and various other things… I was curious, so I went to the palace library and looked up a monograph he wrote. It was in the locked section, but I managed to get in there by stealing the librarian’s keys. It said that Sibelius was the world’s foremost authority on the witch script.”

  Missus Clay snorted. “Aside from witches, of course,” she said.

  “Yes. So my guess is that if anybody is investigating secret papers, it will be Sibelius.”

  Missus Orphint looked thoughtful. “It’s worth a try,” she said. “A simple finding spell could pinpoint where this Sibelius is.”

  Amina had been listening, but in an abstracted way. “I don’t like the thought of those young people all on their own with all this Spectre magic,” she said abruptly.

  “Neither do I,” said Missus Orphint. “Although Oni is, after all, very capable.”

  “Yes, she is, but…” Amina bit back what she was planning to say. “Perhaps I can leave retrieving the papers up to you? I want to make sure my daughter is safe.”

  “Of course.” Missus Orphint rummaged in her bag until she found a key, and held it out.

  Amina took the key and hurried off, kissing Georgette hastily on the forehead in farewell. The Princess watched her leave, feeling abandoned again. In the palace she knew that nobody really cared about her, but even so, she was always looked after. Nobody here seemed to care about her at all. Not even Amina.

  “All right,” said Amiable. “Let’s see if this princess really is of any use.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  SIBELIUS HAD SPENT THE ENTIRE NIGHT IN HIS DINGY room at the Office for Witchcraft Extermination, trying to save his neck.

  For the past two years, Sibelius’s biggest ambition had been to survive his employment and get home to his modest estate. He kept his head down and concentrated on pleasing his master as best he could. He tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. He wasn’t sure any more that he was helping to prevent evil. He had a horrible feeling that he was doing the reverse. And that was even before all the business with the Stone Heart…

  Survival seemed a very slim chance now.

  His eyes ached from staring at the Last Will and Testament and Property Deeds of Prunelissima Arabella Pledge, spinster and seamstress of Omiker Lane. He had examined it from every possible angle. He had compared the measurements of her humble apartment with the measurements recorded on the page. They accorded exactly. He cautiously held the parchments over a candle flame to reveal any invisible writing. He had tried dribbling grape and lemon juice on the pages. He had taken out every second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh word, to see if they made any hidden sentences. He turned them into numbers and read them backwards and sideways and diagonally.

  He had fallen asleep at the desk and had horrible dreams about Prunelissima’s meagre possessions: pins and needles danced around bonfires, and armies of china cups came to arrest him. No matter what he did, he couldn’t find anything to show that these documents were anything more than what they appeared to be. And he knew he couldn’t get away with making something up. The Cardinal would know instantly if he tried to deceive him.

  His eyes felt as if they had been rolled in sand. He walked over to the window, pulled it open and stared out over the sleeping city. Perhaps his only recourse was to throw himself out. It would be a kinder death than disembowelment.

  As he returned to his desk, his gaze fell on his shoes and he felt a lurch of contempt. Had he really sold his soul for a pair of silver buckles?

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you did,” said a voice.

  Sibelius looked in the direction of the voice. An owl was sitting on his windowsill, its eyes reflecting back the candlelight in the room. He was too exhausted to be afraid, or even surprised.

  “You’re in a bit of a mess now, aren’t you, Sibelius?”

  Obviously, Sibelius thought, he was hallucinating. He had read that this could happen in states of extreme exhaustion and stress. He laughed humourlessly and sat down, staring at the owl. It looked quite solid, for a hallucination. Although he had never had a hallucination before, so he didn’t know what they were like.

  “What choice do I have?” he said bitterly. “What choice did I ever have? It’s not like anyone can say no to the Cardinal.”

  “Of course you had a choice,” said the owl. It sounded impatient, even contemptuous. “You were greedy and ambitious and, I’m afraid, very, very foolish.”

  Even through his self-pity, Sibelius felt a twinge of shame. “Are you my conscience?” he said at last.

  “No,” snapped the owl. “I wouldn’t want to be anything so filthy.”

  Sibelius stared gloomily at his silver buckles. “Anyway, even if I had a choice in the beginning, I don’t any more.”

  “Of course you do. You could, for example, run away.”

  “Everybody knows that you can’t hide from the assassins.”

  “What everybody knows isn�
��t the same as what is true. All you need is the courage to stand up for what you believe, in your secret heart, to be right. I think you knew what you were doing was deeply wrong.”

  Sibelius shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s too late now.”

  The owl said nothing. He found its unblinking gaze unnerving.

  “Anyway,” he added. “I know you’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

  “You know nothing of the sort,” said the owl. “I can tell from here that you know I’m real.” It fluffed out its feathers. “Which, of course, I am.”

  “Owls don’t talk.”

  “There has been no reason, up to now, for any owl to speak to you.”

  “Then why now?” Sibelius was beginning to feel a little frightened. Hallucinations, he felt, ought not to be so insulting.

  “You have excited our interest,” said the owl. “I would, for example, be very interested in looking at those documents that you are investigating.”

  “They’re nothing,” said Sibelius sadly. “I can’t find a single sign of witchery.”

  “They would be very important to the unfortunate people who own them,” said the owl, with some asperity. “But maybe you’re wrong. Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place. Or in the wrong way.”

  “How would you know?” Sibelius was beginning to get angry now. “I am the foremost expert in the witch script in the entire kingdom and I can’t find a single mark.”

  “You are not the foremost expert. You are just the best at guessing,” said the owl. “I, on the other hand, am an expert. Maybe I could show you. But first you’d have to abandon your task here.”

  “If I don’t do what the Cardinal commands, I’ll be executed. It’s not like I care whether it’s a witch document or not. I just don’t want to be killed.”

  The owl thought it over. “Good point,” it said. “Why not just come with me, and forget the whole thing? As long as you bring the will, of course.”