The Devil's Apprentice

by Jan Siegel

  Her mother didn’t know she had the books, or the bottles with their handwritten labels and questionable contents, or the other paraphernalia of spellcasting. She wouldn’t have approved, even though she didn’t believe in magic; like the rest of the village, she had been afraid of great-grandmother, who had the Evil Eye, or rather, two Evil Eyes, not to mention an evil tongue. The girl had been afraid of her, too, afraid of turning into her, and for a long time after her death she hadn’t touched her legacy. Now, she told herself she was a witch of a different colour; Bartlemy had taught her both technique and restraint; she could give it up any time she liked...

  She drew a small circle in black lipstick round her dressing table mirror. She knew it wasn’t the safest way to conjure, but she reasoned she was only calling up a small spirit, so a small circle should suffice by way of protection. Then she spoke the summons.

  The mirror clouded, and presently the face of the grinnock appeared, as if trapped behind the glass.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said, disagreeably.

  ‘No, you’re back,’ said the witch. ‘I conjured you.’ She was determined to assert her authority right from the start.

  The grinnock pushed his head out of the mirror, peering from side to side. ‘You call that a circle? I ha’ seen better drawed by children i’ the sand, afore the waves washed it away. Ye canna believe ye can bind me wi’ the grease o’ your vanity box! ’Tis a mortal insult, so it is.’

  ‘Mortal rubbish,’ said the witch. ‘It has touched my lips, and my lips speak the words of power, and so you are bound. Cross it if you dare.’

  ‘Nae daring be needed,’ said the grinnock, losing momentum. ‘But I’m mair comfortable here. Would those be dog-nuts?’

  ‘Doughnuts,’ said the witch, assertively. She had had her doubts about the lipstick but now she was on a roll.

  ‘Dog-nuts... dog-nits–’

  ‘Doughnuts.’

  ‘Doningfuts. Would you be off’ring them to me?’

  ‘It depends what you’ve found out,’ said the witch. ‘Starting with Bartlemy Goodman.’

  ‘Him. Aye. Well... he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Just gone. I dinna ken where.’

  ‘You’re supposed to ken,’ said the witch. ‘Kenning was your part of the deal. Think of sugar, all crunchy and scrunchy, and the sweet ooze of the jam, and–’

  ‘I’m thinking! But old Goodman, he’s gone where nary a spell can find him–’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  ‘Nay,’ the grinnock replied. ‘I niver said so. But he’s gone where neither an oracle nor a monicle can see him, and when folks go that far, ’tis not often they come back.’ By a monicle, the witch guessed, Simmoleon meant a magical spyglass. ‘Ye ain’t the only one a-questing and a-questioning for him. There’s others would fain have the knowing of it, though they ain’t asking quite so demanding-like.’

  ‘What others?’ the witch asked, demandingly. She liked the idea of being just a little dictatorial.

  ‘Humans.’ Simmoleon shrugged. ‘I never heard their names. They ain’t o’ the witchkind. They’d be the sort what folk call sole-sitters.’

  ‘Sole-sitters?’ The witch was baffled.

  ‘People what sit on things,’ the grinnock suggested. ‘They meddle in the Law, ’n other mortal matters. While they’re sitting, I s’pose.’

  ‘Solicitors,’ the witch deduced. ‘What would solicitors want with Bartlemy Goodman?’

  ‘Seems they want him to live in a house,’ Simmoleon said.

  ‘Most of us do that,’ the witch pointed out.

  ‘The house of a body what died,’ the grinnock explained.

  ‘Ah,’ said the witch.

  Presently, with suitable precautions in breaching the perimeter, she gave him a doughnut. (Privately, she didn’t believe in the strength of her own circle, but she had no intention of showing it.) The grinnock emerged from the mirror, and there was an interlude of sugar consumption.

  ‘What about this business of the Devil?’ the witch inquired eventually. Simmoleon hiccupped with fright, choking on a crumb, but she ignored his reaction. ‘You said he’s looking for a... successor?’

  ‘Ye mustna speak of it! He’s no little satter wi’ goaty legs ’n a wicked grin for ye to mock! He’s the Oldest of the Old – the darkest of the dark. He has the Serafain, the Nightwings – folks call them Fellangels – they fly the world for him, doing his bidding... He has kings and kingdoms i’ the palm o’ his hand, great folk and little, princes and peasants. Men build their cities and their towers tall as the sky, and he’s there at the top. He’s always there. They worship him in the heart o’ the old places and at the height o’ the new. They worship him wi’ blood and they worship him wi’ gold...’

  ‘Globalism,’ nodded the witch. ‘I get the picture. He must be a hard act to follow.’

  ‘Ye dinna want to think of it.’

  ‘But I am thinking of it. I can’t help it. Who could possibly succeed him? I suppose it would have to be another Old Spirit – the Hunter, or the Child...’ Her voice faded into doubt.

  ‘I dinna ken. Mebbe they’re too set in their ways. And they were never friends o’ his – spirits like that inna friendly wi’ each other. There’s a saying: wolves run together, but the tiger walks alone. He was aye one who walked alone, d’ye see?’

  ‘So who–?’

  ‘They say...’ The grinnock hesitated, as if knowing he’d gone too far, licking his fingers with a tongue so long the tip probed his left nostril.

  ‘There’s another doughnut,’ said the witch, feeling the local bakery, though not up to the Goodman standard, hadn’t let her down.

  The grinnock called Sugartop eyed it wistfully.

  Just for a spoonful of jam he betrayed us,

  Just for some sugar to sweeten his blood...

  ‘They say...’

  The witch picked up the doughnut as if to eat it herself.

  ‘They say... he’s going to take a ’prentice. A mortal ’prentice. One o’ your kind – one o’ witchkind. One o’ Prospero’s Children.’

  ‘A mortal to succeed the Devil?’ The witch was so shocked she handed over the doughnut immediately, breaking the circle without the proper incantation, but Simmoleon was too absorbed in eating to take advantage. ‘But surely–’

  ‘I shouldna ha’ told ye!’ The grinnock was talking with his mouth full, not a pleasant sight. A thick trickle of jam ran down his chin, bright as blood. ‘If they knew... if he knew...’ He turned pasta-pale with horror at the thought of it.

  ‘You must find out more!’

  ‘Ye find out mair!’ Back in the mirror, his image was fading.

  ‘Doningfuts!’ cried the witch, as if it was a word of power. ‘Remember–’

  But the grinnock had gone, and she was left alone with the darkness of her thoughts.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dancers and Dragons

  London, twenty-first century

  BRING THE STUN-GUN, Pen texted. Just in case. Although she told herself she was the sole monitor of activity in Number 7, and didn’t actually need any support, nonetheless it might be helpful to have Gavin along. Without admitting she was in any way affected by his smile, she liked him. She liked his single-minded ambition, which reminded her of her own, his focus, his sunny nature, the unmistakable aura of good fortune which clung to him so blatantly. In Bygone House, good fortune was bound to come in handy. And although her fictional reading was limited, she knew adventures went better with two.

  Not that this was an adventure, of course. It was scientific research. As she explained to Gavin, she was trying to establish a pattern.

  ‘Supposing there isn’t one?’

  ‘There’s always a pattern,’ Pen said doggedly. ‘That’s how everything works.’

  ‘Clever girl, ain’t you?’ said Gavin. ‘For your age.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m fourteen!’ Pen lied. She knew quite well that age is the one subject
on which it is always legitimate for a woman to lie.

  ‘You look less. Maybe, if you let your hair loose–’

  ‘I don’t want it to get in the way when I’m reading!’

  ‘You’re not reading now.’

  Lips thinned with resentment, Pen pulled the band off her ponytail. Her hair slithered down about her shoulders, kinked from long restraint.

  ‘That’s better,’ Gavin said, on an approving note which only made her resentment worse.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she snapped, determined to remain in charge.

  ‘If you are.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  It was Saturday, Mrs Harkness had gone home and Quorum shopping, they had a clear field. Pen unlocked the front door and they stepped through into Number 7.

  She had cleared up the pieces of the broken vase when she came in with Quorum to fix the window – ‘It was an accident,’ she’d told him. ‘I just... knocked into it’ – but she saw immediately there was another in its place, filled with bare winter twigs hung with tiny stars.

  ‘I didn’t do that,’ she whispered to Gavin. If you weren’t struggling with an inert velociraptor, something about the atmosphere made whispering instinctive.

  ‘What about your butler?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a key.’

  Even when she peered closely, she couldn’t see what the stars were made of. Each one seemed to have a minute core of pure light, encircled in its own radiance. She brushed a finger through it, and felt a faint sensation of heat.

  ‘They’re like... magic,’ Gavin murmured.

  ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ Pen declared resolutely.

  ‘What, here? With doors opening into the past and a dinosaur in the broom cupboard?’

  ‘It’s just... weird science.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Gavin grinned. ‘What should we do with the cat?’

  ‘Oh damn.’

  Felinacious, who could waddle very quietly for all his size, had followed them unnoticed and was now snooping round the hall. He stopped at one door down a flight of steps and towards the back of the house, pawing the panels and miaowing.

  ‘No, that’s not the kitchen,’ Pen said. ‘That’s just where a kitchen ought to be. Stupid animal. We should take him back, but–’

  ‘Never mind him. He’ll be okay. Cats always are. Let’s open some doors first.’

  ‘All right. The monk was in here... This one opposite should be a dining room or a drawing room or something – if the house was ordinary...’ She opened it rather too quickly, anxious to go first –

  Beyond the Doors

  Italy, fifteenth century

  THE MUSIC EXPLODED right beside her, shattering the quiet of the house. There was a whole orchestra only a little way away – fiddlers sawing until their strings twanged, the rippling fingers of a harpist, the piping treble of flute or piccolo, the bobbing keyboard of something that looked like a shrunken piano, though Pen thought it might be a clavichord or spinet. Beyond, dancers swirled in a rainbow vortex of flying silk and weaving limbs, both men and women in gaudy costumes, their faces hidden behind animal masks. And in the background there were trees hung with coloured lanterns, and a blue midnight garden twinkling with scattered lights under the honey gaze of a benevolent moon.

  ‘A party!’ said Gavin, no longer whispering but shouting in Pen’s ear to make himself heard. ‘Why don’t we–’

  ‘No. If we join in we’ll never get back. Mr Pyewackett told me–’

  ‘How did he know? I’ll bet he didn’t go into any of the rooms in all his life... or death. We can’t possibly forget who we are in just a few minutes.’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Pen. ‘I told you. Someone broke in upstairs and I know he never returned. We can’t risk it. We–’

  And then she felt something furry slide past her leg. She looked down – made a grab at empty air – Felinacious shot through her hands with a speed unnatural to him and vanished into the throng. Pen, borrowing from Gavin’s mother with a dash of creative licence, said: ‘Froggit! Now what do we do?’

  A brief lull in the music facilitated communication.

  ‘Go after him,’ Gavin said brightly.

  ‘We can’t. Oh lord. He is my responsibility. I promised Mr Pyewackett I’d look after him.’

  ‘There you are then. Although you do rather go on about your responsibilities...’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pen, slightly taken aback.

  ‘I thought I’d mention it,’ Gavin explained, ‘before it gets too boring.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Don’t take yourself so seriously. Where were we? Yeah... the cat. I’ll go after it; you wait here. That way you can remind me who I am if I decide to forget about it.’

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ said Pen. ‘It’s my re–’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘It’s my cat.’

  ‘I thought you were just the minder. Okay, get the cat, come back here. Remember that, even if you don’t remember who you are. Cat, then back here. I’ll wait – this time. But next time, I get to fetch the cat. Deal?’

  Pen kept her answer to a nod which, she reasoned, was easy to misinterpret. A nod wasn’t a verbal contract. Under law, she hadn’t agreed to anything. Then the music started again, and she plunged forward into the Past.

  She knew the cat well enough to guess he would head for food. This was a party: there were bound to be things to eat. All she had to do was find a table laden with sumptuous dishes and Felinacious would be there, picking lobster out of his teeth. Where had she put her mask? That must be it – there on the chair. The pointed snout and wide eye-slots of a weasel or stoat, its coppery fur matching her hair, its ears tufted in gold, an emerald set in its forehead. She put it on, feeling better immediately, though something was wrong with her outfit. Of course – her cousin Berenice had taken the dress out of spite, because she didn’t want Penella to look pretty or enjoy herself. Berenice was like that – all curls and eyes and smile, and poison inside. So she’d borrowed these breeches from the stable boy, and found the top heaven-knows-where, because she was determined to come to the Midsummer Party, even looking like a vagabondo.

  She was supposed to fetch the cat; she had promised Gasparo, though she couldn’t really see why it mattered. But he had been so earnest about it, so concerned, and she didn’t want to get him into trouble. He was her favourite of her aunt’s servants – he had such a lovely smile, even though he was black, sometimes she thought him far more handsome than Ricco, whom everybody admired, or even the prince. And he’d been kind to her in her younger days, bringing her tidbits from the kitchen when she had been sent to bed supperless and in disgrace for asking Federico’s tutor questions he couldn’t answer. The cat belonged to her aunt: it was spoiled and overfed though not ill-natured. It would be at the supper-table, she was sure of it. Greed was its dominant emotion. She moved between the dancers, her costume attracting the occasional startled glare, treading on someone’s skirt, pushed aside by someone else. Then she headed for the pavilion, running down dusky pathways, dodging courting couples. There was Ricco, with – yes, Catarinetta! – Berenice would be green with fury when she heard. And wasn’t that the prince, in the little rose-grown folly, with the open blooms glowing like ghost-flowers and the shadowy leaves hiding his companion? Wasn’t that the prince, murmuring: ‘Tesoro... tesoro... you are as fair as the midnight rose...’ in that cool cool voice that even passion did not warm? She could see his distinctive hair gleaming in the light of the single lantern. Almost she stayed to watch, but it made her feel sly, spying on him, so she ran on.

  In the pavilion was the supper-table, with whole lobsters on gilded platters, cured hams, pasties and tartlets, fresh fruits and sugared fruits and preserves. She helped herself to a frangipani tart and lifted the table-cloth, squinnying underneath to look for the cat. Sure enough, there he was, lurking in the dark with a length of fishtail protruding from his jaws, his green eyes glinting blearily in the reflected light. She drop
ped to her knees, calling him – ‘Felinaccio! Felinaccio! Vieni – vieni qui!’ But he didn’t come and she realised, reluctantly, that she would have to crawl in after him. Glancing round to check there was no one nearby to criticise her unladylike behaviour, she ducked under the hem of the linen and wriggled forward, reaching for the cat. Instead, she got the fishtail. There was a moment when she was pulling one way and the cat the other, until the fish’s spine cracked under the strain and they both fell backwards. But the cat, tangled in tablecloth and still trying to finish his stolen dinner, made a slow recovery, and Penella seized a fistful of fur, hauling him out of his lair. He squealed in protest even as they emerged into the night, lashing out, hooking the cloth with a passing claw. Guests turned to stare as Penella scrambled to her feet, hanging on grimly to her captive – and the cloth with all its burden came sliding after them, sending dishes and fishes, sweetmeats and sourmeats, goblets and tartlets crashing to the ground with the slow thunder of a banqueting debacle. There was a moment’s pause as the crumbs settled and the last of the platters clattered into silence. Penella did not wait for reaction to kick in. Still clutching the cat, now thankfully detached from the table-linen, she took to her heels.

  It is not easy to run holding an animal of any kind, particularly a very large and heavy cat. Among the criss-crossing garden paths she looked for a place to hide, hearing the pursuit somewhere behind her. Seeing the folly now apparently empty of the prince and his tesoro she ducked inside – only to check when she saw that he at least was still there, standing in the lee of a pillar looking out at the moon.

  ‘Who’s under that mask?’ he said, turning towards her. ‘It’s little Penni, isn’t it? – Signorina Penella – all dressed up like a boy. What’s your hurry?’

  ‘They’re after me,’ she said. ‘There was an accident – this stupid cat – my aunt will kill me–’

  ‘I can’t let that happen. Here–’ he took her elbow, steering her away from the lantern-light to a place at the back where she could crouch out of sight. ‘Now, don’t make a sound. You wouldn’t want to get a prince into trouble as well, would you?’