The bell never ceased the entire time she rode to the church. She took the four-wheeler this time, not caring, for once, that she was visible. The bell grew louder and louder the closer she came, and by the time she stood before it, she had to clamp her hands over her ears. She jumped off the four-wheeler without bothering to turn it off. The moon was almost full, so it was easy enough to see where she was going as she ran up the hillside to the doorway of the church.
Something about the way the light faded in the doorway stopped her from going in. It was like awakening from a dream as she came to a halt on the steps of the church. What was she doing? Why had she ignored her father? She had no idea what she might be getting herself into, and she had no idea what she was looking at. She reached her hand out slowly toward the inside of the church. There was something wrong with the way the air looked in the moonlight, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She had never seen anything quite like it before. She hesitated a moment, then pushed her hand into the space beyond the doorway. Something intangible swept her hand in and off to one side before she drew it back, shaking in surprise. Wind, she realized. It was wind, twisting, writhing like a ghost in a blender.
A second later, the wind seemed to slow down. Then it stopped altogether, and she could see what the wind had been hiding. It was as if she were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. There was a person standing a long way off in the middle of a large room, but she couldn’t make out much detail.
She glanced about her, desperate for something that would tell her what to do, but there was nothing. She was alone. She was here alone on the very steps where she had been found as a baby. The bell had rung again like it had that night. A door had opened, she knew it somehow. What was she to do?
Unbidden, the words that had been haunting her thoughts in the previous days rose again in her ears.
All things have a mother.
That is what she had heard in this very place the same day that the bell started ringing. That voice, those words. From nowhere.
All things have a mother.
She looked around desperately, but she was alone—except for a magpie. It stood on the broken church wall as it had done before, watching her. She looked back into the doorway. She could very easily back away from the door. She could go back and talk to her father, see if he could make sense of it. She didn’t know what would happen if she walked into the church, but it didn’t seem like a good idea; deep down something told her it wasn’t safe. It would change things, she felt. The problem was, that same something was saying that the answers to all her questions lay beyond the door, and the words from nowhere rang in her ears again:
All things have a mother.
This time when she heard it, she knew deep down that it was true.
She took a step.
Blackness swallowed Brinley completely. She cringed, closing her eyes, but nothing happened. A second later, she looked up to find that she was in a well-lit room. A young man was staring at her. Black hair hung about his head like a shadow, billowing gently. He had the look of someone standing in a breeze, though they were clearly indoors. There were papers in his hands. Papers fell to the ground all around her as if they had just been blown off some high shelf.
“Hello,” the young man said genially, dropping the rest of the papers and walking toward her. “Is someone there?”
“Hello,” she said in return. “My name is Brinley.”
He stopped a few feet from her, folding his hands behind his back and turning his head from one side to the other. “I can’t see you. Who are you? I don’t suppose you are the Magemother?”
“I—”
“I didn’t think so.” He took a half step closer, his dark eyes narrowing. “Who are you, then? Or what are you? And why are you invisible?” he sniffed the air. “Did you come out of the painting? It sort of…flashed.”
From the other end of the library (for they were obviously in a library of some kind), someone was banging on a set of double doors. A second later, the giant gong rang out again. The sound came from right above them, so loud that the hair on the young man’s head actually bounced a little.
“Did you come because of that summoning bell?” he asked shrewdly. “It has been ringing incessantly since before you arrived.”
“Summoning bell?” she said.
He raised his eyebrows impatiently, staring at a spot somewhere above her head.
“Uh—I did hear a bell,” she said after a moment. “I’m looking for my mother.” As soon as the words were out she felt silly, but it was the only thing she could think of. This was not turning out the way she had expected. She’d hoped that she might find her mother right inside when she stepped through, or meet someone who knew where she was, but this young man didn’t seem to know anything. She was starting to have second thoughts about stepping through the doorway.
He stared at her blankly. “I see,” he said finally, and his shoulders seemed to sag in disappointment. “Well then, we have some problems.”
“We do?” she asked, bewildered.
“Yes,” he said, setting his shoulders in a determined way and starting to circle around her. “First, I am not your mother. Second, and perhaps most important, you are not the Magemother, which would have simplified things. Third,” he continued, circling around her so that she had to turn on the spot to keep him in sight, “you are invisible.”
“I am not,” Brinley said defiantly. This was starting to get out of hand. She looked down at herself just to make sure. Yep, she could see herself just fine. “Am I really invisible?” she asked.
“You are,” the young man said. “You sound surprised. Are you not usually invisible?”
“Of course not!” This was ridiculous! She had spent so much of her life wishing she could be invisible, and now, when it was most inconvenient, it had happened. She heard her father’s words ringing in her mind again. When you do a thing for too long you become it. If she ever told him about this, she would never live it down. She thought about that for a moment. How would she get back? She had no idea where she was. She tried not to think about that. She tried to focus on the hope that somehow she would find her mother here, along with the answers to her past.
“I see,” the boy said, circling her again. “Then we have come to our final problem. Namely, neither one of us knows what is going on.”
***
Archibald pressed his ear to the doors once more. He thought he could hear the sound of the storm beginning to diminish on the other side of the door. After a minute, it was completely silent. He turned to Denmyn and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, something’s happened,” she said simply. They waited and waited, but could hear nothing behind the door. Then, without warning, it swung open, leaving them stumbling back in surprise.
A young man stood in the open doorway, looking for all the world like the lord of some manor who had caught a few doorbell-ditching children.
“Who rang?” he said imperiously. “Ah.” He had spotted the bell in Archibald’s hand. Without another word he reached across the threshold and pulled Archibald through, swinging the door closed again behind them. Hugo, who had been standing right beside Archibald, nearly didn’t make it.
“Nooooo—” the librarian cried as the door swung shut, but his cry was cut off by the sharp thud of wood. The young man’s low chuckle fell eerily over the empty library. He smiled sideways at Archibald. “It’s not locked, you know. I am not so inept as that. They say if you lock this door there’s no telling in what century it might reopen.” He indicated the large lock-bolts on three edges of the door, which remained unmoved. “I have other ways to keep it shut.” He swept his arms behind him and then forward, as if tossing a sheet out over an unmade bed. Archibald shivered as he felt an invisible wind rush past him to settle over the door, pressing it closed.
“I am Cannon,” he said simply, head cocked to one side in a penetrating expression that almost dared Archibald to contra
dict him. “And you are Archibald, trusted servant of the High King. Am I right?”
Archibald nodded in agreement. “Pleased to meet you.”
Cannon turned to Hugo. “Who are you?”
“Hugo Paradise,” Hugo said, extending his hand.
“The Prince of Caraway,” Cannon said, ignoring the proffered hand. “Of course you are. Who else would you be on a day like this?”
With that, he turned on his heel and hurried away past a stack of shelves, Archibald and Hugo stepping quickly to catch up with him.
“Why did you let us in?” Archibald asked as they wound their way through the rows of shelves.
Cannon drew up short, turning to look at Archibald in an almost interrogatory way. “I brought you in to show you what you have done.”
“Done?” Archibald said, taking his hat off and smoothing his hair a little self-consciously.
Cannon pointed to the bell still in Archibald’s hand, which caused him to tuck it inside his vest pocket protectively. “Yes, what you have done, Archibald. With your summoning bell.”
Chapter Twelve
In which Cannon shows off, jumps to conclusions, and throws dust in people’s faces
Brinley stood alone in the library. The young man had excused himself and told her to wait. She guessed he was going to answer the banging on the doors. Curiously, she examined her surroundings. The space was immense. Vaulted ceilings towered high above her, laced with dark wooden beams that ran from the center of the ceiling down to the top of the walls, where they joined with massive square columns. Bookcases broke up the floor every few feet.
She didn’t know what to think. A moment ago, she had been at the old church in Morley, Colorado. She obviously wasn’t in a church now. She wasn’t even sure she was in Colorado. That bell had been ringing again, the bell from nowhere, and she had gone inside the church. But now she was somewhere else entirely. The doorway that she had stepped through was not a doorway at all, at least not on this side. It was a painting. It stood at least ten feet tall and wider than she could spread her arms.
As if that wasn’t curious enough, it was a painting of Morley Church, so familiar it looked as if she could have painted it herself. And yet, this painting was different from any other that she had seen. It seemed to be alive somehow, colors glinting like real objects in the light of day. The whole thing seemed to be moving, drifting ever so slightly in the frame like clouds inching across the sky. She reached out to touch it, wondering if somehow she would be able to get back through. Her breath caught as her fingertips brushed the surface of the painting. It was warm and wet, like melting butter, and the colors brushed away at her touch, leaving streaks of black in the image.
Her heart beat faster. How would she get back? She found herself humming an old tune in her head, like she always did when she was nervous. It was a song, to be exact—an old Irish lullaby from “the homeland” as her father said. He had sung it to her as a little child. Now she sang it to herself whenever she wanted to put some space between herself and the world.
When beyond my home you go, there’s several things you ought to know:
That lies will catch you fewer flies than honey and a happy smile
So wash your face, but not the mirror (It’s full of evil things, my dear).
And tie your shoes and break the rules (but only when you know you should).
And when you’ve finished dancing with the princess and her magic man,
Just come back home to father and I’ll put you back to bed.
That was her now, she realized. She had gone beyond home for sure. How would she ever get back to her father?
The young man who had disappeared a moment before reemerged from behind a bookshelf, only now he was followed by an older man and a boy who looked to be around her own age. She felt a twinge of apprehension and she remembered something else her father said:
If you’re afraid, DO something.
She decided to take the initiative. “Hello,” she said, waving in a friendly way. “I’m sorry we didn’t get off on the right foot earlier, Mr….” She was looking directly at the young man, but he didn’t seem to see her.
“You see?” he said to Archibald. “It appears to be a girl of some sort, but she isn’t visible. Can you see her?” Archibald shook his head. “No, I didn’t think so. I wonder…” He disappeared around the corner. They heard the opening and closing of a door, and then he came back into view, carrying what looked like a dustpan. “I was in the middle of my work and she stepped right out of the painting of Ert,” he said, walking back to them. “I wonder if this will work.” He moved in Brinley’s general direction. “Where are you?”
“I’m right h—” Before Brinley could finish, he flung the contents of the dustpan in her face. She doubled over, coughing and sneezing.
“Oh my!” Archibald exclaimed.
“Sorry,” the young man said weakly.
A layer of dust now covered her whole upper body, allowing the others to see her. But why was she invisible in the first place? Was this some sort of joke? Was she dreaming? Maybe she had slipped and knocked her head when she had stepped through the doorway.
“Ah,” the young man continued, studying her closely. “You are a little girl then.”
“A little girl,” Archibald echoed softly. “But this doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who were you expecting?” the young man asked sharply.
Archibald shrugged. “Not a little girl.”
Brinley couldn’t take it any longer. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I am not a little girl. I’m nearly thirteen, thank you very much.”
“I beg your pardon,” Archibald said, looking startled.
The young man rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” he said, pressing his point, “whomever you were expecting, you have summoned a little girl. What do you propose we do with her?”
Brinley glared at him. He couldn’t be more than a couple years older than she was, and she didn’t appreciate being talked down to by somebody who had just thrown dust in her face.
The older man had better manners. He stepped around his friend and offered her his hand. “I am Archibald,” he said, removing his black bowler hat with his other hand and straightening it smartly at his side. He gave a little bow.
“Don’t touch her…O—oh well.” The younger man gestured in an exasperated manner. Archibald was ignoring him, so Brinley decided to do the same. “I’m Brinley,” she said.
“Indeed!” the young man chided skeptically. He took a step closer, eyes narrowed with interest.
Archibald gestured to him. “This is Can—”
“Stop!” the young man bellowed. “Shake her hand if you like, tell her your name if you like, but leave me out of it.” The younger man looked practically alarmed. “People do not walk through paintings, Archibald, no matter how magical they may be. Mages may fly, and perhaps walk through portals, but I have never heard of there being a portal in the Hall of Records, nor did I see one open.” He spoke fast and low, and Brinley had to strain to hear him. “It is possible—in fact, probable—that she is not a person at all, but rather something else.” His face became a mask of suspicion.
“Something else?” Archibald repeated.
“Yes,” he went on, a touch of darkness in his voice. “At first I thought she might be a Specter, since she appeared to emerge from the painting—she looked like a ghost then, before going completely invisible—but then of course, you shook her hand. You did feel her hand? Touching you?” He turned suddenly to Archibald as if half expecting him to declare that he had touched a ghost and neglected to mention it.
“Of course I did. Look at her! She’s just a girl!”
“Archibald!” the young man said reprovingly. “There are things that appear as children which in reality are far from innocent.”
Archibald surveyed Brinley doubtfully. “But why would you suspect her?”
“Because,” he said darkly,
“my master followed an idris into the night three weeks ago, and has not been heard from since.”
Archibald paled a little and took a step back. “An idris?” he said slowly.
“Yes,” the young man replied. “An idris—a devil child, as they are often called.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Can,” Brinley interrupted dryly, “but I have no idea what you are talking about. Where am I?”
The young man gave Archibald a dark look.
Archibald, on the other hand, looked slightly relieved, as if hearing her voice somehow calmed whatever misgivings had taken hold of him. “You are in the Hall of Records at the Magisterium in Tarwal.”
None of those places sounded familiar. She thought she might have heard the word “Magisterium” before, but she couldn’t recall what it meant. “In Tarwal?” she asked.
“Yes,” Archibald replied, nodding. “Tarwal is the southern city in Caraway. Surely you know Caraway? The kingdom of Caraway?”
Did he say kingdom? She shook her head, and a rain of dust particles drifted down off her head.
Archibald continued. “You do not know where you are?”
She shook her head again, and Archibald asked her, “Where did you come from?”
“Colorado,” she said simply. She thought about adding that that was in the United States, but decided against it; she did not want to sound insulting stating something so obvious.
Archibald looked from her to Mr. Can and back again. “And what kingdom is that in?” he asked.
“Uh,” she wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but clearly she had to be a little more forward with this man. “The United States of America?” She turned and pointed to North America on the painting.
The two men stared at her in amazement. Archibald pointed to the painting as well. “This is where you came from? From Ert?”
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