by Kate Blair
I’d promised I’d fix this.
There had to be a solution through the magpie’s door. Or what was it for? It had appeared just as Gran got majorly sick. But I’d been into a statue three times now and found nothing. I had to be doing something wrong. Being stupid, as usual.
I’d look closer next time. Think harder.
I wanted to jog home, but my feet were heavy and they dragged. I tripped on the cracks in the pavement. The wind pushed against me, taking my breath, making me feel like crap.
I unlocked the door quietly so I wouldn’t let Mum know I’d popped out. I was easing it closed when I spotted her and Uncle Chris in the living room, side by side on Mum’s precious new blue sofa. They stared at the carpet, as if they were statues themselves. I froze.
If both of them were here, no one was with Gran. They’d left her alone.
But we never left her alone. We’d been with her every second since she’d got bad. Swapping out to go to the loo, or get a drink. There was only one reason they’d have left her alone.
The world tilted. The front door slipped from my hand and slammed shut. Mum looked up, makeup smeared over her blotchy face. “Chloe, come here. Sit down.”
I backed away.
“Chloe.” Mum’s voice was too kind. Not demanding to know where I’d been, none of the usual grief I got from her. Uncle Chris stared at me with the same red-eyed sympathy.
I ran to the stairs. I had to get to Gran’s room without hearing. If I could get up there without Mum saying the words, it’d be okay. I kind of knew that was daft. But it didn’t stop me.
“Chloe!” Mum called.
I took the steps two at a time, hand skimming along the banister.
“Chloe! Wait! Don’t go in there!”
Gran’s room was first on the left. I shut the door behind me. I threw myself into the chair at the side of the bed, taking a deep breath of her lavender perfume.
“Gran, it’s me. I’m back.” I grabbed her hand. It was limp, but warm. She was sleeping. That’s all. She had to be sleeping. I felt for a pulse. Nope. But that didn’t mean anything. I’d always been bad at taking my own pulse. I was just having trouble finding Gran’s.
“Gran, wake up. Please.”
Gran’s mouth was slightly open. I willed her chest to move. I held my own breath, listening for the slightest sound from her.
She couldn’t be dead. She’d always been there, solid as a statue. We’d lived with her since Dad left. I waited. I wouldn’t breathe until she did.
My head spun. The pressure built. Things started to get dark. The stairs creaked as Mum climbed. I couldn’t hold it anymore. The air escaped in a rush of breath.
Mum opened the door.
I turned around. “I … she …”
Mum put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”
I swallowed. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. It didn’t feel real.
“I said I’d be here. Did she … ask for me?”
Mum’s voice shook. “No, love. She didn’t even wake up.”
UNCLE CHRIS MADE tea. He handed me a cup. It was so hot it burned my palms. I clutched it tight, hoping the pain would block out Mum’s words, as she told me the details.
Gran died not long after I’d gone out. The doctor had been already. I squeezed the mug tighter, but it was already cooling, the burn of my hands fading as the ache in my chest grew. I put the cup down without drinking any.
Mum and Uncle Chris talked about the funeral: songs Gran would like. Tonic scampered through the door on her too-big kitten feet. I reached for her, but she hissed and swiped a claw. Blood swelled into the thin red lines she’d left. It stung more than it should.
Mum asked if I had ideas for the funeral. But I didn’t want to think about Gran’s funeral. I didn’t want there to be a funeral. I couldn’t face it. I muttered about needing some air, and hurried out of the house, to the only place I wanted to go.
In the park, the magpie’s door was still there, waiting. I’d thought it might disappear with Gran’s life. The life it was meant to save. But it was still here. So I was wrong about that.
I was wrong about all of it.
I didn’t go through. I collapsed on the bench and stared at the statue in the center of the small park. She was some distant relative according to Mum, called Cordelia Webster. She’d died of one of those weird Victorian diseases. Her dad was an artist, but he’d gone bonkers, and done nothing but carve statues of her for the rest of his life. I used to think that was kind of nice. I only saw Dad every other weekend, so if something happened to me, he’d be sad and all, but he’d carry on pretty much the same.
But now I felt for Cordelia’s dad. I got why he carved her, why he couldn’t get her out of his head.
Because he hadn’t been able to save her.
I’d messed up, somehow. What had I missed? I wasn’t like, top of the class or anything, but I wasn’t that stupid. I dragged myself over to the magpie’s door, pushed it open, and went in.
The stiffness dropped from me. I felt myself again.
The sculpture park was impossible. The door should have opened into someone’s back yard. Instead, a totally lush lawn spread out in front of me, sculptures all over it, every one of them a human figure. Some were half-finished, faces and arms jutting out of the rough block as if they’d got trapped in the stone. Those ones were creepy, and I avoided them.
The magpie perched on the nearest statue, one of some girl in a really old dress. Even though I felt better here, grief still squeezed at my throat.
“Gran died,” I told the bird. “I wasn’t even there.”
The magpie flapped off, away across the park. Its confidence made me wonder if things could be fixed. Maybe it could like, turn back time. I’d been going back in time in a way, hadn’t I? Into people’s lives? I mean, it wasn’t totally stupid to hope that, was it?
I followed the bird away from the oldest statues at the front. The flash of black wings led me into a part of the garden I hadn’t seen. There, the magpie perched on the statue of a familiar girl: Cordelia Webster.
Her head was tilted, and her hair curled onto her shoulders. She crouched down, hand on a chess piece. A board was carved into the base.
The hope inside me chilled. “You just saw me looking at her statue, back in the outside park, right? That’s why you brought me to this one.”
The magpie nodded, looking pleased with itself. My hands balled into fists.
“But I don’t want her. I want Gran. I want her to be alive.”
The magpie shook its head.
“They’re planning her funeral! I was meant to save her! I promised! I don’t want this!”
I swung a hand at the statue, hitting it with a slap. Pain burst through my palm.
Cordelia Webster moved. Her cold fingers grabbed hold of mine. I tried to pull away, but her hands were strong as stone. My heart sped.
“Wait! I need to go back …”
Cordelia pulled me toward her.
I yanked, trying to get free. “No!”
I stumbled forward, the world tipped up, and I fell into the statue.
I WOKE IN the chair, back in the magical library, myself again. But Chloe’s grief lingered. It was too close to my own. I could easily imagine how I’d feel if we had to plan Grandpa’s funeral.
“Why didn’t Chloe tell me about any of this?”
The magpie gave that funny wing shrug again.
“Well, I need to find her. I need to talk to her, right now.”
I hurried out of the magical library.
YOU SHOULD NOT have shown the girl her cousin’s story.
“Why not? Perhaps she could bring Chloe back to me. I still see her pain.”
Chloe stole Cordelia Webster from you.
“But Chloe’s story is incomplete.”
There was so much missing from my collection. The people I wanted the most were gone. “Like Isabel’s.”
You must look to the future, not the past. You simply need more, to ease this loneliness.
“Sometimes it feels not like loneliness. Sometimes it feels like a bottomless hunger.”
You would not feel so alone if you listened to me. You have always had the power to take your visitors whole. I know not why you play your ridiculous game.
“I wish for them to choose to stay with me.”
Why would they? Your own siblings did not.
I could not argue with that. Even Isabel left me. One day, she’d come to my chamber, cheeks red with excitement. She paced, hands fluttering like butterflies, words coming out in breathless gasps. A strange scent reached me, like the spices of distant lands.
I was afraid she had been taken by fever; for once again the sweating sickness was abroad in the city. But as her words rushed out of her, I discovered her excitement was of another nature.
The son of a wealthy merchant wished to marry her. His father traded in spices and scents. He was charming, and made her laugh. He had brought her gifts of exotic perfumes, captured in jeweled bottles. Our father had approved, and it was settled.
I wished to share her joy, but without her, I would be alone forever.
Once she had gone, The Whisper spoke. “No one will stay unless you bind them to you. You can bring your family together, with your gift and my help.”
I was not ready to make that deal.
“You have to end the betrothal, at least,” The Whisper said.
I shook my head, but the velvet voice continued.
“Not for your sake. For Isabel’s. She is the daughter of a knight. Does not her sweet nature deserve better than a merchant’s son?”
I could not argue with that. She deserved to marry a man of name, as Alice had.
The Whisper spoke long into the night, persuading me, guiding me, helping me make a plan. The following day I disguised my handwriting and wrote a letter to my father, filled with lies to cast doubt upon the character of the merchant’s son. It needed but to be sent.
I waited until Isabel and my father were out, and then dragged myself down the back stairs, hands quaking as they traced the limewash of the walls, each breath tight in my lungs. I found a servant in the courtyard, shirking his duties under the guise of a headache. I offered him my silver buckle for his services and his silence. He agreed, for his family needed the money.
When he wiped the sweat from his brow, I thought it was due to his nervousness, like my own. I did not see the mortal fever bright in his eyes, his breath coming too fast.
I handed him the letter. Our hands touched, sealing my fate, leading me here, to this life.
Or this half-life. Whatever it was.
You did not argue so much before this Silva girl came, The Whisper said. You should take her, whole. For her own sake.
“That does not feel right.”
Trust me. I have always known best.
Chapter Ten
THE MOMENT I stepped through the magpie’s door and back into the foggy damp of the real world, I regretted it. It felt like I was tearing myself in two.
The wind cut into me, as if my skin had been stripped away and I was a raw nerve. I slipped on the muddy grass and landed on my bum. I sat there as the wet soaked through my jeans. Without the magic of the library to keep it at bay, the exhaustion — the ache of it all — crashed down on me. I didn’t want to deal with reality. I yearned for the comfort of the magpie’s library.
I stood, wiped myself off, and checked my phone. Mum’s message was on the screen.
Fine. We’ll have a proper talk when you get home.
I remembered everything. The pills, the tea, the whole reason I’d fled the house. I was too sapped to have a “proper talk” with Mum, or deal with Grandpa’s awful disappointment.
I had to speak to Chloe. But what could I say? Hey, I walked around in your body probably wouldn’t go over well.
I stumbled around the side of the library to the main road, then froze.
The dark figure was there, the person who’d tailed me up the road. The hood of their long black coat covered their face, making them look like the grim reaper. Fine rain misted down.
I ducked back around the corner, heart pounding. Had they seen me? I pressed against the cold wall. They’d followed me up the road, and waited for me. What did they want?
I stood there, breath coming hard, terrified the dark figure would appear from around the corner and grab me. It was only after a few long seconds that I realized I had somewhere to hide. Somewhere they’d never find me.
I crept over the wet grass, reached the magpie’s door, and ducked back through it.
Warmth and wellness rushed back into me as the door closed, sealing me in the safety of the magpie’s room. I took a deep breath as the magic of the library restored me, making me whole. The gray cloud over my thoughts lifted.
The magpie hopped over. Its tail twitched, as if it were happy to see me back so soon.
“Someone was following me. I have to hide here while I work out what to do, okay?”
The magpie took off and landed on the shelves. It cawed, and tilted its head at the books.
“Thanks, but I don’t want to read right now. I just need a moment to think.”
I sank down onto the chair in the center of the room. The magpie swooped over and landed on the armrest. I pulled out my phone, planning to call Mum to come and get me. But there was no reception.
“I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise. Magic library, no mobile coverage, right?”
The bird nodded at the books again, but I wasn’t in the mood to read one. They’d all been creepy or depressing.
“I’m going to wait a bit, okay? In case they saw me. Then I’ll make a run for it, over the fence and through the school grounds.”
The magpie nodded. I glanced at my phone.
“Do you think ten minutes will be enough?”
The bird gave one of its little shrugs.
“You know what, since I’m stuck here for a bit, can I see Chloe’s book? Just to look. I don’t want to go into it.”
The bird nodded. Chloe’s book swooped down into my hands. I turned to the back. The pages there were blank.
“It’s not finished. Is that because she’s alive?” I shut the book before the letters reached my hands. “And why does it stop there? Chloe’s gran died years ago.”
The magpie paused, as if thinking. It lifted its chin and turned until its back was to me.
“What are you doing?”
The magpie stood there, beak up, looking away. It was miming something. It stamped its little feet like a child, sulking. I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh.
“She’s … ignoring you?”
The magpie twisted back around and nodded.
“Why?”
Again, that funny little wing shrug.
“Did something happen, in that story she entered, the story of Cordelia Webster?”
A nod.
I knew the statue, of course. But the one in the park on Hayling was just of her head and shoulders, not like the one of Cordelia playing chess Chloe had found in her park.
“Chess … wait. I’ve seen a chess board here, haven’t I?” It took a moment for the memory to click. “The book with the torn-out pages! It had a chess set on its cover!”
I rushed to where I’d found the vandalized book, reached up, and pulled it out. There, in the only scrap left of the picture was a chess set.
The magpie still perched on the chair. “Did Chloe destroy this book?”
It nodded, sadly.
“So you won’t let her back in?”
The bird shook its head, firmly.
“Is her sculpture garden still
there?”
Another nod.
I’d check in the park on the way home, but I was starting to understand, starting to feel the pattern fall into place. “The library is the sculpture garden, in a way, isn’t it?”
A fierce nod and an excited flutter of feathers.
“It’s behind the same door,” I waved a hand at the wooden entrance. “Just like the dollhouse and the cinema. Does this place change, according to what we want?”
The magpie was hopping with excitement.
It made sense. I loved books. Margaret loved dolls. Beth wanted to see a film. Mum said Chloe liked to carve and sculpt. This place shaped itself for us, for our passions and desires.
“So, you made this library just for me?”
The magpie looked proud now. It preened, stretching its wings out and lifting its beak.
That explained why I’d seen the girl with the sores as a doll in Margaret’s story and a cinema poster in Beth’s. Why there was a statue of Cordelia Webster in Chloe’s park, but a book in my library. Why each of us had gone through the same door, but found ourselves in a different place. Books, dolls, statues, films: the same stories, in different forms.
I walked over to the chair, and offered my hand. The bird climbed onto my thumb, and I stroked its smooth feathers. It closed its eyes, as if in bliss.
“But why are the stories so sad? Why did you make this place? What’s it for?”
The magpie paused at this, the black bead of its eye fixed on mine. It hopped off my hand, and with a quick swoop flew to where one of the roots met the wall. There, on the lowest shelf, was a single book, bound in old leather.
With a rustle like the breeze through autumn leaves, the book quivered and opened its pages. With gentle flaps, it eased itself from the ground, and wheeled around the room once, slowly, almost mournfully, before coming to land on the palms of my waiting hands, weighing them down.
It was the old book I’d picked up first, with a girl in what looked like a dress from a Shakespearean play. If it wasn’t a costume, this story had to be almost five hundred years old.
“I can’t read this. It’s all in italics.”
