by Emma Newman
He was steered to the sofa, where the matriarch took her place in the middle, Max to her left, and the rest of the family either sitting with them or fetching tea. She started with the most recent album, showing him the birth of the twins and various other birthdays. When she started the second one, the gargoyle and the twins came back inside. After suffering the indignity of having its paws wiped free of mud and grass, the gargoyle came and sat on the floor next to Max, resting its head on his knee as Joy talked about the weddings in the pictures.
It was harder to keep up with the names and dates, now that Max was inundated by the rush of emotions that contact with the gargoyle had unleashed. Such relief, to have finally made contact with the only people who rooted him to the real world. Happiness at how Joy had accepted both halves of him so readily and how the rest of the family were starting to relax around them too. Sheer delight at the way the twins came in after having a drink to climb onto the gargoyle’s back, one wrapping his arms around his neck, the other sitting high and proud, like he was riding a horse. The novelty of being welcomed and accepted, of feeling part of something greater than himself. He looked down at the gargoyle, who looked up at him with one eye, not wanting to move so the twins could stay in place, smiling.
“Now this is what I wanted,” Joy said. “We can look at them other albums after.” She picked the tin off the pile and prised it open. Dozens of sepia photos were inside, and, rummaging through them, she plucked one out. “There’s my Mum and Dad, on their wedding day.”
Max looked at his sister, older than he remembered her, but still familiar. Her hair was in a 1930s curled bob, her husband handsome enough, both wearing their best clothes and standing rather awkwardly outside a church.
“It rained after they took that,” Joy said. “They went to the village hall and had beer and pork pies with their friends.”
“Beer and pork pies?” David sounded unimpressed.
“Well, beer was Mum’s favourite and pork pies were Dad’s favourite. Though Mum went on to stout when she got older. Now, there’s another one in here…oh! I forgot about this one! This is me when I were born.” Max and the gargoyle looked at the chubby-faced child in a frilly cap and dress before it was passed round.
“This is the one I were lookin’ for!” Joy handed Max a picture with a very familiar background: the foundry his father had worked at. But instead of the men all lined up, there was his father, mother, Jane, and him. Jane’s arm was around the young Max’s shoulders, squeezing him protectively, whilst their mother and father stood formally behind them. They were all in their Sunday best, Max not yet old enough to be wearing long trousers, his knobbly knees in plain view between his short breeches and long socks.
“I remember this!” Max said, the memory returning bright and clear, like a coin buried in a muddy river bed suddenly revealed. “My knees were cold and I was shivering, that’s why Jane put her arm around me. But I can’t remember why it was taken.”
“Mum said it were because grandad had just been made foreman and the foundry wanted a picture of him. He gave the photographer a shilling on the side to take a family portrait, because they couldn’t afford to get one done proper like. It used to be framed over the fire, but when you and grandad disappeared, it were taken down and put away. My Mum only found it when Granny died.”
Max stared at his own young face. How thin he and Jane were! He could remember the scratchy wool of that jumper pressing against his skin under the jacket, how he was bending his arms slightly to hide the fact that its sleeves weren’t long enough anymore.
It couldn’t have been long after that when he was taken by the Arbiter. Looking at himself as a child, and thinking of how he was taken from his family and forced to be part of the Chapter made a rush of tearful anger sweep through him. He’d lost so much. His mother and sister had suffered so. All because he’d seen something that could have been easily explained away to a child.
“Oh!” Joy saw the tears break free and run down his cheeks. “Oh, there, there. Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”
“I lost so much,” Max said as the gargoyle’s face crumpled too.
“But look what you have now!” Joy said, taking his hand. “Look! A family! And we’re so glad to know you now. You’re like a little piece of my mum come back to me after all this time.” And then she was crying and they held onto each other as the rest of the family sniffed and resolved to make more tea and struck up conversations about the cake, all of them trying hard to make everything seem normal.
Max held his niece tight, the gargoyle nuzzling her arm with its nose, and for the first time in over a hundred years, he felt loved.
• • •
“Yes!”
Glimpsing the ceramic surface through the gap in the newspaper, Cathy pulled the mug from the box and unwrapped it on the way to the kitchen of her new flat. She’d found the kettle first, had bought teabags and milk on the way to picking the keys up, but it had taken over three hours to find something to make the tea in. She’d packed everything in such a hurry, months before, when the Seeker Charm was bringing her brother to her door and her dreams of freedom were lost. None of the boxes were labelled and all of the contents were randomly packed, but thankfully, nothing had been found broken. Yet. She rinsed the mug in the sink as the kettle boiled, grinning at the old-fashioned lady’s face on the side against a lurid pink background. Tea! Crisis management since 1652! said the words below it. She nodded in agreement.
At least she’d had the wherewithal to ask one of her most reliable university friends to take care of things when Tom was on his way to drag her back to the Nether. After a phone call and a happy reunion over coffee, Cathy had all the details she needed to get back on her feet again. With luck worthy of something she’d bought in an egg, it turned out that her friend’s brother was looking to break his tenancy early and was happy to have her move in at short notice. She took over the bills, too, meaning everything was already set up when she moved in. It was a nice place, very small, but close enough to the centre of Manchester to walk in whenever she felt like it.
It felt like a palace.
The first sip of tea in her new flat was a happy milestone, and not the first one that day. When she’d unlocked the door for the first time, she realised that she was going to live somewhere she had chosen, that she was paying for herself (admittedly with the proceeds from the jewellery she was supposed to pass on to her children but sod that), without the fear of being discovered. Before, in her old place, the constant fear that her family would find her and that the Fae would ruin everything, had tainted every single day. And they had found her. And the Fae had ruined everything.
But she had survived. And more than that, she had destroyed the box they tried to keep her in.
It was also the first home that she had warded against the Fae. She’d scratched the formulae into the very top edge of the door and window frames, balanced precariously on a dodgy stepladder she’d borrowed from the building manager.
Taking the steaming mug back through to the tiny living room, she surveyed the chaos. Han Solo was propped up in the corner in his cardboard glory, her scarf draped around his neck. Her TV was plugged in and still worked, which amazed her considering that she’d dropped it when carrying it from the storage centre’s trolley to the hire van. That had been the only moment she’d regretted not accepting Sam’s offer of help.
“Just give me the details and I’ll have my people sort it all out for you,” Sam had said when he’d found her searching for van hire companies online.
“No, thanks.” She’d smiled at him. “I’m going to do all of it. I’ve got all my finances sorted again and I’ve put down the deposit. I got this.”
“I’ve got loads of property in Manchester. Salford Quays is nice. I own a whole bloody building there, much bigger than that place and better security, too.”
She’d got up from the desk, gone over and taken his hands. “Sam. I know you mean well. And I’m really gratefu
l for your help. But I don’t want to be dependent on anyone. Not even you. And paying the rent on a flat you own just doesn’t feel right to me. It all has to be totally mine. Okay?”
He’d nodded. “Okay. Sorry. I get it. I just…”
“Want to take care of me?” He’d nodded again. “Like the nice rich man taking care of his favourite lady?”
His earnest expression distorted into one of disgust. “Urgh, no! Not fair.”
She’d kissed him on the cheek. “Are you saying I’m not your favourite lady?” It had quickly unravelled into tickling and taunts until Mrs M had come in to ask if they wanted dinner yet. She was going to miss Mrs M’s cooking. There were three of her pies in the freezer and she wasn’t sure how long they’d last.
Cathy leaned against the window frame, looking out at the other red-bricked buildings and the tram rattling past below. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this happy. There were background worries about how she and Sam still had so much to do in the effort to educate the public about the Fae, and a nebulous concern that Will would hunt her down, but it all felt distant right now. Will hadn’t been in touch for over two weeks, and he’d have had ample opportunity. She hoped his behaviour really had been caused by the crown and that he had no interest in her now.
It was tempting to resume her studies. She had the feeling that human rights law was going to go through some interesting changes over the next few years, and regardless of the addition of the Fae, there were still many people who needed passionate advocates. But she also wanted to continue to study sorcery. Rupert was still in Oxford and there was always the chance he’d try to split the worlds again. She didn’t think it would be possible for him to do it alone, but nevertheless, having someone to counterbalance the man was surely useful. Besides, she could already see how many useful applications her skills would have in everyday life. If only she’d known how to ward herself against drunk men when she’d been a student before. She tried not to think about the hushed warning Max had given her before going to seek his family. He seemed to think that learning sorcery created memory problems, but Beatrice hadn’t shown any sign of them. Maybe it had been something to do with being just a pure Sorcerer. Max only knew two of them anyway. Hardly a representative sample. Still, the worry remained. She’d be careful.
The front door rattled with the familiar sound of a Letterboxer and Cathy was glad she’d put that exclusion clause into her ward. It was too useful to block. A postcard and two letters rested on the mat.
The postcard was one of the Roman Colosseum and she recognised Tom’s handwriting as soon as she flipped it over.
Dearest Cat,
Rome is more splendid than I could have possibly imagined and the winter sunshine has been most welcome. Saw the Trevi Fountain the other day, larger than I thought it would be. Coffee terrible, no tea to speak of, ice cream excellent. On to Milan tomorrow. Ciao!
Your loving brother,
Tom
Smiling, she rested it on the kitchen counter, ready for when she found her fridge magnets. She was glad Tom had finally gone to Europe. He’d been such a rock for the people in Aquae Sulis in the week following the restoration, helping the oldest of them to come to terms with the modern world enough to stop panicking every time they went outside. They’d spoken on the phone every day, checking in every lunchtime as they both did all they could to stabilise and reassure those they could influence. When the worst of the transition was done, and the Lavandulas were able to host a soiree to reassure previous residents of Aquae Sulis that civilised behaviour would continue, Tom had started to grow restless. Cathy knew he had always wanted to travel and had managed to persuade him that it was his time to do as he wished. It was almost as if he’d needed permission to be selfish. There was no better way to get over the grief about his failed marriage.
The first of the letters was from Natasha.
Dear Cathy,
I do hope you are well and that you have managed to find a flat. I am writing to pass on my new address which you will find enclosed. If you decide to remain in the north-west, I hope we will be able to meet, as I have decided to take employment at the library in Manchester. They were impressed by my knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System, coupled with my passion for local history and my experience with the Fae. I start there on Monday and I am most excited.
With love,
Natasha
Cathy looked up the address on her phone. An hour’s walk or ten minutes on the tram. She beamed at the thought of living so close to her. She’d make sure her house was warded too. Cathy was determined to make sure that nothing horrible ever happened to Natasha again as a result of their friendship.
The last letter was from Charlotte.
Dear Cathy,
I write to reassure you that Margritte is back in England and is currently lodging with myself and Emmeline whilst she considers her options. She has asked me to pass on her thanks to you and Lord Iron for arranging her passage back from the Americas. We are all rather shocked by the recent events and rumours abound that the Patroons are currently informing the residents of Londinium that they are in negotiations to secure a new “Nether” for the Great Families and that they should not consider leaving the city. Have you heard anything about this?
Margritte says that Alexander was reinstated as Vice-Chancellor but barely had time to return before the collapse. Apparently there’s a Sorcerer in Oxford, have you heard? I think it’s one of those silly rumours that people like to spread to feel important. Margritte and I scour the newspapers daily for any mention of it, and indeed of any of our old friends and rivals. Did you see what happened to poor Harold? Knocked down by a bus in Oxford Street, apparently. How is your sister? What will she do now she is widowed?
Do you have any idea what caused the collapse? The Fae are most definitely at large, did you see the picture of Lord Poppy in the newspaper? He seems to be having a lot of fun. Do you think he could have been responsible for that arms shipment being turned into poppy seeds, or could that have been a rogue faerie? We’ve heard rumours about those too.
When you have a moment, let me know how you are. I’m sorry William wasn’t who we thought he was. Is it true that you’ve been staying at Mr Ferran’s house? I saw him in the newspaper too. He is quite handsome, isn’t he?
Oh, I almost forgot! Emmeline has been accepted into Cambridge and will be studying Human, Social and Political Sciences. We are so thrilled. I am considering the pursuit of higher education myself, and Margritte and I have been discussing the possibility of setting up an organisation to aid women of the Nether to access the education denied to them before the collapse. Is this something you’d be interested in? I thought Natasha might like to be involved too. I shall pen her a letter after this. Benedict has decided to continue his Grand Tour as planned, which I think is very wise.
I miss you, Cathy. Let’s arrange a day soon when we can all meet in happier circumstances and make our plans to help fellow ladies take advantage of all the opportunities now available to them.
With love and affection,
Charlotte
A new Nether? Cathy sighed. Those Patroons would say anything to try and keep their clutches on the ignorant few. As soon as she was settled, she’d make sure those rumours were put to death. As for Elizabeth being a widow, she was sure she was very happy. She wouldn’t put it past her sister to have pushed the poor man under the bus herself. She made a note in her phone to write back about the organisation to help women gain the education they’d been deprived of. Her heart started to race at the thought of the four of them, together again, making plans without Will’s obstruction.
She still had to unpack, though, so the letters were left to one side as Cathy went back to the front room. She turned on the TV, needing some background noise while she ploughed through the chaos.
“I have no interest in a political career.”
Cathy nearly dropped a mug at the sound of Sam’s voice on the lunchtime news. He w
as outside the Manchester office, not that far away, nabbed by the small crowd of journalists that always seemed to be camped outside.
“How would you respond to accusations that these outlandish claims about the return of magic is a plot to drive up the price of iron?”
Sam laughed at the man who’d asked the question. “Seriously?” he laughed again. “That’s just bloody bonkers. I haven’t got time to waste on conspiracy theories.”
“Isn’t the rejuvenation of the UK steel industry at odds with your radical environmental activism?”
Cathy held her breath. They’d discussed this question coming up just yesterday, and had drafted an ideal response to it. Had he had a chance to learn it?
“I’m not some hippie who thinks we should all return to nature,” Sam replied. “It’s possible to have a steel industry that meets the very best environmental protection guidelines and create thousands of jobs in the process. There’s a bigger picture here, and not just the increased demand. The politicians have ignored swathes of the population who just want solid, reliable jobs that create tangible things. I’m hoping that my vision for our steel industry will restore the pride and self-respect of people like my father and grandfather who lost their jobs in industry years ago.”
She grinned. Word perfect.
“And what about rumours that you’ve bought government permission to do this?”
Sam smiled right into the camera. “All of the paperwork is in place and available to be scrutinised by anyone who feels they need to. The government should have been driving this a long time ago, but it doesn’t have the will to make these improvements. This is a better solution than austerity.”
“And what would you say to your fellow billionaires, Mr Ferran? Are you putting the pressure on them to start a golden age of philanthropy?”
