by Karen Foxlee
He walked the streets submerged in his strange magical fog. London was filled with disgruntled sounds. Out on the Thames, foghorns lamented and anchored boats rang their bells. Men cried frantically to one another at the great intersections, guiding carriages with lanterns that barely pierced the cloud. It was a sooty, stained, drowning London.
He raised seven shadowlings in dark lanes. Seven more that had been sleeping for centuries in the cloisters of a great church. He sang them up, Umbra, antumbra, from sewer grates. He raised them up, and they gasped their first breaths. He commanded they carry him to the magic shop, and they seethed and writhed and grew themselves into the shape of a chariot. With their claws, they made a seat for him to sit upon. They carried him off the dirty road and up into the sky.
“Annabel Grey?” he said to Miss Estella and Miss Henrietta where they lay. “I need her. When I feed her to the machine tomorrow night at full moon, its power shall be complete. I will raise my dark army.”
Of course they would not tell him where she was.
The shadowlings crowded around the trapdoor to the secret river, though. The light from the Ondona still burned there.
Mr. Angel looked on the two old women sadly. He tut-tutted softly under his breath.
“You think she can save you?” he said quietly.
He aimed the Black Wand at the light and extinguished it.
“Good magic is finished,” he said. Then he bent down and unlatched the door and let the shadowlings beneath.
“If a young lady finds herself vexed by passengers of ill-breeding, she should turn toward the window to admire the view.”
—Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)
There was constantly changing weather on her face. It seemed to Annabel that most often Kitty frowned or looked ashamed, but sometimes brief outbreaks of sunshine appeared, tiny half-smiles accompanied by the little wild cackle, so filled with pleasure. There was a tiny smile now as Annabel watched the orb that hung between them.
“I don’t understand what it is,” said Annabel. “I mean to say…where does it come from?”
“Here,” said Kitty, frowning, and she pointed to her chest. “Inside me.”
“But who taught you how to do it?” she asked.
“None did.”
“But what kind of magic is it?”
“How should I know? My magic,” said Kitty.
There was the little smile again, quickly replaced by a frown as she leaned forward and took Annabel’s hand. She dug her dirty fingernail into the skin, marking the path. The line began on Annabel’s left palm, and both of them knew it was the magic shop, the dark stairwell, the ladder to the secret river.
There was a maze of lines that spread away from the entrance, tiny tight lines showing the underground river coiled and corkscrewed deep beneath London. And then on the fleshy part of Annabel’s hand there was a wider space and three arches drawn in a fine, magical hand.
“This is where we are,” said Kitty, touching the place where the three arches were. “And there is only one way we must choose.”
They had been in the little boat for some time, and yet the line had only twisted across Annabel’s palm. She knew about map scale from geography. The map stretched over her forearm, along her upper arm, and onto her neck and face. Under London was not only stinky but very big. Kitty ran her finger from the first arch along a path that stopped at Annabel’s wrist. A dead end. She traced the path from the second arch. It snaked to the opposite side of Annabel’s wrist. There were waves drawn there.
“The sea,” said Kitty, and she thought of the marshes and birds circling and the way the wind spoke of faraway places there.
“But we don’t want the sea,” said Annabel.
Kitty ran her finger over Annabel’s lower arm.
The third line wound its way through myriad other lines that led to other places. It coiled off Annabel’s wrist onto her forearm.
“What does that say?” asked Kitty.
There was a thick black line and words that Annabel needed to read upside down.
“The…Singing…Gate,” she said. “That’s a strange name.”
“The Singing Gate,” repeated Kitty, running her finger over the words. “I’ve heard of it.”
“How?”
“They talk of it,” said Kitty. “The little folk—always singing and crying about it in the way they do. The wizards speak of it, too. It protects Under London. Stops anyone from entering that’s not meant to go there.”
Annabel had never heard of it. She wished the Miss Vines had mentioned it if it was such a difficult thing. Kitty knew much more than she did—Kitty, who fetched tea from the brownies and dealt with faeries. She wanted to speak to Kitty of such things, but, as if sensing it, Kitty let go of Annabel’s hand. She stood up, and the boat rocked to one side until she sat down beside Annabel. She took the oars and handed one to Annabel.
“Row,” she said.
No please.
They rowed across the still water until they were at the dark, dripping mouth of the third arch. The opening was so tight that the little boat bumped against the walls. They pushed at the brickwork with their hands.
“What if it isn’t the right one?” whispered Annabel as they entered.
She felt she should know. She felt that if she were truly magical she should know. The knowledge should be very solid and bright. She shouldn’t be filled with such uncertainties.
“You’re the map,” said Kitty. “You’re the most magical girl, Annabel Grey. There’s no turning back now.”
Annabel was frightened. There was no way around it. The boat groaned and complained as it scraped against the narrow walls. Hidden objects bumped against the little hull. Each sound made her jump. Each sound made her shiver.
There was a current again, and Kitty put away her oar and moved to the bow. The blue heart light glowed between them. Annabel picked up the broomstick and held it to her chest. She didn’t understand, but it made her feel safer just to know it was there. She could never explain such a thing to Isabelle Rutherford. To anyone from her old life. She wished Miss Henrietta were there to tell her what to do. Her strange great-aunt, who all her life Annabel had not known existed. Who was not at all the way a great-aunt should be, kindly and doting and full of sweet wisdom.
She thought of her mother then. Her mother, who had pressed flowers and embroidered handkerchiefs but had really been very magical and had never told her. Her mother, who had lied to her. She pictured her on a railway platform in Paris in her dark traveling clothes, so beautiful and graceful that everyone stopped just to see her go. Annabel stifled a sob. She desperately hoped the betwixter girl wouldn’t hear. She trembled with cold.
“Here,” said Kitty. “I can only do it for a while.”
She closed her eyes and turned her heart light a deep red. She blew it toward Annabel, and the heat of it was real and warm. It burned Annabel’s cheeks in a comfortable, prickly way, and in minutes her dress and the cloak were stiffening dry.
But then Kitty let out a gush of breath, as if the exertion was too much, and the light turned blue again, much paler, and Kitty brought it back close to herself.
“Thank you, Kitty,” whispered Annabel. Thank you for the warmth. For saving me. For staying with me. She wanted to ask again where the light came from, who had taught her such magic, how she stayed calm when they were in darkness deep beneath London.
She said nothing.
Kitty yawned and curled herself a little at the bow of the boat.
What if those things have come down into the darkness? Annabel wanted to ask. The shadowlings. She peered behind, into the blackness beyond Kitty’s light. The broomstick, sensing her fear, quivered against her. She held out her arm and looked at the strange writing on her mapped arm. The Singing Gate first and then other small words higher.
“What does it say?” asked Kitty, and her voice sounded sleepy.
“I’m not sure,” said Annabel. It was difficult to read
upside down.
The light was too dim, and Kitty did not move her heart light closer.
She heard Kitty laugh softly, and it made her feel cross again.
“Can you read it?” Annabel asked and knew in asking that she wanted to shame the wild girl.
Kitty shook her head. “Can’t read,” she said. “But I know the way the sun shines a little different every day and how it hits the grand old lady hornbeam straight on in summer but on her left cheek only by the winter, and how it changes her mood. And I know which birds sing first at Kensal Green and what their song says. Not everyone has a need for fancy letters, Annabel Grey.”
Annabel sat very quietly, ashamed.
Kitty stared at her sullenly. The boat slid through the dark tunnel, pulled by the strange current. The river made a new sound, but only Kitty heard it. It said, Come, come, come.
Annabel thought perhaps she should look into the glass. Maybe it would tell her what to do. She took it from where it was tucked into her bodice, glad it had survived her time in the rushing river. She peered into it and tried to empty the cup of her mind, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. It was just empty ruby-red glass.
Kitty frowned and looked away.
“What if those shadowlings are coming?” whispered Annabel. There, she’d said it at last. She was scared, panicked. Why had they sent her on such a journey? They obviously needed a much more magical girl.
“Hush,” said Kitty. “You saw what the Vine Witch did with her wand. That is all we need do if they come. You will point the wand at them and make fire come out of it, and that will keep them away.”
Annabel looked at the wand. She had no idea how to make anything come out the end of it and knew Kitty knew that. The tunnel widened and the current quickened further. The boat felt lifted, carried by the river. The stench had disappeared. The place smelled of rain.
Annabel looked at her arm to be sure they were in the right tunnel. The line of the passage they were in twisted and turned. It led to the Singing Gate, sure enough, and she reached out her finger to touch the line but stopped. The place felt strange. Even just looking at the line drawn upon her skin, she felt a trembling and lightness. She shook her head. After the Singing Gate the line threaded off to the side of her arm. She turned her arm in the dimness to see what was above her elbow.
It was impossible. They should have given her the map on a piece of paper. She would have been able to read a proper map. She was very good at reading ordinary, unmagical maps.
“The river will take us now,” said Kitty, curling up further in the bow. She coughed her harsh cough. “I must swallow my light because I cannot have it out of me so long.”
“Please,” said Annabel.
“I must,” said Kitty. “The river will take us.”
“But how do you know?”
“Can you not feel it?” said Kitty. “Can you feel nothing?”
That made Annabel’s cheeks burn. “I can feel it,” she lied.
Kitty swallowed her heart light.
“The river is singing to us,” said Kitty in the darkness. “Listen, and up above, London is still dreaming.”
“I know,” lied Annabel.
“You don’t know nothing, Annabel Grey,” she said.
Annabel closed her eyes and tried to think of the emerald-green ice skates she’d had her heart set on. She tried to conjure them up, but it was no good. However much she tried, they dissolved and she saw Kitty instead, and shadowy things in Miss Estella’s bedchamber, her mother standing on a faraway railway platform. She felt the map stinging upon her skin.
She began to cry.
“Stop crying,” said Kitty before she fell asleep. Or she thought she said it. She was already dreaming.
“But we’re both crying,” she dreamt Annabel Grey replied.
The shadowlings slipped down the ladder, their claws click-clacking on the rungs. They scampered up the brick ceiling and formed themselves into the shape of something huge, something unspeakable. The thing stretched out its shadowy tentacles through the tunnel.
They came to the place where the three arches stood.
At each entrance they opened their mouths and breathed in to catch the taste of her.
At the third they moaned and hushed and laughed against each other’s dark cheeks.
They whispered the word, one word, the only word.
Annabel…
And they slipped into the tunnel like black water into a drain.
In London Above, the Finsbury Wizards made preparations as quickly as they could. As quickly as they could was not very fast. Mr. Crumb needed to rest halfway up the very long staircase to the pigeon room, but they could not leave him, for he was the pigeon master.
“Not far now,” said Mr. Bourne encouragingly, and they all nodded and agreed that it wasn’t far, only three more flights.
But they were used to sitting for long hours.
They were used to days passing with nothing to occupy them but their thoughts.
They were used to creaking slowly up the steps to their beds and arising twelve hours later to think again.
Now that the magical brown fog had swallowed the city, there was a more dreadful worry in the house. The feeling of endings was very strong. Word must be sent to all in the society. It exhausted such elderly wizards. At that very moment they would normally be taking their evening tea and biscuits.
“I always knew he would do something like this,” muttered Mr. Keating when they started moving again.
“We all knew it,” said Mr. Bell. “But there was nothing that could be done until now.”
“Why, though?” said Mr. Crumb, who was quite breathless. “Why must he always do wrong? His resurrection apparatus, and now this machine that can make dark magic. Why this badness—where did it come from?”
They themselves had seen it appear and grow in Mr. Angel, this desire for power, for others to bow down to him. They had seen it grow and had been confused by him. By his blackness. By his coldness. Until they could do no more but turn him away.
Could they have done more to stop him, to help him, to save him? These were the questions that filled their heads on the very top stair. They shook their heads, deep in thought.
“But there shall come a most magical girl,” said Mr. Bell at last. “Or so the prophecy says….”
And they all nodded and smiled quite sadly.
Mr. Crumb prepared his birds as swiftly as he could, which was not swiftly at all. He talked to them softly, attached the tiny scrolls to their necks. There were messages for the Kentish Town Wizards, with their terrible rheumatism; the Bloomsbury Witches, faded and ancient in their yellowing lace dresses; Miss Broughton in St. John’s Wood; Mr. Hamble in Stepney; Mr. Huxley in Hampstead.
Beware, Mr. Angel in possession of the Black Wand and dark magic.
Raising an army of shadowlings.
Demanding all lay down their wands to him.
Youngest and most able member of society sent into Under London to return with Morever Wand. A most magical girl.
Our only hope.
He sent forth five pigeons into the London night, where the near-full moon had risen and was shining feebly through the fog. One pigeon remained on the sill. Mr. Crumb’s arthritic hands hesitated over it.
“Shall we send a message to the Miss Vines?” he asked. “To see whether the girls made it back to them safely?”
His voice was old, so very old.
Mr. Bell lowered his head and shook it slowly.
“There will be none there to receive it,” he said.
“When traveling, a young lady should answer questions politely but spend little time talking to strangers.”
—Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)
Annabel woke suddenly and sat upright. Someone had called her name. She had slept in the tiny boat, woken, and slept again. How much time had passed? In the beginning it had been a brick ceiling curving over them, passing minute after endless minute. But then the
brickwork was gone and the tunnel was roughly cut, and they passed beneath jagged rock dripping with water.
“You hear it now?” Kitty had asked sleepily from where she lay, a little messy mound in the bow.
Annabel had heard it. The river sang. It sang a song of water drops and the hushing of the river touching rocks. It sang a sighing song of falling water and secret places. The bow of the boat dipped, and the river sang them down.
“Yes,” Annabel had whispered. “I hear it now.”
When she slept, she dreamt of Miss Henrietta, and in the dreams her great-aunt’s face was very bright, like Kitty’s light, hovering above her, and it made her feel safe. But when she woke, there was darkness.
“Kitty,” she said.
The dark-haired girl did not rouse.
“Kitty,” whispered Annabel. “I thought I heard something.”
She picked up the broomstick and prodded Kitty with it.
“Leave off,” snarled Kitty, and she sat up scowling.
There it was again, a murmuring, a low sighing. A rushing noise, like a wind coming from far away.
“Please, a light, Kitty,” whispered Annabel.
Kitty began to hum her heart-light song, but she was frightened and her humming seemed uncertain. The whistling, rushing noise grew louder. Annabel took the Ondona in her hand and turned toward the sound behind her. She saw nothing but blackness, but she was certain something was coming through the tunnel after them.
What if it was the shadowlings?
The Ondona felt like a stick—that was all, a thin, brittle stick—and Annabel wasn’t sure how to get light from it. Not in any of the ways Miss Henrietta had in the shop, nor the way Mr. Bell had in raising the fire. Both of them had said something, she was sure of it. They had uttered a word. If only she could remember the word!
The sound was growing louder now. It was an angry droning, a violent hissing coming after them through the tunnel. Kitty hummed louder. Still no heart light.
The word was…
