The Nowhere Emporium

by Ross Mackenzie

  “Do they know?” said Daniel. In the pit of his stomach he felt sick at the thought of imagination being extracted from clueless customers. “Do you tell people what you’re doing to them?”

  Silver shook his head. For a fleeting moment he looked old and fragile, standing in the frost.

  “It wasn’t always this way. There was a time, when I was a younger man, that my own imagination was enough. But I am growing older. I must keep the Emporium running. And no harm comes to anyone – that is a promise! Imagination is alive. It grows in the mind like a tree. The Emporium merely clips a few of the branches. What little I take grows back, in time.” He observed Daniel. “If this has changed things, if you wish to leave, you may do so. I will drop you back in your own time. Just say the word.”

  Daniel stared at the fountain, at the silvery imagination flowing over the stone.

  He was filled with doubts and questions, and he was wary of Mr Silver’s power. He considered what it might be like to return to his life, to the rain-soaked streets of Glasgow; to loneliness, and to nobody. He looked into Mr Silver’s serious grey eyes.

  “I don’t want to go back,” he said. “I want to stay, and see the world. I want to learn about magic. I want to know secrets. I want to be somebody.”

  A smile played on Silver’s lips, and he bowed his head to Daniel. “As you wish.”

  Something moved in the tops of the trees, a blinding flash of silver soaring into the blue sky.

  “How did you do it?” Daniel asked. “How do you make all of this?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Mr Silver. “Tomorrow I will start your lessons. And we will begin to find out if you have what it takes to become a part of the Nowhere Emporium. Tomorrow, the first test awaits!”

  “What sort of test?”

  But no answer came.

  Daniel stood alone in the frozen world. The only sign that Mr Silver had been in the woodland at all was a trail of footprints in the frost.

  CHAPTER 8

  A NEW PROJECT

  Edinburgh, January 1883

  The carriage pulled up outside a row of townhouses, wheels skidding on the snow-packed street. Steam rose from two slick black horses as the coachman leapt from his seat and opened the carriage door.

  A pair of passengers stepped down onto the frozen ground.

  First was Vindictus Sharpe. His striking blue eyes and neat silver hair and goatee flashed in the light of the snow-white city as he glanced around the familiar skyline running up the slope of the old town to Edinburgh Castle. Close on Sharpe’s heels was a young man, perhaps fifteen years of age. He was short and slight, dressed in a dusty grey pinstripe suit, messy waves of hair falling over a face halfway to becoming handsome.

  Vindictus Sharpe paid the coachman without tipping him, and led his young companion up a slippery stone staircase. He rapped three times on the townhouse door with the silver handle of his cane.

  The door opened almost immediately.

  “How may I help you?” said the butler of the house.

  “We are here to see Ms Birdie Sandford,” said Sharpe. “She is not expecting us, but I am sure she will not turn down the opportunity to catch up with an old friend.”

  The butler looked at the pair for a moment. “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Vindictus Sharpe. She will recognise the name. We shared the stage together for a while.”

  The butler nodded. “Very well. Please wait here.”

  The door closed. A light flurry of snow began to fall. Man and boy stood in silence.

  A few minutes later, the door was opened by a tiny old woman with a beehive of silver hair. Her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, looked Sharpe up and down.

  “Vindictus Sharpe? What has it been? Twenty years? My God! You haven’t aged a day.”

  Sharpe bowed his head. “And neither have you, Birdie.”

  “I thought you were a better liar than that,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Come in out of the snow.”

  They followed her into the house, which was spacious and grand, and smelled of flowery perfume. She led them to a large sitting room on the second floor, where the butler was waiting. He poured a brandy for Birdie, a whisky for Sharpe, a cup of hot tea for the young man, and then left the room, closing the doors.

  Birdie sipped from her glass, sucking air through her teeth as the liquor burned her throat.

  “I will spare you the usual pleasantries,” she said. “I know you find them as tiresome as I do. We will come straight to the point: I assume you have resurfaced after these many years because you have a business proposition?”

  Sharpe leaned forward in his chair. He sipped from his glass. “I do indeed. Do you recall why I decided to take a break from performing in our magic shows?”

  Birdie sipped her brandy. “Of course,” she said. “You wished to dabble in teaching, which I found strange considering your dislike for children. Is your daughter still locked away in that school?”

  Sharpe waved the question away.

  “I am not merely dabbling. Twenty years ago, in Frankfurt, a hag visited my dressing room. She told me that one day I would find a pupil, and that together we would push magic to places it has never been.”

  Birdie indicated the young man with her mahogany walking stick. “Is the boy good?”

  Sharpe laughed. “Good? He has the potential to be great – almost as great as me. I believe we could sell out theatres across the world. That is why I have come. If I’m training the boy to change the world, then the least we can expect is to make a little money along the way, don’t you think?”

  Birdie’s eyes turned to the young man, who looked at his feet. “Are you interested in taking to the stage, boy?”

  “Yes ma’am. Mr Sharpe has been preparing me.”

  “Would you care to show me?”

  The boy glanced at Sharpe, who had instructed him that he should never, under any circumstances, admit to his talents in public. He had no wish to upset his teacher; a great many beatings had taught him his place, and knocked impeccable manners into him.

  “It’s acceptable in these circumstances,” Sharpe said. “Birdie is aware of our abilities. She has considerable connections in the world of entertainment, and she has made a great deal of money, thanks to me.”

  “And you thanks to me,” said Birdie with a prim smile. “Show me what you can do, boy.”

  The young magician breathed deeply. He concentrated on the tendrils of steam rising from the cup of tea in his hands. Immediately, the steam began to flow faster, gathering together in smooth curls near the boy’s feet and pushing upward. Forming at first the sketchy outline of a man, the steam refined, rough edges smoothing to become a work of art – until a replica of Birdie’s butler stood in the centre of the room. The steam butler walked silently towards Birdie, bowing before her, planting a kiss on her hand. Then the figure spun in a circle, coat-tails flying, and vanished, leaving only a misty silhouette fading slowly to nothing.

  Birdie stared at the air where the steam had been, her mouth open. At last, she turned to Vindictus Sharpe, a wide smile breaking across her face.

  “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE BOOK OF WONDERS

  The nightmare never changed: Daniel was trapped in a sinking fishing boat. He could hear the calls of his father as he groped around in the darkness, but he couldn’t find him, couldn’t do anything to help. He woke with a desperate gasp just as the freezing water closed over his head.

  A silver magpie with sparkling ruby eyes sat on the pillow beside him. Its twin was hopping around the foot of the bed. The magpie had dropped a small black envelope onto Daniel’s pillow. It nudged the envelope towards him until the sharp paper pressed against his nose. Inside he found a black card with a message in golden ink.

  Your first lesson shall commence in one hour.

  Follow the magpies.

  Mr S

  Daniel turned the card over in his hands, still trem
bling from the bad dream. What sort of lesson lay in wait?

  In the wagon he found a wardrobe filled with black trousers and sweaters, crisp white shirts and golden ties – his Emporium uniform.

  “Go on then,” he said to the magpies when he was dressed. The birds fluttered through Daniel’s bedroom door to the great hall of staircases. They began to climb through the Emporium, navigating the tangle of steps in a series of swoops and spins and slows. As he followed the birds from one staircase to another, higher and higher, Daniel glimpsed many corridors of shining black brick. Countless doors lay along those passageways. But what lay beyond the doors? Wonders, Mr Silver had called them.

  Somewhere along the way Daniel spotted movement in the shadows and realised that the girl he’d seen in his wagon was watching him. He took a step towards her and raised his hand, but she hurried away into the darkness like a startled fox and was gone. He would have to ask Mr Silver about her. Perhaps after his lesson.

  One of the magpies pecked his ear, letting him know that it was not amused by the disruption, and they were moving again, until finally the birds landed at the foot of a wide door. Daniel pulled it open.

  The walls of the square room beyond were completely hidden under rows of bookcases. He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the walls, and realised upon closer inspection that there were, in fact, no bookcases. There were only books. The books were the walls. And in that moment it hit him: every object in the room, from the armchairs to the tables to the lamps, was made from books, or the covers of books, or pages that had been torn from books. The floor was made of books. The ceiling was made of books. A miraculous fire was burning in a fireplace made entirely of books.

  “Glad you could make it.”

  There were two armchairs. Both had been empty when Daniel walked into the room. He was sure of it. Now, somehow, Mr Silver occupied one of them. He nodded to Daniel, motioned for him to sit opposite.

  “Let us begin at the beginning,” said Mr Silver, wasting no time. “First, the basics. I deal in awe and wonderment. I sell escape and fantasy. I give my customers a tantalising glimpse of all that is possible in this world. And though they cannot remember the shop upon leaving, they will find that their hearts are lighter, that the edges of the world are bright and new and shining. In return, the Emporium takes a piece of imagination, and that imagination powers the place, allowing me to create new Wonders and travel to my next destination, where the process begins anew.” He ran his hands through his wild brown hair, and for a moment the shadow of age passed over his face.

  “Magic can help one accomplish incredible things, Daniel. Take time, for instance. If you know enough, you can do things with time you wouldn’t believe. I once worked for a man who never aged. Not one day the whole time I knew him.” Silver shook his head, and his eyes darkened. “He’s still out there somewhere, probably looking exactly as he did when I last saw him. I myself managed to stop the clock a few years after we parted ways, though I use a different method. I didn’t have the stomach for his.” Daniel wondered what the man who never aged had done, exactly. But Mr Silver waved a hand, as though flicking away the memories.

  “The point is, I am older than I seem, and I’m beginning to feel the weight of the Emporium upon my shoulders. This is why I have decided to take on an assistant.” He nodded to Daniel. “Do you recall what I was doing when you first found the shop?”

  “I think,” said Daniel, screwing up his eyes as he tried to replay the memory in his head, “you were writing. At your desk.”

  Silver reached into the pocket of his coat. He placed the battered old book on his lap. “I was writing in this book,” said Silver. He took it up and fanned the pages, causing his wild hair to blow into his eyes. “And what a book. It is the key to this place. The secret behind the Emporium. My Book of Wonders.”

  Daniel stared at the cracked cover. The title was all but faded away, though there were places where gold lettering was still visible; he could decipher the letters L, S, W, O and D. He leaned in. Was it his imagination, or could he feel the book pulling at him, drawing him closer?

  Silver continued. “For every room that will ever come to exist in the Emporium, there is a page in this book. When I have an idea for a new Wonder, and I’ve thought it through carefully and decided that it is suitable, I begin to write it down. The pages are enchanted and entwined with the shop. When I have finished writing, a Wonder will appear somewhere in the corridors.”

  “All the doors I saw on the way here?” said Daniel. “All the Wonders? They have a page in that book?”

  Silver thumbed through the pages, selecting one passage and placing the open book on the table. The writing within, in deep black ink, was small and neat, and decorated with many curls and flourishes. There was also a sketch, drawn in flowing black lines that seemed to come alive as Daniel gazed at it.

  “I recognise this,” he said, leaning ever closer to the book. “It’s my wagon!”

  Silver smiled for a fleeting moment, causing the lines around his eyes to deepen.

  “Correct,” he said. “I trust you find it comfortable enough? If you wish me to change anything…”

  “It’s perfect,” said Daniel. His fingers fluttered hungrily, and he felt a great rush of excitement as he asked, “Can I have a closer look?”

  A hesitation.

  Silver handed over the book.

  It was heavier than Daniel expected. But it also felt familiar somehow, as if he had held it before. He flicked through page after page, noting in his mind a list of rooms he longed to visit. There was an underground lake of gold, and a cove filled with sapphire water where a mermaid whispered the whereabouts of buried treasure. He saw a path through an enchanted forest, and the mountaintop den of an armour-clad dragon, and a grassland populated by lions. There were ancient pages where the ink was worn and could not be properly read. One such passage caught his attention, and as he stared at the words his stomach told him that they contained something vast and dark and ancient.

  “The Library of Souls,” said Mr Silver. “I am a fan of stories. A collector. And there is no greater story than that of life. The Library of Souls holds on its many shelves the life story of everyone who has ever lived, everyone who will ever live.”

  Wonderstruck, Daniel tried to imagine a room vast enough to hold such a great number of books, but he was distracted when Mr Silver gasped and breathed through his teeth. He sat forward in his chair and held his hand to his chest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Silver closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. He let the breath out slowly, opened his eyes, and blinked. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Daniel’s eyes lingered on Silver’s hand, which was still pressed to his chest.

  “Now that you’ve seen inside the Book of Wonders,” said Mr Silver, as if nothing had happened, “it is time for the first test.” He held out an open hand. In his palm sat a golden fountain pen. Daniel stared at it.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to attempt a Wonder of your own. Write in the book.”

  “Me? Make a room appear from nowhere? You’re having a laugh!”

  “I certainly am not. It’s the quickest way to judge whether you have any talent.”

  Daniel fidgeted in his chair. He had not imagined his first test could be something so huge. He took the pen from Silver.

  “What if nothing happens?” he asked. “Will you sack me?” Now that he was holding the book, that he’d seen the Wonders within its pages, his old life seemed so very far away. It was like he’d been living in black and white, and suddenly the world was alive with colour and possibilities. He was not ready to return to the grey.

  Silver thought about the question. “We shall worry about that if it happens.” He mimed writing. “On you go.”

  Daniel found a blank page. His palms were wet.

  “What should I write?”

  “That is up to you,” said Silver. “Though I would advise starting with s
omething small. A solitary room, perhaps. Nothing too fancy.”

  Daniel thought and thought. Then, from nowhere, an image appeared in his mind, something comforting from his past, and the idea began to blossom and flower. When he was as certain as he could be, he began to write in Mr Silver’s book.

  When he had finished, the entire page was filled with the neatest handwriting he could manage. His fingers tingled warmly.

  Silver motioned for Daniel to hand the book over.

  “Do you think it worked?” Daniel’s heart punched at the inside of his chest.

  Mr Silver shook the messy hair from his eyes and went to the door.

  “Let’s find out,” he said.

  The Emporium was closed, which meant the corridors were deserted and cloaked in shadow. As he followed Silver, sticking close, Daniel imagined that he could hear the walls breathing. A shiver danced down his spine.

  As if reading his mind, Mr Silver said, “It’s perfectly safe to walk the corridors – to explore. In fact, I encourage it. Everything you see is under my control. Nothing will harm you. In all the years I have been welcoming customers into the Emporium, no one has left with so much as a bruise.”

  “It’s just the thought of getting lost,” said Daniel. “I could wander around forever.”

  “You will find your feet,” said Silver. “Walking the corridors and passageways will become second nature. And know this: if, by some curious twist of fate, you find yourself in trouble, the Emporium will help you. All you have to do is ask.”

  Silver slowed at last. He tilted his head to the side, as if he were listening for some faraway sound. He took four slow steps, to the nearest shining black door, and pressed his ear against the surface. He stepped back. His gaze flicked from the door to Daniel and back.

  “This is new,” he said. “And it is not one of mine.” He gave Daniel a curious look, like he was staring at some alien creature. “Open it.”

  Daniel trembled as he approached the door. Even after everything he’d seen these past few days, he couldn’t quite believe that a new room had appeared simply because he’d written in an old book. And at the same time, he felt a strange sense of wondrous pride. But was it enough? Would he pass the test?