‘I can’t see that you could have,’ said Esther.
Clay shuffled the cards then handed her the pack. ‘Give it a tap,’ he said
Esther did so.
‘What are the chances of your card being on top?’ he asked.
‘Given your job I’d say pretty high,’ replied Esther.
‘Have a look.’
She turned over the top card. It was the king of spades. She smiled. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘That was pretty close.’
‘Very kind of you,’ said Clay. ‘That was the best I could do, since you have the king’s good lady wife tucked under your leg.’
Esther smiled and pulled out the card she had hidden away. ‘You saw me do it,’ she said. ‘You knew I took two cards?’
‘Do you know what they used to call those who claimed to have magic? They used to be known as cunning men. If you ask me, this is precisely what they were. Cunning men, conning men. It is all the same. Conjurors of old were nothing more than criminals who would pray on the weak-minded and exploit the confidence they gained for money.’
‘So you don’t believe in magic at all?’
Clay smiled. ‘There have always been people desperate to believe in things they cannot see. Why do you think the church is so wealthy?’
‘You ain’t short of a few bob yourself,’ said Esther.
‘I make no claim of having special powers,’ said Clay. ‘Those who watch my act get what they pay for. They get a spectacle. They get lifted up out of their ordinary lives and shown that the world is a truly amazing place. Not because of magic, but because humans are amazing. My audience doesn’t have to convert to a religion or pray to a god and they don’t have to wait for death before they are rewarded. They don’t have to pay to have fake conversations with dead relatives. When you pay to see Harry Clay, you pay to have your world widened.’
‘It’s still tricking people for money.’
Clay laughed. ‘Too true. We’re not so different, then, are we?’
Chapter 25
Mirrors
With Hardy gone, Tom felt the power that had taken hold of his body suddenly drain away. His head was spinning. He felt weak. He placed a hand on a tree to steady himself but, as his palm connected with the rough bark, he felt a jab of pain and saw a bulbous wart appear on the back of his hand.
‘What’s happening to me?’ he asked.
‘The lifeblood’s bubbling to the surface. It wants to return to its source.’ Mondriat fluttered down to the ground. ‘Don’t worry. That wart will go down once you have found a mirror.’
‘What do I need a mirror for?’ asked Tom.
Mondriat hopped along the ground and looked up at him. ‘You must cast your True Reflection in order to anchor your spirit to the world.’
‘I’ve got to go and help Esther, first.’
‘No, no, no. The Mirror Spell is your priority.’ Mondriat flew around Tom’s head, his grabbing wings brushing his face.
‘Oi, watch it!’ Tom batted him away. ‘Esther’s my friend and Hardy knows where she is. I need to warn her. Hey, I’ll bet I can magic myself there, can’t I?’
‘You’re not listening. No more Conjury until you have found a mirror,’ stated Mondriat.
Tom knew he needed to help Esther but the pulsating wart on the back of his hand was an alarming reminder that he should listen to Mondriat.
‘If you continue to cast spells untethered you will Conjure yourself into an early grave,’ warned the magpie. ‘If you must help your friend, do it in a manner that will not put yourself in the way of conflict.’
‘There is one way,’ said Tom, thinking of Esther’s warning system of lighting a fire on the north bank.
‘Then do that,’ said Mondriat. ‘But please promise me, no more spells. Not until –’
‘Yeah, yeah, not until I find a mirror. Come on then.’
The winter sky was darkening as Tom arrived on the main thoroughfare with Mondriat perched on his shoulder. An omnibus pulled by two piebald horses was coming down New Oxford Street, making slow progress along the busy road. Tom stopped on a corner to wait for it. He noticed a street trickster by the name of Gibbens, challenging passers-by to identify which of the three thimbles on the table in front of him contained the pea. Several punters stood around him, placing bets. Tom had seen the act before and had always known there was some trick, but now, with eyes so much sharper than before, it was laughably obvious when Gibbens slipped the pea under his long, grubby thumbnail.
Tom felt Mondriat twitching anxiously on his shoulder. Surely one little spell wouldn’t hurt. The urge was too strong. Tom moved his staff across the ground, instinctively knowing which shapes would draw the energy to create his desired spell. When Gibbens lifted the chosen thimble he was confused to discover that the pea was no longer under his thumbnail but had somehow shifted to the selected thimble.
‘What on earth are you playing at?’ cried Mondriat, realising what he had done.
Although Tom was the only one who could understand Mondriat, the squawking magpie on his shoulder was enough to draw several glances. Tom felt a twinge of pain, as though he was being bitten from the inside, and another wart sprang up on his wrist.
‘No more Conjury,’ ordered Mondriat. ‘And look, you’ve missed the bus now.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll catch that,’ muttered Tom.
Tom had to run full pelt to catch the bus, forcing Mondriat off his shoulder. Leaping over a puddle, he jumped up onto the back and clung on. Mondriat landed on the top deck and peered over the edge.
‘Honestly,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve waited hundreds of years for someone who can understand me. Can you imagine how frustrating it is when you don’t listen?’
Chapter 26
Power
In spite of the privileges afforded by his title, Lord Ringmore was not one of Parliament’s most regular attendees. The business of government held precious little interest for him, but he knew his way around the corridors of power well enough to locate Sir Tyrrell’s private office. As a high-ranking member of the government, Sir Tyrrell had a well-appointed room, overlooking the River Thames. The river looked uninvitingly grey in the low dusk light as Lord Ringmore entered and took a seat opposite. He glanced at the important-looking documents and official dossiers on the desk.
‘Working late, Augustus?’
‘There is a debate on sewage and sanitation tomorrow so, yes, I have a fair amount to wade through,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
‘The book has been taken,’ replied Lord Ringmore.
‘Taken? What do you mean, taken?’
‘There was a break-in. We believe the orphans have it.’
‘We?’
‘Clay was there when I discovered it gone.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past a man like Clay to have stolen it.’ Sir Tyrrell picked up a silver pen and waved it reproachfully at Lord Ringmore.
‘Your suspicions are misplaced,’ insisted Lord Ringmore. ‘Clay has been proving very helpful tracking them down.’
‘So why are you telling me?’ demanded Sir Tyrrell, grumpily.
‘I said before that each Society member has a role to play and now is that time.’
Sir Tyrrell put the pen down and leaned forward. ‘What role would that be?’
‘Reclamation of the book is imperative,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You have a great deal of influence in the city. I believe the Chief Commissioner answers directly to you. The police force would be a great asset to us at this stage.’
‘It’s out of the question,’ barked Sir Tyrrell. ‘It would be an abuse of my position.’ He sat back in his seat and folded his arms.
‘The exploration of the unknown is an absolute necessity in an ever-changing world?’
‘Fine words but –’
‘They were not mine,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You spoke them during a debate on spiritualism. It was the first time we met. We have come a long way since then, you and
I, and we are so close to our goal now. We must keep our resolve.’
‘There is a big difference between ideology and reality,’ said Sir Tyrrell.
‘What you mean is that now you hold a position of power, your views have changed.’
Sir Tyrrell sighed. ‘Silas, what you’re asking is too much.’
‘The Society of Thirteen needs your help.’
Sir Tyrrell snorted derisively. ‘Finally, I see the reason you’ve been stringing me along. There I was, thinking you wanted me in this Society of yours because of my expertise in the matters of spiritualism and mysticism. In truth, you asked me because of my governmental position.’
‘I understand that you are upset because I gave the book to John first,’ said Lord Ringmore.
‘Well, I ask you, what knowledge does Symmonds have of these things? A linguist he may be but an expert in the occult he most certainly is not! Why the devil did you even ask him to join in the first place?’
‘I’ll admit that was a whim,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You see, I bumped into John the same day I acquired the book. He was visiting the club. It occurred to me he might be able to help.’
‘And what about the escapologist?’
‘You know as well as I that there is no one better qualified to cut through the dressings of deception, and Clay is currently doing his best to reclaim the book.’ Lord Ringmore’s voice grew louder as he grew agitated. ‘He has aligned himself with a group of believers, yet he does not worry about his reputation.’
‘I think you’ll find his reputation is just about all Clay cares about,’ said Sir Tyrrell, very much enjoying seeing his phlegmatic friend so rattled.
Lord Ringmore banged his walking stick. ‘Clay is out there, hunting this pair of thirteen-year-old orphans, because he knows they are the only thing that stands between us and the endless possibilities of the universe. What are you doing about it?’
Sir Tyrrell paused. He rubbed his chin and sat forward with renewed interest. ‘Thirteen years old, you say?’
‘Or thereabouts, yes,’ said Lord Ringmore, dismissively. ‘What does it matter?’
Sir Tyrrell smiled. In all the years he had known Lord Ringmore he had never seen him so agitated. ‘Tell me, Silas, what’s all this really about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve had this nagging feeling there’s something you haven’t told us since that first meeting.’
‘You know exactly what it’s about,’ said Lord Ringmore.
‘Magic, yes,’ Sir Tyrrell said. ‘But what would you do with such unlimited power? There’s a fair amount of power in this building but you’ve never shown any interest in that.’
Lord Ringmore stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the river and spoke with his back to Sir Tyrrell. ‘There is a spell,’ he began. ‘A spell for which Olwyn Broe spent her entire life searching. According to Mr Hayman, it is known as the Eternity Spell.’
‘What does it do?’
Lord Ringmore turned back to face him. ‘It is the spell which can conquer death itself.’
‘Immortality?’ Sir Tyrrell sat back in his chair and considered Lord Ringmore’s words. He pressed his hands together and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Very interesting.’
‘We are closer than we’ve ever been but the Society needs your help. Please, Augustus,’ urged Lord Ringmore.
‘I’ll admit that for someone who rarely sets foot in the chamber you make a persuasive argument when necessary,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘But I’m sorry. I will not be forced into this decision. We will discuss it at a later stage. Now, if you don’t mind I have work to get on with.’
Chapter 27
Saved
Esther could see the fire on the other side of the river. It was the signal. Tom was telling her to get out. Perhaps he had learnt about Clay or maybe it was some other danger. Either way, she needed to distract Clay to make her getaway, but it was hopeless. He was watching her like a hawk.
‘What’s so special about this book anyway?’ she asked, casually.
‘You tell me. I didn’t cover a man in flour to get it,’ replied Clay.
‘I just thought there might be some coin in it, you know, seeing as how keen Ringmore is on it.’
‘You thought Ringmore would pay for a book you stole from him?’
Esther shrugged.
‘You’re probably right,’ admitted Clay. ‘He would have done.’
‘So you don’t believe what Ringmore says about it?’ asked Esther.
‘Ha! You do know more than you were letting on,’ exclaimed Clay. ‘No, I think this whole business is an impressive trick but, you see, there’s very little I find more intriguing than a good trick. And what’s especially interesting about this one is that I can’t detect who’s behind it. Imagine being shown a magic trick so neat that you don’t even know who the magician is.’
‘You don’t think it’s Lord Ringmore?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve known him long enough to know when he believes something. If he is a salesman he’s one who actually believes in the product he’s selling.’
‘Ow,’ Esther cried, feeling claws dig into her leg. The black cat jumped off, ran to the door and started scratching at the wood.
‘Your cat wants to go out,’ said Clay.
‘She’s not my cat,’ replied Esther.
Clay opened the door and smoke billowed into the room, filling Esther’s lungs and making her cough. Behind the door, flames devoured the rotten insides of the building.
‘Orphans? Oh, orphans! Can you hear me, orphans?’ yelled Hardy from the other side of the fire. ‘I’m teaching you a lesson. No one messes with me. Now, you’re going to burn. You hear that, orphans? Burn.’
Esther could hear the rest of the gang laughing. The fire was growing in ferocity, crackling as it greedily ate away at the house’s damp wooden beams. The cat sprang up onto the windowsill and disappeared out onto the ledge.
‘We can’t get out this way,’ said Clay, backing away from the door.
‘We’ll have to go round,’ said Esther. ‘Follow me.’
Esther quickly climbed out of the window with Clay close behind her. She edged along the side of the building, pressing her fingertips against the wall. The metal railing on the outside of the building was icy cold, but Esther could feel the heat of the fire through the brickwork. She took another step and would have slipped had Clay not grabbed her arm.
‘Take your time,’ he said.
Esther took another couple of cautious steps but when she reached the edge of the building she saw that the wooden framework beneath them was on fire, making it impossible to reach the ground.
‘There’s no way here,’ she said.
‘Then we’ll have to jump into the river,’ said Clay.
‘I can’t!’
‘We haven’t much choice.’
‘I can’t swim,’ she admitted.
‘Esther,’ said Clay. ‘You have my guarantee that I will not let you drown. Take my hand and we’ll jump together.’
Esther stared down at the cold river. Its murky waters lapped against the bankside as chunks of the burning building dropped into it. The water looked dark and dangerous. She turned to Clay. He nodded at her, apparently reading her mind again. She took his hand and felt its warmth as they tipped forward and jumped into the Thames.
Esther braced herself for the impact of icy water, but instead of a sudden, violent rush as she sunk beneath the surface, she landed on something as soft as a pillow. She felt Clay’s hand tear away from hers as another, much stronger and bigger, took hold of her. Clay splashed down into the water, but Esther remained above it. She looked to see what she had landed on and realised that the River Thames had risen up in the shape of a giant hand, holding her on the surface tension of its palm.
She saw Clay resurface and look at her in astonishment. Then the huge watery hand moved, carrying Esther to the other side of the river,
creating waves as it went. Inside the transparent hand were bits of debris from the river. The moonlight caught it and Esther saw a fish trapped inside its angled thumb. It was extraordinary. Unbelievable. She thought about all those stories the nuns used to tell them about God parting the water for Moses and wondered, could this be the hand of God, reaching out to protect her?
Chapter 28
Collapse
Although the river spell had been a little rough around the edges, Mondriat had to admit it showed promise. Tom had not referred to the book at all, which was a good sign. Conjury was much better when it came from the Conjuror’s own imagination. Conjury was supposed to be instinctive. It was a natural process. A true Conjuror looked into his heart, not into the pages of some book. But what use was that if the boy refused to listen to him? He needed to cast his True Reflection into a mirror that could not easily be smashed or discovered. Until then, performing any spell was highly dangerous, let alone such richly complex Conjury as the river spell. It was no surprise at all that Tom collapsed once Esther was safe, making the girl scream and run to his side.
‘Tom!’ she wailed. ‘What’s wrong, Tom?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Your foolish friend just performed extremely advanced Conjury while his spirit is still dangerously untethered,’ explained Mondriat. ‘I warned him. I did warn him.’
Esther looked at him. ‘Evening, Mister Magpie,’ she said.
‘Evening Mister Magpie,’ Mondriat squawked. ‘This boy is half dead because of you and all you can say is Evening Mister Magpie. You need to take him somewhere safe so that he may recover.’
Esther turned back to look after Tom.
It was hopeless. Mondriat could talk until his beak fell off but his words were nothing but the meaningless prattle of a magpie to this unInfected girl.
Tom stirred, half opening his eyes. ‘Esther,’ he said vaguely.
‘Happy now, Tom? Happy, are you?’ exclaimed Mondriat. ‘I told you this would happen. You didn’t listen.’
The Society of Thirteen Page 9
