‘I’ve got something else to do first,’ said Tom. ‘I’m going to find my aunt.’
‘Your aunt left you on the doorstep of the orphanage when you were five years old,’ said Esther.
‘Because she couldn’t afford to bring me up,’ said Tom. ‘Things are different now.’
‘When people leave children at the orphanage they don’t want them to come looking for them,’ said Esther.
‘I knew you wouldn’t understand. You never had any family like me.’
Esther stared furiously back at Tom.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘But it’s something I have to do.’
‘We should get out of London, Tom,’ said Esther. ‘We can leave and start again. We don’t need to be us any more.’
‘So you won’t help me find her?’
‘No, she won’t,’ said Mondriat. ‘She has to find a mirror before she does anything, but I’ll help you, Tom. I know the perfect potion to help find her. Then after that we can go and find the book.’
‘You’re not going to listen to him?’ said Esther.
‘Go find a mirror,’ said Tom.
Esther noticed Tom’s staff. It was the same stick as before, except it had been painted black, its rough edges sanded down and a gold handle fixed to the top. ‘What’s happening to you, Tom?’
‘I’m bettering myself,’ he replied.
Chapter 41
Immortality
When Fred opened the door, he found Clay holding in his arms a bundle of clothes, caked in mud. His face and hands were splattered too, giving him the appearance of a creature that had crawled from the depths of hell to be there.
‘I won’t ask,’ said Fred.
‘Better not to,’ agreed Clay. ‘Dispose of these, will you?’
Clay handed the clothes to Fred who held them at arm’s length. ‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’
‘I’m all heart.’
‘You have a visitor,’ said Fred.
‘A visitor?’
‘There’s a gentleman awaiting your return in the library,’ said Fred. ‘Wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
The reason for Fred’s emphasis on the word gentleman became apparent when Mr G. Hayman stepped out of the library.
‘Mud bath, Clay?’ she said.
‘Not exactly. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ asked Clay. He kicked off his muddy shoes and led her back into the room, carefully opening a dresser drawer and extracting a tea towel as he did so.
‘Our lines of work are not so different, you know,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Our audiences applaud not for the danger we have shown them but out of relief that it is over.’
‘I thought you were going to say that we both deceive in the name of money and art,’ replied Clay.
Mr G. Hayman ran her fingers over the spines of the books that lined the wall. ‘Should I be offended that I see none of my titles here?’ she asked.
‘I prefer books that tell you something.’
‘It seems to me the line between fiction and fact is often unclear.’
‘You’ll excuse me if I fail to see any purpose in all this.’
‘Over many years of painstaking research I have heard again and again of a spell, which, if cast in the right circumstances, will deliver the gift of immortality. It is known as the Eternity Spell.’
Both of them fell silent as Fred entered the room with a tea tray, placed it down and left.
Clay spooned two sugars into a cup of tea and downed it in one gulp. ‘As fascinating as all this is, I have preparations to make. My run at the Theatre Royal begins in a couple of nights.’
‘Did you get the book, Clay?’ asked Mr G. Hayman.
‘With every police officer searching London you think I managed to –’
‘Please don’t treat me as a fool,’ she warned sternly. ‘You have the book.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know people, Clay. Even slippery ones like you. You knew why I was here the moment Fred informed you and yet you were happy to dance around the subject. If you didn’t have it, you would have asked me to come to the point much sooner.’
‘Maybe I just enjoy dancing with you,’ replied Clay.
‘You think you want this book more than any of us, don’t you?’
Clay poured himself another cup of tea. ‘What would I want with a magic book?’
‘You think that with real magic you will be able to create an act that no one could copy. You fear all these new performers. They are young, hungry and willing to push the boundaries. You fear that soon you will be an antiquated irrelevance or else that the next time you plunge into the water you will never come back out.’
‘I didn’t realise you listed mind-reading amongst your many talents.’
‘It’s not mind-reading. This is a skill we refer to as empathy.’
‘You novelists?’ said Clay.
‘Us women,’ said Mr G. Hayman.
Clay laughed.
‘But you’re wrong,’ she continued. ‘You are not the one who desires it the most. No one could want this more than Lord Ringmore. He knows we can use it to learn the secret of the Eternity Spell. Immortality, Clay. Living forever, not living on in memory but in actuality.’
Clay laughed. ‘You are not serious.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not, but you have to admit it’s intriguing. Even if you could unlock the secrets of the book without us, you would squander this gift on entertainment when you could stay loyal to us and uncover the truth about the Eternity Spell. The book is the key but you need someone to show you the lock.’ She stood so close to Clay he could feel her breath on his face. Something about the way her eyes flickered with excitement kept him rooted to the spot. It was rare for Clay to feel so unnerved. He enjoyed the feeling.
Clay turned around and pulled open the drawer from which he had taken the tea towel. There, slipped inside, without his guest having seen, was the book. He lifted it out and handed it to her.
Chapter 42
Pain
Children rarely returned to St Clement’s Catholic School for Waifs and Strays to say thank you. Mother Agnes expected no gratitude for having dedicated her life to their well-being. The knowledge that she was doing the Lord’s work was thanks enough for her. The Lord had taken their parents from them and delivered them to the orphanage, where there was no place for any love other than His own. And God’s love was a hard love. Of that, Mother Agnes had no doubt. She tried to ensure that all her orphans grew up fearing God, but the boy who sat in her office, awaiting her return, had never shown fear of anything at all.
‘I’m afraid I’m very busy,’ said Mother Agnes. ‘I can only spare a couple of minutes if that.’ She tapped a pile of papers on her desk by way of explanation.
‘Not too busy for me though, eh? You always had a little time for Hardy in your office, didn’t you?’
‘That is not the name I gave you,’ she replied curtly.
‘No,’ he agreed.
None of the orphans at St Clement’s were afforded the opportunity to grow fat but, with his broad shoulders, thick neck and large hands, Hardy had always been larger than most.
‘Quiet reflection,’ he said.
Mother Agnes met his stare. She was determined not to be intimidated by this child. ‘I told you, I don’t have much time now –’ she started.
‘Where is it?’ Hardy interrupted.
‘I don’t know what you –’
‘Where is it?’ he repeated.
‘Quiet reflection was supposed to help you become a better person. I fear it did not work with you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here for revenge,’ said Hardy. ‘It’s just that while I’m here I’d like to see it again.’
Slowly, Mother Agnes opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a heavy wooden ruler. The inch marks were worn away and one end was rough and splintered from a thousand beatings. Mother Agnes was surprised to see Hardy’s eyes moisten at the sight of it.
He leaned forward and whispered hoarsely, ‘It was a joke, wasn’t it?’
‘How dare you question my methods?’ replied Mother Agnes.
‘It was a joke,’ he said emphatically. ‘The others screamed, didn’t they? I heard them. With each scream they learnt about quiet reflection.’ He chuckled. ‘A sick joke at that.’
‘It is an important lesson.’
‘What lesson? You wanted us to learn how to suffer in silence?’
‘Life is suffering,’ snapped the prioress. ‘Would it not be better if everyone could learn to suffer in silence? God demands our praise. He does not want to hear our petty moans.’
Hardy chuckled. ‘It’s actually funny now I think on it. Quiet reflection.’
‘You never made a sound,’ said Mother Agnes. ‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction,’ replied Hardy.
‘Your behaviour caused you a lot of unnecessary pain.’
‘Unnecessary, you say?’
‘I needed to break your will,’ snapped Mother Agnes. ‘I was trying to beat the devil out of you. It was for your own good.’
‘Ah, but you only ended up pushing him further down inside of me.’
‘Do not speak of your work with him! This is a good, charitable institution. It is a place of God.’
Hardy opened his palm. ‘Try me now,’ he said.
‘Now, please … ’ Mother Agnes blushed.
‘Do it,’ repeated Hardy.
‘I will not be –’
‘Do it now or I’ll tear that thing from your hand and give you some quiet reflection of your own,’ said Hardy.
The prioress brought the ruler down on his hand, cracking the hard wood against his skin.
He didn’t flinch. ‘Again,’ he said.
She hit him harder, leaving a red mark across his palm. Hardy’s eyes were dry now. She didn’t need to be told again. She hit him a third time. More than anything she wanted a reaction. She needed a reaction. It was all she had ever wanted from him. She brought the ruler down a fourth time. A fifth, sixth and seventh. Still Hardy said nothing.
‘No more,’ said Mother Agnes, at last.
‘You want to know my secret?’ said Hardy. ‘I enjoy the pain. That’s what you taught me: the ability to dish out pain gives you real power. Except over people like me, that is.’
‘You wicked child,’ said Mother Agnes. She swung the ruler again, but this time Hardy caught it and yanked it out of her hand. ‘God watches everything you do,’ she yelled. ‘You can’t escape His judgement!’
‘God’s a thief and a coward,’ said Hardy. ‘God’s a tyrant and a liar.’
‘You dare to blaspheme?’
‘Pain is my god,’ said Hardy. ‘You taught me that too.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Mother Agnes, breathlessly.
‘Tom and Esther,’ said Hardy. ‘Where are they?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, but you aren’t the first to come searching for them.’
‘The law?’
‘No. A man by the name of Harry Clay.’
‘I’ve heard that name.’
‘He came here two days ago.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him the same thing I’m telling you. I have no idea where they went. I have not seen either of them since they left.’
Hardy stood up, still holding the ruler. ‘I think I’ll keep this,’ he said.
‘You would steal from an orphanage?’ said Mother Agnes.
‘Steal? I’ve earned this.’ Hardy tucked the ruler into his belt and left.
Chapter 43
Reclamation
There was a palpable feeling of anxiety in the air as the four remaining members of the Society of Thirteen gathered once more in the club library.
‘I heard this morning that the coroner confirms that Symmonds died of natural causes,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘The police are no longer looking for the Indian.’
‘It’s a terrible business,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Poor John.’
‘John’s death is a tragedy but we should not allow it to distract us from the matter in hand,’ said Lord Ringmore, coldly.
‘I’m afraid Inspector Longdale has not yet recovered the book,’ said Sir Tyrrell.
‘And yet, as a result of the police’s actions, Harry was able to lay his hands on it.’ Lord Ringmore pulled the book out from a pocket in his coat and placed it on a table.
‘Longdale set a bunch of thugs after them,’ said Clay. ‘They provided an excellent distraction. This time I saw the girl turn the mud from the riverbed into a weapon. The power they wield is remarkable. It could create a stage show the like of which the world has never seen before.’
‘A stage show –?’ barked Sir Tyrrell.
‘Thankfully,’ interrupted Lord Ringmore, ‘Mr Hayman was on hand to rescue the book from such an inconsequential fate and remind Harry where his loyalties lie.’
‘We all have our agendas, don’t we, Ringmore?’ said Clay.
‘Well, some of us would use this power to better the world,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘So, what now? We know we need a thirteen-year-old without parents, but what must we have them do?’
‘My research has revealed the answer,’ explained Mr G. Hayman. ‘The child uses a wand or staff to make a shape in the ground. When they step inside that shape the lifeblood infects them.’
‘Have you learnt what shape it is?’ asked Clay.
‘Yes. Going back through my notes, I realised that the answer has been right in front of us since the beginning,’ said Mr G. Hayman. She flipped the book around to show the symbol on the back. ‘This shape. The circle within the triangle within the circle. This is the Creation Spell, gentlemen.’
Clay clapped his hands together in excitement. ‘Then all we need is a subject.’
‘I have a nephew of thirteen. He would be perfect. He was orphaned following the death of my dear brother last year,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘I’ve been like a father to the boy ever since.’
‘Can he be trusted?’ asked Mr G. Hayman.
‘He is a Tyrrell and therefore totally trustworthy.’
‘And yet there are now two children out there who are already wielding such power,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘If we are to control this power we must first contain it. We must draw the orphans back to us.’
‘A Conjuror of our own will give us bargaining power,’ mused Clay.
‘I agree,’ said Mr G. Hayman.
‘As do I,’ added Sir Tyrrell.
‘Very well, then we will try out your nephew first then use him to entice the orphans back,’ said Lord Ringmore.
Chapter 44
Blood
Mondriat led Tom to a patch of wasteland between two factories that churned out smoke from huge chimneys. In the summer there was probably enough grass to call it a park but in the winter it was abandoned and desolate, save for a few stray dogs.
‘If you want to locate your aunt, you must create a hunting potion,’ explained the magpie.
‘A potion? Why not a spell?’
‘Spells can harness great power, but a potion is more potent, as it draws out the essence of the lifeblood itself.’
‘What ingredients do we need?’
Mondriat laughed. ‘You think we need a bubbling cauldron and eyes of a newt, I suppose?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just … what then?’
‘First, you must dig your cauldron.’ Mondriat tapped his beak on the ground.
‘It’s frozen solid. How can I dig?’
‘You hold the answer in your right hand,’ replied Mondriat.
Tom looked at his staff.
‘With this?’ he said.
‘With that.’
Tom tried to ram his staff into the ground but it barely made any impact at all.
‘What are you doing?’ squawked Mondriat. ‘You’re a Conjuror! When I say to use your staff, I mean use it as a staff, not as a stick. Use your power, your strength
. Find a spell within you that will create the cauldron in the earth.’
Tom nodded and placed both hands on one end of the staff. He knelt down and moved it instinctively in a spiralling motion. He could feel the raw energy rise up through it. He closed his eyes as though in prayer. The staff vibrated and, when Tom opened his eyes, he saw it had created a perfectly circular hole in the ground.
‘Not bad for your first attempt,’ said Mondriat. ‘Now, draw the Creation Spell around the cauldron.’
As Tom completed the final line he felt the power pulsate from the ground.
‘The Creation Spell is the basis of all magic,’ said Mondriat. ‘The circle summons the illuminated energy, the triangle harnesses shaded energy.’
‘There is good and bad magic?’ said Tom.
‘Good and bad are words used by unInfected souls. A dog may be good or bad. A song may be good or bad. We are not talking about dogs or music. The energy of the Earthsoul, shaded or illuminated, is beautiful.’
‘So how do I make a potion?’
‘A potion requires liquid. Blood, in fact. Your blood, to be precise.’
‘My blood?’ said Tom, alarmed.
‘Just one droplet of your own, exquisitely Infected blood. You’ll barely notice it.’
‘Is there a spell to draw out my blood?’
‘Some things you don’t need magic for.’
Before Tom could ask what Mondriat meant, he flew onto his arm and jabbed his beak into Tom’s hand.
‘Hey!’ protested Tom, pulling his hand away to see that Mondriat had pierced his skin and that a droplet of blood glistened on his palm.
Mondriat fluttered up to the safety of a nearby tree. ‘Now hold your hand over the cauldron and allow the blood to drip in.’
Tom scowled at him but followed his instructions, allowing two drops to fall into the hole then sucking the wound dry. As the red droplets hit the centre of the hole they hissed like eggs hitting a hot frying pan. Red liquid oozed from the pores of the earth, filling the hole. White steam rose from the surface of the potion.
The Society of Thirteen Page 13
