by Gayla Twist
Broom with a View
Gayla Twist
with Ted Naifeh
Copyright © 201 3 Adrianne Ambrose
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1494325004
ISBN-13: 978-1494325008
DEDICATION
To Q and Max and E. M. Forster.
Prologue: When an Assassination Forces a Holiday
“I don’t understand why someone who is two hundred years old should know all that much more than someone who is sixteen,” said Violet Popplewell to her mother. “There’s only a limited amount of things to know.”
Mrs. Popplewell gave a resigned sigh as she sat at her desk in her small office. “There’s no point arguing, Violet. Your great-aunt Vera is going with you, and that is that. I know she can be a little trying at times, but a girl your age cannot simply travel to an unknown city by herself. You must admit that. Especially with things being so unsettled. ”
Violet considered brooding for a moment but fought the impulse. She was a practical girl, after all, and what can’t be mended must be borne. She returned to her room to make another attempt at packing.
“Unsettled.” That was her mother’s word for impending war. The Archmage of Canterbury was dead. His body, entirely drained of blood, had been found with that of his wife in their private chamber. There was little doubt the assassin was a Vampire. Within twenty-four hours, rumors of a looming war had spread across England like a winter storm. It didn’t matter that there was no proof that Vampires were behind the murders or even condoned the act. Nor did it matter to Mrs. Popplewell that the dastardly deed had happened in London, which might as well have been a million miles from Gallows Road in the little corner of Surrey that was the Popplewells’ home. The British Isle was no longer deemed a safe place for young Witches to dwell.
For Violet, who had rarely travelled even to London, visiting X, the mysterious city-state renowned for its magic, ought to have seemed a wondrous romantic journey. But most young ladies taking their first trip abroad had months to plan down to the smallest detail. New wardrobes were commissioned. Farewell parties were held. And Violet would enjoy none of those niceties. She was simply being shipped off, like a parcel, to be kept out of harm’s way.
Violet surveyed the state of her bedroom, sighed, and set about attempting to create order from the general disarray. Her steamer trunks were bare, while clothes, shoes, books, and toiletries were strewn across every surface of the room. Earlier that morning, she had, in her haste, attempted to enchant her clothes to arrange themselves. But instead of compliantly settling into her trunks, the gowns had chased each other about the room in a colorful display of hide-and-go-seek. The stack of books she intended as her additional travelling companions had toppled across the floor, their pages flapping as if caught in a strong breeze. Her brush and comb had attacked her, snatching and dragging at her hair; she’d had to leave the room for three-quarters of an hour to give the spell a chance to wear off.
It was no use; try though she might, magic never obeyed Miss Popplewell’s wishes the way she intended. Most children born to the Craft assumed that the world was their dollhouse, to be rearranged at their whim. But harnessing the unseen forces of the world was a tricky business full of hidden complications and unseen traps. And though almost an adult, Violet still struggled to bend the magical world to her will. She frequently found that the harder she tried, the more difficult it became to cast even the simplest spell. Her mother was constantly reminding the frustrated girl that most of their kind only truly mastered the Craft in their later years, when the tempestuous fires of youth had largely sputtered out. Yet Violet’s powers always seemed just inches from her grasp. Every once in a while, she would unexpectedly conjure extraordinary wonders. Unfortunately, these anomalies came without warning, and afterward, she could never remember what she had done differently. Perhaps it was the way she held her mouth.
Standing in her disorderly room, Violet hesitantly reached into her pocket and felt the familiar handle of the old magic wand that had belonged to her grandmother. Many modern Crafters no longer relied on a wand to produce magic, but for the girl, wand work always seemed to yield the best results. She gripped it for a moment, deliberated, and then decided she couldn’t face another failure. Instead, she began the dull task of packing by hand.
An hour later, all the necessities of life were neatly encapsulated in two large trunks at the foot of Violet’s bed. But her satisfaction was interrupted by a sound emanating from the next room—like two pelicans simultaneously trying to swallow the same fish. Ostensibly called the guest room, the chamber next to Violet’s was almost permanently occupied by her great-aunt, Vera Tartlette. The sound was one of indescribable vexation, which Aunt Vera invariably made when faced with a world-shattering crisis. Violet heard it at least twice a week. With a small sigh, she went to check on the situation.
“Do not fret, my dear,” Aunt Vera began, her voice quavering. Violet entered the room with some trepidation. “I only need a few more moments to sort myself out, and then I’ll be in to help you directly.”
The guest room was in far worse shape than Violet’s had been an hour earlier. Clothes, books, toiletries, and shoes all swirled haphazardly through the air. With a sweeping gesture, Vera would transfer a pile of undergarments to the bottom of her empty steamer trunk. Then, finding dissatisfaction with their placement, she’d whisk her hands to one side to remove them again. After that, the gowns would go in, only to be removed a moment later in the same fashion. All the while, Aunt Vera chattered continuously, either to Violet or to herself, weighing the advantages of taking each item versus the hazards of leaving it behind.
Knowing as she spoke that she would only make things worse, Violet ventured, “Vera, the train does have a schedule to keep.” At this point, the elderly Witch was turning in circles in the center of the little room as though, by making eye contact with each item, she could fathom its every possible use into her head. But once she lost sight of the beaded gloves or motion sickness pastilles or whatever she was looking at, the item and its usefulness were crowded out by new ones.
“Don’t bedevil me with schedules,” her aunt wailed impatiently as an airborne shoe nearly collided with a lit candle. “I said I would help you and I shall, but you really must leave me to my own packing first.”
“For goodness sake.” Violet felt on the edge of exasperation with her great-aunt already, and they hadn’t even set out for the station. Drawing the old wand from her pocket, almost without thinking, she made three decisive strikes through the air. In a hailstorm of clothes, shoes, books, and papers, Vera’s possessions all found their proper place, and trunk lids slammed firmly shut.
The room went still. Vera gazed in silence at the neatly arranged steamer trunks for several moments, as if trying to remember where she had left her knitting. Then she blinked and, turning her eyes to her young ward, said, “There now. Shall we see about your trunks?”
Chapter 1: Witch Friendly Does Not Mean Witch Exclusive
The city-state of X lay somewhere on the European continent, just at the invisible line that separated the western half, land of Witches, Sorcerers, and other Crafters, from the dark eastern half, realm of the Vampires. It stood before, or rather almost encrusting, Mount Drood, a craggy bluff that rose sharply above the rolling hills surrounding it and marked the beginning of the Alps. Half the city climbed the steep slope of Mt. Drood and crowned its peak, while the other half stood almost perpetually in its shadow.
To say that Violet Popplewell had always dreamt of going to X was not to say that she had actually wanted to go. Quite the contrary; since she was a small child, tales of that magical city had filled her with unease. In anxiety-filled d
reams, she would find herself wandering its labyrinthine streets while tall, windowless buildings frowned down upon her.
Violet’s first glimpse of X in waking life was little different from her nocturnal visions. As their train pulled into the station in the deepening gloom of early evening, she caught glimpses of the city’s towers, black against the purple sky. She’d seen pictures of the famous edifices, but nothing could have prepared her for the soaring spires of stone, iron, and glass of a city built by magic. London, but for a tiny handful of magically enhanced buildings shrouded in spells of concealment, had nothing to compare. No building crafted by Mortals could hold a candle to these impossible structures.
A mighty hall lined with pillars rested on the sculpted shoulders of a stone colossus. Staircases spiraled upwards, disappearing into the sky with no visible means of support or conclusion. Walkways, and even a road or two big enough to drive a carriage across, rested on impossibly slender, graceful arched pylons—when they weren’t resting on thin air. Here and there, immense trees grew, wrapping around buildings and then providing support for additional constructions. And buildings intertwined with the naked rock of the mountain so promiscuously that one couldn’t tell what was natural and what was Crafted.
The train station was their first indication of the chaos that had gripped the city. Strangely, it had never occurred to Violet that she wasn’t the only magical being seeking refuge from the impending war. Travelers crowded the platform from end to end, and getting through the bustling swarm of humanity was like swimming through a hot, angry soup. It had been an exhausting journey of barely catching their train, then crossing the channel by ferry, and then a much lengthier train ride to X. Neither lady was in the mood to be jostled.
Once on the street, Vera realized that she had left her notebook on the train and couldn’t remember the name of the guest house where they had a reservation, much less where it was located. Violet suggested they cast a seeking spell, which sent Vera into a loudly whispered tirade. “Cast a spell? Here, on the street, where we might be seen by anyone?”
Violet hastened to remind her aunt that, “such cautions must surely be needless in X of all places.” Any Mortal living in this city who remained ignorant of magic must be deaf, blind, and terminally stupid.
Raising her hands in reluctant preparation, Vera admitted with some trepidation, “I’m afraid it’s been well over a century since I last cast this particular spell.” Having spent all her life in Surrey, she had little opportunity to get lost.
The incantation did not go well. Vera stumbled over the words in a barely audible voice, for fear of being overheard by the aforementioned blind deaf mute. Her trembling hands did not aid in the creation. By the time she reached the end of the third stanza, there was only a dim light pooling around their feet, leading nowhere discernible.
Violet had no desire to embarrass her aunt, but she also did not wish to keep wandering around the darkened streets where who knows what kinds of magical creatures were lurking down every alley. The girl was quite sure she’d seen a man in a black cape slip from one shadow to the next as they approached. Sneaking her wand out of her pocket, Violet created a quick enhancement spell, which she cast towards her aunt and herself. The light around their feet began to gain power. An illuminated path appeared, leading them down the street. After only a block, the trail ended at the steps of the Pensione Belladonna.
“There,” Vera said, brushing her hands against each other as if to remove some invisible soot. “That wasn’t so very difficult, now was it? There never really is any reason to panic.” They mounted the steps, and the man in the cape, who had been following them by way of the shadows, faded into the night.
* * * * * * * * *
“The proprietress had no call to deceive us,” Aunt Vera stated over dinner. “I don’t care how crowded the city has become. What does that have to do with our reservation?”
Violet had no choice but to agree. On entering the musty guest house, they were quickly bustled down a narrow wooden staircase to a pair of basement rooms with bare stone walls. The floor was damp flagstone, and both chambers strongly smelled of mold. Instead of the panoramic view of the River Stygia they’d been promised, each room had a small, arched window near the ceiling that offered views of passersby from the ankles down.
Violet cast her gaze across the dining table to the English faces who were just tucking into their evening meal. “Honestly, we may as well have stayed in Surrey,” she said with a sigh. “Except that there we’d be comfortable.”
“And better provided for. This mutton is entirely flavorless,” Vera replied in a disapproving whisper.
“I believe it’s been drained,” came a slow, creaking voice beside Vera. An elderly Witch with skin the color of parchment and matching hair had turned to address Vera with a smile that might have been sardonic.
“Drained?” replied Vera.
“You know. Of blood.”
Vera’s neighbour had been introduced to them as Miss Abigail Fate, one of three sisters who had been staying in X for several months. Violet liked them immediately, but she was currently positioned at the table to hear very little of what the ladies said. They were, to the girl’s mind, the best sort of elderly women—dressed in soft, lavender clothes and smelling of rosewater, with sweet, reassuring voices and ready smiles. The only odd thing about them was their three matching pairs of smoked eyeglasses, which instantly brought to mind the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice.” Violet prayed she didn’t accidentally hum the tune aloud.
Vera was in a position to hear Miss Abigail’s words quite clearly. “I’m sorry; I’m not sure what you mean,” Vera said, addressing the senior Witch.
“For the Vampires,” Miss Fate said with a smile. One of her sisters leaned in to see down the length of the table, holding a pair of opera glasses to the lenses of her eyeglasses and peering through them.
“It’s a cheap way of feeding both the Crafter and Vampire guests, you see,” said the sister in a hushed voice.
“Vampire guests?” Vera asked, her eyes growing very round. It became immediately obvious to the Witch that two of the patrons of the Pensione Belladonna had plates that were noticeably bare. In contrast, their wine goblets were full to the brim. And not with the Proprietress’s weak Chianti but with a thicker liquid in the darkest shade of crimson.
A little shiver ran up Vera’s spine, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from darting again in the direction of the two barren place settings. The elderly gentleman seated behind one of the plates seized the opportunity to say, “My dear lady, perhaps it’s true that this little haven is not everything one could wish, but what place on this earth is?” he asked with a smile.
Violet had not held tight to the thread of the conversation, but she could detect nothing but kindness in the elder gentleman’s crinkled eyes.
“Surely,” he went on, addressing Miss Tartlette, “you must have come away from your comfortable and familiar home because you found it wanting in some way. And now that you are here, all is strange, and the shortcomings are not familiar ones. But what is that? I’m sure you’ll find the wonders of the great city of X are worth a few inconveniences. In my humble opinion, we who seek to drink from the font of perfection must be forever thirsty. Wouldn’t you agree, Sebastian?”
At this, the gentleman turned to his companion, an elegantly dressed and handsome young man, who remained silent, swirling his wine goblet listlessly. Undaunted, the older man returned his beaming gaze towards Vera.
It was obvious from the gentlemen’s appearance that they were father and son. But where the old man’s brightly colored waistcoat strained over an advancing belly and gleaming strands of silver-grey adorned his widow’s peak, the young man’s frame was still slender, and his widow’s peak was black as jet, matching his linen suit. Where the father seemed almost childlike in his jovial eagerness, the son was as somber as the grave. But it was not a sinister somberness—more the appearance of someone suffering from a sev
ere case of melancholia. In fact, the two were so comically unalike that Violet had to restrain herself from smirking at them.
“I do not expect perfection from a pensione,” Vera indignantly replied to the elder of the pair, “but we were led to expect something quite different from what we got.”
They had been introduced to the two gentlemen in a general way when they sat down at table, but Vera was discomfited to realize that she had forgotten their names and wasn’t sure of the correct etiquette under the circumstances. Did the introduction actually count?
“We were promised two rooms on the top floor, with a view of the river and the cathedral,” Vera said to the table at large.
“Ah, I see,” said the old gentleman. “I see the trouble. Alas, in the confusion of so many arrivals, my son and I ended up in exactly two such rooms.”
Vera stiffened and retorted with a crisp, “How delightful for you. I do hope you enjoy them.”
“My dear lady, you misunderstand me,” the gentleman went on. “My son and I have rooms on the top floor in full sun every morning. It won’t do at all, though we had resigned ourselves to make the best of it.”
Violet could feel her aunt withdrawing into herself. Vera had no ability to deal with strangers who were overly forwards. She had turned her attention to diligently cutting her mutton into perfectly uniform bites. But the man seemed so kindly; Violet could not fathom why her aunt was always so suspicious. The girl saw no reason to snub him, so, replying for Vera, she said, “I wish we were so lucky.”
“But you can be,” said he, lighting the room with the warmest smile she’d encountered since leaving Surrey. “Please, allow me to explain. We have no use for morning views. Sebastian and I far prefer to slumber in the comfortable darkness of a basement room and cultivate our perfect view from within. For we believe that if the sun rises in one’s heart, then no darkness can take it away. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”
