The Potioneer (Shadeborn Book 3) (13 page)

A Not So Jolly Holiday

Though very few of the Theatre Imaginique’s inhabitants actually celebrated Christmas, the festive day itself seemed to bring a quaint air of joy to the stony walls. On Christmas Day morning, Lily awoke to the somewhat unusual sight of Novel, who was sleeping peacefully beside her. The muscles of his pale face were slack, eyes heavily lidded and his mouth open a little on one side, and Lily turned herself over as softly as she could to give herself a moment of tender gazing. She reached out for him, gently pushing back that wayward white curl that had invaded his brow and, at the barest touch, Novel’s eyes gave a twitch, and he was awake.

“Damn,” Lily said with a quiet laugh, “I wanted you asleep for longer. You looked so calm.”

Novel swallowed and licked at his dry lips. “Then I must have been dreaming about something very far from reality. Nothing’s ever calm with you around.”

“And Merry Christmas to you too,” Lily retorted jovially.

“Oh, yes, that’s today,” Novel answered with a sleepy kind of brightness.

Lily reached behind her, searching for her watch beyond the folds of fabrics all around them. In the dark shadows of the four-poster’s crimson curtains, it could almost have been any time of day or night, but the ever-ticking face of the clock told Lily it was nine a.m. She held the watch up, dangling it to and fro, past the end of the illusionist’s nose.

“Look at you, getting up in the morning like a normal person,” she teased.

Novel shuffled closer, swatting the watch out of her grip. Where it landed, Lily had no time to look, for a pair of strong, warm hands encased her waist and pulled her close. She felt Novel’s lips tracing lines along her collarbone, and his voice was low and rumbling when he spoke against her earlobe.

“We’re not getting up just yet,” he promised wickedly.

*

When Lily eventually made it down to the small sitting room in the back quarters of the Theatre, she was surprised to see so many people gathered at the mid-morning hour. Poppa Seward was reclining in an old armchair by the window, resting his large feet on the sill where they sported a brand new pair of zebra-print slippers. Beneath him, on the rug, Rasmus and Erasmus had curled their huge athletic forms into cross-legged obedience, though they were having a tug-of-war over a precarious-looking shiv that still had half its white plastic gift bow attached.

“You’ve all got presents,” Lily said with astonishment.

“It was Jazzy’s idea,” Dharma answered. She approached Lily, holding up a black feather boa that grazed her neck like a lazy serpent. The high-street label still hung from one end. “Don’t you think it’s sweet? Such a lovely little human thing.”

It was as close to a compliment as Dharma Khan ever came, and Lily felt a twinge of guilt in her stomach as she surveyed the far corner of the room, where a small pile of presents still remained. Lily knew that, religiously at least, Jazzy didn’t even celebrate Christmas, yet she’d been the one to bring cheer and festivities to even the strangest collection of beings. Lily approached the present pile, reading the names on the remaining labels, until she found a small but heavy volume wrapped in scarlet paper. She turned on her heel to find Novel right behind her, and shoved the gift into his grip.

“Oh, surely not,” the illusionist said, looking down at the parcel sheepishly. Sure enough, its label read
Lemarick
, in Jazzy’s haphazard script.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t get you anything,” Lily added glibly, though in truth she was starting to wish she had, in the face of her sweet little friend’s generosity.

Novel looked up, and his eyes met hers with a deep, almost fearful longing.

“You being safe and sound is the best thing anyone could give me,” he replied.

As Lily kissed his cheek, she heard the rustling of paper, and when she looked down, Novel was holding a freshly unwrapped book in his hands. The cover tickled Lily at once, and she had to inhale a deep breath not to laugh out loud as Novel began reading the title.

“Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus,” he read dryly, “the classic guide to understanding the opposite sex.”

The chorus of laughter rang out in the tiny little room, carrying all the way up the theatre’s long and winding corridors. Dharma had seated herself next to Zita on the sofa, and the pair of them held close to one another in their fit of hysterics. One sharp-nailed finger rose on Dharma’s hand to waggle a warning.

“You must read it, Lemarick,” she chortled.

“Cover to cover,” Zita exclaimed gleefully, “promise us!”

And, where only a year ago Lily might have supposed that Novel would hit the roof in a fit of lightning and flames, on Christmas Day he simply smiled, and tucked the book away within the folds of his tailcoat. He gave the ladies on the sofa a gracious bow, his face level and polite as he replied.

“I shall endeavour. Now, where might I find that little rapscallion to thank her for this most… thoughtful present?”

“Hmmm,” said Poppa from the armchair. “Lawrence went to wake her quite some time ago. I wonder, if…”

A cheeky smile crossed the Haitian man’s dark face, and laughter erupted again in the sitting room. Lily was still chuckling as she made her way back to the present pile, and her fingertips had just barely grazed the edge of a large silver box marked with her name when a great commotion came from behind her. Footsteps pounded down the corridor and a tall, lanky figure smashed his way into the room so fast that he could barely stop his feet.

“Lawrie?” Poppa asked, craning to see his son, “What’s up, son?”

“Where’s Jeronomie?” Lawrence demanded, his face a picture of panic.

Novel turned swiftly, as serious as he’d ever been, and put his hands on the tall boy’s shoulders. Lawrence looked to him at once, their eyes locking in silent understanding.

“She’s sick, Monsieur,” Lawrence said. “She looks so weak and pale. I tried to help but, I… I couldn’t… I, please, I…”

Tears fell before Lawrence could even choke out his last words. Poppa was on his feet with incredible power for a man of his years, and Novel passed the tearful son over to his father for comfort. The illusionist reached for Lily’s hand and the pair of them glided on hurried instinct towards the prop store conversion, where the sound of a weak little voice could already be heard calling out.

“Hello?” Jazzy called. “Lawrence? Lily?”

“I’m here, mate,” Lily said before she was even through the door.

This was just as well, for when she beheld her friend, it seemed as though all the words she knew had fallen out of her head. Jazzy’s dark skin, so rich in its usual coffee colour, was pallid and veiny. Lily had seen her the night before – they had watched Christmas Eve television together – and Jazzy had looked perfectly normal when she retired to bed that night. Now, she was a picture of mortal sickness, wheezing and spluttering as she reached weakly to take Lily’s hand. When Lily held her little fingers, a wrench of sadness twisted her gut to feel how frail her dear friend had become in just a matter of hours.

“What could do this?” Lily demanded, looking back to Novel. “What could make her so sick in such a short space of time?”

“Magic,” Novel answered grimly. “Can’t you feel it, in here with us this very moment?”

Lily cleared her mind, inhaling deeply, and she looked around the room with a blank stare as she tried to feel for the hum of casting in the air. There was something subtle in the atmosphere, a tingle that set all the hairs on the back of her neck standing, and as Lily surveyed the space, her eyes fell to one spot in particular. In one corner of the room, a huge mirror stood reflecting over Jazzy’s bed. Lily saw herself and Novel, standing there dumbfounded, and she walked towards the mirror at a trancelike pace.

“Lily, don’t-” Novel began.

He reached for her arm and missed, and Lily came face to face with the massive mirror. She saw her own helpless reflection, and the form of her frail friend beyond her, and Lily looked deeply into the glass, hoping to see what truly lay beyond it.

“The curse is spreading,” Lily said, echoing the agreement that had been made at the Solstice. “If this is the djinn’s next target, then the curse has to end. Jazzy’s suffered enough because of me.”

Lily saw the frown of protest on her friend’s small face, the way Jazzy scrunched her button nose and shook her curly locks faintly. But when Lily turned away from the glass, she refused to meet Jazzy’s eyes to take in that forgiveness and sympathy. She looked to Novel instead, with steel in her gaze, clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug tiny half-moons into her palms. Fire erupted around her, flames flickering and sparking as her muscles grew tense. When the bad luck had been all on her, Lily had found it frightening, but now that it threatened everyone else that she loved, she knew the meaning of real terror.

“What do we do?” she demanded, her stare unwavering. “You said there would be a new plan, so what is it?”

Novel nodded briskly, fingertips tracing the sharp lines of his chin.

“We consult Miss Parnell, and raise Jazmine back to health these next few days,” he explained. “At first light on New Year’s Day, you and I are going to take a trip to meet some educated people. It’s already arranged.”

From an inside pocket, Novel produced a slip of paper written in a long, slanted hand. He passed the curling scroll to Lily, who held it at arm’s length and studied the writing until she could make sense of the archaic old script.

Dear Monsieur,

We are delighted to accept your request to make visitation to the most ancient and hallowed settlement of Pendle on the first of January. Be assured that what you seek shall be provided in abundance.

Regards,

The Council of Pendle Shadefolk

“Pendle?” Lily said, looking up from the letter. “But I thought that Pendle was just a hill? There isn’t actually a settlement anymore, is there?”

Novel said nothing, and Lily perused the letter again. There must have been a town, otherwise she wouldn’t be holding a letter allowing her to visit it, and there was certainly a council of some sort in residence there. It had not yet occurred to Lily that a higher authority of shades might have existed, let alone that they’d welcome a request for help, or have a town of their very own to invite people to. Nevertheless, the prospect was inviting, and Lily felt a new glimmer of hope slowly growing as she looked from the letter to Jazzy in her bed. She sat down beside her friend, lifting the letter so that she could read it too.

“You’re going to a town full of magic,” Jazzy wheezed, “you lucky git.”

January

The Booksmith

“You want to go
where
, mate?” said the taxi driver, his mouth half-filled with a turkey and stuffing sandwich.

“Pendle Hill, off Barley Lane,” Novel replied, leaning towards the cab’s frosted window. “You do know it, I presume?”

“What d’you want to go up there for?” the cabby shot back loudly. “It’s bleedin’ freezin’ today!”

Novel gave a deep sigh, and reached into the folds of his thick, dark overcoat to produce a large roll of banknotes. He waved them in front of the taxi driver, whose lined, confused face suddenly smoothed of all doubt as he beheld such a great deal of money.

“Is this an interrogation,” Novel continued, “or would you care to take myself and my lady-friend to our destination now?”

“Whatever you say, chuck,” the cabby answered, “just mind the door, will you? It was frozen shut this morning, had to de-ice it for a full hour. Bleedin’ New Year’s Day, I tell you…”

The cabby was still talking incessantly as Novel boarded the back of the vehicle, turning to help Lily in behind him. She was bundled in several layers of winter clothes, with pink mittens that rendered her hands totally useless, and a matching hat which was constantly flopping down over her eyes. Even inside the taxi, the air had that biting quality that it could only ever possess in the English countryside, and she leaned on Novel until he wrapped both arms around her shoulders to help her keep warm.

“Not pagans, are you?” the cabby asked in his constant stream of conversation. “We get a lot of pagans going up the hills this time of year.”

Novel curled his lip irately, so Lily jumped in to answer before he got a chance.

“Just a New Year’s Day walk,” she said as jovially as she could manage, “we’re mad for the fells.”

“You’re just plain mad, if you ask me,” the driver answered with a chortle. “Catch your death up there, you will.”

At this, Novel buried his head against Lily’s shoulder and gave a deep groan. She knew it was her fault that they had to travel the human way to Pendle Hill, after what Novel had told her about the windows being made with slices of air from the World of the Wish. Passing through the djinnkind’s world, even for a split second, wasn’t a good move with a powerful curse on your head. Lily certainly wasn’t in the mood to make things any worse for herself, or those around her. Jazzy was constantly on her mind, even though her friend had returned to health miraculously swiftly after her Christmas Day incident.

The chair-bound girl seemed to be bright and sunny as ever when she’d waved them off on the train at Piketon Station early that morning. Now, they were travelling north from the station at Nelson by road, and the frozen hills and plains around them had an austere whiteness, like the whole of the countryside had been shot at with a freeze-ray, and fallen into stillness in an instant. The cabby was still talking, saying something about the local council refusing to rock-salt the country roads during the holidays, and Lily supposed that was the reason for the taxi’s slow, bumpy journey up into the Lancashire hills.

When Pendle rose on the horizon, Lily felt a sting in her fluttering, frozen chest. The great sloping hill looked just as it had on the projector screen at Bradley’s first lecture, though now the grassy peak was blanketed in thick, white snow. There was little evidence of trees the farther up the slope Lily gazed, for the camouflage of frost and snowflakes had blended them perfectly into the hillside. Lily sucked in a shivering breath at the vast, bleak sight of Pendle Hill, hoping that the journey to the summit would not be as unpleasant as it looked.

When Novel made his way out of the taxi the wind knocked him sideways, and Lily watched his long, black limbs as he spindled back towards the window to pay the driver. She was more prepared than the illusionist for the wind, forcing her head down and bracing against the mighty gusts that only northern weather could provide. The cabby abandoned them at the start of the walking trail that led to the hill itself, and Lily was sure she heard him tutting and laughing even as he sped off back toward civilisation.

“Is it going to be this cold all the way?” Lily asked.

She found herself shouting to be heard over the scream of the wind, and Novel moved closer, fishing for one of her mitten-clad hands. To Lily’s horror, he was taking the fluffy pink fabric away from her skin, and had pocketed the glove before she could protest. His pale, bare hand slipped into hers, and she watched the kindred flame ignite despite the horrendous winter weather. The flames warmed her instantly, and she looked up into Novel’s frosty gaze with new curiosity.

“I don’t think I can control the weather on my own,” he confessed, close to her ear, “but ought we to try it together?”

Lily nodded, turning to face the path ahead. She squeezed Novel’s hand tightly, looking into the wild wind that whipped tiny particles of snow all around them. Moments passed, and a warmth began to tingle in her blood beneath all the layers of her ensemble, then suddenly it was as though she was looking beyond the wind. The whistle of the elements dimmed its shrill cry, and with every step the kindred souls took forward, the weather began to soften and mould its way around them.

“Marvellous,” Novel mused, giving Lily a surge of pride. “Onward to the gate, then.”

Lily still didn’t see how a whole town could exist on the bleak and empty plain of Pendle Hill, but her last year learning the ways of the shadeborn had taught her to prepare for unexpected and incredible things. It was for this reason that she felt a little disappointed when, after twenty minutes’ trudging up the gradient of the hill, Novel suddenly stopped at a set of tiny grey milestones sunk deep into the ground. After the wonders of the windowmaker’s portals and the grand, flower-covered arch at Edvard’s funeral, the two tiny stumps of rock were something of an anti-climax.

“This is it?” she asked, hoping that Novel had only paused to catch his breath.

“See for yourself,” the illusionist said, nudging her forward to inspect the rock.

The milestones were so deeply entrenched into the ground that very few humans would have bothered to stop and inspect them. Lily had to crouch, resting one hand on the damp, snowy ground to read the inscription upon them. It was etched and weathered, as though the words had been there for thousands of years, yet Lily knew they had to be new as the snow that had fallen on Pendle that morning.

Lemarick Novel, Lily Coltrane, January 1
st
.

Lily straightened up, looking past the stones to the rest of the wild, snowy hill ahead. Again, she felt that little stab deep within her as the starkness of the place absorbed her vision, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to waver for less than a heartbeat. Novel leaned close to her ear once more, and Lily felt the shadow of his smile against her skin when he spoke.

“Welcome to Pendle. Try not to trip on the cobblestones, first-timers often do.”

Lily didn’t have time to ask ‘What cobblestones?’ before Novel was leading her forward through the mile markers. She had barely taken a step past them when the texture of the ground changed rapidly beneath her feet, soft snow vanishing to be replaced by hard, circular pebbles. The heel of her boot went down the gap between two stones, and she wobbled hard, her vision blurred with disorientation. She only found her balance because one hand was still locked with Novel’s, and she pulled on it hard to regain composure.

When her head had stopped spinning, Lily found herself standing at the bottom of a long, narrow street which extended up the central path of Pendle Hill. It was decked in black and grey cobblestones, with three-storey houses lining either side of the thoroughfare. The houses were wooden, and Lily felt a nerdy sort of thrill that they might have been authentic to the time of Shakespeare, judging by their weathered beams and the familiar black and white stripes of Tudor architecture. The whole place seemed like an incredible illusion, gone one moment, yet there the next, and Lily realised eventually that Novel was waiting patiently for her to come back to the land of conscious thought.

“This is the oldest place in England for our people,” he explained, “hidden away from human eyes, and accessible by invitation only.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lily answered. And, though the village was full of stark, dark shapes and old, gothic twists, it truly was a rare sight to behold.

“That’s our first port of call,” Novel said in a louder tone.

Lily followed his pointing hand up the empty street, where a faded emerald sign was swinging by an invisible breeze. None of the chilly weather of the hill itself had permeated the hidden town, and Lily felt a warm flush of excitement overcome her as she navigated the cobbles towards the building. The green sign came into better view with every step, until Lily could make out all of the gilded words that glittered upon it:

FORRESTER AND BAINES.

Purveyors of fine books and antiques.

As they reached the shop’s black-framed windows, Lily peered through the glass and saw a pair of eyes looking back at her. The eyes belonged to a small man with a balding head, who went back to his work a mere moment after acknowledging that he was being watched. Lily peered down to his hands, where she saw that he was striking a pose over a large and ancient-looking book. The bald man waggled his fingers with a flourish and a snap, and suddenly a torrent of what looked like water magic was spilling down onto the book’s pages. Instead of soaking them through, the book absorbed the power, and Lily felt sure she could see fine strains of ink swirling inside the pages as the magic was taken in.

“This is a booksmith’s shop,” she said as she realised what she was seeing.

She saw Novel nod in the reflection of the shop window. He too was watching the artisan at work, as he turned a page and imbued the new Book of Shade with yet more power.

“The spells are imbibed, and the book itself chooses how to explain them to the reader,” Novel began. “It changes everything from language to grammar.”

Lily furrowed her brow.

“Then, do you see it in French in our book?” she asked him. “That is your first language, isn’t it?”

“I used to,” Novel replied, “before you came along.”

He wasn’t quite smiling, but the air of amusement was sparkling in his eyes as he turned away to enter the shop. Lily followed eagerly, hearing a service bell ring overhead as she and the illusionist passed through the small, cramped doorway of Forrester and Baines. The booksmith continued to work patiently at his station in the window, but another figure stood farther into the shop in an eager, attentive pose. The shelves of ancient books curved around and above him, so much so that the middle-aged man amongst them looked ready to be crushed in an avalanche at any given moment. Still, he was happy enough, his brown eyes bright between folds of fine, silvery wrinkles.

“Ah, Monsieur, good morning!” His exclamation was hoarse, as though he was holding his voice back for the sake of the craftsman in the corner. “And Miss Coltrane, my goodness. It is a rare pleasure that you should grace our humble establishment as your first port of call in Pendle.”

The little man stepped forward, parting his wringed hands to take hold of both of Lily’s. He held them only a moment, then bowed his head politely and resumed his place beneath the arch of books. He looked about to speak again, but Novel cleared his throat loudly to cut him off.

“I’ve come to see Forrester, Baines, not you,” Novel said plainly.

The little man called Baines frowned, and Lily felt a twinge of awkward sadness for him.

“That’s all anyone ever says nowadays,” Baines replied quietly, “and I was so looking forward to meeting Miss Coltrane.” He looked at her again, eyes narrowed like the appraising look of a proud and wizened grandparent. “Oh, my dearest girl,” Baines began, “you have missed so much of our world. Surely I can interest you in something here to compensate?”

Baines reached behind him with pure instinct, and a book flew out of the arches and shelves, making the whole structure wobble. It was a thin tome with a pure white cover, and it landed in Baines’s palm just as he flattened it before Lily’s waiting gaze.

“The Tales of the Glassman, perhaps?” the bookseller said with a glint in his eyes.

Novel snapped his fingers, and the little white book shot away into the dark recesses of the shop.

“There’s quite enough nonsense floating around in the world without adding
that
, thank you,” he chided. “Forrester, Baines. I want to see Forrester now.”

Baines cowed at the harsh words, and Lily wanted to slap Novel’s arm for being so rude. But she was new to Pendle, and new to the whole world of shades and their hierarchies, so all she did was offer the small man a sympathetic smile as he turned and wove his way through the stacks. Lily heard the creak of a distant door, and then there was only the faint rumble of the booksmith’s magic behind her. She watched Novel straightening his greatcoat and smoothing back his fine white hair, marking the tense way he sucked his cheeks in as he waited.

“What are the Tales of the Glassman?” she asked.

Novel cocked his head thoughtfully, then waved the question off.

“Oh, just fairy-tales that shadeparents read to their children,” he said glibly. “Utter nonsense, of course. My father never bothered when I was small, and Mother, well…”