The Potioneer (Shadeborn Book 3) (31 page)

E
pilogue

In the small university town of Piketon, where nothing much had ever happened until two years ago, something huge was happening. Homebound students, on their way to the railway station, had stopped at the corner of Old Mill Lane, and every passing resident who saw them pause and stare came to join the growing crowd. From the back of the mass, all that was visible was the great gothic façade of the imposing Theatre Imaginique, which had always stood alone on the rambling lane at the very edge of Piketon. If one was lucky enough to be closer to the front of the interested gaggle, then a flurry of activity, vivid colours and harried shouting was to be witnessed.

“Bring that over here, Thierre! Delicate props in the first carriage! Dharma, your costumes will be
fine
, leave them alone and go back inside to bring the next suitcase out! Jazmine! Pick your feet up, girl! The time for sitting around is long gone!”

The man directing the busy troupe did so with all the gusto of the one that should have been his master. He stood in the great shadow that the theatre cast against the bright summer sun, dressed from head to toe in an absurdly thick travelling cloak. Onlookers would hardly recognise the usually well-dressed Baptiste Du Nord and, if they did know it was him concealed beneath the heavy fabric, then none could guess at the reason why he had to hide himself from the vivid daylight. Baptiste’s purring voice had become a bark for it to be heard above the scurrying footfalls of the Imaginique’s performers, who were making regular trips between the theatre and the long obstruction blocking the road beside it.

The obstruction was a caravan of carriages. The first vehicle was a long, dark car – newly acquired – with all its windows tinted black, but everything that followed it grew more and more bizarre. The curving canvases of two gypsy wagons, each led by an impatient-looking shire horse, were lined up right behind the car, and beyond the wagons came a grand Victorian contraption that vaguely resembled a stagecoach for its boxy shape. The thing which brought up the rear of this string was of great interest to many in the crowd, for they were certain that it was an antique motorcar, perhaps from the very turn of the twentieth century. If they had known that the Imaginique’s sole proprietor, Lemarick Novel, had first ridden in it some ninety years ago, they might have better understood its sentimental use on the day that the theatre’s performers set off on the journey of his rescue.

Baptiste was not their leader, and he frequently looked over his shoulder to confirm that the orders he was giving were correct. Nods of approval came from a girl whose hair shone like fire in the summer light, and whose eyes were brimming with a deep, seemingly permanent grief. Lily Coltrane watched her theatre family gathering all their worldly belongings with a heavy heart, yet there was pride in seeing their efficiency too. They, like her, were determined to have Novel back where he belonged, whatever the journey ahead may demand of them.

“That black suitcase is to travel with me, Baptiste,” Lily said, spying the offending article as Lawrence Seward lugged it out of the theatre’s grand double doors.

The bloodshade leapt forward with an obedience he had only ever reserved for one person before that day, and took the case from the voodoo boy’s hands. Lily saw the tense strain in Baptiste’s face, which was already growing paler due to his master’s absence. It was questionable as to how long the cloaked man could exist without the blood of a shade to feed on, but Lily kept trying to push that particular worry to the back of her mind. It was wise to focus on one problem at a time from here on in.

“What do you have in this thing, rocks?” Baptiste asked, half-dragging the case towards the boot of the dark car.

“Actually, yes,” Lily answered as she moved to assist him. “They’re starlight stones. I filled them on the roof all this week. I reckon we might need a plentiful supply.”

Baptiste stopped straining with the case for a moment, his dark eyes flickering over the young woman before him.

“You’ve been up there a lot since we got home,” he observed.

Lily only nodded, for fear that the lump in her throat might turn to tears if she tried to explain. She didn’t want to cry for Novel – as she had so often in her private time since their swift return from Gifter’s Cave – for crying didn’t make the problem any easier to solve. Crying would only make the Glassman smile, and Lily desired a very different expression on the trickster-djinn’s face. She wanted him to see her setting out to bring her boyfriend home, at any cost. She wanted the Glassman to worry.

“I didn’t know you were keeping watch on me,” Lily said once the suitcase was in place.

“It’s the least I can do, whilst he’s away,” the bloodshade replied.

Lily and Baptiste walked side by side back to his shadowed post, and there was an ease between them that had never been present before. Whatever energy Lily had wasted on jealousy over Baptiste’s bond with Novel, now that bond made her feel that she was not alone in the intensity of her grief. The tall MC seemed as tense and resolute as she was whilst they surveyed the last preparations for their departure, and Lily felt sure that he was just as ready to collapse on the inside. All they had was a plan from a fairy-tale, and a set of whispers from the lips of a dead woman.

“Do you think it’s right what Jeronomie said?” Lily asked in a low voice. “About Desiderium being filled with darksiders?”

“It makes sense,” Baptiste answered. “We never actually saw Mother Novel die. She just vanished. Where better to send a sinner than to a world filled with devils?”

Novel was in that world now too, and Lily saw the way Baptiste’s chest shook, even as he spoke. Without a word in reply, she reached for his hand amidst the folds of the travelling cloak, and he let her hold it. He was cold to the touch despite the bright sun overhead, and his grip was far more feeble than Lily had expected.

“Are you strong enough for this?” she asked.

Baptiste swallowed hard.

“For now,” he assured her. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, and not a moment before.”

“We might have to have an argument about that,” Lily retorted, “remind me, will you?”

“Sure,” the MC replied.

Their humour was glib and somewhat empty, but Lily thought it helped.

“We could be travelling a long time, you know,” she mused, “I don’t know how many mirrors it’ll take before we find what we’re looking for.”

Baptiste gave a nod, and inhaled a deep and rattling breath.

“We have to rescue him,” he said, staring straight ahead at the caravan-train, “whatever the cost.”

Lily squeezed his hand just a little.

“At least that’s one thing we can agree on,” she replied.

This might have been a tender, comforting moment, if not for the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the human crowd, who kept drawing Lily’s attention away from the task at hand. When she happened to glance their way in that moment, a new figure had joined their ranks, and she started at the sight of him at once, still in Baptiste’s grip. The MC jumped too, and looked down at her with burning concern in his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” Lily lied at once, stepping into his way to block the view of the figure in the mob. “Take everyone inside and make them double-check that nothing’s been left behind. We leave in five minutes.”

Baptiste nodded and stalked off with purpose, his huge cloak billowing like a wave of shadows behind him as he vanished beyond the dark doors of the theatre. Once she was certain that everyone else was back inside, Lily turned and faced the human crowd, searching once again for the non-human she had spotted amongst them. He had wound his way to the very front of the pack, and though no-one else seemed to care about his presence in the group, Lily marvelled at how they couldn’t tell he was trouble.

“Lily, dear girl,” crooned Pascal Novel. “It’s getting late in the day. You ought to be off.”

He was dressed in one of his usual slender black suits, and his golden eye was tactfully covered by a circular patch tied with thin black ribbon. Lily took him by the lapel of his suit jacket, ignoring the look of indignation on his face, and led him away from the humans to converse at the very corner of the theatre’s gothic walls.

“The others can’t see you here,” she urged in a hoarse voice. “They can’t know that you’re helping me. I’ve told them I can find the mirrors on my own.”

“Well, aren’t you gifted?”

Whilst Pascal uttered his glib retort, Lily was busy reaching into her handbag. She pulled out the little white book of fairy-tales and tucked it under one arm, grasping again until she heard something jangle at the very bottom of the bag. A thick gold chain emerged first from the recesses of the handbag, swiftly followed by a great golden locket in the shape of a playing card spade. Lily thrust it into Pascal’s long-fingered hands, where he toyed with the device and made a little scoffing sound.

“I’m not much for jewellery, if it’s all the same to you,” he said.

Lily gave him a look that might have doused him in lightning if there hadn’t been humans present.

“It’s the locket of the woman you murdered,” she explained, “the one that turned her invisible. Jazzy figured out how it works. Hold the gemstone at the back and will it to turn you.”

The senior shade looked visibly impressed, and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he inspected the obsidian stone at the back of the device. Whilst Pascal was busy perusing the locket, Lily fumbled to get the Tales of the Glassman back into her bag. As she delicately placed the little white book atop her other possessions, her eyes travelled to the parchment bookmark, still poking from the top of a divide in the pages. The open invitation loomed in the forefront of her mind.

“Where’s your first port of call?” Pascal asked.

“Pendle,” Lily said at once, “I have some business there with Forrester.”

“Forrester
Schoonjans
?” Pascal replied, an interested hitch in his tone. “I didn’t know you were so close with your old granny.”

Lily looked up, and she saw that irritating amusement in the face of Novel’s uncle. He must have known that she didn’t know Forrester’s last name, and though she hated giving him the satisfaction of admitting it, she wanted to be sure that what he’d said was true.

“Forrester is Maxime’s mother?” she asked.

“Of course,” Pascal answered with a nod, “but if you didn’t know that, then
why
are you going to see her?”

Lily knew that this was a moment that would define her course of action for the long months ahead. She had never breathed a word about the Diamondblade to anyone, not since that bitter morning in Pendle long ago, the very same day that Pascal had wound his spider-like way into her life. The older man was waiting expectantly, his one good eye shining with interest.

“You’ll only know what you need to know,” Lily told him, “nothing more.”

“Spoilsport,” Pascal said with a pout. “I suppose I’ll meet you at Pendle then.”

Worst luck,
Lily thought, but she nodded all the same.

Pascal slipped the spade-shaped locket over his silver head of hair, and pushed the device under the collar of his shirt. He was so thin that it protruded a little over his heart, pressing against the folds of black fabric that encased his centuries-old body. When Lily next caught his eye, she thought she saw a glimmer of trepidation there, which belied the senior shade’s confident grin.

“Destroying the Glassman is every shade’s dream,” he surmised, “we’ll be folk heroes if we achieve it.”

“
When
we achieve it,” Lily corrected sharply, “I don’t intend to stop trying until Novel’s back where he belongs.”

“To murder and madness, then,” Pascal said jovially.

He held up one hand, miming a toast, but Lily felt his words slither down her throat and take up sickly roots in her stomach. It would be murder, if she had to end the Glassman’s life to take back her true love, and it was utter madness to even consider entering a world full of his deadly magical kin. Yet, when Lily had sent Pascal on his way and re-entered the theatre’s grand foyer, she found herself looking at a band of brothers and sisters so determined that her swell of pride returned. The eyes of all the troupe fell to her where she stood in a halo of light at the entrance doors, and she shook all thoughts of death and destruction from her mind.

“Let’s get to rescuing, shall we?” she asked, and the troupe cheered their agreement with loud, proud voices. “Salem,” Lily added, “will you do us the honour of dispersing the crowds?”

From the centre of the performers’ mob, the most well-dressed man Lily had ever seen emerged. Salem Cross was resplendent in his shiny cobalt suit, his zircon-topped cane glittering by the reflected light of the chandelier. He licked his grinning lips, the silver underside of his tongue flashing for half a heartbeat, then he gave Lily a cordial bow.

“Darling, I’d be delighted,” he replied.

The Imaginique’s varied and illustrious acts were a sight for sore eyes as they poured from their beloved theatre. Baptiste was the last to emerge, locking the great doors behind him with a forlorn and deeply audible sigh. As the troupe filed into their cars and carriages to begin their momentous journey, Salem Cross charged purposefully to the forefront of the waiting crowd. And, though Lily could hardly believe it, she thought she saw the flicker of an invisible breeze starting to form at the very tips of the showman’s heels.