The Threads of Magic, Alison Croggon [uplifting novels txt] 📗

was bluish and a little mottled, as if it were on the edge of decay.

Lamir addressed his reflection. “Oracle of the Void, what am I not seeing?”

“It is hard to say,” answered the reflection. “There are many shadows. Where there should be lines, there are fractures. Where there should be knowledge, there are holes.”

“Has the woman Bemare taken the Stone Heart?”

“As you know, we have no knowledge where the thing is. And you are betraying your fear. Beware. Others will take note.”

“We are so close,” said the cardinal. “So close. And the closer we are to the tipping point, the more delicate the affair.” He paused, pulling his lip. He could only ask three questions of this apparition, and he only had one left. It was difficult to know which would be most useful.

“Is the woman Bemare a witch?”

“She hath a witchlike air.”

“That’s not an answer.”

The mirror went misty for a few moments, and then the face swam back into focus. “We have not seen her in the ethereal realms,” it said. “But she may have another face.”

“What does that mean, beyond the ordinary disguises of witches?”

But his three questions were spent. The mirror’s surface clouded over, and now he was addressing his everyday reflection.

The original plan had been for the Stone Heart to be retrieved with no fuss, but he had been forced to throw the weight of the assassins and now the Office for Witchcraft Extermination into the search for it. He was beginning to attract notice. Even Ariosto, his most faithful and unquestioning subordinate, was beginning to question his reasons.

It was too early to reveal himself: that had led to their undoing before, when the last Specter King of Clarel had met his death. The cardinal shuddered at the thought. No Specter should ever die. It was against nature.

So close. And yet so far . . .

“I DON’T LIKE IT, PIP,” SAID EL. “I DON’T LIKE ANY of this.”

“Me neither,” said Pip sleepily. “But it could be worse.”

It was near midnight the same evening. Pip and El lay under warm woolen blankets on pallets stuffed with straw and lavender in Amina’s tiny spare bedroom. Besides the pallets, there was only room for a carved wooden chest that smelled of camphor. A blue woven rug softened the clay tiles. It was the same room they had slept in years and years before, when Amina had brought them in from the street.

Despite everything, they were warm, sheltered, and fed. Pip, who by disposition as well as necessity lived almost entirely in the present, was too drowsy to worry.

As on that first night, they were unusually clean. After Georgette had left the Old Palace, Amina had given them supper — a rich, delicious stew — and then looked Pip and El over with a critical eye.

“When did you two last have a bath?”

“I’m clean enough,” said Pip. He didn’t like bathing, and besides, the grime made him hard to see in shadows, which was useful.

“Face it, Pip,” said Oni. “You stink.”

Pip was incredulous. “We’re being stalked by murderous assassins and supernatural parasites, and you’re worried about how I smell?”

“I think a bath is a brilliant idea,” said Oni. “Not even your own sister would recognize you without all that dirt.”

“It’s unhealthy, putting your whole self in water,” argued Pip. He had unpleasant memories of his last bath at Amina’s, many years ago now. “It’s poison. The landlord at the Duck had an old aunt who died after she took a bath — just keeled over dead as a doorknob the next day.”

“I’m not having vermin in my bedding,” said Amina.

“If you give me a basin, I’ll flannel myself,” Pip said handsomely, as one willing to make a concession.

“A bath it is, then.” And a bath it was, despite Pip’s vehement protests. Water was boiled, a copper hip bath brought out into the kitchen, and Amina arranged a screen, to save Pip’s modesty.

El didn’t mind washing nearly as much as Pip did. She went first, and after a lot of splashing came out wearing a clean linen nightshift and smelling like a bunch of flowers. Amina and Oni threw out the water and replaced it, and then it was Pip’s turn. He disappeared behind the screen and then poked out his head.

“Into that bath,” said Amina.

“What should I do with the Heart?”

“Oh.” Amina thought for a while and then left the room, returning with a small linen pouch. “Put it in this. It has charms against being lost and for good fortune.”

Pip took the pouch and vanished again. It was a long time before they heard him getting into the hip bath. He had to peel off a lot of clothes.

While Pip unwillingly immersed himself in the hot water, Amina combed the nits from El’s hair. El leaned against Amina’s knee, her eyelids drooping. She remembered when she was little, when she still had a mother to brush her hair. She didn’t think about that often because the memories hurt, and it wasn’t worth thinking about the old days if they only made you sad. Tonight, she didn’t feel sad.

Pip came out from behind the screen a few minutes later, clutching a towel around him, dripping and sulky. Amina looked up and inspected him.

“You’re still dirty,” she said. “There’s a scrubbing brush in there, and soap. Use them. If you don’t, I’ll come in and scrub you myself.”

Oni giggled. Pip threw her a filthy look and disappeared again. This time he took longer, brooding as he scrubbed himself. His pride was hurt by this humiliating and unnecessary ritual, but it would be even worse if Amina bathed him, so he was thorough.

When he finally passed Amina’s critical eye, he tied the Heart around his waist and dragged on the nightgown. The linen was pleasantly rough against his skin, and the Heart felt warm again, like it was happy. The Heart belonged to him: he felt this very strongly. He hadn’t liked putting it down on the floor