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

FELT the oppressive airs bearing down on him, and he had the slight headache he always got behind his eyes when the weather changed. He stood up from his desk, stretched his arms, and walked to the window, unlatching it and opening it wide. From here, an attic room on the fifth floor of the cardinal’s palace, he could see over the roofs of the city, past the smoke-stained churches and crumbling palaces of the center of Clarel to the tangled streets beyond. The sun hung blindingly in the sky, bleaching it white.

All afternoon, since he had finished his duties at Clarel Palace, he had been staring at a grubby length of parchment. It appeared to be the last will and testament of one Mistress Prunelissima Arabella Pledge, spinster and seamstress of Omiker Lane of the Chokally Quarter. She left all her worldly goods, including the key and deed to her rooms, apartment IV on floor III of Number II Omiker Lane, to Pipistrel and Eleanor Wastan, citizens.

There followed a list of items: a silver cream jug, thirty needles of sundry sizes and fifteen packets of pins, an itemized store of silks and velvets, a set of china missing three plates, a purse that held the money for her funeral, which was to be simple and dignified . . . Signed and witnessed. It was written on the back of what appeared to be the deed to the apartment. The document was very wordy for a deed and included a plan of the apartment with its dimensions painstakingly rendered, from the heights of each wall to the size of the bedroom window.

The will had been taken from the apartment the day before by one of Cardinal Lamir’s minions. The cardinal seemed certain it contained a clue to the workings of the Stone Heart. The document was slightly eccentric, perhaps, but it was hardly evidence of witchcraft. The woman used no witch codes; everything was written in conventional script.

But Sibelius had to find something. His life depended on it.

He had requested that someone verify the measurements of the room, just to be certain, since the numerals were likely the most fruitful place to start. He had no word back, but he was sure they would match. Doors and windows and ceilings in such buildings were generally about those sizes.

He was familiar with how cunning witches could be in hiding their nefarious practices. Perhaps this document was particularly cunning. He had no idea why Cardinal Lamir was so convinced of the sinister purpose behind the humble parchment, but he was afraid of what might happen if he reported that it meant nothing. He had to investigate every possible secret hidden in these spidery words.

Perhaps there was an invisible script that required some treatment before it became manifest. Some appeared when you heated the parchment, some when you soaked it in milk. If it was a magic text, he would need a spell to unlock it. But he didn’t know any spells.

He gloomily watched the clouds gathering on the horizon. When he turned back to his desk, he realized he was hungry. He irritably rang for a servant to bring him food and sat down with a sigh, mopping his brow.

He had to find something. Anything.

AMINA RETURNED AT DUSK. SHE LOOKED PLEASED but wouldn’t talk about what she’d said to the Witches’ Council, although El was burning with impatience. “You’ll find out in good time,” she said. “And for now, there’s food to make. Get peeling those turnips.”

“Did you find out how to get our will back?” asked El.

“Maybe,” said Amina. “Maybe not. I’ve found somewhere for you to sleep for now. You can’t stay here. I have work to do.”

Pip, who was chopping carrots into randomly sized pieces, was interested. “Where?”

“Keep your eyes on your work, or it will be your finger that gets sliced.”

Even Oni’s wheedling didn’t work, so they all did what they were told and watched as Amina threw the results of their labor into an iron pot and swung it over the fire.

“Now,” Amina said, and gathered the scented candles she had used the night before. She had just put the last one in place when there was a knock on the door. Everyone froze.

“Out into the garden,” Amina said, sweeping up the candles and stuffing them into a drawer. “And be quiet. It’s probably one of my officials wanting a window fixed or something, but I don’t want you seen.”

Oni, El, and Pip sat on a bench against the wall, hidden from the view of the window. Out of the cool of Amina’s kitchen, it was stuffy and breathless, even though the sun had already set. Swarms of midges danced in the shadows. El, who didn’t like the heat, sat fanning herself, uncomfortably flushed. She opened her mouth to complain, and Oni put her finger over her lips. “Ma said hush, right?”

El pouted but obeyed. Pip had a bad feeling in his gut, but he wasn’t going to say so. Mind you, he had had a bad feeling ever since El had told him about old Olibrandis.

Nothing happened for a while. Then they heard muffled voices in the kitchen — men’s voices. El watched Oni creep to the window and crouch beneath it so she could hear. The voices grew louder, and then there was Amina’s voice, raised in indignation. Pip still couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but he was suddenly aware that the Heart was growing cold against his hip.

Oni looked over to El and Pip, her eyes wide, and then flung herself at them and began pulling them toward the little gate in the garden wall. She muttered something as she opened the latch, and the gate, which usually creaked impressively, made no noise at all. She pushed the others outside and closed it behind her. They were now in the park of the Old Palace, in the suffocating darkness under the tangled trees.

“What happened?” whispered Pip.

“Shhh,” said Oni. “We