Hummingbird

Book 1: A Charade Of Magic

by Helen Harper

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

There are three absolutes in Mairi Wallace's world:



1. The Mages rule every city in Scotland with terrible, violent authority.



2. It is not physically possible for any woman to wield magic.



3. Mairi does not have a voice.



She is about to learn that none of these things have to be true.



From twisted wynds and tartan shops to a dangerous daemon and malevolent ravens, the future of a tattered nation might lie with one solitary woman.

Release date: April 29, 2022

Print pages: 286

Sample

Chapter One

 

Only the desperate ventured out after dark. Or the mad. It was entirely likely I was both. It was illegal to set foot outdoors once the sun had gone down, but for once it wasn’t fear of the Mages that ensured most people toed the line. The streets weren’t safe for anyone at night.

The screwed-up message in my pocket with its shaky writing had been more than enough to draw me out, however. I knew I was taking an incredible risk but I didn’t have much choice.

I pulled into a shadowy alcove underneath the row of darkened tenements by the river and looked at the message again. I need you, Maree. She’d spelled my name wrong. It was how I knew the message was from her, and not a lure or a cruel trick.

Isla had never been much of a one for paying attention to her letters. My old bedmate wasn’t stupid – far from it – but her heart lay with numbers and equations. She had no interest in the written word, no matter how often the matron had unlocked the sturdy oak drawer in her study and taken out her thin cane in a bid to ‘teach’ Isla the error of her ways. Even at a young age she had been too stubborn to do as she was told and keep her head down, and nothing had changed in the intervening years. But she was also too stubborn to ask for help when she needed it – usually. Things had to be desperate; Isla wouldn’t have sent the note otherwise.

I stuffed the message back into my pocket and peered out at the dark street. The moon was obscured by heavy clouds, so there was barely a sliver of light to illuminate my way. That was probably for the best.

I rubbed my arms, as much to comfort myself as to gain any defence against the cold, then I ducked out into the open again, weaving down the pavement, my eyes darting from side to side as I checked for any lurking shapes or signs of life. If ever I needed some luck, it was now.

I maintained a steady pace for several minutes, ignoring the damp hem of my skirt as it flapped around my ankles, and the pinching pain from my too-small shoes. The less time I spent in the open, the better. I adjusted my bag, switching it from one shoulder to the other, without pausing. I was making good time. Maybe there was hope after all. All I had to do was get across the river and I’d be almost there. As long as Rutherglen Bridge was clear, I’d make it. I could already see the crooked rooftop of St Mags. It was practically within touching distance.

I crossed the street, keeping low as I passed the warehouses that lined the river. It was more exposed here, and the breeze skittering across the water to sting my cheeks wouldn’t let me forget it. I steeled my stomach. Not far now. Five minutes, tops.

Jogging up a small rise, I raised my head to scan the bridge. It looked empty. I fixated on the intricate Mages’ ward etched into the centre. It was designed to protect passers-by from whatever might be hiding in the murky depths of the river below, but it didn’t always work, even in daylight. And at this hour, it wasn’t just the swirling black water I had to worry about.

I bit my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but it was fine. The bridge was clear; nothing was there. I pushed ahead, pausing only when I reached the start of the bridge itself. Three minutes, I estimated; if I sprinted, I could get across in three minutes.

I straightened my shoulders. Come on, Mairi. You’ve got this.

I stepped onto the bridge. On a count of three, I decided.

One.

Two.

Thr–

Shite.

I bit back a cry and threw myself to the side. Four of them. Four of the Afflicted were heading this way from the opposite side of the bridge. Fear roared through my veins. Had they seen me? What should I do?

I debated running. I could twist away and flee in the opposite direction – but then they’d definitely notice me and I’d be moving further away from my goal rather than towards it. My heart hammered against my chest until it felt as if my whole ribcage was thumping. I gulped in a breath of air and tried to calm down. Panic wouldn’t help me.

When a guttural groan reached my ears, it was enough to galvanise me into action. I glanced right, spotted the point under the bridge where the water met the land and dived towards it, sliding down the muddy slope until I was beneath it. I could hunker down here. Unless the Afflicted marched off the bridge and turned towards the riverbank, they wouldn’t see me.

A chilling thought struck me and I sniffed my clothes and armpits. They might not see me but they might possibly smell me.

I swallowed. It was too late now, I had to stay where I was. With shaky hands, I slid my umbrella out my bag. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all I had.

It seemed to take an age. I waited and waited, until I began to think that they’d changed their minds and headed in a different direction. That was when I heard the snuffling, followed by yet another groan. They were directly above my head.

My fingers tightened round the umbrella handle and I pressed my spine against the cold stone, trying to make myself invisible. Nothing to see here, folks. Carry on your way.

One of them snorted, a loud sound that seemed to ricochet off the stone bridge, and the faint smell of rotting meat tickled my nostrils. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. I shouldn’t have worried about my personal stench; the Afflicted would never be able to smell my skin over their own reek.

I held my breath and listened as the four of them shuffled off the bridge and turned to the right. Curiosity overtook my fear and I peeked out. I couldn’t see their faces because they were already facing away from me, trudging downstream with a slow, uneven gait. All four were barefoot, with ragged clothes and dirt-streaked skin. It was too dark to make out the pockmarks and scars that marked them as Afflicted. The nearest one had long hair hanging down his back in ratty clumps; judging by the body shape and broad shoulders, that one was a male.

Suddenly there was a screeching yowl from somewhere further down the road. A cat, probably. The Afflicted reacted with lightning speed, moving from a slow shuffle to a sudden sprint in a split second. I realised that they were going after the animal. They needed meat. If they’d seen me, I’d have been a far tastier – and more satisfying – prospect. I licked my dry lips and breathed out. That had been close.

I waited another minute or two to be sure I was safe, then ducked out and scrambled up the bank. The Afflicted had gone, and the bridge was empty once again. I was safe for now. And St Mags was in sight.

***

Ten minutes later, I raised my fist and knocked gently on the wooden door at the back of the orphanage. A beat passed, then another. As I reached forward to knock again, the knob suddenly turned. With a jarring creak that made me wince, the door opened an inch. I could just make out a small grubby face – a boy, eight years old, maybe nine.

‘Who are you?’ he asked in a too-loud whisper.

I stared at him, nonplussed. I hadn’t been prepared for anyone other than Isla to open the door. My hands fluttered as I gestured helplessly.

He must have been prepared for that because he nodded and opened the door wider. ‘She’s upstairs,’ he told me. ‘In the squinty room.’

I knew exactly where he meant. It was nine years since I’d last stepped inside this building, but those sorts of memories don’t fade. All the same, I allowed the lad to lead me through the old kitchen and up the worn stone steps to the second floor. Our feet barely made a sound.

Nothing had changed here. The walls of St Mags still reeked of loneliness and desolation and neglect. The children inside were safe from the Afflicted, but monsters weren’t the only things that could kill a person. Or a child.

We turned down the corridor and tiptoed to the end of it. The boy paused outside a door and scratched it lightly with the tip of his index finger before pushing it open. It was indeed the squinty room, with its uneven floor and misaligned windows.

 I crossed my fingers and hoped I wasn’t too late.

There were a dozen narrow beds, each one containing hunched figures curled up two to a bed. At the far end of the room, close to the first window, a woman was bending over a bed. She straightened up and her face altered as soon as she saw me.

‘You made it. I wasn’t sure you would.’ Isla’s relief was palpable. I hoped her trust in me wouldn’t prove misplaced.

I nodded at the boy, indicating he should go. He turned away, silently leaving the room to return to his own dorm. I slid my bag off my shoulder and moved to Isla.

‘Did you have any trouble getting here?’ she asked.

I shrugged. That would depend on how you defined trouble, but this wasn’t the time for those sorts of stories.

Isla frowned slightly, then sighed and pointed at the thin body in front of her. ‘Her name is Meg. She started getting sick this morning.’ Her worried voice took on a bitter edge. ‘They refused to call a doctor. Now I’m afraid it might be too late.’ Some things never changed, and the orphanage at St Magdalene’s was one of them.

I placed a hand on the girl’s forehead. She was soaked in sweat and her skin was burning. She let out a shuddering breath when I touched her, and her chest rattled. Whatever was wrong with her, it wasn’t good.

Isla’s voice was low. ‘Is it—?’

I shook my head quickly. No, she wasn’t Afflicted. There were none of the marks that indicated the start of the terrible disease that turned men into monsters. However, that didn’t mean I knew what the problem was.

A small voice spoke up from the bed next to us. ‘She’s scunnered, ain’t she, miss?’

Isla spoke firmly. ‘She’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’ She raised her eyes to mine, anxiety reflected in them together with a question. I gestured in response and Isla tracked the movement of my hands.

We’d shared a bed for five years here at St Mags, topping and tailing until the day of my sixteenth birthday when I’d been sent to Belle and Twister. When Isla turned sixteen the month after me, she’d remained at the orphanage and gained a place as scullery maid. Even now, years afterwards, neither of us were sure who had got the better deal. But we knew each other well enough to communicate without words – we’d developed our own method.

Isla breathed out and her shoulders sagged slightly. ‘Okay,’ she said quietly. ‘Okay.’

I delved into my bag. I didn’t know exactly what was wrong with the wee girl, but that didn’t mean I was out of options. I had elderflower, white willow bark and echinacea, all gathered during my few precious moments of freedom before being dried carefully in my room. I took several pinches of each, humming softly to myself as I mixed them. Then, while Isla left to fetch some hot water, I took some peppermint oil and massaged it gently into Meg’s palms and the soles of her feet. She twitched and murmured uncomfortably. I hummed some more until she calmed.

When Isla returned with a steaming cup in her hands, I dropped the herbal mixture into it and added a tiny pinch of belladonna. I lifted Meg into a sitting position and placed the cup to her lips.

‘Drink up, Meg,’ Isla murmured.

Meg moaned, but her mouth remained resolutely closed. I bent my head and hummed a single note for comfort. My hand at her back was already clammy from her sweat. I rubbed her spine and she let out a soft sigh, then parted her lips and drank.

‘Good lass,’ Isla said. ‘Well done.’

I waited until she’d finished the entire concoction – it was important that she drank it all – then pressed some more of the herbs into Isla’s hands.

‘Are you sure? Is this your entire supply?’ she asked.

It was, but that didn’t matter. Everything I had might not be enough to save Meg, but people like her were the reason I spent so much time gathering and collecting. It wasn’t easy to find what I needed in a city like this, even with all its parks, but it was necessary. Meg proved that. Without the orphanage’s support, there was no money to pay for a doctor or visit an apothecary. This was all she had; I was all she had.

I scribbled down instructions and made sure that Isla understood my messy notes. By the time I’d finished, Meg’s breathing seemed to have eased even though her temperature was still raging. She was little more than skin and bones. It was possible that I was already too late, or the few herbs I’d been able to give her wouldn’t be enough. She might still die, and sadly there was little else I could do.

‘You’ve worked your magic,’ Isla whispered. ‘She’s already breathing more easily.’

I shook my head, my expression filled with warning. Meg wasn’t out of the woods. And Isla shouldn’t use that word. It wasn’t magic. Women didn’t use magic.

There was a rustle of blankets. From one of the beds on the opposite side of the room, a pair of bare feet emerged followed by a small figure in a nightgown. A tiny girl with large dark eyes and a tear-stained face padded towards me. She slipped her hand into mine. ‘Will Meg be alright?’

‘This is Alice,’ Isla told me. ‘She’s usually Meg’s bedmate.’

I crouched down in front of Alice and brushed her mussed hair away from her cheek as I tried to look reassuring.

Alice continued to stare at me. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

She shouldn’t have thanked me, not yet, but I managed a smile. Alice nodded in return. I thought she understood – I hoped she did.

‘You should stay until dawn,’ Isla said. ‘It’s not safe to go back out there yet.’

It wasn’t safe in here either, not for me. Even though I was an ex-inmate of St Mags, there would be hell to pay for everyone if I were spotted by one of the matrons. Besides, if I didn’t get back to Belle and Twister’s by the time the sun rose, I’d receive several smacks to my head as punishment. Dawn wasn’t far off now.

I’d made it all the way here in the dark so I could make it back. The hardest part was already over.

I shook my head at Isla and she pursed her lips, though she didn’t argue. She knew better than that. ‘How are things going over there?’ she asked.

I pulled a face. There wasn’t any need to elaborate; Isla understood the score. I pointed at her, throwing back the question. Her expression was similar to mine. ‘No different.’ She looked down at Meg. ‘As you see.’ Her face darkened. ‘A baby went missing last week. The first one in a long while.’

My eyes narrowed. I signed towards her. A girl?

‘Yeah.’ She glanced round and tugged on her earlobe. I nodded and we walked out of the squinty dorm room and into the corridor, away from the small ears of nosy children. ‘There was a Mage here,’ Isla said quietly. ‘The night the baby vanished, there was a Mage.’

I gave her a warning look and Isla sighed. ‘You know I wouldn’t tell anyone other than you. I’m not stupid.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘But I don’t know where the baby’s gone and I don’t know if the Mage took her. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.’ Her voice was very low but it didn’t hide her note of desperation. ‘Can I?’

I couldn’t understand why a Mage would take a baby, but if they had the child was already lost. The Mages’ power was absolute, and there was no gainsaying their actions. Isla knew that as well as I did.

I delved into my pocket and drew out a short length of purple thread that I’d picked up during Belle and Twister’s most recent delivery of tartan. I tied it round Isla’s wrist. It wasn’t much but it would remind her that she wasn’t alone; I’d always be with her.

I reached for her hands and squeezed them tight. Isla squeezed back. We remained like that for a long moment, two old friends seeking comfort in each other. Finally, by unspoken agreement, we both pulled away. The real world, in all its grimness, was beckoning us back.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

It was still dark when I left St Mags, with no sign of the impending dawn. At this time of year, the nights were painfully long – at best you could only hope for seven or eight hours of daylight, although the reverse was true in the summer. Still, people adjusted. In my experience people always adjusted. They adapted their lives and spent more time indoors where it was safe, then made up for lost time when the days grew warmer and longer. This was living. Apparently.

I took my time scoping out the river and Rutherglen Bridge. This time there were no signs of life so I darted across with my heart thumping until I reached the other side. There were no heavy grunts or groans and no sign of the group that I’d narrowly avoided on my first journey. All the same, as I skirted the shadows and wove my way from the Clyde river towards the narrow streets beyond, I continued to keep a wary eye out for more Afflicted. I couldn’t let my guard down, even though other anxious thoughts were troubling me.

A baby girl missing. How long had it been since the last one? Six years, probably, maybe even seven. It used to happen with far more chilling regularity. The year that I’d turned ten, three babies went missing from St Mags alone, and I heard that at least twelve more vanished from homes around the city.

It was always girls, never boys. Sometimes the children reappeared with no explanation; sometimes they never returned. The Afflicted were blamed. There were whispers that the Mages were involved, though nobody dared to accuse them outright. There was never any proof – and what on earth would the Mages want with squalling children? Maybe Isla had been mistaken and imagining things, or the Mage had been at St Mags for a completely different reason. But who else could have taken the babe?

I grimaced. Even thinking about it chilled me to my core. It wasn’t as if I could do anything about it; I was a nobody with nothing. Somehow, that made it worse. I sighed. At least with wee Meg, I’d been able to try and I hadn’t been completely helpless. I sighed again, more loudly. And then I felt the back of my neck prickle.

I didn’t falter or stumble but I veered closer to the walls of the houses on my left, hugging the shadows to make myself invisible. The strange sensation didn’t disappear; someone – or more likely something – was behind me.

I resisted the temptation to turn my head. I couldn’t hear anything, and I knew that the Afflicted were rarely silent or stealthy. The night belonged to them, so they had no need to keep quiet. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being stalked.

I suppressed the shiver that ran down my spine and considered my options. Even if I ran all the way, it was still a fifteen-minute journey back to the relative safety of Belle and Twister’s shop. I was already bone tired and I doubted even an adrenaline rush could help me to escape any but the slowest of pursuers. Fleeing wasn’t the answer, so either I found somewhere to hide or I prepared myself for a fight. But nobody would open their door to me, not at this hour. I was on my own.

Squinting through the darkness, I spotted a narrow wynd to the left. I had no way of knowing where it led, but it was better than staying out on this wide street. I ducked my head and took slightly longer strides while maintaining the same speed. I didn’t want to alert whatever predator was behind me; I didn’t want them to know that I was aware of their presence. Not yet. It was only about thirty steps to the wynd. One thing at a time, I decided. Get there first and then worry about my next move.

I passed a butcher’s shop, and the hanging slabs of meat visible through its window did nothing to ease my state of mind. As I slipped past an ironmonger’s, I glimpsed knives and tools and thought of my pathetic umbrella. I should have come better prepared. I could have taken the old carving knife from the kitchen. Its blade was dull, no matter how often I worked it against Twister’s whetstone, but it would surely have been better than a damned brolly. I was a complete fucking numpty.

Twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten. I held my breath. Almost there. I drew level with the wynd and glanced down it. It was narrower than I’d expected and bone-chillingly dark.

I heard a thump from behind me, perhaps only thirty feet away, and wasted no more time. I spun left, sprinting into the wynd and away from whatever was trailing me, tugging the umbrella out of my bag at the same time. Run, Mairi. Just bloody run.

I made it less than ten feet before something grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. Momentum carried me forward for a second, but my escape was well and truly thwarted. I hissed as hot breath scalded my cheek and strong hands twisted me round.

I gripped the umbrella with both hands and brandished it, waving it in the air as if it could save me.

A dark face loomed forward. ‘Now what good is that going to do you?’

I swallowed and stared at him. He was tall – at least a foot taller than me – but he muscular rather than lanky. I registered dark hair, piercing eyes that shone with an emerald-green colour that was far too bright to be human, and curling tattoos across his sharp cheekbones. My eyes rose and I saw his pointed ears and the coiled horns rising a few inches from either side of his skull. I’d thought I was scared before, but now I was rigid with terror. A daemon. This was a damned daemon.

He was wearing a long black cloak over black trousers and shirt. The metal collar round his neck glinted, and I knew there would be matching metal cuffs round his wrists. He was one of the Mages’ creatures; only they had the power to control a daemon like this one. My stomach sank to the bottom of my damp shoes. I would have been better off with the Afflicted.

‘Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be out at night?’ the daemon asked. He had a strange accent. ‘What could be so important that you’d risk your life to be out here?’

I stared at him. He tilted his head, curiosity in his gaze. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ he enquired. ‘Or are you damaged in the head?’

Somewhere deep inside me something tightened.

I raised the tip of the umbrella a fraction and smacked him on the side of his tattooed face. Surprised rather than hurt, he released his grip on me. I didn’t waste my chance: I twisted round and started to run for my life.

This time I got less than three feet. He grabbed my upper arms and pushed me against the wall, pinning me so that I couldn’t attempt a second escape. His face dipped towards mine and I caught his scent: spicy with cinnamon and cloves – and something else.

My chest heaving, I gulped in air. Shite. Oh shite.

‘Why would you do something like that?’ he asked. He didn’t sound angry; if anything, his tone was mildly inquisitive. ‘You won’t get away from me.’

My fingers tightened on the umbrella handle, but the daemon caught the movement and adjusted his grip until I was forced to drop it. It fell to the ground with a clatter.

I raised my knee sharply, aiming for his groin, and he blocked me easily. ‘There’s no need for any of that,’ he chided. He peered into my face, his green eyes glittering. ‘Who are you?’

My mouth was bone dry. There was no way out of this, not now.

The daemon tilted his head and examined my face intently. ‘So,’ he murmured, ‘it’s not that you won’t talk but rather that you can’t. Interesting.’ Something flashed in his eyes. ‘Your hair is the colour of fire.’ He inhaled. ‘And you smell like honey.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Good enough to eat.’

Oh hell. I licked my lips, then I tilted my chin and met his eyes. Make it quick. Go on. Just make it fucking quick.

There was a shout from somewhere on the main street, and both the daemon and I jerked in surprise. It came again. ‘Nicholas!’

I blinked. Nicholas? Was that the daemon’s name? It wasn’t as foreign to my ears as I’d imagined it would be.

‘Nicholas! Where are you?’

The daemon muttered something. Whatever he said, it wasn’t English. He leaned in even closer. ‘If you value your life,’ he whispered, ‘do not move.’ He stepped back and released his hold on my arms.

I thought about bolting again. Third time lucky, right? But something about the look in the daemon’s eyes made me stay where I was.

He gave me a single approving nod and lifted his hands. ‘Ashgaroth var.’ He grinned. ‘Good luck, sweetheart.’

‘Nicholas!’

‘I’m here,’ he called as he bent down and picked up my umbrella. He placed his index finger against his lips then turned as a figure appeared at the entrance to the wynd.

The newcomer’s scarlet clothes were a dead giveaway: a Mage. Could things get any worse? He strode into the wynd. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Where is she?’

Uh… I was right here. I wasn’t exactly hard to miss.

Nicholas swept an arm out. ‘You tell me.’ He pasted on a baffled look, which seemed out of place on his tattooed features.

‘You cursed creature! How difficult is it to get hold of one human female?’ The Mage looked towards the end of the wynd. He was less than a metre from me and hadn’t once looked in my direction. What was going on?

‘She dropped this,’ Nicholas offered. He held up my umbrella. ‘Perhaps you can use it to track her.’

‘Eejit. You know my skills don’t extend to that – and even if they did, I wouldn’t expend that sort of magic on a damned woman.’ The Mage rolled his eyes. He wasn’t bad looking but his skin was sallow, suggesting he didn’t spend much time outdoors. Thirty years old, maybe slightly more.

‘She was obviously up to no good. Nobody would come out here at this hour if they meant well.’ He sniffed. ‘The sun won’t rise for a while yet. You didn’t catch her, but I bet the Afflicted will. It’ll serve the bitch right. The law is clear. We’ve told those idiots over and over again not to come out at night.’

‘You have indeed,’ Nicholas said.

The Mage’s head whipped towards him, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you making fun of me? Because I can still make your life hell, you know. Just because the Ascendant trusts you, it doesn’t mean that I do.’

There was an odd flicker on the daemon’s face, but he merely bowed politely.

I stared at him and at the Mage, then stared down at myself. My skin was shimmering and I felt a tingle up and down the length of my body. He’d done something to me; the daemon had said those strange words and done something, and now the Mage couldn’t see me.

‘Shall we head back, sir?’ Nicholas asked.

The Mage grunted. ‘Might as well.’ He gazed towards the other end of the wynd again. ‘Stupid woman,’ he muttered. He clicked his fingers. ‘Come on then.’ As he turned on his heel, his scarlet cloak flared out and the hem scraped against my cheek. The Mage didn’t look round. Nicholas didn’t glance at me, either. He simply walked after the Mage. Within moments, the pair of them had disappeared.

I poked my arm. It felt solid: I was still here. I waved my hand in front of my face and wiggled my fingers; my skin continued to shimmer, but it was visible – at least to me. I took a step and the tingling grew stronger. I held my breath and took another step, then another. Gradually the shimmer dissipated and the strange tingling ebbed away. I poked myself again. I felt fine. But was I fine?

What the hell had happened there? It made no sense. I rubbed my arms where the daemon had held me. I could still feel his imprint. He’d done something – he’d performed some kind of magic and concealed me from the Mage. I had no idea why a daemon, of all creatures, would do such a thing.

I couldn’t ask him why he’d done it and I couldn’t hang around here with dawn approaching. I shrugged. Maybe I’d imagined the entire thing. Or maybe, as the daemon had suggested, I really was damaged in the head. At that moment, it felt like anything was possible.

 

Chapter Three

 

Five days later, I’d stopped wondering what on earth had happened in the wynd and was spending more time wishing I still had my umbrella. It was not a huge amount to ask for, not in the great scheme of things, and I could have bought a new one at any number of places. But when it was the choice between having enough food to fill my belly and getting wet, it was no contest.

I trudged down Buchanan Street with its colourful hawker stalls and unending traffic of horses, carriages and bikes. The icy rain continued to pelt my exposed head, while the tips of my ears turned numb and freezing droplets snaked their way down the back of my neck, no matter how much I pulled up my collar. It was no surprise that the refrain was pattering through my head: I really, really wished I had my damned umbrella.

At least Isla had managed to send word that wee Meg was past the worst and on the mend. I’d already started the slow process of replenishing my stock of herbs. With luck, they wouldn’t be needed again any time soon. A small knot of anxiety still remained in the pit of my stomach, though. Isla hadn’t made any mention of the missing baby girl but I doubted she’d forgotten about her. I certainly hadn’t.

‘Long day?’ Marsh called out as I passed him and narrowly avoided stepping in a dirty puddle.

I nodded and raised my hand in greeting. He was one of the kinder stall holders, so it was the least I could do. When I had enough coin to rub together to buy fresh food, he often threw in a few extra scraps of meat whilst I pretended to look the other way. Unfortunately today was not one of those days so, although I acknowledged him, I didn’t stop to listen to his natter. Besides, if I’d had enough money for a meal and dallied to buy one, Twister wouldn’t be happy. He was waiting on the message in my pocket, and I knew how things would go if I was late bringing it to him. The soft inner flesh of my palms still tingled after the last time.

I skirted round Santorini’s, doing my best not to inhale. Even in this weather, the yeasty smell of his wife’s bread was enough to drive a person insane with hunger. The diversion forced me onto the road and I had to duck and dive to avoid the speeding bikes.

‘Ho!’

I jumped to my left as a three-wheeler sped up behind me. It whizzed forward, its front wheel dipping into another puddle that was congealed with muck and faeces and goodness knows what else. The dirty water splattered, staining my cloak. I cursed but I couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t have the time.

I hopped back onto the pavement, paying no attention to the dark spires and grim, forbidding steps of the City Chambers, and scurried faster. I could see the bell tower ahead and its clock hands were edging their way towards four pm. Twister’s shop was only round the corner.

The beady-eyed raven that flapped down to take cover didn’t make my steps falter. Let the Mages watch, if they wanted to. I wasn’t doing anything worthy of their attention – not today, anyway.

‘Nay so braw weather today, hen,’ Ma McAskill called from the other side of the street.

I grinned, despite my discomfort. Ma McAskill could always be counted on to state the obvious. Och aye. Nay so braw at all.

Shaking myself and rubbing at my stained cloak in a vain attempt to clean off the worst of the muck, I pushed open the door to the shop and ducked inside. Twister was in conversation with a customer. He glanced up, only the faintest tightening of his thin mouth registering my presence – until the reek of my cloak reached his nose and I saw the thick hairs in his nostrils quiver with disgust.

Alarmed, he shooed me away. ‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said, bowing to the woman in front of him.

‘For what?’ she enquired, as I scooted round the back of them, down the narrow corridor towards the dusty rear of the shop.

I untied the offending cloak and hastily dumped it with the rest of the dirty laundry that awaited my attention, then I smoothed down my skirt and did my best to make myself presentable.

Their voices drifted back in my direction. ‘My assistant’s hygiene is not always as good as it could be,’ Twister replied.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Assistant’ was pushing the description of my status to its limits; indentured servant would be far more appropriate.

‘It’s not easy to find good workers these days,’ the woman said.

‘Indeed, my lady. Indeed.’

I walked back out and stood primly behind Twister. He liked it when I hovered meekly, awaiting orders, especially when the shop had potential customers with money to spend. He believed it made him appear more successful than he really was. I had other tasks to be getting on with, and this delay would only extend my already long day, but I knew my place and the futility of failing to meet Twister’s expectations.

The woman looked to be around fifty, although her skin had the smooth, unmarred complexion of someone far younger. I cast a practised eye down her clothing. The material of her dress was heavy and expensive, and the string of pearls round her neck looked real. Then she moved to her left to finger the dark tartan on the counter and I spotted her shoes peeking out from under her petticoat. They looked scuffed and cheap.

More interested now, I raised my head and examined her features again. Somehow, I didn’t think Twister would be making a sale today after all.

‘This,’ she said. ‘This is close to what I require but it’s a little too sombre. Do you have anything slightly lighter?’

‘Of course,’ Twister answered. ‘In fact, we have a mauve version that I’m certain will delight.’ He snapped his fingers but I was already moving to the shelf, pushing up on my tiptoes and carefully sliding out the material. I placed it on the counter and returned to my original position, folding my hands on top of each other.

The woman’s mouth puckered as she lifted a corner of the fabric and held it up to the dim light. ‘This is more suitable,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s not quite what I’m looking for. The weave is somewhat unimpressive. Perhaps you’ll permit me to browse the shelves myself?’

My heart sank. There was a reason why we usually fetched the tartans ourselves and displayed them on the counter rather than allowing customers to retrieve them. More than once I’d been forced to spend several hours removing grubby fingerprints from the more delicate samples – and I had yet to encounter a customer who could re-fold the material correctly.

Of course, Twister bowed. ‘You are more than welcome to do so, my lady.’

The woman gave him a perfunctory smile. As soon as her back was turned, he frowned at me. I was tempted to pretend that I didn’t understand but I’d only suffer for it later. I dug into my pocket and passed the folded message to him. The paper was light and inexpensive so that it could be easily destroyed, if needs be. If I had been stopped in the street by the wrong person, namely one of Twister’s competitors, that’s what would have been expected of me. Whether I’d have done it or not was another matter.

Twister’s nimble fingers fiddled with the note. He was desperate to break the seal and read what it said, but the presence of the woman was holding him back. It had been a slow day; unless sales had picked up considerably after I’d departed on my orders this afternoon, he still needed to boost the till’s takings.

‘Oh, how charming,’ the woman cooed to herself, stroking a particularly garish tartan. ‘It’s almost perfect – just not quite perfect enough.’ She slid along and examined the next shelf. ‘No,’ she tutted. ‘Not this. Or this.’

I was fascinated by her commentary, not by what she was saying but that she was speaking aloud. Did she find it easier to choose a fabric by discussing it with herself? Was she aware of what she was doing? My eyes followed her round the shop.

Twister nudged me sharply in the ribs, managing to push his elbow into the same spot where a bruise was forming thanks to his wife’s irritated kick on Tuesday. I’d been on my hands and knees scrubbing the shop floor and got in her way. I hissed softly in pain, but I was already moving.

The woman clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Well, this one certainly won’t do,’ she said disapprovingly, touching a pretty red-and-green tartan. Then she jumped and turned her head as she sensed my presence at her side.

Twister didn’t notice; he was already thumbing the seal of the message, using his nail to crack the wax so he could get at the contents. The woman’s eyes drifted briefly towards him before snapping back to me. ‘Fetch that one for me, will you, girl?’ She pointed upwards. ‘The one with the green weft.’

I nodded and pulled the ladder towards me, placing it so that I could reach the tartan she desired. I scampered up and pulled it out.

‘No. Not that one.’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘The one next to it. To the right.’

I reached for the material, heaved it down and placed it in the woman’s hands. The weave on this sample was tighter so it weighed considerably more than the others, but if she noticed she didn’t comment.

She stroked it a few times while she considered it. ‘I need to see it in a different light,’ she announced. ‘It’s far too gloomy here.’

While the interior of the shop was indeed dark, especially at this time of day, I couldn’t let her take it outside to check it for imperfections. The last time that had happened, the would-be buyer had sprinted off and Twister took the cost of the sample out of my already meagre allowance.

Fortunately, the woman took it to the counter rather than towards the door. That didn’t make sense; she was now further from the windows so there was even less light. Still, the customer was always right.

Twister, whose attention has been wholly absorbed by the message in his hands, blinked when she put down the material.

‘Tell me,’ she commanded. ‘Is this too rough for a young girl to wear? I’m looking for a tartan suitable for my entire family and my niece has very delicate skin. I do not wish for her to get a rash.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Twister put the message down and glanced at the tartan. ‘Rough? My goodness, no. You’ll never find a more forgiving or gentle fabric.’

The woman peered at him. ‘My dear sir, this is tartan. Not silk.’

Twister forced a smile as he conceded the point, although I know that he despised silk. And linen. And cotton. Truthfully, he considered any material that was not true tartan to be horribly inferior. ‘Fair enough,’ he said mildly, the burr of his accent growing more pronounced as his emotions intensified. ‘I must agree it is not silk, but it is a fine and gentle tartan.’

‘Hmm.’ The customer leaned over the counter to pick at the frayed edges on the far side. Her ample bosom was so close to Twister’s face that his nose was almost buried in her cleavage. I suppressed a smile. It was as well that his wife would be taking her daily nap upstairs at this hour of the day.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said eventually, as I’d suspected she would. ‘I will return in a day or two.’

No-one who said they would come back another time ever did. Twister knew it as well as I did, and he launched into full salesman mode in a bid to change her mind. ‘As you wish, my lady, as you wish. This particular tartan is of limited supply, of course, and we do have another customer who is interested in it as well.’ He smiled at her benevolently. ‘Hopefully, it will still be here when you come back, or you may have to choose another instead.’ He allowed himself a wistful glance down at the material. ‘It is beautiful, is it not? Those colours complement any complexion.’

‘They are passable,’ the woman returned briskly. ‘I thank you for your time. With another being interested in this fabric, it’s fortunate that I am never tardy in my decision making.’ She sniffed. ‘I am sure I shall see you again in a few days.’

Twister made a face as soon as her back was turned, then nodded at the tartan. I hastily took it off the counter and walked back to the ladder to return it to its rightful place on the shelf. As I moved, I hummed the first few bars of the ditty that had been worming its way through my ears all day. The woman, who had already pulled the door open and was stepping outside, stopped and turned her head.

I continued humming. I might have been tuneless, but she was leaving and the shop was due to close. The only person I could irritate now was Twister, and his attention had returned to his message and whatever it contained. The woman paused for another beat, then continued on her way. The door swung shut behind her.

Twister didn’t look up when the door closed. Instead he threw back his head and bellowed, slipping into vernacular now that the need to maintain a polite veneer had passed. ‘Belle! Fetch your skinny arse doon here!’

There was no immediate response and both of us glanced upwards. I knew that any second now Twister would order me to rouse his wife. I wanted to tell him to let sleeping dogs lie, but I didn’t. Obviously.

Fortunately, on this occasion I was spared the trauma of waking Belle. There was a creak from above, followed by the familiar groaning of the floorboards as she heaved herself out of bed. A smattering of dust from the loose plaster in the ceiling pattered down. Twister scowled and opened his mouth, but I was already reaching for the broom in the corner to sweep it up.

By the time I’d moved on to repair the disarray to the shelves that the woman caused, Belle had made her way downstairs. Her hair was askew; strands of tawny brown were escaping from her bun, and various curls and wisps sticking up at all angles. She must have been a handsome woman once, but her years of yelling and scolding and maintaining a façade of proud matron had taken their toll. Now her appearance was akin to that of a grouchy fishwife rather than the lady of the manor.

‘I was sleeping, you bampot,’ she growled, her mouth puckering in disapproval at her husband.

He paid her complaints no mind. ‘Forget sleep.’ He waved the message at her. ‘It’s come.’

Belle immediately dropped her frown. ‘And?’

Twister’s face was shining. For a brief moment, I glimpsed the innocent cheerful young boy he had once been. ‘We’re in.’

Belle’s eyes widened, then a slow smile spread across her face. She lifted her heavy skirt and her feet began to tap out a dance. ‘We’re in?’

Twister nodded. ‘We’re in.’

Belle pirouetted, losing her balance halfway round before falling into Twister’s arms with a bark of delighted laughter. He hugged her. ‘This could be the making of us,’ he whispered, pressing his mouth to her temple.

‘We’re no’ there yet,’ she warned. ‘It’s only an audience, not a commission.’

He wagged his finger at her. ‘But our foot is in the door. That’s the hard part over with.’ He held up the message. ‘Have a keek.’

Belle snatched the note from his hand and scanned it, while Twister rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘It’s going to be spondoolies from now on!’

I wouldn’t hold my breath; this wasn’t the first money-making scheme the couple had embarked upon in recent times. And I doubted that any spondoolies would come my way, no matter how much over-priced tartan they sold.

I finished folding the last of the tartan and hopped down the ladder. I would have liked to wipe down the counter and dust the shelves behind it, but I couldn’t while they were standing there. I watched them, hoping they’d repair to the lounge so I could finish my work before I started the laundry and prepared the evening meal, but Belle’s face was falling. It didn’t look as if she’d be going anywhere soon.

She dropped the piece of paper onto the counter and glared at Twister as he gave her a hopeful smile. Without missing a beat, she reached across and backhanded him.

‘Ow!’ He clutched his cheek. ‘What was that for?’

‘We don’t have our foot in the door, you bampot! We don’t have anything in the door. The Mages are coming to us, not the other way around. And that’s only if the bursar can persuade them to take a detour. They’re no’ in the market for new clothes!’ She spat at the now-crumpled message. ‘This is nothing!’

‘Hardly anyone gets into the City Chambers, love, you know that. The bursar will definitely bring them here, though,’ Twister protested. ‘I bribed him enough. More than enough! And look,’ he snatched up the message again, ‘he’s talking about the Ascendant. The Ascendant is coming to our shop!’

Belle’s lip curled and she swiped at him again. This time Twister managed to duck, but she still caught the side of his head. ‘Our wonderful shop.’ She swivelled round, her arm extended. ‘Our glorious department store.’

‘It’s hardly a market stall,’ Twister objected.

Belle sneered. ‘If you think this will impress the Mages enough to place an order and give us a Mage Warrant, you’re an even bigger eejit than I thought.’ She turned on her heel, then glared in my direction as if noticing me for the first time. ‘What are you gawking at, lass? Don’t you have work to do?’

Twister, fully deflated by now, watched her as she stormed out with her skirts billowing behind her. His bottom lip jutted out and I wondered if he would sob. Instead he shook himself and, in the absence of any other convenient target, sent a kick in my direction. ‘Well?’ he snarled. ‘You heard the lady! Get back to work!’

***

Despite Belle’s conviction that Twister’s plotting would come to nothing, he ordered me to prepare the shop front for the Mages’ supposedly imminent arrival. I scrubbed the floor until the flagstones were cleaner than they’d ever been and polished the wooden counter and shelves until they gleamed.

The smell of beeswax, which was normally pleasant enough, mingled with the powerful reek of bleach to create a potent mixture that made my nostrils tingle. As a result, Twister sent me back out in the rain to find some fragrant foliage to improve matters. The best I could come up with was a bunch of drooping lavender that I stole from one of the window boxes hanging outside the Grand Central Hotel.

The bellhop spotted me as I yanked it free and he set off in hot pursuit, his fist raised. He was no match for me and I fled easily from his angry shouts and slow feet. All the same, have to avoid passing in front of the hotel for some time to come. From what I’d heard on the street, the upmarket hoteliers didn’t take kindly to thieves, even when they pilfered something paltry. They’d called in the Mages when they caught a housemaid helping herself to one of the bed turn-down chocolates. Apparently, her resulting screams shook the hotel’s very foundations.

Once the lavender was displayed in a crystal vase on one of the higher shelves, I made a start on the interior of the windows, ridding them of smears and streaks. I’d almost finished when Belle reappeared, demanding to know when her supper would be served, so I nipped to the kitchen and did my best to whip up a quick stew of mutton, carrots and onion. Without much time to simmer, it would be as tough as old boots to chew on. Even so, there wouldn’t be enough leftovers for my plate.

I was guaranteed porridge for breakfast and nothing beyond, except what scraps I could find once Twister and Belle’s needs were taken care of – and those were few and far between. I chomped on a few carrot ends as I took care of the laundry, however, so things could have been worse. I thought of Meg and missing babies and dangerous daemons in dark wynds. Things could always be worse.

When I finally escaped to my little room, located high in the draughty rafters of the building, I was bone tired. I couldn’t afford to sleep, though. Although it had been necessary, my expedition to the orphanage had lost me valuable hours that I needed to make up.

I headed straight to my battered lockbox and gazed at its contents. Nothing had changed since the last time I’d opened it, but my heart still sank. I estimated that I only had about four evenings’ worth of light remaining.

With a heavy sigh, I took out the squat candle and placed it in its holder on the tiny desk by the porthole window, then struck a match and lit it. An hour, I decided; I’d allow myself an hour. That should be enough time to wrap my head around at least some of the basic points about carboxylic acid.

I flipped open the textbook, which was hopelessly out of date but which I’d spent the better part of six months saving up for, and found the section I’d studied last. The scholarship exam was less than a month away. I knew I’d never be accepted as a trainee doctor, because at some point doctors were expected to speak to their patients and that would be something of a stumbling block for me, but I was sure I could gain entrance to Apothecary Studies.

Only a tiny number of candidates were invited to take the scholarship exam each year. I had waited until now to apply because it was a one-shot deal. I had to be sure that I would pass if I sat the exam.

I didn’t care that I would be older than the other university entrants. I didn’t have parents willing to fund my education, so I’d had to take the snail’s route. I had dedication and most of the knowledge, I just didn’t have the money. Pass the scholarship exam, however, and I had the chance to get out of this life and make something of myself.

I was not confident enough or imaginative enough to dream of my own little apothecary shop far away from Twister and Belle’s melodramas. Not yet. But I was getting tantalisingly close.