City of time and magic, p.1
City of Time and Magic, page 1
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FOR CATHY - A GIFTED PHOTOGRAPHER,
A TALENTED ICE SKATER, AN EXCELLENT
TEACHER, AND A LOVELY FRIEND
X
1
Xanthe stepped forward onto the smooth, flat stones which were all that remained of the ruined castle walls. She registered the resistance of the ancient sandstone through the worn leather soles of her boots. After the springy grass of the hill it felt unyielding and solid. The April sunshine was not strong enough to warm it, the hilltop breeze whipping away the warmth of the fading day. She waited, closing her eyes against the distraction of the far-reaching view, holding herself still and quiet, listening, hoping. Yearning. She could hear skylarks whirring a ways off, and the chatter of small children as they were led back down the footpath toward home. She was aware of the light wind tugging at her loose ponytail. She could detect the aroma of the peaty soil in the air. She could feel her own heartbeat thud against her eardrums.
But nothing sang to her.
No lost souls cried out to her.
No time-distant injustice called to her.
A shadow, broad and cool, came between Xanthe and the sunshine. She opened her eyes to find Harley standing close, watching her, concern etched on his grizzled features.
“Anything, hen?”
She shook her head.
Harley rubbed his beard, looking thoughtfully at their surroundings. “Not even here?”
“I was so certain this would be the place. I really thought…”
“Aye, it has all the ingredients, right enough. Ancient settlement with evidence of inhabitation from 3000 BC; ruined castle and cathedral; fortifications refortified by William the Conqueror his very self; fine views of three counties for fifty miles or more; and sitting right bang slap on top of one of the strongest ley lines in the whole of England.” He looked at her again, bushy brows raised. “Not even a whisper? A tingle? A tiny snatch of song?”
“Not so much as a note,” she said, trying hard not to let her disappointment show. She had to stay focused. Without her, Liam was lost forever, it was as simple and as terrifying as that. It was because of her that he had failed to make the journey home. It was up to her to find him and bring him safely back. It had been her idea to visit the ancient hill fort of Old Sarum. For two weeks since her solitary return from Corsham Hall in 1820, she had searched fairs and markets for something that might sing to her and lead her to Liam. Something that would trigger her unique sensitivity—the psychometry that enabled her to detect the long past stories of those objects—so that she could travel through time again. Her skills as a Spinner were growing, as was her success at using the Spinners book to move through time, but before she stepped into the blind house again she needed to be sure. She needed to know for certain that she was traveling to the right place, and as crucially, the right time, to find Liam. A found thing, one that sang strongly to her, would be the surest sign, she believed, the surest way, to help her make the right journey. But all her searches had been fruitless. Trying a different tack, and with Harley’s help, she had turned to the part that ley lines played in her ability to spin through time. The old lockup in her garden sat upon an intersection of two strong lines of the mysterious energy that connected ancient and sacred places. She had reasoned that another powerful location might spark something. Was it possible for a place to sing to her in the same way a precious object could? The complete lack of so much as a whisper was a crushing blow.
Harley was sensitive to what this failure meant to her.
“I’m of the opinion a person’s thoughts flow easier with a full belly,” he told her.
She hesitated, reluctant to abandon the day’s mission, yet knowing there was nothing further to be gained by staying on the hilltop.
“Pub?” she suggested.
“Pub,” he agreed.
A mile from the earthworks, The Soldier’s Arms was set back from the road and offered a fine selection of local ales. She chose a corner table, the weather not quite warm enough to tempt her outside to the beer garden, and Harley fetched the drinks. The pub clearly catered to tourists, but managed to do so without entirely losing its charm. She found the low murmur of their fellow drinkers’ conversations familiar and comforting. Harley returned with a brimming pint glass for himself and a smaller measure for her.
“Here ye are, designated driver.” He set the drinks on the little round table between them and eased himself onto the high-backed wooden seat, which creaked in complaint at his not inconsiderable weight. “According to yon barman”—he nodded at the skinny man serving—“interest in ley lines has had something of a renewal in these parts lately. Lots of visitors haul their backsides up that hill in the hope of sensing the special energy of the place.”
“Well, I hope they have better luck than we did.”
Harley drank deeply, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and let out a happy sigh. He picked a menu out of the holder on the table and handed one to her. “Food, lass. And after we’ve eaten and drunk, we’ll bring our minds to bear on the matter in hand once more, but not before. Deal?”
She was happy to agree. After the initial shock of finding Liam had been separated from her as they had traveled to their own time, she had put all her energy into discovering a way to find him. And yet, despite her best efforts and input from both Harley and her mother, nothing had worked. She felt no closer to knowing what time he had gone to. Or rather, what time he had been taken to. It still hurt her to accept how Mistress Flyte had betrayed her. The Spinners book had revealed the fact that the old woman harbored secrets, but she would never have thought her capable of doing something so awful. What possible reason could she have for snatching Liam in the way that she had? Xanthe had spent restless nights trying to make sense of it. There were times when a few moments of normality to recharge and reset her tormented thoughts were extremely necessary. She and Harley chose beer-battered fish and chips for their lunch and ate in companionable silence, serenaded by the gentle noises of the pub. She watched people at the other tables, wondering what secrets their own lives held, feeling a separation from the normality they experienced. A distance from a life of straightforward challenges and obstacles. Her gift as a Spinner was something to be grateful for, something that humbled her and filled her with wonder. It was also, however, something that came at a price, and at that moment, the price was too high and was being paid by someone she cared for deeply. After their meal, feeling fortified, she and Harley returned to the topic of Old Sarum.
“How can somewhere so ancient, so full of past lives and important events … how can it not speak to me?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, on another level it does, of course. Like anyone else, I can appreciate the history, imagine what the settlements would have been like … but as a Spinner, I find nothing.”
He gave an expansive shrug, the leather of his biker’s jacket stretching over his broad shoulders as he did so. “It’s your first-rate ley line location, no doubt about that, connecting Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral. The story goes that some ambitious bishop decided the original cathedral, up on yon hill, was too wind-blasted and remote for his needs.”
“Can’t have been fun slogging up there in the winter.”
“Right enough. So, he got one of the king’s finest archers to stand on the highest point and shoot an arrow into the valley below. He decreed that wherever the arrow fell, that is where the new cathedral would be built. Most likely hoping for a bit of soft meadow down near the river, close enough and cheap enough to rebuild on.”
“So how come we ended up with Salisbury Cathedral, miles away? Must have been quite an archer.”
“He was good, aye, but not that good. Legend has it he loosed his arrow but it struck a deer, somewhere not instantly fatal, apparently. Said deer hoofed it south, only to expire on the location of the current and spectacular cathedral. Bishop was so pleased with himself he only went and built the tallest spire in the whole of the country. Still is, matter of fact.”
“Fascinating, Harley, but not helpful, I’m afraid. No, if Old Sarum isn’t going to give me the clues I need, I think we have to accept that ley lines are not the answer. Or at least they are a part of it, but not the most significant part. Which, if I’m honest, I think I always knew.”
“It was worth a try. And the fish here is superb.” He smiled at her, trying hard to keep the mood light.
Not for the first time, she was grateful for her burly friend’s support. With Harley and Flora now aware of her astonishing ability, at least she no longer had to face the challenges of being a Spinner alone.
When she arrived back at The Little Shop of Found Things it was nearly closin
“Mum? I’m back.” As always, the smell of beeswax polish and old leather in the main part of the shop was welcoming and familiar, speaking to her of a childhood spent surrounded by antiques, and now the excitement and hope she shared with her mother for their new venture.
Flora appeared in the hallway, stepping out of the room that was her workshop, wiping her hands on a rag as she leaned on her crutches.
“You’re home in good time, love. Any luck?” she asked.
Xanthe shook her head. “Nothing. Ley lines are not the answer. I’ll have to spend more time reading the Spinners book. There’s got to be something in there I’m missing.”
“Or another found thing to call to you.”
“Well, yes, that,” she replied, instantly regretting the slight sharpness to her voice. “Sorry, Mum … it’s just that I know it’s a found thing I need, but what? Where? Why can’t I find one? I feel completely stumped, to be honest.”
Flora smiled and stick-stepped forward. “Here,” she said, holding out a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it, “maybe this will lead to something. A man downsizing from a house just outside Devizes. Wants us to give him prices on some of the things in his collection.”
“Antiques or bric-a-brac?”
“I couldn’t tell over the phone.” Flora put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Something will find you, Xanthe, love. And you will find Liam. Now, go and put the kettle on. While you and Harley have been stomping about on hill forts, some of us have been serving customers and stripping lacquer off a nest of tables. I’m parched.”
Xanthe pulled her mother into a long, warm hug. “What would I do without you, Mum?”
Before Flora could answer, the sound of scrabbling claws on the wooden staircase announced the arrival of Pie. The little black-and-white whippet was excited to see her friend home. Xanthe bent down and scooped the wriggling dog up into her arms. “Looks like someone’s forgiven me for not taking her. Come on, pooch. Tea and biscuits all round.”
In the upstairs kitchen she leaned against the sink as she waited for the kettle to boil, while Pie trotted around the small room, stirred to further excitement at the sight of the biscuit tin. Xanthe unfolded the scrap of paper and looked at the address written on it. The Pines sounded more like a retirement home than a grand house, and she found it hard to be optimistic. What she hoped for, every time they received a call for a house clearance or for a valuation for possible sale, was an old manor or tiny thatched cottage, either would do, so long as they were filled with lovely old curios. What was more likely was a great deal of midcentury furniture, random junk from a long life, all of which mattered greatly to the person parting with it, but was probably of little value or use for the shop. Nor was it likely to be of sufficient age to take her back in time to whenever it was Liam waited for her. Still, business was business. The shop needed stock. They had to maintain their reputation for giving fair prices for good items. And maybe, just maybe, something in the old man’s collection of treasures would sing to her.
* * *
Liam opened his eyes. He was lying on a narrow bed with a worn iron frame and thin mattress. The light in the room suggested dawn or dusk, he could not be sure which. There were no curtains at the window and the floorboards were bare. Sounds of the street drifted in; horses’ hooves upon cobbles, carriage wheels, the shouts of hawkers and barrow boys. There was a familiar smell. Was it the sea? No, not salty, but definitely water. A river, then, close by. He tried to sit up but the movement made his head spin and his vision blur. Gingerly, he raised himself up onto one elbow, taking time to allow his senses to readjust. He could see now that although the room contained a bed, it was otherwise empty. Dust lay fairly thick on the windowsill, and there were cobwebs in the exposed beams and rafters above him. He swung his legs over the side of the uneven mattress. He was wearing the clothes he had been dressed in when he and Xanthe had started their journey through time toward home, which meant he was still clothed in the cheap hire costume he had obtained for their mission. The fabrics of the Regency outfit were synthetic and scratchy, and the warmth of the day made him pull at the collar to remove the purple cravat, allowing him to take deep breaths of the musty air the room provided. He dropped it onto the bed, not bothering to retrieve it when it slipped off and landed on the dusty floor. He took a moment to try to work out what had happened. The last thing he clearly remembered was slipping his arms around Xanthe’s waist, holding tight to her as she worked her magic as a Spinner to move them through the centuries again. Beyond that, everything was confused and fragmented. He could recall snatches of sounds, of her calling his name, of other voices from far away. He thought he remembered flashes of light but they were too vague and too fleeting to tell him anything useful. One minute he had been with her, heading home; the next he had been wrenched away, held by unseen hands, and then thrust in another direction altogether. The rest was darkness.
He rose shakily to his feet and walked the few strides to the window. The glass was opaque with grime. Using his sleeve, he was able to clean a small patch so that he could peer outside. Had he not recently traveled through time to the 1820s, what he saw would have shocked him. As it was, he accepted quite readily the fact that he was clearly not anywhere in the twenty-first century. There were no cars, no traffic lights, no wires connecting the houses. Carriages and carts of all shapes and sizes traveled up and down the street, which was at least three storeys below him, broad and cobbled. The building he was in was part of a long, high terrace, flat fronted and redbrick, without adornments, porticos, or railings, but with doors opening straight onto the road. Opposite there were no houses or shops. Instead, beyond a low wall, ran a river, broad, slow, and gray, the soft light skimming off its calm surface. Small boats were tied to moorings in the quay, while larger ones moved up and down the river in a dangerous dance against the tide, the currents, and each other. There were enormous barges, heavy with cargo, sitting low in the water; smart sailing ships heading out to sea; smaller vessels taking passengers across the river or upstream to another part of the city. For a city it certainly was, that much was plain to see. The far bank showed a similar picture to the one where Liam found himself, with buildings to the foreshore, warehouses, tenement blocks, workaday dwellings, and stores and places of trade. Farther back, set away from the noise and commerce of the river, he could make out loftier, grander constructions. There were church spires and the high roofs of mansions and hotels and important buildings too many and various to be identified from his distant viewpoint. The shouted greetings and snatches of conversations he could discern from the street confirmed that he was in England. Could this be the Thames? He scanned the cityscape for a landmark he might recognize but found none. Surprising himself, he felt an excitement at the thought that he was most likely in London, maybe a century or more before his own time. However precarious his situation, whatever plans his abductor had for him, it was impossible not to feel the thrill of knowing that again he had traveled through time. He found himself wondering what Xanthe would do in his position.
“Well, she wouldn’t stand here gazing out the window like a tourist,” he muttered, brushing the dust from his clothes, straightening his jacket, and heading for the door. He tried the handle. That it was unlocked surprised him. He opened it slowly, wincing at the loud creaking its hinges made. The narrow landing was empty. Unsure what to make of the fact that he was unguarded, he made his way to the stairs and descended them cautiously, every tread seeming to complain noisily at his stepping on it. The next floor was hardly less grimy and basic than the one he had just left. The doors off the stairwell were closed, but even the landings had about them a worn and comfortless feel. It was as if the house was little used or loved, and barely inhabited at all. There were no lamps lit, but the light falling through the tall windows was strengthening, telling him the day was beginning. He thought it might be harder to escape his captors in the daylight, but perhaps a safer time to try to navigate the unfamiliar city. It was only as he reached the ground floor that he found some signs of life. There was a worn rug on the floor, a mahogany hat stand and mirror, and a swayback sideboard. He paused to listen. Voices came from the room to his left, their volume too low and words too muffled for him to make out. He would have to cross the hallway and pass close to the entrance of the inhabited room to reach the front door. He started to walk forward, attempting to focus on what it would take to draw back the bolts on the door while at the same time listening hard to the murmured conversation, alert to any pause or change of tone that might suggest he had been heard.
