Dot collapsed against the cobbles, her ears ringing, her vision blackening. She gave herself a moment. Beside her, Lio coughed and Theodora stilled. Something, Dot realised, was terribly wrong. Pulses of cold desolate magic now dragged at her; she swatted them away, balancing them with warmth.
Finally, she looked up. What Dot expected to find was a procession of myriad spirits, lanterns lit, bells ringing. Instead, she took Lio’s arm and saw the shrine grounds completely abandoned.
‘Where are they?’ asked Dot. ‘No, no – where is Thistlethwaite? She needs to break the contract.’
They turned this way and that, but the two-thousand-year-old spirit was nowhere. Beyond the brim of the stone steps, they could now see the ocean almost entirely covering the city of Alliaster. Dot came to the edge and peered into the water below. Bizarre invertebrates with scales the colour of milk swam around the stones. Far to the east, she saw the spires of Saint Penelope’s Cathedral and the tip of the Tower of Étienne poking from the water.
‘How far does it go?’ asked Lio, before coughing into his handkerchief once more.
‘Only to the edge of the city,’ said Theodora.
They searched the shrine grounds, wandering along the paths of leafless birches up to the shrine proper. Along the way, they spotted discarded brooms and overturned bowls of salt and rosewater. They came to the gatehouse. Theodora placed her hand on the door.
It opened a fraction and a pair of startled, bug-like eyes peered out.
‘Hello?’ asked Theodora.
‘Are you Edwina?’ squeaked the spirit. She opened the door a fraction more and peered at Dot. ‘Or you, perhaps?’
‘I am Edwina,’ said Theodora.
‘I have a message,’ said the spirit quickly, jittering with fear. ‘Salamander and all his many fellows were here. There were simply too many. Thistlethwaite and the rest have been taken – I hid. I did what Thistlethwaite would have wanted. I waited. I told you. Now, I will go.’
‘Wait!’ said Theodora, but the door was shut and the spirit was gone, and no amount of knocking brought her back.
Theodora’s expression darkened.
‘All of our planning is dashed to bits,’ groaned Lio.
‘What do we do?’ asked Dot.
‘I do not know,’ said Theodora, turning. Her hands were on her hips and she paced. ‘I have never crafted a spell for swimming. I couldtry,but without any ability to test it first—’
‘Swimming?’ asked Dot. ‘Why would we swim somewhere and not cast a portal?’
‘The water’s enchanted,’ said Lio. ‘The physics of a portal rune are so specific to the workings of the open air, the wind. We might rip ourselves in half. We could cast a portal over the water, or perhaps to some interior space, but what would be the point? Where would we go?’
‘Hemmington’s,’ said Dot. ‘We could break in.’
‘Without Thistlethwaite?’ asked Lio. ‘And what about Acanthi? Are they not still camped upon the roof of Hemmington’s?’
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Theodora. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the bread knife.
‘Whydo you have that?’ demanded Lio.
‘I couldn’t leave it behind, could I?’ said Theodora. ‘I took it from the roof before we went to the valley. Can you imagine if Opal got it back?’
‘No,’ said Lio. ‘I don’t want to imagine orseethat horrible knife ever again.’
‘We’re desperate,’ said Theodora. ‘Opal is somewhere in this city. Perhaps we can use the knife as a Sympathetic link, and then use Opal as leverage with both Acanthi and Salamander.’
‘We are not using that knife,’ said Lio. ‘Throw that cursed thing into the sea. We will come up with something else.’
‘We do not have time,’ said Theodora, and she looked at Dot. ‘Dorothy, if we fail, I don’t want to live and I don’t want you to sully your magic. Just drive this into my heart.’
‘Stop,’ said Dot. ‘You are panicking.’
‘I am not,’ said the witch, and she lifted up the bread knife. ‘If Salamander can convince the members of parliament to alter Article Thirteen, he will take all of his magic back. It’ll not be like he was before. He’s had over twenty years to research. Perhaps he will turn every spirit in the city into a conduit. Thistlethwaite will be beneath Hemmington’s, somewhere. He must have overpowered her by numbers, but against Salamander alone . . . Dorothy, I have no genius for mathematics nor the hierarchy of spirits, but I hope we find Thistlethwaite in that dungeon and I hope her two thousand years will best Salamander.’
