Dot’s eyes trailed up the ornate tiles stretching from the edge of the dome to its centre, where a portrait of Saint Penelope gazed down at her, crafted of azure, ochre and indigo tile.
Theirs was the only city that had been founded by a witch.
This portrait was different to the stained-glass window that had been commissioned by her wife, Calléa. In this mosaic, Penelope was younger, sharper, her eyes drawn and austere. She was surrounded by Ancient Spirits, the kind that had been here since the worldbegan, and they made Dot think of pamphlets and tomes Archie had collected on the subject. Spirits were the first Magicians, really – deities of the mountains, of the soil, of the ocean.
Archie – how terribly she missed him, alone as she had been all these weeks in Alliaster. He was, she thought now, the sole spark of joy about returning to Seafarthing. Then, she thought of her brother, her parents, their inevitable scowls and harsh words and ridicule. Tears were quick to her eyes.
Dot left the dome and trailed the long halls. Monks strolled here and there, accompanied by spirits who had each become translucent in a show of incredible respect.
She recalled the histories of this sacred space. There was the banning of idols, the execution of Emperor Phio, the introduction of Article 13. She spotted a chip in the bottom of a dark, marble column. Was that a distant remnant of clumsiness or of violence? The person who had made that mark, whose name Dot did not know, had existed in the same room as her, on the same marble floor, separated only by the passage of seconds, albeit billions of them. Were they quite at peace to have been forgotten?
Dot went on, stepping on every third tile, looking for imperfections, marks against the wooden benches or perhaps paintbrush wobbles on the murals, any reverberation of the individual souls who came before.
Then a voice rang out, sharp and all-encompassing, disrupting the peace so terribly, it was as if some stranger had reached in through her bedroom window and switched off her gramophone.
‘You have one minute.’
Dot was not ready.
She had thought it would be the train ride that severed her life in two. But no, it was this. Dot reached for the closest pew as if attempting to cling to the seconds that were slipping out from under her.
Once she stepped back through the cathedral door and took up her newspaper-stuffed shoes, she would never come back.
The bells tolled.
‘It is time,’ called the monk.
Dot watched the tourists amble across the carpet toward the exit. Waves of panic crashed within her. She stepped backward and bumped into a large cabinet. Turning around, she saw an alcove between it and the wall. She glanced over at the monks and the spirits but, of course, she was a creature of the peripheries, always the one staring in, and so none of them watched her.
Dorothy Louise Walcott took one deliberate step and wedged herself into the crack of the alcove. Heart thrumming in her throat, she waited, praying to gods she did not believe in that no one would see her grey socks.
The footfalls of the tourists softened.
She heard the doors shut.
She let out a small guilty breath.
Dot had broken the rules. She had stolen an extra admission to the cathedral. However, she reasoned, she would simply slip back out with the next group. She had only needed a few moments more before the death of all she had wanted to be.
But then a bell sounded.
The lights extinguished.
The cathedral was drenched in darkness.
How many hours ago had she eaten that cucumber sandwich?
Dot’s stomach washed with the cold and terrible realisation that she must have purchased a ticket for the final viewing of the day. It was nine o’clock. The holy doors were sealed. Dot was locked in Saint Penelope’s Cathedral.
CHAPTERSEVEN
All she could do was stand frozen in her hiding place, staring out at the darkness, too afraid to move. Dot was trespassing in not only the most holy building in Alliaster, but in the entire continent.
Wedged in the alcove, she descended into panic. Would the government take both her hands for this? How many thousands of silver pieces would the fine be? What would happen when she could not pay it? Would they send her to gaol? Oh, how the customers at the Divers’ Café would gossip when they heard about ‘ThatDorothy’.Nice girl. Good family. Such a bloody shame. What would Archie think?
She spiralled like this for a good while until she was interrupted by the sound of leather shoes clacking against the marble. Silently, Dot peered around the edge of the cabinet.
In the dim moonlight, a lanky figure strolled beneath the dome. He paused before the holy dais, facing the throne of Saint Penelope. Dot squinted. Was he a guard of some kind? The figure stooped before the throne. He moved and crouched and moved again. It took her a moment to realise that the man was drawingupon the holy dais.
