Dot had imagined a thousand Theodoras. Young, old, haggard, enchanting, every kind of faerie queen or vile sorceress that her mind could conjure. None of them had come close to the truth of her. Not the lilac scent of her clothes nor the fidgety way she spoke with her hands nor the staccato click of her boots against the floorboards.
Dot peered around the living room. There was an abandoned quality here: dead hyacinths on the mantel, soot stains on the carpet, thick grime upon the windowpanes. Yet beneath and betwixt the neglect were hints of opulence. Scattered on the tables were tea pots and leather-bound volumes ofTheAncient Histories of Pruisia.Oil paintings in gilded frames were stacked against the wall. In the corner was a black, ornate vase holding a bundle of bergamot branches and, beside it, a statue of a wide-bodied maiden strumming a lute. Someone had placed a vest over her and given her a set of spectacles.
‘Admiring Leda?’ asked Theodora, as she placed a large cup of tea beside Dot. She took the armchair by the window. ‘A friend of mine from the studio sculpted her. She was a gift for my twenty-eighth birthday.’
‘She’s lovely,’ said Dot, picking up the tea. It had a strange fragrance. Liquorice, perhaps, or some bitter herb she could not name. She took a sip and scowled.
‘It’s an old Calléan recipe,’ said Theodora. ‘Have you had it before?’
‘No,’ said Dot. ‘My grandparents are all from Eyre. We only drink Eyreish breakfast tea. Dad imports it. He’s never even been. Mum came over when she was a baby. They met at school – there are a lot of foreigners in Seafarthing, actually. The fishing brought a lot of us in, I suppose and . . .’ Dot stopped. She laughed in her forced, awkward way. ‘I’m speaking too much.’
‘Not at all,’ said Theodora. ‘My ancestors were once from Levatu.’
‘Really?’ asked Dot. ‘Have you visited? The islands are said to be so beautiful.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Theodora.
A silence Dot did not quite understand fell then. She sipped at the medicinal liquid. ‘This is nice.’
‘Dorothy, it’s foul.’
Dot sputtered and the witch smiled.
‘But it’s the thing one does,’ said Theodora, taking off her boots and folding her legs under herself, ‘when another is bereaved or befallen by tragedy. Tea is the warmth one brings to another who has none to give themselves.’
‘Is that why you run a tea shop?’ asked Dot.
‘No, I hate tea.’
A rapid thumping rose from the hall and the living room door flung open. The red-haired boy froze as he saw Dot.
‘She’s awake,’ he said.
‘Dorothy,’ said Theodora, ‘this is Rupert Armstrong.’
His eyes flickered to Dot’s bandaged hand. She promptly hid it.
‘What is it, Rupe?’ asked Theodora.
‘Lio’s asking a lot of questions.’
‘The answer to every one of them is, “No, you dandyish twit.”’
‘He wants to know where you are.’
‘Saints,’ said Theodora. ‘You didn’t tell him I’m up here, did you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Rupert. ‘You said not to.’
‘Good lad. As far as he’s concerned, I do not even live here. Go on then. What other questions?’
‘He wants to know if the wards have been updated since New Year’s.’
‘It’s none of Lio’s business when the wards were last updated,’ said Theodora.
‘I said you’d say that,’ said Rupert, scratching the back of his head. ‘He said, “If I’m stuck in this bloody house, I need to know Acanthi won’t make ribbons of me in my sleep.”’
‘If he asks any more stupid questions, I’ll be the one to make ribbons of him,’ said Theodora. ‘Go do something else, Rupert. Something away from Lio. Are you sleeping here tonight?’
