‘It is dull work,’ said Belchamber. ‘But the position is paid. And they will feed you.’
‘Why would you help me?’
‘Why not?’ asked Belchamber. ‘I have found too many bodies on the cobbles of this city, dead from dirty opium or vile imitations of packet spells or both. I would hate to find you that way, come wintertime.’
There was a gentle earnestness to him that caught the girl quite by surprise.
‘I don’t want to tell anyone my name,’ she said.
‘What would you prefer to go by?’
Her mind was slow. She cast around for inspiration.
‘Edwina Benedict,’ she said.
The spirit chuckled, and before she could change her mind, he raised his little arm and called, ‘Bill, please!’
He led her to a hostel three streets away, and as she followed him she watched her own feet gloomily. She was used to soft soil, not concrete. The city was loud and filled with smoke and sordid stenches.
‘I’ll pay for your first month staying here,’ said Belchamber as they stood before the hostel. ‘The spirits will expect you at sunrise. That’s seven o’clock, Miss. The Ollianne Shrine is a mighty walk to the west. It’s in the Mourners’ District and the trams are dear in this city, so I suggest you leave at five.’
The Ollianne Shrine was on a steep hill, and from the top of the steps, the girl could see the little motor cars below. She was greeted at the gate by an aged spirit with soft, white fur who sparkled in the sunlight. She thrust a bundle of clothes at her. Her name was Thistlethwaite.
‘Belchamber is well respected here,’ said Thistlethwaite. ‘Pray you do not embarrass him.’
The girl placed her stolen shoes and old clothes on a wooden shelf within the gate house and changed into the borrowed cottonsof her uniform: a green tunic, drop-waist skirt and embroidered slippers. It was, she realised, up to her to procure her own tasks. The girl despised cleaning but she despised herself far more, and so she marched over to the shrine steps and, without magic, started polishing the mosaic risers. All 342 of them. It took the girl an entire week. She scrubbed them all, her fingers wearing down, her nails breaking and bleeding. When she was done, she found an envelope beside her street clothes and, within it, her first ever payment of silver.
She returned every day. She replaced the salts and simmered the rosewater and polished the statues. All the while, she was assaulted by the babble of her memories. Flashes of Cate covered in blood, the dullthuckof the bread knife, Opal’s wheezing, Opal smiling, writhing against Lio, Opal dying in the moonlight on the blood-soaked linen, the stark willows with guillotine branches, her mother crying and her father silent. The girl scrubbed until her knuckles ached, until the scar on her hand callused, until she went home to the hostel room she shared with three other women and got into bed and did not move until it was time to rise again.
And so, she became a kind of apprentice to the shrine and the spirits, who in turn taught her new ways to use magic. The spirits had no need of human spells. They, after all, were the first Magicians, and like human spellcrafters often tended toward one talent or another. A number of these spirits lectured at the Royal Institute, the girl later learned, and so from them she scraped together her education. In premise, their magic was similar to that of the forest. Yet, in practise it could not feel more different: Acanthi’s magic was earthy, imperfect, wild. The magic of the city was precise, regal, beautiful. They were the same language: one was a violent scrawlcarved with a bread knife and the other was a calligraphic script painted with a fine brush.
From one spirit she learned about spells of the psyche; from another she learned about spells of deception. And when the downtrodden wandered up to the shrine from the Mourners’ District orphanage or the Syden Street Medical Centre, what could she do but accommodate their requests? She learned, bit by bit, to fix their draughty windows and charm away their vermin, and when she was done, the girl wandered back to the hostel remembering little. Her internal world was a bloated bucket, sore and constantly spilling over.
The days dribbled past, and she pretended more and more that shewasEdwina Benedict. To comfort herself, she made up histories of lovers, of schoolroom memories, of a mother and father happy to welcome her home at New Year’s. Yet, no matter how hard she pretended, she could not outrun the echoes of the knife piercing Opal’s flesh. The sound followed her along the dirty footpaths, mingling with the caws of the crows and the shouts of the shoeshines, the ghost of a dead girl cursed to haunt her forever.
The spring solstice passed and the city was swathed in swatches of purple and finally the girl saw the spirit Belchamber again. There he was, trundling down Mieunetti Road behind a vagabond. The girl, upon seeing him, had a mind to thank him for his help but he chattered away at the dirty man and did not see her.
‘At the shrine,’ pleaded the little spirit. ‘They are generous. They can help you.’
‘I told you to leave off it!’ The man swiped at the spirit, but Belchamber dodged. One of the man’s hands had been cut off.
‘Please, sir,’ said Belchamber. ‘The spirits are a discreet race. They do not believe in the Prohibition. You will have their support andtheir assistance in magic, please, the packet spell you’ve purchased is from a daemon of poor reputation! It’s not a fortune charm at all. It is powdered opium.’
The man turned and kicked Belchamber hard in the middle, and the spirit cried out as he tumbled into a set of bins. The girl flew to his side.
‘Well,’ wheezed Belchamber, upon seeing her. ‘If it isn’t Eggs Benedict.’
‘Are you injured?’ she asked.
‘Only a little,’ he said, wincing. ‘Sometimes, I wish I were more corporeal so that I might better connect with your species. However, the corporeality Idohave today is rather a burden.’
‘Where do you live?’ asked the girl.
The spirit shrugged.
‘You don’t have a home?’
‘Spirits do not need homes,’ said Belchamber. ‘Just as we do not need clothes or books or bread. We live wherever we please. Our magic is all we require.’
