Page 20 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

Adequate? I only just manage to bite my tongue and not hiss the word in indignation, but Herne’s eyes glitter as if he knows what I’m thinking.

Oh god, I hope that’s not true. Do not think about his naked coc–

“A storm is coming. You have a difficult path ahead of you,” Herne says, his eyes narrowing on me, as if looking at something only he can see. “You are surrounded by shadows.”

“What do you–”

But before I can complete my question, the forest spins and swirls around me. I drop to my knees, the motion and blur of colour making me lose my balance. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to regain my equilibrium. When my head finally stops spinning, I open my eyes and find myself once again in the back room of my shop, kneeling down in the centre of the circle. A brief hint of damp leaves hangs in the air and then is gone. I stare down at the book in front of me, which is now closed, and uh, I’m pretty sure I didn’t close it.

I look around, but there’s no one else here. The candles gutter slightly, having burned down a fair way, and I wonder how long I was vividly hallucinating for. Climbing shakily to my feet, intent on closing the circle and tidying up, I glance down at my bare feet.

They are filthy, covered in mud and leaves like I’d trekked through an autumnal forest.

What the fuck?

Shaking my head, I quickly close down the circle, give my thanks, and extinguish the candles. After all, safety first. Picking up the book by Elias Black, I turn it over in my hands and flick through the pages. Just who was this man, and how could his spells work so…I don’t even know what the word is.

I need to find out where this book came from, and I know the first place to start. I reach into my trouser pocket for my phone, frowning when I realise it’s not there. I must have left it in the shop earlier.

With the book still clutched in one hand, I open the door and head out into the shop. There’s my phone sitting on the counter. I’m about to reach for it to call my dads when I notice how dull the light is. I glance at the time and although a few hours have slipped since I cast the circle, it’s still early afternoon.

Why is it so dark?

I head towards the front door, unlock it, and step out onto the pavement, wincing at the cool concrete beneath my bare feet. Ignoring the discomfort, I look up and the once bright blue sky is now churning. Black and grey clouds roil ominously, and the air feels heavy.

Herne was right. A storm is coming.

5

London 1850

Crawshanks House, Whitechapel.

My body shakes violently as I sit slumped against Cornelius, his arm firmly wrapped around me to keep me from swaying too alarmingly as the hackney carriage bumps harshly over the cobbles. I’m used to the cold, but the aftermath of the drugs and my long incarceration have pushed my body beyond its limits. I barely have the strength to hold my head upright.

The loud clatter of the horses’ hooves comes to an abrupt halt, and the carriage jolts as it comes to a stop. Cornelius’ arm tightens around me. I know he’s just trying to stop me from being flung forward, my body giving no resistance to the momentum, but as gentle as he is, his touch hurts my bones.

My head lolls back and I gaze up at him. He’s looking out of the small window into the darkness, but his jaw is clenched in anger. I’d think it was directed at me, but as the door opens and he looks down at me, his eyes and his tone soften.

“Cordie,” he whispers.

My heart clenches at the childhood endearment that rolls so easily from his tongue. How long has it been since I heard someone call me that? I can’t be certain. I don’t truly know how much time has passed. Years, I know that much, but time passes differently inside Crowscroft—a moment can and did feel like an eternity. I have not seen my reflection for such a long time, but if I did, I should not be surprised to find an old woman staring back at me.

But I can’t be, not with my younger brother gazing at me, his handsome face filled with gentle affection, although the sentiment is marred by regret and, if I’m not very much mistaken, guilt.

A lock of dark curls falls forward; in the dim light, it looks shiny and clean. My fingers itch to touch it and see if it is indeed as soft as it looks. Everything at Crowscroft felt cold and dirty. And the smell…it is something I will never be able to forget. The scent of human excrement, rot, and hopelessness.

“Cordie,” Cornelius says again, grasping my face gently, as if trying to wake me from sleep. It’s not far from the truth. Maybe the sluggishness of my mind is left over from the ether, or from the sheer exhaustion of trying to survive in that hellhole, or maybe…maybe they really did break me. “Cordie, we’re home.”

I tense at the words, my hollow stomach roiling, the stiffness in my body hurting my fragile bones.

“Sssh, it’s alright,” Cornelius soothes, as if trying to calm a skittish animal. “You’re safe.”

“Is–” My voice is barely more than a shallow croak. I swallow, my throat dry and sore. I attempt to lick my cracked lips, but I don’t think there’s any moisture left in my body. I try again, forcing the words out. “Is he here?”

Cornelius doesn’t need clarification, he knows of whom I speak. He shakes his head. “Cordie, Father is dead.” He takes a deep breath. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

A triumphant wave of euphoria sweeps through me.