by Raquel Lyon
“Do I get my own room?” she asked Beth.
“Right next to mine.”
“You live here?”
“No,” Beth said as they began to ascend the stairs, “but I spend so much time here it made sense to give me my own space.” She winked. “We’re in the guest quarters on the top floor, with Todd.”
“Todd? Who’s he, another ghost?”
“Sophie’s brother. And he’s very much alive.”
“Then why didn’t I meet him the other night?”
“He was out with one of his girls. Don’t ask me which. He’s worse than I was. I can’t keep up.”
Arriving on the top floor, Beth stopped at a door and pushed it open. “This is you.”
“It’s very... pink,” Piper said, stepping inside and looking around.
“Not your colour?”
“Um... no. Not really.”
“Hmm... Well, most of the rooms have their own colour. It’s kind of a theme they’ve got going.”
“What colour’s yours?”
“Maroon. I’d have preferred something a little less rich, but it goes with my dark side... and my penchant for red wine. The bathroom’s through there,” she said, pointing to a door. “Get settled in. I’ll tell Soph you’re here, and we can meet downstairs in what... twenty minutes or so?”
Piper nodded, continuing to take in the opulent room. “Ah-huh.”
Dumping her bags on the big, wooden bed, she sank into the double-sized mattress and stroked her fingers over the silk bedspread. When she thought about it, the pink was more of a dark rose and not too girlie that she couldn’t live with it for a few days before returning to the drab interior of the flat. She would pretend she was on holiday—her first holiday.
It didn’t take twenty minutes for Piper to decant her one bag of clothes and arrange her father’s items on the dressing table top, and when she arrived downstairs, she followed the sound of voices to the library.
“Great. You’re here,” Beth said. “We’ve got snacks.”
“You’re eating food on the library floor?”
“Yep. It’s kind of a thing here.”
“Like the room colours?”
“Exactly. Park your butt and dig in.”
Piper sat down, crossed her legs, and bit into a tuna sandwich. “So what’s the plan?”
Beth pulled the diary from behind her back and placed it front of her. “Let’s go over what we have so far.”
“Do we have to?”
“It can’t hurt. You might remember something useful.”
“I doubt it.”
Piper had only just begun recounting the day she’d returned from college to an empty shop when they were interrupted by a voice from above. “Crumbs on my carpet again, ladies?”
Sophie’s head whipped round as she searched behind her. “Jo? Jo, is that you?”
The translucent image of an old man’s head pushed through the books on a nearby shelf. “Indeed.”
Piper stared wide-eyed. Until now, it had been easy to convince herself that Beth had been joking about there being a ghost. Somehow it was easier to believe in magic and monsters than people who came back from the dead, but there was no denying it now.
“Where have you been? You’ve been gone for days,” Sophie said crossly.
Jo’s body followed his head and he floated before them. “I had a small trip to make.”
“A trip? Where to? You never leave the Towers.”
“An impression I like to emit, my dear, but the odd occasion arises when it is unfortunately necessary.”
“Where did you go?”
“Ocidera.”
“Ocidera? Isn’t that where—?”
“You are correct,” he interrupted.
“But why? Are you thinking of leaving us?”
“My dear, if I were leaving you, there would be no thinking involved. One does not get a choice in the matter of crossing over. No. I went to seek knowledge.”
“About?”
“A personal project of mine I would prefer not to discuss, at present.” His eyes moved from Sophie to Piper. “I see we have a guest. Are you going to introduce me?”
“I’m sorry. Of course. Piper, meet Grandpa Joseph. Jo, this is Piper.”
Jo floated up so closely to Piper that the coolness of his presence brushed against her cheek as he studied her face. “And she is...?” he asked.
“Staying with us for a few days and in need of our help; or more precisely your help, as I haven’t proved to be of much use. Will you help us, Jo, please?”
“No doubt I can spare you a smidgen of my time.”
Piper wondered why a ghost would begrudgingly offer his time, when surely it was the one thing they had in abundance. Yet she didn’t dare ask.
“How may I assist you?” Jo asked.
Piper began her story again, and when she’d finished, she looked to Jo expectantly. After all, according to Sophie, he was the one with all the answers.
Jo’s head angled towards the ceiling where a book flew through the air and landed in front of Beth. “You might begin with a revealing spell, my dear.”
“You’re so clever, Jo. Why didn’t I think of that?” Beth said, flicking through the pages. “Soph, can you get the candles?”
“Sure. What colour?”
“Um...” Beth studied the book. “Red.”
A short while later, Piper was feeling like the runt of the litter in a pet shop display. She was surrounded by a circle of candles, whose flames flickered as Beth recited the spell. She wondered if she should be feeling something other than utter embarrassment, but nothing was happening.
“It’s not working, Beth,” Sophie said.
“I can see that,” Beth said, her exasperation clear, “but Mathanway didn’t teach me much verbal. She wanted me to be more intuitive.”
“It might not be your fault, dear girl,” Jo said. “There could be a barrier.”
“A barrier?” Beth pressed her fingers to her lips, thinking, then dropped them so fast she made Piper jump. “I’ve got it,” she said. “Take off your medallion.”
“Why?” Piper asked. “You said it protected me against evil. Is your spell evil?” She clutched her throat. If what Beth thought about the medallion were as true as everything else had turned out to be, she would prefer it to stay exactly where it was.
“Of course not. But maybe it has other properties, too. Like blocking all magic, not just the evil kind.”
Piper sighed. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try. She unhooked the clasp and laid it on the carpet. She hadn’t removed the chain for years, and her neck felt bare without it as she waited for Beth to resume her chanting.
Within seconds, a tingling sensation filled her chest and pushed down her arms. Blood surged through her veins as if someone had poured boiling coffee down her throat. She felt her feet leave the ground, and the dome in the library’s ceiling grew closer. Twilight had turned the winter sky into a rainbow of colours, and she concentrated on the first emerging stars as her head screamed for the burning to stop. Her mouth involuntarily opened, but no words of protest emerged. Instead, her breath shot out as a stream of fire. Below her, a voice shouted, “That’s enough,” before she crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Dazed and confused, she heard Beth say, “Well, that was unexpected.”
Sophie eased Piper to a sitting position. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Is your mouth burnt?”
Piper shook the fog from her brain and smacked her lips. “No. No, it-it feels normal, but I might have twisted my ankle when I fell,” she said, rubbing it.
Sophie looked over to Beth, who was studying her spell book intently. “I hope you got what you needed. You almost killed her.”
“Nonsense. She’s fine, isn’t she?”
“Which is more than can be said for my ceiling,” Jo said as his ghostly form swept high up over their heads. “Look what you’ve done to it, all scorched and bubbling paint. Do you know how much spectral energ
y it’s going to take to cover that over?”
“I fix it for you, Jo,” Beth said, turning the page. “I’ll conjure something up that will have it as good as new, just as soon as I figure out what we’re dealing with here.” Her face crumpled with confusion. “Though, I might be a while.”
“Do you mind if I go lie down?” Piper asked. “I feel a little strange.”
“In what way strange? Can you describe it?” Beth asked eagerly.
“Beth, let her go. She needs to rest.” Sophie turned to Piper. “Do you need any help getting up the stairs?”
“No. Thanks. I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain.”
Piper limped from the room and made slow progress up the stairs, cursing the fact that she was on the top floor. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached her door, but the relief turned to shock when she pushed it open.
Chapter Sixteen
PIPER GLARED AT HER VISITOR. So much for the safety of Lovell Towers, when anyone could walk through the front door unnoticed. “Now I know you’re following me,” she said.
Lambert was leaning against the dressing table. “I am not following you, Piper. You brought the box with you. Are you honestly surprised to see me?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing it wasn’t completely true.
“Where were you yesterday?”
“I went out. Are you keeping track of me now?”
Lambert pushed to standing. “I was concerned. Why did you come to this place?”
“Things have happened. I was supposed to be safe here.”
“From what?”
You. “We don’t know yet.”
“I see. Well, a castle is as good a sanctuary as any for that.”
“It’s not a castle.”
Lambert walked to the window and held the frame as he craned his neck to view the grounds. “If it is not, it is a very good illusion.”
“It’s not an illusion, and it’s not a castle. It’s just a big house where my friend lives and you’re not supposed to be.”
“Then you should not have brought my box.”
“It’s not your box; it’s my box.”
“I may not possess ownership, but it is mine in every other sense of the word.”
“You need to leave before anyone sees you.”
“I could leave,” he turned to look out of the window again, “but we appear to be in the middle of nowhere. I doubt I would get very far before being drawn back.”
“To your imaginary prison?”
His eyes sparkled as his mouth curved to a smile. “It is as real as your determination to ignore that which, somewhere beneath that fiery temperament, you already suspect.”
Piper had no idea what he was talking about and stayed silent as she watched him lift the box to study it in the emerging moonlight glowing through the window.
“An unobtrusive item, is it not?” he said.
“Would you stop beating around the bush and get to the point?”
“One would never guess the secret it holds.”
“Secret? What secret?” There couldn’t be anything inside it. She’d picked it up, carried it around; it didn’t rattle.
“That within its confines there lies a windowless room with stone walls, one rickety bed, and a candle whose light will soon extinguish.”
A room inside a box, no way. “I don’t understand.”
“This,” he held the box towards Piper, “is my prison.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I assure you it is not.”
“But how...?”
“I see, despite your father’s obvious interest in the subject, you know very little about the workings of magic.”
“You’re right. And the afternoon I’ve had has done nothing to encourage me to change that fact.”
“Do you remember me telling you about the Genicerem?”
Shoot. That was the word she’d been trying to remember. “Yes.”
“It banishes convicts into boxes. It is considered a more secure form of imprisonment.”
“Ah, so you’re a genie? Genicerem, genie, I get it now.”
“Genies are folklore figures, Piper. Although, I admit the term may have stemmed from our system, I assure you there is no truth in their existence.”
“That’s a shame, because, right now, I could use a couple of wishes. I could even have done the clichéd third one and wished you free—if you were nice to me, that is.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. Unfortunately, my only means of escape would be to locate the key, and I fear that remains in the prison key room, or worse still, the well of despair.”
“Which is...?”
“Where the keys of the eternally damned are thrown, never to be retrieved.”
“Like a life sentence—which honestly doesn’t seem too bad if you’re allowed out every day?”
“Only at first. When the candle is spent, the lock seals shut for eternity. Most men succumb to madness by then. Extrication is confined to the dungeons, daylight is never seen, and company is restricted to fellow prisoners all equally angry and frustrated. It is most usual for the confines to be breached.”
“Yours has.”
“Which puzzles me greatly. Your description of the man who sold you the box matches that of a friend of mine—a brave man I would trust with my life, but whose own I now fear for. He risked much to smuggle me here. There has to be a reason.”
Piper held his gaze. Now that she’d got to know him, she found his eyes weren’t so creepy anymore, even if they were an inhuman shade of green, and there was a sadness behind them she could understand. He didn’t deserve his punishment. Like her, all he’d wanted was to find his father, and now he was destined to go mad in a box. The thought filled her with sorrow and sent shudders down her spine. There had to be a way to help him. Maybe they could help each other?
“Tell me more about where you’re from,” she said.
“I fear I am out of time. My prison calls. Until tomorrow, Piper.” His forced smile faded along with his body, and a slight breeze whispered across her nose as he disappeared from view.
Chapter Seventeen
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, a thunderous crash shocked Rixton from his slumber. He shook his head to clear it. Seconds later the door to his room burst wide, and the opening filled with a pair of bodies.
“Get up,” a gruff voice ordered as strong arms dragged him from his bed under the threat of a blade.
Rixton shied from the dagger as he struggled to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You are under arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Stop talking and walk,” the soldier said, tying off the rope at Rixton’s wrists and pushing him forward.
The dagger pressed into the bare skin of Rixton’s back, forcing him past the stunned faces of his parents. His mother grasped at the neck of her nightgown, struggling to breathe as her husband’s arm wrapped around her body to move her from the path of the two burly men ushering their only child from the house.
Confusion filled his father’s eyes. “What have you done, son?”
“Nothing,” Rixton protested, knowing it to be a lie. The sharp tip pierced his skin, and he flinched. How he would love to enchant the dagger to turn on its owner and run him though. But you did not argue with the King’s Guard—not unless you wanted to end up in a box.
“I said, be quiet. Save your pleas for the king.”
“The king?”
“One more word and I will remove your tongue. And you...” the soldier shouted back to Rixton’s father, who was pulling on his coat, “stay where you are if you value your limbs.”
Rixton remained silent on his journey through the town. With the sun not yet up, fire torches provided the only light in the darkened alleys, their fumes mingling with air still tainted with smoke from the previous week’s attack. He remembered it well. A whole section of the lower quarter alight from the flying marauders. The army had fought them off valiantly, bu
t one girl had still been taken, and that was always one too many.
The soldiers’ leather boots crunched on the straw-strewn cobbles as they approached their destination, but Rixton’s bare feet were not as lucky. Small stones and shards of broken glass cut into them as the men passed by the local tavern. Ignoring the pain, Rixton glanced sideways at the candlelight flickering through an upstairs window, wondering if he would ever get to see his favourite girl again. How many times had he warned her not to fall asleep with it still burning? It was on one of his visits to her that he had been approached by the cloaked lady, desperate for help—a request he could not refuse, yet one he probably should have.
Passing through the animal yard, Rixton shied from the curious glances of the early risen farmhands and wrinkled his nose at the stench of manure until they entered the palace through the servant quarters and the aroma of freshly cooked bread gave welcome relief.
A trail of bloody footprints followed him up three sets of winding stairs and along a narrow corridor to a part of the palace where the walls changed from rough to smooth: the royal rooms. Surely he was not to be presented before the king at this early hour?
Stopping in front of a heavily panelled door, one of the men knocked. When no answer came, he turned to the second. “Watch him,” he grunted as he entered unannounced.
Rixton stared at the floor as he waited. Half dressed, he looked like a common beggar and had been treated as worse, but with luck on his side, the queen would rise to his defence. When she learned of his predicament, he was sure she would repay her debt.
The door scraped open, and he was propelled inside. He landed on his knees and looked up nervously.
The king was sitting in a high-backed chair with his leg cocked over one arm. “Thank you, Septamus. You may leave now.”
“But, Your Majesty...”
“I am perfectly capable of dealing with him myself. Now leave.”
Septamus bowed. “As you wish, Sire.”
King Oban waited for his guard to leave, then asked, “What is your name, boy?”
“Rixton Felbrigg, Your Majesty.”
“You were friends with Lambert Croft, were you not?”