by E J Frost
“Have you ever tried one on?” I ask, peering at the rings.
“Yes. It made for an interesting evening. I learned a great deal about beetles.”
I look at her and lift an eyebrow.
She shrugs. “I’d curated them for years. It seemed only fair.”
She leads me on, through galleries filled with tall display cases whose covers shimmer, but definitely aren’t glass. Galleries where feathered robes and carved wooden animal heads give way to silk ritual robes and painted leather Green Man masks. I stop in front of one case, which holds a trio of the most gorgeous kimonos I’ve ever seen: black silk with astrological symbols delicately embroidered in silver and gold. I think of Tokai, my favorite shop in Porter Square, and their kimonos, and wonder if they could get me a cotton version, and whether my credit card will stretch that far.
Timmi gives me a gentle touch on the elbow, which I take to mean that the kimonos don’t enrapture her the way they do me. I follow her into a gallery filled with hard metal shapes that contrast sharply with the soft fabrics we’ve left behind. The effect clears my saturated senses and I wonder if it’s by design.
The galleries she’s led me through have been large rooms, thirty by fifty. Despite the hundreds of objects on display, none of them felt crowded. But this gallery is massive. Endless. Over a hundred feet long at a guess. There’s a sense of spaciousness here, a wild outdoorsiness, even though we’ve gone down two staircases and I’m pretty sure we’re underground. Timmi leads me past twenty feet of the most beautiful astrolabes I’ve ever seen. Baroquely decorated. Inset with gemstones. Silver and brass glittering under soft witchlight. Beyond a cluster of telescopes, two displays are set apart, facing each other. One contains a stand topped with a plain gold band. The sense of airiness, of wild, cold places, pours off that band like a Nor’easter. Timmi nods at it in passing. “That’s the crown of the King of the North.”
“The King of the North?” I ask.
Timmi nods dismissively and steers me to the other display, leaving me wondering what the hell one of the lost fae crowns is doing in a basement in Cambridge. The case Timmi brings me to is a tall display in which a number of small loopes hang suspended. At first I take them to be monocles. But on closer examination, I see the glass centers are slightly reflective, with tiny symbols carved along their edges.
“What are these?” I ask, tracing my fingers over the glass.
“Shew-stones. They’re used to help induce trances. Those in the middle belonged to John Dee. The British Museum has one. We have three.” She nods at another, larger loope. “This one came to us from a descendant of William Blake, the poet. And this one—“ She taps the glass with a wicked grin. “This one might have belonged to Joseph Smith. But don’t tell our friends in Belmont. I’d prefer if they didn’t come knocking.”
I giggle, but honestly, I think the Museum has more to fear from the Court of Air and Darkness than they do from the Mormons.
“Now.” Timmi glances around at the empty gallery. We’ve barely seen another person as we’ve moved through the labyrinth of galleries and no one in the last ten minutes. “With the breeze blowing off that thing—“ She waves at the fae crown without looking at it. “There shouldn’t be any other odors to interfere. Take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”
I close my eyes and sniff. She’s right, the Airiness off the Crown blows away the institutional smells of ammonia and recently shampooed carpet. Without those scents to distract me, I catch something warm, gently lemony, waxy . . .
“Beeswax?” I say uncertainly.
“Very good, my dear. That’s our friend Doctor Dee. Do you also get a hint of the seashore? I think that might be Mr. Blake, personally.”
I take another deep breath, seeking brine, but all I get is a stronger, more citrusy wax scent. Finally, I shake my head.
Timmi pats my hand where it rests on her arm. “That was very good for a first try.”
For a moment, I think she’s mocking me, since I didn’t get the seashore smell. But she continues, “One of Doctor Dee’s shew-stones has his initials inscribed into it, but the other two were identified by smell. The scent of Mr. Dee’s magic is well-documented. Wouldn’t it be convenient if all practitioners were so well-catalogued? One of these days I’ll make that a project for the summer interns.”
I smile and follow when she moves toward another gallery. She wasn’t mocking me. Just enthusiastic about her chosen field.
She doesn’t pause in this gallery, but leads me to a polished wood door that slides open with a whoosh of compressed air when she touches it. I sense we’ve moved into a less-public part of the Museum, if any part of this exclusive Museum could be considered public.
This room is smaller, but no less impressive. Natural light from some clever sort of chimney adds a natural cast to the golden witchlight pouring over the parquet floor and half-paneled walls. There are more exhibits in this room: books and gleaming instruments sitting on wooden and acrylic pedestals. None are covered and several pedestals are empty. Timmi guides me to the far end of the room, where there’s a long table and several wing-backed chairs. Two of the chairs are at a slight angle to the table, tilted toward an intricately carved column behind the table. A small mirror set into a pewter stand rests on the table between the chairs.
As we approach the chairs, I realize that there aren’t any other columns in this room, although there are others scattered around the museum, some finely carved like this one and others simply fluted. This one looks out of place, standing alone at one end of the room, but maybe it’s structural. There’s a lot of museum above us that needs holding up.
“Here we are, my dear.” Timmi hands me into one chair and seats herself across from me. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath. What do you smell?”
I take several, determined to do better than my last attempt. I sift through the institutional scents. Paper. Ammonia. A faint metallic edge. I focus on that, take a few more deep breaths, drawing the scent deep, exploring it with my magic as well as my lungs. “You’re going to laugh at me,” I tell Timmi. “It smells like a Bic pen.”
She does laugh, but it’s her kind laugh, as infectious as her smile. I open my eyes and find her grinning at me. “That’s exactly right. When he was younger, Professor Parklyn’s magic smelled like iron gall ink, but as he got older, it changed to the smell of a ballpoint. Very good, my dear.”
I shrug, but I feel myself smiling. I passed this time.
“And here’s his diary.” Timmi lifts one of her small hands to the twisted column.
I raise my eyes to it. “Uh.”
Timmi laughs. “You see why it can’t leave the Museum?”
“Geez, yeah.”
“It would have been difficult to fit in my bag. Although my bag is much bigger than it looks.”
I stare at the pillar silently. It’s hard to take in all at once. The carving is so fine, so detailed. Underneath all the carving, there’s a fluted column, like many throughout the Museum. Wrapped all around the flutes, there are wide ribbons of carved figures. I follow the ribbons as they spiral around the pillar from bottom to top. “There are eight,” I say, tracing the ribbons.
“One for each score of Professor Parklyn’s years.”
I do a little mental math. Frown. “You mean decade.”
“No, I mean score. Professor Parklyn was a very wise man.”
He would be if he lived a hundred and sixty years. I focus on the ribbons closest to me. They’re each about four inches wide. They’re bordered by a line of figures no larger than my fingernail. Flowers. Waves. Celtic knots. Tiny animals. Between the miniscule borders are larger figures, mostly human. I focus on one set, three panels each no wider than my palm, bordered above and below with pentagrams. In the first panel, there’s a seated man, holding what looks like a scroll above his head. His other hand is outstretched, his finger pointing downward. I recognize the position from my Dala’s cards. The Magician.
“These
are tarot figures,” I say.
“Look closer,” Timmi whispers.
I lean closer to the pillar. She’s right, it’s not really a tarot figure, at least not a Ryder-Waite figure. He should be standing, holding a wand, with the sword, cup and pentacle at hand. Instead, he sits, turned slightly away from me, holding up a scroll, and as I watch, the scroll unfurls and I hear a man’s deep whisper in my ear, ‘Because they lead my people astray, saying ‘Peace,’ when there is no peace . . .”
I jerk back in my chair and the whisper drifts off into the quiet hum of the Museum’s heating. “What is that?”
Timmi brushes her fingertips over the little figure I was examining. “Professor Parklyn was a student of the King James bible, among other things. He read it every year. Genesis to Revelation. I think we’ll be somewhere in Ezekiel now.” She smiles and it’s a less infectious, more knowing smile. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“Amazing,” I say, leaning forward to peer at the figure again. “Did he enchant all this?”
“Yes. One of his sons, Luther, I think, carved most of it. When Luther died, one of the grandsons finished it off. Park had so many, I forget which one it was. As the boys carved, Park Worked. I don’t think anyone will ever fully understand it, no more than anyone can fully understand the mind of another human being. But he left us a great legacy.”
“It’s amazing,” I repeat. My eyes skip up the ribbon, over dozens of figures, each clearly with their own story to tell. Catch on a very plain panel, another tarot-like figure: a hand emerging from a cloud, grasping what at first glance I take to be a sword. But it’s not.
I touch the image tentatively. It’s not a sword. It’s a key. A familiar key. In fact, a key that’s sitting right on the floor in my handbag.
“You don’t disappoint, my dear. That’s the beginning. Park had just had his hundredth birthday when the key came to us. He studied it for five years before he opened the first door. Hopefully you won’t need as long. Although I’m content to wait if you do, of course. Rushed research begets shoddy scholarship.”
I hope not, too, and somehow I don’t think the demon’s going to give me that much time anyway. “It’s not speaking.”
“No, not all of them do. And not all of them speak to everyone. I can hear the ones with figures in them, but none of the others. Jackie, Park’s fourth wife, can only hear the ones that contain a wave or a cup. Her Element is water, so I suppose that’s natural. Go up two. I wonder if that one might work for you.”
I trace the ribbon as it twists, past a figure of a seated woman holding a pair of crossed keys over her breast. The next panel shows stylized clouds, with a tree breaking through them, three branches rising high out of the clouds to spear the air. The branches are inverted keys, prongs spreading from the central trunk like leaves. As my fingers brush over the clouds, I hear a low roll of thunder, and when I reach the tree, there’s an electric tingle.
The air fills with the heavy metallic scent of ozone.
“And I looked,” the man’s deep whisper sounds in my ear again. “There before me I saw the Great Tree of the world, with its branches spearing the heavens. One branch led to the past, one to the present, one into the future. All three converged in the Great Tree, as all times and places are one in the mind of God. Look to the tree, Tsara. When all times and places meet, look to the Tree.”
I jump up, overturning my chair. “Okay, that’s enough.”
Timmi rises, her silver-white eyebrows lifting in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
I debate for a moment. Can’t see the trap, or that I have anything to lose by telling her the truth. “It called me by name.”
“Oh.” Timmi shrugs and sinks back down gracefully. “It does that.”
“Excuse me, it does that?”
“Mmm.” Timmi rises again and takes my arm. “Enough for today. I was right about you and that key, and you and Park’s diary. No one else has heard anything from the key panels. And the pillar calls maybe one in twenty people by name. You’ll be able to read it, given enough time. So, there’s no reason to overwhelm you today. Shall we finish up in my office? I have freshly brewed Amaretto waiting.”
There’s a tough choice. Creepy talking carvings or coffee in Timmi’s office? Hmm, let me think. “Yes, please.”
Timmi leads me through a door beyond the column, down a short flight of stairs and through a dark wood door with a simple gold plaque that says ‘Curator.’ As soon as she opens the door, the wonderful, rich smell of Amaretto fills my nose. It clears out the lingering metallic edge of ozone. I feel myself relax as we move into her office, which is just as cozy as I anticipated, and when Timmi gestures to a deep green leather armchair, I sink into it gratefully.
Timmi busies herself with serving coffee for a moment, which comes in delicate gold and white cups, complete with cream and two biscuits. “You’re spoiling me,” I tell her after the first wonderful sip.
“I prefer to think of it as tempting you.” She smiles. “I’m sorry if Park’s diary was too much.”
I shake my head to absolve her. Take another sip of her coffee. Better than Starbucks. Wow.
She sits down in the other wing chair, facing her desk, and dunks a biscuit in her coffee thoughtfully. “Tsara, if I may ask, where did you train? I assume you’ve had formal training.” She smiles her knowing smile. “If not, you’re terrifyingly adept.”
I nod. “Wydlins Special School for Girls and Bevington College.”
“Ah, a Bevvy girl. I should have known. I studied at Milliwick myself for two years before I went to Vassar,” she says. I nod. A couple of the girls I knew at Bevvy went to Milliwick Prep. Very exclusive. Very pricey. No scholarship students like at Wydlins. “The magical curriculum was very limited in my day. Magical history mostly. Nothing practical.” Timmi dunks thoughtfully for a moment. “Didn’t I read something recently in that ghastly rag we call a newspaper about a Bevvy girl? Something tragic, wasn’t it?”
Rowena.
I take another sip of coffee to wash away the sudden bitter taste in my mouth. “Rowena Martin. She died in a fire.”
“Dear me.” Timmi’s eyes fill with real compassion. “Tsara, did you know her?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I do. God-that-I’m-not-sure-I-believe-in, I do. I want to spill everything, tell her about the shit Ro dropped me in, the demon and his terrifying offer, lay all the horror and uncertainty and fear out in front of her and have her tell me what to do.
I open my mouth. Close it.
I’m not a child. She’s not my Dala. I can deal with my own problems.
I throw everything I was about to say into my mental trash bin and empty. “I knew her at Bevvy, but I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in several years. Since we graduated. She took a turn down the Left Path, and we parted Ways.”
Timmi picks up her other biscuit and dunks it thoughtfully, looking into the rippling dark surface, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. That’s one of the advantages of being ‘just’ a collector, I suppose. Most magical objects are neither light nor dark. It’s the user who determines how rightly or wrongly they’re used.”
I nod. Professor Uela used to say the same thing.
Timmi looks up and meets my eyes squarely. Hers are a little probing, but still full of that honest compassion. “You’re still wary. That’s all right, my dear. I hope you’ll come to see that I’m not Aufseherin. Nor do I have a white coat hanging behind that door.” She nods at the open door of her office, which has a sensible brown Mac hanging behind it. “When that time comes, please, feel free to tell me about it.”
I almost do. But when I open my mouth again, Timmi waves her soggy biscuit at me. “Enough seriousness for today. Shall I amuse you instead? I’m told I can be quite charming, when I’m not terrorizing interns and prospective apprentices.” Her infectious grin returns. “Let me show you my toys.”
She shows me the collection
of miniature machines on her desk. Some wooden. Some metal. One made of crystal, so soap-bubble fragile that I shake my head when Timmi tries to hand it to me. Some of them whirr. Some have parts that slide back and forth or up and down. None of them actually do anything. Timmi proudly pronounces them “do-nothing” machines. Her commentary on each useless little device has me laughing so hard, neither of us hears the first knock on the door.
We turn away from a marvelous brass do-nothing machine with three tiny cranks, all of which turn cogs and pistons to no effect, to see a teen cringing in the doorway of Timmi’s office.
“Professor Karr, your three o’clock is here,” the boy says, then hurriedly backs out of the doorway.
“Thank you, Edward.” Timmi turns to me and rolls her eyes. “You’d think I eat them for dinner. Most of them actually survive, even if they don’t learn anything useful. Although if that boy tells one more of his friends that my nick-name is ‘Attila,’ I’m going to make him a permanent part of our collection.”
I chuckle, but take the hint and collect my bag. “Timmi, I can’t thank you enough—”
“Nonsense,” she says. “You can thank me, by steadfastly refusing to be frightened off and come have coffee with me again tomorrow.”
“I can’t.” I shake my head regretfully, thinking of my calendar. “I really can’t. But I promise you haven’t scared me off and I will come back. How’s Wednesday for you?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
I shake her hand and when I escape her office, I find the intern waiting for me in the hallway. “I’ll show you out,” he says. “This place is a maze.”
“Thank you. To be honest, I’m not sure I could find my way.”
“They designed it that way.” He’s silent for a long time, leading me up stairs, through corridors and galleries. If Timmi really does have a three o’clock, there’s no sign of them. Finally, as he opens a door into the huge entrance atrium, Edward bursts out, “She’s a witch, you know. A real one.”