Mirror Magic

by Claire Fayers

  Lord Skinner’s gaze darted sideways. ‘I don’t know where your mother is. I’m sorry she’s missing, but it’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You were quick enough to take over, the night she disappeared,’ Mr Footer said.

  Charles spotted Mrs Footer cowering under a table and he crawled underneath to pick her up. People continued arguing.

  ‘Souvenirs coming to life, scaring away my customers . . .’

  ‘You had no business taking our mirrors. How are we supposed to earn a living now?’

  ‘Fair Folk are people too, you know.’ That was Reverend Stowe, his voice half lost in the general noise.

  Charles crawled back out from under the table and squeezed between the reverend and Constable Blackson, holding Mrs Footer up so she could watch too.

  Lord Skinner tried to shepherd everyone back towards the doors. ‘Please, everybody calm down. Go home.’

  But nobody listened.

  ‘There’s my mirror!’ Mr Gaddesby exclaimed. He ran to the far end of the hall, lifted a gilt frame off the wall and turned it over to display his name on the back. ‘We’ll soon find out what’s happening.’ He spread his hands over the glass. ‘Mirror, I command you to open up the Unworld before our disbelieving eyes.’

  Charles wondered how many people here had disbelieving eyes. But, disbelieving or not, the mirror remained as it was, reflecting the hall and the faces around it. Mr Gaddesby frowned and shook it.

  ‘Aperire spectaculum. Speculum magica,’ Mr Langhile said helpfully. Or unhelpfully, as it turned out, because nothing happened.

  ‘What have you done to it, Skinner?’ Mr Gaddesby said.

  Lord Skinner thrust his chest out, but Charles noted the glint of panic in his eyes. ‘I have done nothing. The mirror simply failed. It’s sad, but it seems that the last of the fairy magic is disappearing.’

  ‘Judging by the mist, the fairy magic seems to be getting stronger,’ Charles said.

  Lord Skinner’s face filled with annoyance. ‘I assure you . . .’

  People muttered. A couple of ladies began opening doors along the hall and peering inside.

  ‘Leave those rooms alone,’ Lord Skinner said. ‘They contain nothing interesting.’

  ‘I’ve found some more mirrors,’ one of the ladies said.

  Everyone crowded to look.

  ‘That one’s mine,’ Mr Footer said. He brought it out into the hall.

  ‘It’s just an ordinary mirror,’ Lord Skinner protested. ‘From Cornwall. It may happen to look like yours, but it’s quite unmagical, I assure you.’

  Mr Footer set it down against the wall. ‘Ostende Unwysium!’

  Nothing happened for a moment or two. Maybe Lord Skinner had told the truth about the mirrors dying, after all. But then Mr Footer put his hand on the mirror and the glass blurred and turned the colour of mist.

  A murmur of surprise ran through the watchers. Mr Footer straightened slowly and turned to face Lord Skinner.

  ‘An unmagical mirror from Cornwall, is it?’

  ‘Maybe I mixed it up with another one. You can take it away with you now. I don’t need it any more.’

  And then a low sound of ‘Oooh!’ rippled through the hall because Mr Footer’s mirror cleared, but instead of showing the hall at Waning Crescent, the glass revealed a blue-haired girl. She wore a dark red jacket and sat with her head down, picking her nails and scowling with boredom.

  Mr Footer coughed. ‘Um, excuse me?’

  The Unworld girl looked up and her scowl changed to surprise. ‘This isn’t your usual time. What do you want? It had better be quick. We’re busy tonight.’

  Having met two of the Fair Folk already, Charles thought he should be getting used to seeing them, but he still felt a shiver go through him, as if the air around had suddenly turned icy. Still holding Mrs Footer, he squeezed past his mother to the front of the group.

  ‘We want to see Mr Bones,’ he called out.

  Everyone turned to stare at him, even the Unworld girl.

  Lord Skinner edged away from the mirror. ‘No, no, we don’t want to see Mr Bones, not right now. We don’t want anything. That will be all, thank you.’

  A malicious smirk flickered across the girl’s face. ‘This isn’t your mirror,’ she said. ‘You don’t command it – he does.’ She jabbed a finger at Mr Footer. ‘What do you want?’

  Mr Footer swallowed. ‘Mr Bones,’ he said. He glanced back at Charles. ‘Yes, whoever or whatever he is. Be so kind as to fetch him.’

  ‘No!’ Lord Skinner shouted.

  Charles jumped, not so much because of its volume, but because of the fear in Lord Skinner’s voice. Charles wondered whether he’d done the right thing asking to see Mr Bones. Too late to change his mind now, though: he’d made the request and Mr Footer had repeated it. Charles kept hold of Mrs Footer and edged back. He wanted to be close to the doors in case he had to run.

  The Unworld girl laughed. The sound had an edge of cold malice to it, sharper than broken glass.

  Everybody stopped fidgeting and watched breathlessly. Even Mrs Footer stopped wriggling.

  ‘You want to see Mr Bones?’ the blue-haired girl said. ‘That’s easily done.’ She jabbed a finger outward at Lord Skinner. ‘Put him in front of the mirror.’

  Lord Skinner gave a cry of terror and ran. The crowd chased him and caught him halfway to the doors. Several people – Charles’s father among them, Charles noticed – took the protesting lord by the arms and began pushing him back along the hall to where Mr Footer waited with the mirror.

  Lord Skinner’s slippers skidded on the floor as he scrabbled his feet desperately. He’d lost control of everyone. Whatever magic he’d been using to make people like him appeared to have broken. Charles didn’t know whether to be glad or to feel sorry for him.

  The crowd came to a halt in front of the mirror and turned Lord Skinner round to face it. He seemed to deflate a little, as if he’d realized there was no point fighting any longer. His reflection, which had been distorted before, now grew thinner and longer.

  And then thinner and longer again.

  Mrs Footer growled softly. Several people exclaimed, in surprise or fear, or just because everyone else was doing it.

  Charles blinked. In the glass, instead of Lord Skinner’s reflection, he saw a tall, thin man with dark hair, a long, sharp nose and a face that seemed to be made entirely of straight lines.

  The people surrounding Lord Skinner drew back, leaving him in the middle of a bare circle of floor.

  ‘Who – what – are you?’ Mr Footer stammered.

  The skeletal man looked at him. His eyes were dark and deep, seeming more like holes than eyes.

  Mr Footer made a small whimpering noise and took another step back.

  ‘I am Mr Bones,’ the apparition said. ‘I am this man’s reflection, brought to life by magic and filled with malice. Why have you summoned me?’

  CHAPTER 34

  You’re probably wondering how that blue-haired mirror-operator knew Mr Bones’s secret. You were? Well done. I like an observant reader. The blue-haired girl is observant, too, especially when it comes to Mr Bones. She’ll make a good police officer one day.

  The Book

  Mr Bones: here. Howell dug his fingers into Ava’s arm. His thoughts were so muddy that all he could do was stand and stare in dismay.

  And then Mr Bones disappeared.

  Howell blinked. One moment there he was, striding across the factory floor, the next he was gone, leaving only a pale patch of mist and a group of guards who paused and gazed at each other in confusion.

  The bridge of Howell’s nose tingled. His vision went wonky for a moment, then cleared, and when he looked at Ava he saw that Madame Brille’s glasses had vanished. He put a hand to his own face and felt the empty space.

  ‘A human!’ someone shouted.

  Howell groaned. Great timing, Madame Brille. He grabbed Ava’s hand and pulled her down behind a table. Everywhere people were shouting. The guard
s, after another moment of confusion, spread out and started forward purposefully.

  Ava began to crawl under the table.

  ‘Wait,’ Howell whispered.

  ‘For what?’

  She kept going and he followed her. Fortunately, there was enough chaos and people running about that no one saw where they’d gone. They reached the far end of the table and paused there, peering out. A vast loom stood close by, churning out shimmering cloth that slithered, snake-like, down through a hole in the floor.

  ‘There,’ Howell said. His breathing echoed loudly in his ears. Holes, like mirrors, had to lead somewhere.

  ‘You’re mad. We can’t go down there. We’ll be killed.’

  ‘Would you rather stay here?’ He rolled out from under the table.

  A guard swung round and shouted, his voice lost in the thundering of the loom. But then another man caught his arm and pointed away across the tables, sending him running in that direction.

  Howell felt a shock go through him: Master Tudur.

  He was thinner than when Howell had seen him last, and his normally tidy clothes were torn and filthy. For a second he stood, and then he nodded to Howell and turned away.

  ‘Thank you,’ Howell whispered, knowing his old master wouldn’t hear. He took The Book off Ava and shoved her hard in the back with it. She yelped and stumbled into the hole, barely managing to snatch the cloth in time. Howell grabbed hold and, as guards ran to surround him, he jumped in after her.

  Machinery shrieked and grated around them until Howell felt as if his ears would burst with the noise. He buried his head in the thick folds of cloth as it juddered down, the patch of light from the hole above barely penetrating the darkness.

  ‘Ava, are you there?’

  ‘Where else would I be? You pushed me.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t think you were going to move on your own.’ He reached out cautiously with a foot and touched something solid. They were in a chute of sorts, heading straight down.

  The cloth jerked to a stop and the sound of machinery died away, leaving an echo that thumped in Howell’s head as he dangled. He clenched his teeth. ‘I’m going to climb down to you. Stay where you are.’

  He began to ease his way through, edging past Ava as she clung tight to the folds of cloth. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark – he could see the shadowy mass of fabric now, and when he looked up, the paler patch of Ava’s face as she gazed down at him.

  The chute widened and Howell’s feet sank into something soft: cloth, piled up, fold on top of fold. He stumbled free, trying to shake some feeling back into his hands. In the faint shimmering light of magic on the cloth he could just make out walls around him and scattered bits of leaves and dead grass on the floor.

  Ava dropped down beside him. ‘I can’t see a thing. Where are we?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks like a cellar.’

  ‘We’re trapped, you mean.’

  Howell shook his head. He wasn’t going to believe that. He clenched his fingers into his palms, trying to breathe steadily, even though each breath made his chest tighten. Mr Bones wouldn’t just dump cloth in here and leave it. There had to be a door into this room.

  ‘Here, take The Book,’ he said. He felt his way across to a wall and started pushing at the stones. Ava helped for a while, then she sat down on a heap of cloth with The Book on her knees and watched. ‘How long until the guards come down?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The room seemed to be growing lighter. He kept pushing, digging his fingers between stones until his nails hurt.

  ‘Howell,’ Ava said.

  He swallowed his irritation. ‘Don’t worry. There must be a door.’

  ‘I know. You can stop looking for it.’

  Howell turned round and all the suffocating panic pressed down on him again.

  It was lighter in here, and the light was coming from the far wall where, slowly, the dark stones were melting into silver mist.

  CHAPTER 35

  When you’re angry, when you’re sad,

  Put it in the mirror and you won’t feel so bad.

  Let your reflection take your pain

  And you will be quite happy again.

  If you’re tired of hearing that rhyme, think how you’d feel if you were Ephraim Skinner and had it ringing in your ears for more than two hundred years. This is why you shouldn’t mess with magic mirrors.

  The Book

  A good policeman examines the evidence and does not jump to conclusions, but the evidence unfolding before Charles’s eyes was hard to believe.

  Mr Bones looked out of the mirror, his dark eyes glittering with irritation. The mob of people were all huddled together, torn between staying to see what would happen and running away as fast as they could.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re Lord Skinner’s reflection?’ Mr Footer demanded. ‘How can you be a reflection?’

  Mr Bones tilted his head to one side, smiling thinly. ‘You’d be surprised what is possible with magic. Real magic, not the pale version you play with. Is this your mirror?’

  ‘The conjuror is acting under my instructions,’ Lord Skinner said. ‘You will speak to me, not to him.’ He tried to edge away from the mirror but the crowd pushed him back. ‘Mr Footer, this creature is a fairy illusion, nothing more. You can’t trust anything it says. Please be so kind as to banish it immediately.’

  Mr Footer said nothing. Charles adjusted his grip on Mrs Footer so he could feel his notebook in his pocket. The solid, simple lines felt reassuring.

  In the mirror, Mr Bones smirked.

  ‘Go back,’ Lord Skinner said. ‘Stay on your side of the mirror, attend to your own business and leave me in peace. We agreed.’

  ‘Yes, we agreed,’ Mr Bones said. ‘You rule on your side, I on mine, and whenever you summon me I will do anything you command. But you did not summon me this time.’ He turned his attention back to Mr Footer and inclined his head slightly. ‘Tell me what you want, conjuror. If it’s in my power, I will do it. You have my word.’

  Mr Footer licked his lips nervously and glanced around at the gathered townspeople. He had the look of a mouse standing before a cat, a large, magical cat that was deciding whether or not to pounce.

  Mrs Footer trembled and whined. Her hair was standing on end, and Charles was sure his own was about to do the same. The skin across the back of his neck prickled fiercely. ‘Ask him where Mrs Footer is,’ he called.

  Mr Footer gulped and nodded. ‘Mr Bones, I command you to find my mother.’ His voice squeaked nervously.

  A slow, triumphant smile spread across Mr Bones’s face. No, this wasn’t good. Charles wasn’t sure what Mr Footer had done exactly, but Mr Bones shouldn’t be looking so pleased.

  ‘At last,’ Mr Bones breathed.

  He put a hand on his side of the mirror, spread his fingers, and pushed.

  The glass bulged beneath his palm. A small, clouded patch appeared and quickly grew bigger until half the mirror was white with mist, and, through it, Charles saw the dark, thin shape of Mr Bones.

  His hand came through the mist first, emerging into Waning Crescent. A few people screamed as he wiggled his fingers. One lady fainted.

  ‘You gave your word!’ Mr Footer shouted.

  Mr Bones’s face appeared through the mist. ‘You ordered me to find your mother. I am obeying.’

  The mist around him parted. Charles watched, unable to look away as Mr Bones stepped all the way through the mirror and stood in the hallway of Waning Crescent.

  ‘Go back!’ Lord Skinner shrieked. ‘I command you!’

  Mrs Footer buried her head under Charles’s jacket, whining softly.

  A cold wind rushed above Charles’s head. Every candle in every chandelier, every candleholder, fluttered wildly and went out.

  In the darkened hall one voice spoke, and that voice was as dark and quiet as the grave. ‘You don’t command me now.’

  Observe, Charles thought desperately. A good investigator observes the evidence. He t
ried to stop the trembling in his legs. In the pale scraps of moonlight that made it through the windows, Charles saw Mr Bones advancing through the hall. His clothes stretched oddly over him, not quite fitting – possibly because the body beneath wasn’t quite body-shaped. He didn’t wear a hat, and his dark hair, which had lain flat before now, drifted up in wisps to meet the mist that circled him.

  There was no sound at all now, except for Lord Skinner moaning.

  Mr Bones turned suddenly and fixed his gaze on Charles. ‘What are you afraid of, boy?’ he murmured.

  Charles thought his heart was going to explode. He swallowed and found his voice. ‘Right now? You.’

  Mr Bones laughed. ‘You should be.’ He sprang.

  ‘Charles!’ Mrs Brunel screamed.

  Charles shut his eyes tight.

  He didn’t die. He felt bony hands on his arms, tugging Mrs Footer out of his jacket.

  ‘Here is your mother,’ Mr Bones said.

  Charles risked opening his eyes. Mr Bones was holding Mrs Footer up, and then he threw her into Mr Footer’s arms.

  The conjuror staggered back with a surprised ‘Oof’ and sat down. Shadows coiled around him and the air filled with the scent of lavender. A moment later, instead of the dog, Mr Footer was holding his mother on his lap. Her bonnet hung half off, her hair stood in disarray and her dress was full of holes, but she was alive and back in her proper shape. She scrambled up, red-faced.

  ‘It really was you,’ Mr Footer said.

  Mrs Footer took her bonnet off and hit him with it. ‘Of course it was me. Don’t you know your own mother? Some conjuror you are. If it wasn’t for the children helping me, I’d have ended up on the streets.’

  Charles’s face was suddenly full of his own mother’s dress. ‘Charles. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mother.’ He struggled free, half smothered, and tried to see past her.

  Mr Bones stood still in the middle of the hall. The shadows around him thickened and started to take on shape – skeletal shapes.