by Kate Blair
“Isabel,” my voice was a croak.
She ran from the room, calling for my father.
When he came, his voice sounded like it came from far away, a shore distant from the wretched one I had washed upon. “I shall send for the physician. But Maghew should have no sheets. They will make the sweat worse.”
He grabbed the corner of my blanket.
No. Not the blanket. I felt the tokens I’d taken from my siblings tucked in around me. I clutched tight to the fine wool, fingers locked and aching as they gripped. But I was too weak.
Father yanked, unraveling me, exposing me. I heard the soft thuds as my treasures slipped out and fell to the floor. My neck was stiff. I could not twist to see my collection scattered onto the rushes. But I saw the confusion in my sister’s eyes. Saw her brow crumple as she stared down at the precious things by her feet.
“This is Elizabeth’s bracelet, James’s brooch. Oh! My doll,” Isabel bent to pick it up, and clutched it to her breast. “You helped me search. You know I missed it.”
My father stared at me. His jaw clenched. “You stole from your own family?”
“They are but mementos … like holy relics.” I knew it sounded wrong, even as I said it.
My father’s face contorted with disgust. “I will not listen to such blasphemy!” He addressed Isabel. “We have tarried too long already. We must leave the city. The court has already departed.”
I wanted to ask how I was to travel, in this state. I could not ride. Perhaps Father would arrange for a litter.
“Will you still call the physician?” Isabel asked. “For Maghew?”
My father strode from the room.
Isabel hesitated, and then crept to the bedside. “Maghew, why did you take our things?”
“I … wished only to hold something of each of you, so you felt near.”
“Thou hadst but to ask, and I would have given thee my poppet.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat felt blocked.
Isabel patted my blankets. “Thou keepest thy treasures within thy nest. Like a magpie.”
“Isabel, come!” Father’s voice boomed into the room. She scurried after him.
Even then, I never thought she would leave me to die alone. But I was wrong.
So perhaps I was wrong about Silva, too. Perhaps The Whisper was right.
I am always right, The Whisper said, snapping me out of my reverie. Come, it is time to open another door.
I sighed, and let the bindings of my books dissolve, let the pages fade until only the text was left, a mist of stories, a fog of souls. The gray cloud tightened and shrank, tangling the words together. It grew darker, smaller, until my stories were compressed into the black of my feathers.
I spread my wings, and took to the skies.
Chapter Eleven
AS I STEPPED through the door, pain hit, like my breath being ripped out through my ribs.
I stumbled a few steps into the library, hand over my aching chest. I collapsed against the hard corner of a shelf, wondering why I felt so awful, as if my blood had been drained from me. No, like something deeper, something even more vital had been taken.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, for the metal shelves stocked with romances to resolve clearly in front of me, their pink spines gray in the half-light. The soaring roof looked unfamiliar with the strip lights off: a cavernous space, haunted by shadows.
I took deep breaths. Maybe this was what a panic attack felt like. I had been stressed. There was too much to deal with out here: a stalker, Grandpa’s illness, the burned kettle, and the pills. In the library, I didn’t need to worry. Everything was right.
I yearned to be back in there. To hide, and never come out.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as messages came in from Mum. The first asked when I’d be home, but the second simply said she was glad, and she’d see me later. I wasn’t sure what she was glad about, but she hadn’t called the police, at least.
I hurried to the front of the library and peered through the window, hands cupped against the cold glass. Cars crawled past, headlights reflecting off the wet road. There was no sign of a dark figure, just my own reflection, pale as a ghost. I didn’t need to call Mum. She wasn’t worried. And how would I explain how I’d got in the library, when it had been closed all day?
The initial pain of coming through the magpie’s door had ebbed, leaving me feeling worn out, crumpled up. Maybe I’d caught Grandpa’s infection. I slumped over to a table and collapsed into a chair. All I wanted to do was lay my head down. So I did.
The cool wood against my cheek was calming. I realized I’d felt like this when I’d been Margaret, but I thought it was the tuberculosis. Chloe had felt awful too, and I’d blamed that on grief. I thought the magic of the library kept my exhaustion, my worries at bay.
Maybe I’d got it wrong.
I’d been feeling worse, the more I visited the library. At the start, I thought I’d forgotten something small. But that sense of loss had grown each time I crossed the threshold. Like I’d been losing something essential, something at the very heart of me.
Cold crept under my skin.
Chloe had been into her park four times, like me. Margaret had been in six times, and felt worse than either of us. Grandpa said she’d died the night of her seventh visit.
The door to the magpie’s library still lurked in the shadows between the shelves. There were stories about magpies, weren’t there? Superstitions.
One for sorrow, Mum had said. That was a rhyme, wasn’t it? How did it go?
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy …
The library’s Wi-Fi was still on, so I Googled it, blinking as the bright light of my phone burned itself into my retina. I found the rhyme I knew, but below it was an older version. A version I’d never seen.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral,
Four for a birth,
Five for heaven,
Six for hell,
Seven’s the devil, his own sel’.
I shivered. Isabel thought her brother was special, because he was the seventh child of a seventh child. Margaret died after her seventh visit. Seven kept coming up.
My phone was a comforting rectangle of light in the library. So I kept reading. Magpies were omens of ill fortune or death. Magpies were thieves. Magpies were collectors.
Collectors. The back of my neck prickled.
A library was a collection of books. Margaret’s toy house held a collection of dolls. Chloe’s park had a collection of statues, and Beth’s cinema held a collection of films. The same collection, in different forms. The stories of real people, their feelings, their thoughts: everything that made them who they were.
The library took a little with each visit. Each time I left, I’d lost more of the core of me: my spirit, my soul. It was being stolen, piece by piece, by the magpie’s library.
I’d been an idiot. This was never an adventure. Isabel was right.
It was a trap.
Chapter Twelve
NOW I KNEW why I felt like I’d forgotten something every time I’d left the magpie’s library. Each time I came out, I’d left part of myself behind, and now I felt as if a large part of my soul was gone, lost, sealed behind the impossible door.
I let my head drop into my hands. My own book must be in there, filling a little more with each visit. I’d asked the magpie if the finished books were dead people. I hadn’t thought to ask what had killed them.
When I’d read enough stories, my own book would be complete, my whole soul trapped inside. They’d find my body on the floor of Hayling Library, like they found Margaret’s body on the floor of her room.
My gaze was drawn to the door, lurking i
n the gloom, inviting me back in. Thoughts were trapped in the mist of my head. My book was there, sitting on a shelf. I wanted to see it.
No. I had to get out, before I let my curiosity get the better of me.
I hurried to the emergency exit and shoved the push-bar. An alarm screeched. It blared through me, shattering my mind into panic.
Crap. Crap. Crap. If my stalker was anywhere near, they’d have heard that. I stumbled into the misty night, around the side of the library, away from the street.
The fence of the infants’ school blocked my way. I clambered over, breathing hard, then pitched myself head-first onto the sodden grass on the other side. Fresh bruises grew hot on my hip where the fence had dug in. I fled across the foggy field as the wail of the alarm grew fainter. I found a shadow next to the school, and collapsed onto the damp ground.
I leaned the back of my head against the rough wall. The wind was a quiet hiss, and the traffic rumbled along the main road. Fog ghosted the buildings that huddled at the edge of the field, making them seem like shadowy illusions rather than real homes.
A figure stepped out of the mist consuming the field.
My breath caught. I could scream, but I was far from help: no one would hear. I pushed myself against the wall, hoping they hadn’t seen me, hoping to merge with the shadow I sat in. But the figure walked straight toward me, with heavy, careful strides; like a spider, following the thread of its web to a trapped fly.
My heart pounded. I dragged myself to my feet and backed away. The figure mirrored my steps, between me and escape.
Panic hit. I ran, accelerating as fast as I could. I dashed across the school field. The drag of exhaustion slowed me, like in a nightmare. My legs were shaky, threatening to buckle.
“Silva! Wait!” A girl’s voice: a familiar one.
I glanced over my shoulder. Her hood blew back as she chased me, just enough for me to see the stripe of white in her hair: Chloe.
I stopped; rested my hands on my thighs, gulping down air.
Her own breath came hard as she caught up. “We need to talk. This way.”
Fury rushed through me. “You totally freaked me out! Why were you following me?”
“Because you’ve been acting weird. Because I chased a magpie from your lawn. Come on.” Chloe didn’t wait for a response. She led me to the fence at the back of the field, and we climbed over. I kept a little distance between us. The streetlights cast cones of orange in the damp air: caves of light that we stepped in and out of.
Chloe’s shadowed face was as still as a statue as she led me onto a side road littered with bungalows. Chloe stopped at the first house and perched on the edge of low brick wall.
“Sit.”
I stayed standing. “I should get home before Mum worries.”
“I texted her hours ago. Said we’re having a chat about Uncle Chris.”
Ah. That explained Mum’s message.
The growl of traffic came from Elm Grove, out of sight behind the houses. I could barely look at Chloe. I’d been in her life. Walked around in her body. I’d felt her grief and knew what she’d lost. But those were her thoughts. Her memories. I had no right to them.
“I heard you slam the door earlier and your mum shouting. I followed you up the road, but you vanished. I waited for hours, wondering if I’d got it wrong, until the alarm went off.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m right, aren’t I? You went through the magpie’s door.”
My jaw clenched. “If you knew what I was getting into, why didn’t you warn me?”
“Wasn’t sure until just now. I can’t see your door. No one could see mine, either.” She swiped her hair out of her eyes. “How many times have you been in?”
“Four.” I swallowed. “Same as you.”
Her frown deepened. “How did you know that?”
“I found your book.”
“What book?”
“It was a library for me.”
“Oh. My book.” She folded her arms across her chest “Did you read it?”
“Yes.” It was hard to find the right words. “I get it, now. I understand more about you.”
“You went into my life.” She kicked at the tufts of moss bursting out of the cracks in the pavement. “You expect me to thank you for that?”
“No.” I sat down next to her, on the wall. “Sorry.”
Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head and looked up at the night sky. I watched her, noting the differences between this Chloe and her younger self.
“What’s the white stripe from? You didn’t have it before.”
Her hand went up and touched it. “I dye it. White and black, like a magpie. I was looking for other people who found the door. I thought it might be a clue to help us find each other. But you didn’t work it out.”
I shook my head, feeling stupid. It hadn’t even occurred to me. “So, how do we fix this?”
“We can’t.”
“What do you mean, we can’t?”
She shrugged. “I’ve felt drained for years. I’ve had tests, but the doctors couldn’t find anything. It’s not so bad that you can’t function, but it does suck.”
“No, that can’t be right. I can’t be stuck like this.”
Chloe’s face was dark under the shadow of her hair. “I am.”
“Okay, medical stuff wouldn’t help, because it’s magic. But there must be a magic way to undo it.” It felt a bit stupid when I said it out loud.
“There isn’t. You’ve lost part of your soul and you can’t get it back. You have to accept that. You only make things worse when you run from the truth.”
My jaw set. “It’s not running. It’s trying to do something. Get back the piece we’ve lost.”
“You can’t go back in there. It’ll kill you.”
“I can’t live like this!”
Chloe’s eyes glinted in the streetlights. “You have to. I have.”
I couldn’t believe she could be so passive. “You’ve dealt with this for what, five years, and that’s your brilliant plan? I’m not giving up that easily.”
“You think I gave up easily?” Her voice trembled.
I stood. It felt contagious: her flatness, her inability to fight. I had to get away. Had to think it through on my own. “I’m going home.”
She shouted after me. “You have to face reality, Silva, or you’ll die.”
I sped up, hurrying away from the pain of her words. Cold fingers of wind reached in through the gaps in my clothes, and I wrapped my arms tightly around myself.
I turned onto Elm Grove and checked over my shoulder, expecting her to follow. The lit windows of houses shone gold as I passed, inviting and warm against the cold night, reminding me of the shining dust motes of the magpie’s library. It was only when I was almost home that I realized why Chloe hadn’t followed; why she took a different route to get foot powder, why she wouldn’t buy Persil at the shop on the corner.
She was avoiding the park. She didn’t trust herself to go near her door.
She wanted to go back in, too.
BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning was awkward. I couldn’t tell if Grandpa had forgotten about the pills, or didn’t want to bring them up. Hollowness rang through me, and I desperately wanted to fill it. Mum made bacon and eggs, and I ate and ate, but at the end, I felt sick and bloated. The soul-hunger remained.
The third time Grandpa commented on the rain, Ollie carried his plate into the front room. Mum stood, and put her hand on Grandpa’s forehead.
He pushed it away. “Stop doing that, Ruthie.”
“Sorry,” Mum said. Neither of us reminded him of Mum’s real name.
I tried to concentrate, to think of something that could help, anything except going back to the library, but my thoughts were as hard to clutch as smoke.
Mum sat with an exhausted exhalation. “How d
id your talk go with Chloe?”
Grandpa lifted his head. “You’ve been talking? About time you worked out whatever came between you two. When we first moved here, you were like sisters.”
“Chloe,” Mum corrected him. “It was Chloe and Silva, not me and Janet.”
Grandpa nodded, but his gaze stayed fixed on Mum, his brows furrowed.
Mum sighed. “Doesn’t matter. It’s time for us to head to the doctor’s.”
SOMEHOW, I MANAGED to get showered and dressed, and threw my stuff into a gym bag. My world was collapsing, yet I was meant to go back to Bedford today, back to school tomorrow.
I picked up my bag and lugged it down the hall. In Ollie’s room, socks and abandoned jeans were strewn over the floor. Anger shot through me.
“Ollie! Pack your mess!”
No answer. I stomped downstairs, loud enough that he would know I was annoyed.
“Ollie! Come on! Mum will be back soon.” The kitchen was empty.
“You know what? I don’t care! You can be in trouble! Serves you right!”
I hurled my bag onto the ground and stumbled into the front room.
I stood there, staring at the shelves, feeling as if something was wrong.
It took me a moment to put my finger on it. Some of the photos were missing. One of me and Ollie, and the picture of Grandpa and Margaret. I put my hand on the shelf, in the gap where the pictures should be. The click of the front door distracted me.
“We’re back!” Mum’s voice was too high. Fake cheerful. “Sit down, Dad. I’ll make tea.”
Grandpa shambled into the kitchen, shoulders slumped.
Mum shut the door. “Did you pack?”
“I did, but Ollie …”
“Best to unpack. Sorry.”
“What … what did the doctor say?”
“Grandpa has a fever.”
“The infection’s back?”
She rubbed her forehead. “They’re not sure if it’s the same one. It could be something he picked up in the hospital. There are a lot of sick people there, and sometimes you can catch a virus while being treated for something else. We need to stay, see if he gets better.”