Winter Magic

by Abi Elphinstone

  We’ll see.

  Maggie stared at her. ‘The only way you might get the key is by asking his daughter, Mitali, for help. She’s different to him. Kind.’

  ‘So what’s the best way in?’ Piper asked. ‘Is there a spare key hidden, something like that?’

  Maggie shook her head, and taking Gypsy’s pen, began to sketch a little map. ‘No. But there’s a trapdoor at the back into the cellar. Once you’re in, find the laundry room. There’ll be aprons or something to put on there. Pretend you’re staff.’

  Won’t they know I’m not?

  ‘There’s only one worker who was there longer than me: Duncan. All the rest . . . they come and go. No one stays long.’

  Gypsy couldn’t stop shaking. She jerked up, jogging the table. Piper grabbed her hand.

  ‘Gypsy, wait.’ He stood. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  VI

  She never told Papa she was going.

  Instead, she waited until he was in bed and wrote him a note before packing a bag, and then she and Piper slipped out into the night.

  Elsewhere creaked under their weight as they clambered on, as though its short rest hadn’t been quite enough. Shivering, Gypsy lit the stove and took out Papa’s map while Piper unwound the rope mooring them. The boat cut through the water silently, with the frosty moon ahead of them and Twisted Wood behind.

  It was a tense journey. Mealtimes were the only times spent in each other’s company, for while Piper steered, Gypsy slept and vice versa. That evening as they huddled over steaming bowls of soup, Piper set his spoon down, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘Gyps . . . what happened the other night . . .’ He cleared his throat.

  She lifted her hand, wanting him to stop – and succeeded, for she clumsily slopped her soup over her legs. She shook her head, red-faced, and went to the kitchen to get a rag, glad of the distraction. She didn’t want to hear that it had been a mistake. In silence, he helped her and then they finished their meal. The kiss wasn’t mentioned again.

  They arrived in Castletown at dusk the following day. It was easy to find the house. It stood alone on a hill overlooking the rest of the town, built on the foundations of where an ancient castle had once stood. On a high stone arch above the gates, a statue of a stag was silhouetted against the moon. As they neared it, Gypsy eyed the battered gates uneasily. They hung open on loose hinges, choked with weeds. It was evident that no one had locked them in a long time.

  Piper nudged her, pointing to the stag. ‘Look,’ he whispered, and she saw from his eyes that he, too, was disturbed by something. She glanced up, not seeing it straight away.

  ‘Five legs,’ Piper said, shaking his head. ‘He’s just as crazy as everyone says.’

  Gypsy stared at the statue, frowning. Why on earth would it have five legs?

  ‘Come on,’ Piper muttered. ‘This place gives me the creeps. Faster we get in, faster we get out.’

  If we get out at all, Gypsy thought darkly. They crept through the gardens, following the instructions Maggie had given, eventually finding an ivy-wreathed trapdoor at the back. With a couple of angry pulls it shot up, releasing a shower of dirt with it.

  They peered into the dark, silent space beyond.

  ‘I’ll go first.’ Piper lowered himself into the gap. ‘Careful, it’s slippery.’

  Gypsy followed, finding herself on a set of stone steps that were slick with moss. She pulled the trapdoor back in place letting her eyes adjust to the dark. Soon she made out a sliver of light ahead.

  ‘That must be the door into the house,’ Piper whispered. ‘Leave our coats here, don’t look like anyone comes down here.’

  They shivered out of their coats and hid them among a bundle of mouldering furs. The place was piled with junk. They slipped out into a dim hallway, where Gypsy took out Maggie’s diagram of the house and gestured for Piper to go to the right.

  A short way along, they found the laundry room. There were piles of clean folded clothes and towels on a table, and hooks upon which several aprons hung. Gypsy threw one to Piper, sliding another over her head and tying the strings. They each took a pile of laundry and tiptoed out of the room. She checked the diagram again, locating Larkwood’s daughter’s room. If Maggie was right then perhaps the daughter could help them get the key. As they moved along the hall, Gypsy took in the blackened paintings and frayed wall hangings. There was nothing warm about this place; it was as though it no longer knew how to be a proper home. Soon they came to a vast staircase, but when Piper went to go up it Gypsy pulled him back.

  ‘What?’ Piper mouthed.

  She tugged him away, pointing to a narrow corridor ahead. There they found a smaller staircase. This was for the servants’ use. They climbed it, up and up, until Gypsy’s legs burned. At the top, she heard Piper gasp as a weary-faced woman trudged past. ‘Second bathroom needs a few towels,’ she muttered, barely glancing their way.

  They ducked their faces behind the piles they were carrying, and Piper muttered his thanks. Gypsy looked at the drawing again, then counted the doors until she found the one they wanted.

  She knocked softly, but there was no reply. Instead she heard two faint knocks on wood from within. She tried the door, finding it unlocked. She and Piper entered the room.

  A thin girl sat by the window, with a deck of cards laid out on the table before her. She wore a deep red dress, and her black hair hung in ringlets. Her dark skin was smooth and flawless, and she looked up at them with curious, intelligent eyes. She wrote something on a sheet of paper next to her and waved them forward to read it. Piper stayed where he was, so Gypsy moved to the girl’s side.

  I never asked for clean towels.

  Gypsy threw the towels in a careless heap and took the pencil. Mitali? she wrote. The girl nodded. We’re not here to wait on you. There’s something in this house we want.

  Mitali finished reading, then looked up at Gypsy with a knowing in her eyes. Gently, she took the pencil back.

  If you can’t speak then I can guess what you’re here for.

  The girl was calm, almost as if she had been expecting them, and the small movement of the tip of one finger caught Gypsy’s attention. The girl was lightly tapping one of the cards on the table. They were not playing cards, as Gypsy had first thought. Each one was an image cut from paper, delicate and beautiful and strange. On the girl’s hands were thin silk gloves.

  ‘Fortune cards.’

  Piper’s voice at her side made Gypsy jump. He’d come to stand next to her so silently she’d almost forgotten he was there.

  Mitali nodded.

  ‘So maybe you knew we were coming, as well as what we’re here for,’ Piper said.

  The girl shrugged, then spread her hand above the cards in a gesture of invitation.

  Piper shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I make my own fortune.’

  But Gypsy took a seat opposite the girl, her eyes still fixed on the card beneath her fingers. It was a scorpion, its tail raised to strike. Almost identical to the one inked on Gypsy’s neck.

  ‘Gyps, we ain’t got time for this—’

  She held up her hand, silencing him, then wrote on the paper. Read mine.

  The girl placed another pair of silk gloves in front of Gypsy, then swept the cards into one stack, offering them to her. Gypsy put the gloves on and shuffled the pack carefully, taking in a jumble of images: a black cat; a person walking under a ladder; a child throwing crumbs into a fireplace. They’re all superstitions, she realized.

  She handed them back.

  Why paper? she wrote. Why not painted pictures? These are so fragile.

  Isn’t life itself? the girl wrote. Isn’t the future? They remind me to be careful.

  The girl took the top three cards from the pack and lay them before Gypsy.

  Past, present, future, she wrote.

  Gypsy stared at the first card. It showed the outline of a girl standing before a shattered mirror, fragments at her feet.

  ‘Seven years bad luck,’ Piper
murmured.

  The girl nodded. A curse.

  Gypsy shifted in her seat. It was almost seven years now since her voice had been taken. The middle card, the present, was the one the girl had been touching when Gypsy entered the room: the scorpion. Only now, as she looked at it a second time, she saw that the creature was about to be crushed by a huge boot that loomed above it.

  A powerful card, the girl wrote. You have enemies, ones who could crush you. But you can still defeat them. Your weakness can also be your strength.

  ‘Gypsy, this is mumbo jumbo . . .’ Piper began. ‘We need to go!’

  Once again she silenced him, this time with a look. Then she saw the third card, her heart sinking.

  A single magpie had been carved out of the paper, its feathers mingling with the twiggy nest in which it sat.

  One for sorrow.

  This was to be her future?

  Piper was right. She would make her own fortune. She swept the card away in disgust and went to get up, but Mitali caught her hand firmly, then placed the card in front of her once more.

  Look again, she wrote.

  Reluctantly, Gypsy did. This time she saw something else; a tiny outline of a second magpie in the distance, silhouetted against the sun. So there had been two magpies, and one was leaving? She glared at the card . . . and then saw it.

  An egg, nestled beneath the magpie’s breast. A tiny crack zigzagged along its smooth surface. So the magpie was not alone, after all.

  One for sorrow, two for mirth . . .

  Your future has hope, Mitali wrote. But it’s fragile, easily broken. You must take care, or the magpie will stay alone. She pushed the card at Gypsy. For luck. Take it.

  ‘Enough of this claptrap,’ Piper muttered. ‘The locked room. Where is it?’

  I could take you there, but only my father has the key. Mitali looked regretful. He’ll never let you in.

  What’s in that room? Gypsy wrote. Who has the voice?

  An enchanted bird. My father bought it from a witch. From a box on the windowsill Mitali withdrew a golden pin and gave it to Gypsy. She told him I was to kill it with this, then eat it, and the voice would be mine.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Piper asked impatiently.

  Quickly, Gypsy used her hands to mime a bird flying, then pointed the pin at her hand. She then mimed eating the bird, and a voice emerging.

  He nodded. ‘So why didn’t you kill it?’

  The girl stared at him for a long moment, her answer written in her eyes.

  ‘You couldn’t,’ Piper said. ‘Even though it’s the thing you wanted most.’

  She shook her head, grabbing the pencil. It was what my father wanted most, not me. I was born this way. You don’t miss what you never had. I was happy enough, but my father couldn’t let it rest. For him, everything has to be perfect. She paused, giving a bitter chuckle and nodding to the window. You see that stag out there? It was put there by my grandfather and at first it had four legs. From my father’s room only three could be seen. But he had another leg added, for his view alone.

  Why not just move the statue, or move rooms? Gypsy asked.

  Why not? the girl replied. Because you can’t reason with madness.

  And Gypsy understood then. Even if the girl had been able to kill the bird, she still would have chosen not to, as an act of defiance. She had learned to live with herself. Now her father must.

  ‘Gypsy?’ Piper said questioningly. She shook her head. An explanation could wait until she had her voice back, and she was closer now than ever.

  Take us to your father, she wrote.

  He’ll never open the door.

  Gypsy lifted the golden pin, studying the girl’s throat. He will if he thinks we’re going to kill you.

  VII

  ‘Hurry up, old man,’ Piper repeated through gritted teeth.

  Gypsy glanced back at him and the girl in his arms. Mitali’s face was a mask of fear, despite their reassurances that they were not going to hurt her, and Gypsy couldn’t tell whether it was an act, or genuine. For all the girl knew, Piper really would pierce her throat with the pin . . . he’d already nicked her accidentally a couple of times as they’d moved through the house, for her neckline was dotted with blood.

  Every now and then, her father cast quick looks behind, muttering threats before shuffling on.

  They arrived at the door and were met with silence. Immediately Gypsy wondered if this was not the room, whether Larkwood had plans to try and imprison them somehow . . . but as she stepped closer she felt light crunching under her boots. She looked down. A scatter of birdseed had carried on draughts from the gap under the door into the passageway. Her heart began to thud, and she was glad Piper was the one doing the talking. Her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed a mouthful of the seeds.

  ‘Open it.’ Piper’s voice was soft but threatening.

  The man shot him a look of hatred and pulled out a key on a chain from around his neck. He twisted it in the lock, then slowly pushed the door open. Gypsy cautiously followed him into the room, with a warning glance for Piper to stay outside. It would be too easy for the door to be slammed and locked with them on the wrong side of it.

  It was dark and cool inside. As her eyes adjusted, Gypsy saw that the stone floor was covered in a layer of feathers and seed. A wooden perch stood at the centre of the room. For a moment, she almost wept.

  The bird was pure white, not teal, like the one which had taken her voice. There must be some mistake . . .

  But then it dawned on her. It was winter. She looked closer, remembering the silvery eyes and long tail. Yes, this was the same bird, in its wintry plumage.

  Say something, she mouthed, willing it to speak.

  It stared back at her, its silver eyes knowing.

  ‘Say something,’ it repeated.

  She staggered back, steadying herself against the wall.

  It was her voice. Hers . . . only six years older. No longer a little girl, but now a young woman.

  My voice, my voice, she whispered soundlessly, and it came back at her like an echo.

  ‘My voice, my voice . . .’

  ‘Gypsy,’ Piper hissed. ‘Grab the bird and let’s go.’

  Snapping herself out of her daze, she pushed away from the wall, approaching the perch. The bird flitted to a higher branch, regarding her warily.

  A low chuckle made her pause and turn. Larkwood was watching her, sneering. ‘You expect to keep hold of that bird when it knows you want to kill it? You won’t be cooking it or eating it in this house, make no mistake.’ He laughed again. ‘It’s a wily thing. It’ll escape you first chance it gets.’

  Gypsy stared back at him. I don’t plan on killing it.

  The words emerged from the bird. It gazed at her, as though it understood what had been said. No one answered her; even Piper looked at a loss.

  ‘I don’t see why the bird should die for me to get something that’s mine by rights. Tell me who you got it from and where.’ Gypsy took a step closer to the bird. This time it stayed still, and when she held out her hand it hopped on to her outstretched fingers.

  Larkwood’s eyes narrowed. ‘You won’t make it. It’s too cold now.’

  ‘Tell us,’ Gypsy snapped.

  He smiled eerily. ‘Fine. It’ll give them a good run.’

  Gypsy glanced at Piper, confused, but Larkwood continued. ‘I got it from a witch up in the mountains.’

  ‘How do we get there?’ Piper asked.

  ‘Why should I tell you? Find her yourselves.’

  Piper lifted the golden pin away from Mitali’s throat, instead pointing it at her eye. ‘I think your daughter wants you to.’

  The girl squeezed her eye shut, nodding vigorously.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Larkwood said through gritted teeth. There was a beat of silence, then he added: ‘Follow the stag, until you can follow no more. Then follow the birds.’ He paused. ‘If you get that far. They’re hungry . . .’

  ‘Stop your
muttering,’ Gypsy said through the bird. ‘And give me the key.’

  ‘Give me my daughter!’

  At his roar, Mitali jumped violently in Piper’s arms. Larkwood growled, his eyes alive with anger and Gypsy saw that the sudden movement had jerked her against the long pin Piper held, scratching her cheek. A bead of fresh blood appeared instantly.

  Seizing the distraction, Gypsy lunged for the key and snatched it from Larkwood’s hand, then bolted for the door, slamming it and jamming the key in the lock.

  Almost immediately he hit the other side with a grunt, shrieking and swearing, kicking and pushing.

  ‘Help me!’ Gypsy gasped, struggling against the door. Piper released Mitali and threw himself at it with all his weight, yet they were still losing. Larkwood’s hand shot through the gap, reaching for her. He howled as a third weight lent itself to the door; Gypsy looked up in surprise to see Mitali between her and Piper, pushing with all her might. Larkwood’s hand retreated back into the room with another yelp and finally Gypsy was able to turn the key.

  They staggered away from the door, breathing hard.

  ‘You helped us?’ Piper said, looking at the girl in wonder.

  Mitali nodded, her eyes full with dread. Go, she mouthed, urgently. Go!

  Gypsy stared at her, her own fear mounting, trying to figure out what it was she knew that they didn’t. Before she could, Piper grabbed her hand.

  ‘Run,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Just run . . .’

  Gypsy followed him, with a final glance back at Mitali. She saw her face for only a fraction of a second before Piper pulled her onwards, but the girl’s expression struck terror into her.

  Then she heard it, a furious bellowing from above, a single word repeated over and over, each time accompanied by a heavy thud. The sound of someone hurling themselves against wood, hard enough to break bones. And the word . . .

  ‘Hounds! Hounds! Hounds . . .!’

  She followed Piper blindly, one hand in his and the other cupping the bird nestled in her apron pocket as they zigzagged through the corridors, this way and that, down a swirling spiral staircase.

  ‘Where is it?’ Piper hissed. ‘Where’s the cellar door?’