Flick looked at him. Without saying a word, she knew they were both thinking of Daniel Mercator.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lie told to protect someone will inevitably do more harm than good in the long run. And that the “long run” may come around much sooner than anticipated.
Jonathan disliked lies, as a rule. Telling them made him deeply uncomfortable, and after Felicity had gone home that afternoon, he spent the rest of the day and night feeling extremely guilty.
He’d grown up in the sort of household where lies were a garnish on conversation. His parents were well-intentioned liars, of course. Strangeworlds Travel Agency wasn’t the sort of thing they wanted wee Jonathan to go blabbing to his friends about. Likewise, the truth about the contents of the suitcases was kept from him, in case he should get it into his head that climbing into one would promise him a jolly old time.
Jonathan was told from a young age that the things in the travel agency (where he was taken only when there was absolutely no one to take him elsewhere) were not for touching. Jonathan never saw anyone climb in or out of a suitcase, and the truth about the family profession remained secret until he was a teenager.
And the way he found out was not exactly the way that his parents would have wanted.
Almost four years previous to current events, a sulky fourteen-year-old Jonathan got back to the family home after school to find the front door locked.
The locked door confused him. He hadn’t been given his own key because one of his parents was always home to receive him.
He tried the handle again and knocked on the windows, finally getting his phone out and calling the house, feeling embarrassed because he knew people on the street would be watching him struggle to get into his own house.
The phone rang. But there was no answer.
Annoyed, and getting cold, he tried his parents’ phones. The calls didn’t even connect, and that was when he realized where they were. That stupid old shop they ran. There was never a good signal there. Jonathan’s dad always said it was because of the lead on the roof.
Cross, hungry and getting colder, he slouched off into town. Having no money for the bus, he resigned himself to the walk. He kept to the main roads, thinking that if his parents were driving home, they might see him in their car and they could pull over and pick him up. In his head, he plotted the arguments they would have, and he mentally won them all. He ignored the cold biting into his bare legs and pulled his ski hat down over his ears, looking down at the pavement as he walked, his shadow slowly getting longer as the cars’ headlights came on, flashing over him one after the other.
By the time he got into town, Jonathan’s phone battery was almost dead, and he was so irritated he didn’t feel cold anymore. His parents had never left him like this, and he was furious. He got to the shabby old shop and saw a lamp lit inside. So, they were in, then. His parents were religious about turning off lights that weren’t being used.
The shop door was unlocked. Jonathan let himself in, breathing in the warm air from the fire in the grate, giving dirty looks to the suitcases in their neat slots.
“Mom?” he called. “Dad?”
There was no answer.
Jonathan checked the desk for a note or some sort of clue as to where his parents were. Nothing. There was his dad’s phone, though. As usual, there was no signal to speak of on the phone’s display.
But… why hadn’t his dad taken it with him, if he wasn’t here?
He went upstairs, checked the rooms that were full of junk and old clothes and came back down again. He stood for a moment, trying to think logically, when the bell in the church next door clanged for seven.
It was later than he’d thought.
And they weren’t here. The door was unlocked. None of this made any sense.
Something cold and slimy coiled under Jonathan’s skin, replacing his annoyance with a desire to stop existing, just for a minute. He placed both hands flat on the desk to feel the grain, thinking it might ground him and stop the sick feeling.
He stayed there for several minutes.
Then he went to make a cup of tea on the old stove, knowing his parents would be angry at him for using the gas on his own. Somehow, it was comforting to know they would be angry. If they were angry, they’d be there, with him.
He made three cups, brewing them slowly, adding the sugar in carefully measured spoonfuls, the milk in scientific drips. He brought them through one at a time, telling himself lies. Giving the universe silent challenges.
They’ll be back by the time the kettle has boiled. They’ll be back by the time I’ve added the milk. They’ll be back by the time I’ve carried the third cup through.
They were not back.
Jonathan wrapped his hands around one of the cups, sat on the ancient swivel chair behind the desk, and waited.
Outside, the sun had long since gone down.
The shadows cast by the amber streetlamps were extremely long, reaching across the pavement like fingers, heading to the shop door.
Jonathan put down his cold tea and locked and bolted the door. He turned on the desk lamp and closed the blinds halfway, leaving them open enough so that the light inside would still be visible from the main street, in case someone came back and knocked on the door. In case his dad, called out on an urgent errand, remembered he’d forgotten his phone, and came back for it.
No one came.
The fire in the grate burned out, a wisp of gray smoke escaping from the chimney and curling through the shop like a snake. Jonathan realized he’d been sitting still for a long time. He stretched blood back into his limbs and went upstairs to the small bedroom, where there were a few old blankets and brought some down, along with a cushion.
He curled up in one of the armchairs beside the dead fire with the blankets over his legs, the chill of the lonely shop soaking into his body as he fought sleep, until eventually, around midnight, he dropped off against his will.
* * *
He was woken, several hours later, by the sound of a scream.
Jonathan started, sitting bolt upright. Before his eyes, the impossible was happening—someone was climbing out of one of the old suitcases like it was a trapdoor.
“Dad?” Jonathan whispered, stunned. In the lamplight, Jonathan could see that his dad’s face was bleeding. At the sight of Jonathan, his dad let out a horrible, moaning gasp.
The suitcase lid fell down and slammed shut.
Jonathan’s dad stared at his son as if he might not be real.
Jonathan had a million and one questions.
But only one made it to his lips.
“Where’s Mom?”
His dad’s face crumpled.
And nothing was ever the same, after that.
Flick examined the battered and fraying patch Jonathan had given her. A golden magnifying glass, with a jagged lightning bolt in the circular part, representing a schism, she assumed. She’d recited the pledge, standing holding her Study of Particulars like a holy book in the middle of the room while Jonathan mouthed the words along with her like an overeager parent at a school play. After that, he’d handed her the red patch to pin onto the sleeve of her choice.
“I’m sorry it’s pre-used,” Jonathan said. “You don’t have to sew it on right this minute, but if you’re going to be a Society member, you get the goody bag. Badge, access to books, and your name in the ledger.”
“And a magnifying glass?” Flick asked, chancing it.
Jonathan didn’t look up from where he was writing her name, Felicity Esme Hudson, in a big ledger. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “There’s only one here, and that stays with me.”
Flick couldn’t help feeling rather put out. She liked the magnifying glass and being able to see magic. Traveling to magical worlds was one thing, but to know that there was magic in her own world as well… it was truly delicious, and she wanted to taste it again.
She adjusted her backpack. At Jonathan’s request, she had
come this time with a bag packed with overnight things, a change of clothes, and some snacks. “A longer visit,” he had suggested, pacing around like he might burst if he stood still. “That’s a proper Strangeworlds Society adventure, not simply hopping in and out of cases like changing your socks. And”—he produced a pink and gold suitcase with a flourish—“if we’re going to track down my father anyplace, it will be here.”
An excited jolt shot through Flick. “Why?”
“Because this place is the City of Five Lights.” He beamed. “Multiversal hub and home to a Strangeworlds Society outpost.”
Flick made a clueless face. “In English, please?”
Jonathan put the suitcase down on the floor. “Imagine a place where the barriers between worlds are all extremely thin.”
Flick dutifully imagined. “Is that different from a schism?”
“Yes, although there are a lot of schisms there. This is somewhere so utterly soaked in transference energy that it has become a sort of intersection. There are also many suitcases that lead to it—this is only one of them.”
Flick pointed at the case on the floor. “That’s not out of the wall, is it?”
“No. This is from the Back Room.”
“The Back Room?”
“There are seven-hundred-odd suitcases, Felicity,” Jonathan said. “Quite obviously, they’re not all in the room with us. Where would they fit? This is a travel agency, not a TARDIS. The suitcases you need you keep in the travel agency. Everything else, you store safely.” He picked up the City of Five Lights guidebook and leafed through it. “Five Lights really is a fascinating city. It’s been theorized that the place is actually a product of condensed magical energy—it came into being because of the schisms.” He handed the book to Flick.
Flick skimmed to where Jonathan’s finger tapped at a paragraph.
… though it is entirely possible (and indeed recommended) for travel agents to use Suitcase #76 when traveling to the City of Five Lights. It is important to bear in mind that the city itself is constructed—perhaps held together—by the existence of schisms and as a result is extremely fragile. If the schism balance were to shift, the result could be catastrophic. The city is a hub of trade and magic* and there are often people on the street with seemingly magical abilities.
* Five Lights is one of the places where condensed magical energy may be obtained—see currency notes.
Flick frowned. “The balance in this place is fragile?”
“Yes, and that’s probably why my father went there. He might have been concerned about it. Because magic is used so frequently as an energy source, like fuel, it needs replenishing. Usually, the amount of people and travelers seems to do the trick.”
“Seems to,” Flick repeated, not feeling entirely convinced. “Do they use magic to do spells?”
“And as currency. This place doesn’t deal in money,” Jonathan said. “They deal in valuables. So…” He took out a small cloth bag from his pocket and tipped several items out into his hand. “I’ve got a badge from when I was ten”—he held up a pink Happy Birthday badge—“a thimble from my collection, and some shells from the beach from when I was little.” He put the objects back and tightened the bag’s drawstring. “Not terribly valuable, but enough for a souvenir or two. Hopefully somewhere to stay.”
“So it’s the sentimental value that makes the items worth something?” Flick asked. She thought of her slice of agate and wondered how much that was worth.
“The importance and significance it has to a living person.” Jonathan nodded. “That is magical. It can be used to trade for all sorts of things. You can even bottle magic and save it up until you have enough for what you need to do or make. It’s simply a form of energy.”
Flick patted her empty pockets. It didn’t feel fair that Jonathan was going to be the only one giving things away. “You should have asked me to bring something.”
“I don’t want you to lose anything you value,” Jonathan said, moving the case into the center of the room.
Flick read the Five Lights guidebook again. “The city exists because of the schisms, then? Is that right?”
“It’s a theory,” Jonathan said, taking the book back. “But some people believe that it might be possible for a world to come into existence if there is enough concentrated magic.”
Flick frowned as a thought came into her head. “Does that mean someone could create a world? A new one? If they had enough magic?”
Jonathan paused. “I suppose they could. But I doubt it would exist for very long.”
“Why?”
“Worlds don’t create magic of their own; they’re just supported by it. It’s life that creates magic. People, animals, plants, even bacteria. Living things are responsible for looking after the existence of their world, whether they are aware of it or not. A created world would be little more than an empty room. And even if someone tried to stay in it… You remember what I told you about living in a world that isn’t your own?”
Flick nodded uneasily. “You burn up.”
“And the hungry world would burn with you.” Jonathan’s eyes unfocused for a moment behind his glasses. Then he blinked and shrugged. “On that cheery note, let our next trip begin! And the City of Five Lights is also home to one special place in particular.”
“What’s that?”
Jonathan’s smile morphed into one much more genuine. “Quickspark’s Travel Emporium. Another travel agency, and off-world outpost of the Strangeworlds Society.”
* * *
The City of Five Lights was seated in a sort of universal crease—if there was a map of all the known worlds and their links, the City of Five Lights would have been the center spread. Due to its abundance of schisms, it was very much used to what other worlds might call the strange or unusual. The place was consistently dealing with magic and weirdness. Even the geography of the place rearranged itself now and again.
So no one batted an eyelid when a pink suitcase appeared in the town square and two young people proceeded to climb out of it, pulling the case inside out somehow, before standing and brushing themselves off.
Travelers, thought the general public.
Customers, thought the salespeople.
Victims, thought the Thieves.
* * *
Flick watched Jonathan yank the suitcase through, and she tried to get her bearings as the world bustled around them.
The funny thing about visiting a new place is that one immediately tries to liken it to an old, familiar place. Or even somewhere you’ve seen on television, or in a picture on the wall of a stranger’s house, to try and make it feel friendlier.
It’s a rather funny thing, memory. It doesn’t work in straight lines.
So, although Flick had never been to Spain, looking around at the City of Five Lights somehow reminded her of a Spanish city. The city was split into several quads, or squares (though they were all circular, so perhaps they should have been called rounds), and each one had a fountain. You could, she thought, if you knew what you were doing, navigate through the city using the fountains, as each one was carved with different birds, or fish, or plants. Fireworking out from the fountains were coral-pink stone walkways bordered with pink and white cobbles. Tall iron gas-lamps stood here and there, dozing in the day before their nightshift. Walking along the pathways with carts on wheels or trays hung around their necks, were people selling everything from tiny glass beads to bunches of blue and purple fruit to immense rolls of fabric. Lining the town’s squares were shops, packed tight, practically elbowing one another out of the way for prominence on the sprawling streets.
Flick let her feet start walking, as feet tend to want to do when they’re surrounded by others doing the same, Jonathan following a step behind. She read the signs in the windows and over the shop doors. They said things like: CAT SKULLS: VARIOUS SIZES AVAILABLE and HIGH-QUALITY LIGHTNING—BUY TWO BOLTS, GET ONE FREE. There was even a very ratty-looking shop with nothing but threadbare black curta
ins hanging in the window and a sign that simply said: INQUIRE WITHIN.
There were dozens upon dozens of people bustling to and fro. At first glance, some of them looked like people Flick might have seen walking down a street in Little Wyverns, but a closer look made Flick realize they were not from her own world at all. There were people with complex gold and silver rings pinned through their pointed ears and others wearing gloves that were made for six fingers instead of five. Flick saw a man with ice-blue skin who had an array of droplet-shaped glass bottles slung on a belt of loops around his hips. He was trying to catch the eye of passersby, some of whom slowed down to look at his wares. There was a woman a few yards to his left, who looked a little like one of Flick’s teachers at her old primary school, aside from the fact she was covered from the neck down in vibrant floral tattoos that actually moved on her skin as if the wind was blowing them. She almost blended in with the flowers and plants she was selling from a small cart on wheels.
“Look.” Jonathan tapped Flick’s arm and pointed toward the center of the square.
There were a couple of girls who had made a space for themselves close by the fountain. One was putting a hat down on the ground and the other was mounting something like a unicycle, except that it had a translucent ball in place of a wheel. A crowd began to gather.
“Are they acrobats?” Flick asked, excitement and delight making her hop from foot to foot as she tried to see over people’s heads.
“Performers. They’ll do their act and people will donate some trinkets, if they like it.”
The girl on the bubble-cycle was pedaling to and fro, faster and faster, until the unicycle rose into the air like a helium balloon.
Flick gasped.
Strangeworlds Travel Agency Page 12