Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  She looked up and saw the bed sheets overturned. She looked behind and saw the chair knocked over. She pulled herself to her feet and looked to the mess on her dresser; all her things muddled. And there, in the middle, the open Zolnomicon.

  Back at the Queen’s Garter, the pencil fell dead and the candles went out to a satisfying hiss.

  Balthazar’s eyes shut tight and reopened their usual green. He looked across the room at Niclas standing half in, half out of the room.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Ugh… I don’t know, sir. You woz callin’ me name.’

  ‘No! What did I say before? Did I, or did I not make it expressively clear you were not to disturb me!’

  ‘I didn’t, sir. But then you started calling me name and sayin’ weird fings. I gots confoosed.’

  Balthazar sighed.

  ‘I’m really sorry, sir. Is everyfing alright?’

  The cat trotted over to the parchment.

  ‘Lights.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Niclas dashed across the room and relit the lanterns.

  Balthazar examined the parchment.

  Niclas craned his head for a look. There was a picture of a skeleton lying in a circle, and another picture of what could have been the moons eclipsing. The words didn’t make sense to him, though he was sure they were written in the common tongue.

  ‘That’s common tongue ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes…’ said Balthazar. He too was curious about that.

  ‘Wot’s it say?’

  ‘It’s a ritual. An important, highly complicated ritual.’

  ‘…’ Niclas took a minute to compute. ‘Woz this a rit’wal, sir?’ he said, referring to the pink drawings and dashed salt.

  ‘Yes. But a relatively simple one. It’s extraordinary what you can do with a piece of hair.’

  ‘I didn’t mess it up did I, sir?’

  ‘No. Everything seems to be ok.’

  ‘I’ll do better next time, sir. No matter wot ’appens. I knows wot I’m doin’ now.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’

  Balthazar took a closer look at the parchment. But something was bugging Niclas.

  ‘Why were you callin’ me name though, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Your name? I wasn’t.’

  ‘But… you woz.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Ok, sir… If you say so…’

  Balthazar skimmed to the bottom of the page. His face showed all kinds of intrigue. As much as a cat’s face can show.

  ‘I’ll need you to go shopping again. And some of the items on this list are going to be a little difficult to find.’

  ‘That’s alright, sir. I like shoppin’.’

  The morning light filled Cassandra’s bedroom. It wasn’t dawn light. It was that bright late morning light, closer to afternoon than dawn.

  She sat up. What a strange dream, she thought. There’d been a red room and a black cat and the cat had been chanting under its breath. It had seemed so real at the time. Even now it felt like a recent memory and not a dream. But it was definitely a dream, because cats can’t talk.

  The chair before her dresser was overturned and all her belongings scattered over the table. Except for the nameless tome. It lay there, mysterious and open.

  Things were starting to come back to her. Visions were coming through a dense fog of bleugh. She vaguely remembered waking up with a mouth full of carpet and crawling back into bed like some creature from a swamp.

  There was an urgent knock at the door and it opened.

  ‘Cassandra! You’re not even dressed, M’lady. The Lords are arriving any minute and your mother is waiting for you in the dining room. It’s not like you to sleep this late. Are you well? You look a little pale. Are you coming down with a fever?’

  ‘No… I’m fine, Martha. Thank you for your concern. I haven’t slept that well, that’s all. I’ll be down straight away.’

  ‘Does M’lady need help getting dressed? Come let’s find you something.’ Martha crossed the room to the wardrobe and walked right by the open Zolnomicon on Cassandra’s dresser. The Princess woke up faster than if ice water had been splashed over her face. She leapt from bed and stood between the dresser and the maid.

  ‘No, Martha. I can manage just fine on my own. I’ll be down straight away I said.’

  ‘Ok, M’lady. No harm meant. Just trying to help.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ Cassandra was so eager to hide the book that she practically pushed the maid out the door.

  Martha looked a little hurt.

  ‘Martha… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘No, no. I know when I’m not needed. I’ll help Agnes arrange the bourbons, she’s always just dumping biscuits on a plate, has no thought to how they’re presented.’

  ‘Mar…’

  Martha shut the door behind her.

  Cassandra rubbed her head. It was sore. Maybe she’d hit it when she fell out of bed? Or was it off the chair? What had she been doing?

  She’d read about this. A head injury, mild swelling, memory loss, foul mood. She was concussed, probably. But what had she been doing to get concussed?

  She turned to look at the book. It was open halfway with an unsettling illustration on the right hand page. A grinning skeleton in a circle surrounded by other smaller circles with strange objects in each. Lilith’s Transmogrification.

  ‘Lilith’s Transmogrification?’

  It was a mouthful whatever it was.

  Cassandra arrived in the dining room after having a transmogrification of herself, the kind that involves a hair brush, a box of talcum powder and a generous lashing of Violet Hamamelis perfume.

  ‘Ah, Princess, nice of you to finally join us,’ said Lord Darby.

  The three Lords were sat at the dining table sipping on delicate porcelain cups. The ones with ducks on them. They were her mother’s favourite and reserved only for the specialist of guests. Though, there was nothing special about these guests. Cassandra didn’t think so anyway.

  ‘Cassandra. Tea? Pot’s still hot,’ said her mother.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Cassandra sat and Martha fixed her a cup.

  ‘Too early for cake, apparently. I always say you can’t serve a pot of tea without something crumbly, sweet and slathered in icing. Shame the honourable lady disagrees,’ said Lord Quincy, the oldest of the three.

  ‘The rules of this household, as they should be in all households, are that there will be no cake served before lunch. You’ll find the biscuits crumbly and sweet enough, Lord Quincy,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Oooh, I mustn’t have biscuits. One can’t ever stop once one’s had a biscuit. Terrible for one’s figure.’

  Cassandra restrained a giggle. Lord Quincy was the oldest, the most smiley and probably the fattest of all the Lords in Parliament. He spooned four teaspoons of sugar into his tea, four heaped teaspoons, gave it a brisk stir and then a sip that sounded like a slug being peeled from a wet stone.

  ‘Well, I’ll have a biscuit,’ said Lord Darby, reaching over. ‘Biscuit, Princess?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Cassandra took a bourbon and placed it on the side of her saucer. Lord Quincy smiled at her and tapped his belly.

  ‘Where were we?’ asked Lord Darby.

  ‘The Plague,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Ah, tragic. So awfully tragic,’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘It is spreading worryingly in the north,’ said Lord Barton, the one with the curly moustache and rigid expression. He was Cassandra’s least favourite of the special guests. ‘No one knows what has caused it or how long it will last but the problem continues to worsen.’

  ‘Boils I hear. Huge bulbous boils. They form all over the body, and they’re filled with the most revolting puss and disease,’ said Lord Quincy, taking another enjoyable sip of his tea.

  ‘It may be time to consider a quarantine, M’lady,’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘A quarantine?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘If the wretched thing does spread south, th
e city would be overrun in days, and not just Cheapside – the plague does not discriminate between squalor and cleanliness, rich and poor. It kills all households the same.’

  ‘There have been illnesses before, my lords. They have their day and then they go.’

  ‘Not like this M’lady. It is most contagious. Doctors themselves are afraid to study it for fear of contracting it,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘What about the other towns and villages outside of the capital? What will become of them?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘We must be realistic, Your Majesty. There are millions of people in this city, our port opens to the known world, an outbreak here could… well… it could spell the end of civilisation as we know it,’ said Lord Darby.

  Lord Quincy laughed, spilling a drop of tea down his front. ‘Now, now. Let’s not be rash. It wouldn’t spell the end of anything. Lots of people will get sick. Lots of people will die. But the Queen’s right, there have been plagues in the past, they are well documented and they all just up and disappear once they’ve had their fill.’

  ‘But it would be irresponsible to keep the city gates open. Surely you agree?’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘Lord Barton, what kind of message would it send if by royal decree the city closed its doors to its people in a time of need?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘That wouldn’t be responsible would it?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Not to mention the angry mob that would quickly assemble outside,’ added Lord Quincy.

  ‘We must think of the bigger picture, Your Highness,’ said Barton.

  ‘I agree with Lord Barton on this one. The bigger picture is important,’ said Lord Darby.

  Lord Barton, as far as Cassandra was concerned, was a cruel man who had no interest in the people of the city. He was only interested, as most politicians were, in furthering his own career. And Lord Darby was no exception to this. The two often went hand in hand, agreeing and disagreeing with whatever her mother disagreed or agreed with.

  The Queen pondered whilst the Lords sipped their tea and nibbled on biscuits.

  ‘…’ Cassandra hesitated to speak, but all eyes quickly fell on her and made her think twice about it.

  ‘Cassandra?’ said the Queen. ‘Go on? What are your thoughts on the matter?’

  ‘Really, Your Majesty? She’s but a child–’

  ‘I will have her thoughts, Lord Barton.’

  Cassandra puckered her lips.

  ‘Well… I was just thinking how awful it is…’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And wondered what we’re doing to help the ones who are sick.’

  ‘They’re doomed, M’lady. There is no cure,’ said Lord Darby, darkly.

  ‘No. She’s right,’ said the Queen. The three lords gave her the same flabbergasted look, one that said very loudly in the language of eyebrow raises: “she is?”

  ‘While we’re here eating bourbons, drinking tea and discussing the fate of the capital, the small towns in the far north are helpless. Forgotten. We should send supplies. Food and clean water. It’s our duty.’

  ‘Seems a waste to me,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘Come now, Lord Barton, where’s your heart, the women have the right of it!’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘My heart has nothing to do with it. I, as should we all, am thinking with my head not my feelings. Sending aid to the north under the Queen’s banner is tantamount to sending an open invitation or laying down a rather sizeable welcome mat. You would create a crisis of refugees fleeing to the protection of the capital – and diseased ones at that.’

  ‘Lord Barton’s right. We should all be thinking with our heads,’ Darby agreed.

  ‘But…’ Cassandra began.

  ‘Go on, dear? Spit it out!’ said Lord Quincy beaming a bourbon encrusted smile across the table. He’d cracked, they were simply too irresistible.

  ‘What happens when the plague passes. The people in the north, the ones who survive the epidemic, they’ll be angry at us, don’t you think? It wasn’t so long ago that the northern cities were demanding independence from the Crown.’

  ‘Ah. Now that’s using your head.’ Lord Quincy laughed, then grabbed another bourbon.

  ‘You’ve been reading too much history, Princess,’ said Lord Darby, ‘the problem with history is it’s all in the past. We have to the think about the future,’

  ‘Mr Eccleston tells me that history often repeats itself.’

  ‘Does he now.’

  ‘Enough of this,’ said Barton. ‘As with all things, it will be debated in the House and the House will decide. If it is the Queen’s recommendation to send aid then so be it. We shall see what the Lords feel is right. And, we shall see whether we have any other options but to quarantine the capital.’

  ‘It is my recommendation that we send aid,’ said the Queen. ‘And it is also my recommendation that we do not close the city gates. I feel strongly on this matter, and will make a speech about it.’

  ‘M’lady,’ Lord Darby began. ‘There’s no need for a royal speech to the House. We barely have time to fit everyone else’s speeches in and this matter is so black and white it’s–’

  ‘I will have my say, Lord Darby,’ said the Queen, in a putting-the-foot-down sort of way.

  ‘Very well,’ said Lord Barton. ‘Let’s move on shall we?’

  Lord Quincy quickly finished his fourth bourbon and lifted a monocle to his eye to read the document before him.

  ‘Let’s see here. The Bank of Varcia wants to know the progress of the Crown’s repayment plan?’

  ‘Have it deferred,’ said the Queen.

  ‘…Right, that’s that. Then there’s the arrangements for the Harvest Festival. The Moon Festival, M’lady?’

  ‘Everything going as planned?’

  ‘I think so, nothing different from the last three hundred times we’ve done it.’

  ‘Next,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘Oh!’ said Lord Quincy, rubbing his fingers on his thumbs excitedly. ‘Spleeeendid! It’s the Lords’ Banquet coming up. That time of year again. Oh I do love it. You always put on such a good show, Your Majesty. I trust you’ve got it all prepared. It’d nearly skipped my diary.’

  ‘Yes. We’re well prepared for the Lords’ Banquet. Aren’t we, Martha?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Yes, M’lady. We’re getting in the chefs and staff from a fancy restaurant called The Witz. Everything should go as planned providing this year the Lords turn up in the numbers they promise to,’ said Martha, with just a touch of bitterness.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Be about thirty of us this year. Thirty definites. And the usual plus ones,’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘That’s what you said last year, m’lord. Forty five of you turned up and we had a right palaver with the seating arrangements,’ added Martha. She was clearly still bitter about it.

  ‘Won’t happen this year. You have my word.’

  ‘What else is there, Lord Quincy?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Erm… Ah, yes. There’s been the usual levels of unrest in the Colonies. The Chief Commander of Arkados insists that all is under control there, but that we should perhaps consider sending more soldiers to police the streets. They’re a little short I gather.’

  ‘I’ll leave that matter to the House. But I will speak with the ambassadors; I think we can all agree that we need more talks and less guns involved in these negotiations.’

  ‘Righto. Then there is a small matter here of… um… what does this say Lord Barton?’

  ‘Security,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘Ah, yes, see it now. Your s’s look like c’s and c’s like s’s.’

  ‘It’s the main reason for my visit, M’lady,’ said Lord Barton. ‘I would suggest those who need not hear it, leave us.’

  This didn’t have the intended effect. Everyone stayed put. And in the silence Lord Quincy chomped down on another bourbon.

  ‘My Lady?’

  ‘Yes?’

  �
��Might you ask for some privacy?’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘Oh. Right. It’s one of those is it? Alright Martha, would you care to help in the kitchen, you can prepare something for Cassandra, I don’t believe she’s had breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Oh dear! One must jentaculate. It’s the most important meal of the morning,’ said Lord Quincy. ‘Terribly bad for the digestive system, having a tea like that on an empty stomach. It’s the caffeine they tell me. Rotten stuff.’

  ‘No problem, M’lady. You want for anything just call.’

  ‘Thank you, Martha. Close the door on your way out.’

  Martha curtsied and left.

  ‘And… perhaps the Princess would like to run along. Play with her dolls or something,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘I don’t have any dolls, sir.’

  ‘Read a book then,’ the Lord smiled, forcefully.

  Cassandra rose.

  ‘She stays,’ said the Queen.

  Cassandra sat.

  ‘My Lady, the following gossip is not best suited to the Princess’ ears.’

  ‘If it is suited for my ears it is suited for hers.’

  ‘It’s quite sensitive that’s all.’

  ‘That’s no bother.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Well? Go on?’

  Cassandra’s sore head was beginning to spin from all the back and forth dining-table-tennis she was watching.

  ‘As you wish.’ Lord Barton smiled. He was good at smiling. Not so good at making the smile look believable though. Lord Barton was the kind of person who smiled unconvincingly. To make him do so was like making a mirror smile, all the best intentions were there, but it was only ever a reflection of a smile.

  ‘The Chief Inspector of the City Watch believes that there could be a plot to harm you.’

  Cassandra looked at her mother and tried to read the seriousness of what had just been said.

  ‘There’s always a plot,’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘Yes. But this time it’s a bit more than the mumblings of a drunk in some Brewery Quarter tavern.’

  Cassandra zoned out. The Brewery Quarter. Why was that familiar to her? And why could she see that crimson room clear as day in her head? And what was that name? She’d been dreaming of him. She remembered now. She’d been calling his name trying to get him to turn around. But he’d gone in the bathroom and locked the door and… it was all terribly confusing.