The Thief on the Winged Horse
Page 28
She moved forward to embrace Persephone, and Persephone flinched to evade her touch, lest Rieko feel the enchantment upon her. Rieko leant back immediately. Persephone feared she had caused offence. She regretted doing so, when their support for each other’s work was so new. But Rieko wasn’t offended. She was looking at Persephone with concern – and yes; love. For why shouldn’t she care about Persephone? She had known her a long time; since Persephone was a little girl, the same age that Sara, Rieko’s daughter, was now. Rieko had been there when Persephone received her hex. She had heard Persephone announce, the same day, that she would be a Sorcerer – and now they both had any number of enchantments at their fingertips. If the eyot had been different, less rigid and paranoid, Persephone might have noticed before now there were people who worried about her. Among the possible consequences of disturbing the order at Kendricks, Persephone had not anticipated that it would be easier to offer, and accept, friendship.
“We’ll make something good,” Persephone agreed. “We’ve already started.”
55
Persephone waited, on the Iffley Road, for the taxi to pull over. It stopped on the opposite side of the street from her, and a door opened, revealing a man in his sixties, freshly shaven, in a threadbare coat. Her father. He waved at the driver when he’d shut the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” he called to her.
She was merely relieved that he was sober, having half feared the reason for his lateness was a celebratory trip to the pub.
Briar looked both ways and half walked, half ran across the road. He inclined in her direction, a gesture towards embracing, but she kept her distance.
“The journey was OK?” Persephone checked.
He nodded.
“Good.” She walked to the footbridge, with him falling in line behind her.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.
Her heart beat faster. She needed to tell him something as well. Ideally she would have told him away from the eyot, perhaps even before he was released, but things had moved faster than she had imagined after Conrad withdrew his identification of the doll.
“I’m still drinking,” he said. “But only because it’s dangerous to withdraw everything at once. I’ve been having just enough to prevent the DTs. But there’s a rehab programme I’m going to start in two weeks. They didn’t have a place till then.”
The development might have pleased Persephone, but she saw it as a fragile statement of intent, easily broken in the wrong circumstances – which she may be about to create.
“That’s good, Dad.” She paused. “Listen. It would be good if you worked on getting better in your own space. You need a fresh start. And so do I. We shouldn’t be living in the same house any more.”
A flake of snow fell on her eyelash. She brushed it away, watching the path ahead rather than Dad’s reaction.
“Where should I go?” he asked. He sounded sad; not angry – and in some ways that was worse.
“For now, your old place on the terrace. But – if we can find you somewhere else near the eyot—”
“I think it’s a good idea,” he said suddenly.
“You do?”
“I don’t want to live on the eyot. Not after… everything. They all see me the same way, Sephy. They think I’m a drunk, and a failed son, and a failed father. A criminal.”
He wouldn’t believe her if she contradicted him. She pointed out: “Everyone here has failed at something. They can fuck off, with their opinions.”
“Maybe I’ll fail less, elsewhere.”
Persephone changed the subject. “I’ve been making new dolls. All with enchantments.”
She felt it was safe to look at him, for his reaction. His eyes crinkled with amusement.
“I bet you’re better than any of the Sorcerers,” he said.
“I am a Sorcerer,” she said. “Conrad says so.”
“And only a fool would argue with him.”
She laughed. “Sorcerer doesn’t mean the same thing any more. They’re not keepers of secrets. I promised all the other members of staff I’d teach them every hex I have, no matter what Alastair does. Soon they’ll all know what I know. Every day, everything changes more.”
“Good.”
“Dad. Do you want to come to the workshop? Other people will be there. But you could see what I’ve been working on—”
“I’d love to,” he said.
So instead of stopping at the terrace of cottages, they went on to Kendricks. Neither of them spoke as they walked up the steps. In the foyer, Dennis was altering the lists of descendants on the wall. He had sanded Larkin’s name away, leaving Jemima Ramsay’s plaque blank again. A pale halo, where the wood had been revarnished, was visible if you knew where to look for it. She wondered where Larkin was now.
“Look,” Briar said, pointing. Dennis had stencilled, in black outline, a word next to Persephone’s name. He was about to fill the letters in gold. The word was Sorcerer. “Someone still thinks the title matters.”
It did make her happy to see it there – for wasn’t that what she’d always wanted?
“Here, Dennis,” Briar said. “Let me have that brush.”
A little perplexed, but willing to oblige, Dennis stepped down from the ladder and allowed Briar to go up in his place. Briar gilded each stem and serif, as Persephone held her breath, waiting for his hand to shake. But it did not. His poise held.
“Daddy?” she asked, as he finished.
“What? Don’t you like it?”
“I love it. Can you add Sorcerer to everyone’s name?”
“Steady on,” said Dennis, and Persephone laughed. Briar did as she asked; he stencilled the word Sorcerer next to every living resident, and when he was done, he filled the letters with gold. Persephone watched the bright lacquer spread across the surface, thinking of the women just a few yards away, making dolls and rooms and houses to put them in, finally permitted to feel as they wished; to wield fear and anger and hope and love in whichever way they chose. Yes, they had all made changes. And there would be more to come.
Acknowledgements
The following people contributed, directly or indirectly, to the writing of this book.
Thirty years ago my father built a dolls’ house for me, which I still own, along with all the others I’ve accumulated since. Over that period I’ve had many dramatic encounters with people in the doll trade and it’s such a peculiar, unique industry, it was bound to end up in one of my stories eventually. I thank them for the inspiration.
Oli Munson, and the rest of the team at A. M. Heath, have been in my corner at every stage of the writing process. I couldn’t wish for better support.
Head of Zeus, and in particular Madeleine O’Shea, have my gratitude for working so hard on bringing this book to readers.
My friend Tracy commented on early drafts, kept me company while checking research details in Oxford, and fielded WhatsApp messages at two in the morning with admirable forbearance.
Final mention goes to Matthew, a fellow miniaturist as well as my partner; we share model paints and steal each other’s brushes. I love him very much and doubt I’d last a week without him – much less finish a novel.
About the Author
KATE MASCARENHAS is a part-Irish, part-Seychellois midlander. Since 2017, Kate has been a chartered psychologist. Before that she worked as a copywriter, a dolls’ house maker, and a bookbinder. She lives with her husband in a small terraced house which she is slowly filling with Sindy dolls. Her first novel, The Psychology of Time Travel, was published in 2018 to wide acclaim.
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