Madame Eldritch stood behind the counter. “If it isn’t the little bookmender. What an unexpected surprise.” She said this in a tone that implied anything but surprise.
Sophie offered a half curtsy. “Madame Eldritch.”
The woman beckoned with a graceful hand. “Come closer, child.” She flashed a ruby smile. “I will not bite.”
The room was lit by a series of flickering jars that hung from the ceiling, each one filled with what Sophie assumed were fireflies. Looking more closely, however, she saw that they were not fireflies but tiny human-shaped creatures with no clothes and silver-green wings. “Are those . . . fairies?” she said, her eyes creased with awe.
“Sprites, actually,” Madame Eldritch replied. “One would need a much bigger jar to catch a fairy. And a death wish.” She gave a weary chuckle, as if to imply some hard-won knowledge on the subject.
Sophie knew that sprites had once lived in Bustleburgh before the No Nonsense movement was born. Sometimes older neighbors would talk about how the sprites used to dance above the Wassail at twilight. Seeing them now filled her with wonder. She tapped at the base of a jar, and the little creatures fluttered toward her, clawing and knocking at the glass. “They look angry,” she said.
“I’m sure they are. And if ever they escaped, it would be bad news for she who keeps them.” Madame Eldritch raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. “But you have not come to talk of sprites, I think.”
Sophie pulled herself away from the jar. “No, I haven’t.” She clasped The Book of Who to her chest. A part of her did not want to say anything about the book. The last person she had shown it to had tried to destroy it. “I need your help with something.” She walked to the counter. “It’s difficult to explain.”
“Not too difficult for Madame Eldritch, I think.” The woman walked her long fingers along the countertop, which looked to be made of polished ivory. “I have here everything a girl your age could ever want.” Her hand paused on various wares as she spoke. “A limpid glass for wisdom? A hat for luck? A love potion?” She met Sophie’s eye. “For a special boy, perhaps?”
Sophie flinched. “I haven’t come to buy trinkets.” She felt annoyed that this woman would think she might want any of those things—especially the potion. “I only wanted to ask you a question.”
“An answer to a question?” Madame Eldritch leaned back, releasing a slow breath. “But that is the rarest prize of all. There are emperors and sultans who cannot afford such a thing.”
“I don’t have any money, so if you’re going to charge me, then I’d best not say anything at all.” Sophie turned back toward the stairs, but a hand caught her wrist. The grip was gentle but surprisingly firm.
She looked back to Madame Eldritch, who was smiling. “Do not go, little bookmender.” She released Sophie’s arm. “You have been good to me in the past. I will answer your question. If I am able.”
Sophie eyed the woman, and a shiver snuck through her body. She wondered briefly what her father would say if he knew she was in this unsavory place. Sophie pushed these thoughts from her mind, reminding herself that the book had told her to come here. “It’s about this,” she said, setting The Book of Who on the counter. “Someone brought it to the shop last night. It reminded me somehow of the books you’ve brought me for mending. So I thought you might know something.”
If Sophie had been expecting a big reaction, she was disappointed. The woman glanced at the worn cover with an expression of something less than boredom. “You bring me a book in need of mending . . . Is it not meant to be the other way around?”
“Perhaps, but I’ve never seen a book like this. The ink is strange. The paper shows no age. I don’t even know what it’s bound in.”
Madame’s hands twitched slightly, but she did not touch the book. Sophie noticed that her long fingernails were coated in red paint that matched her lips. The sharp tips shone in the sprite-light. “I can solve one mystery, I think. The binding is some sort of animal hide.”
“I could tell that much,” Sophie said. “But what kind of animal? I don’t recognize the texture at all.”
“Don’t you?” The woman reached out, tracing a red fingernail along Sophie’s jaw. “Perhaps it is not so strange as you think?”
Dread washed over Sophie as she apprehended the woman’s meaning. “Y-y-you think it’s bound in human skin?” She had, of course, read about such things in very old histories but had always suspected that this was a sort of poetic embellishment. “That’s horrifying.”
The woman widened her eyes. “It is not so horrifying as you say. A body can be burned or buried or fed to birds . . . Are those fates more desirable than this?” She leaned close to the book, whispering, “Hello, my long-dead friend. Whoever you were.”
Sophie’s mouth was by now wide open. She straightened up. “You’re making fun of me,” she said.
A pitying smile broke across the woman’s face. “Forgive me, bookmender. It was a harmless jest. Everyone knows that human flesh isn’t thick enough for binding books. And the oils would damage the paper.” She said this in a way that implied that there were other things human flesh was perfect for—though what those might be, Sophie did not want to know. “We shall learn what we can of this book.” The woman reached behind her counter and produced a pair of green silk gloves that went all the way to the elbow. “May I?” she asked, fitting them over her hands.
Sophie nodded. “It’s very old. Just be careful.”
“I always am.” Madame Eldritch picked up the book, holding it at a distance as one might a coiled snake. The gloves were clearly some sort of safety precaution—though from what, Sophie could not guess. The woman touched the symbol on the spine. “That mark. It is unusual.”
Sophie agreed. “At first I thought it was a flower or star. But I think it’s four question marks. I’m not sure what that means, though. When my father saw the book, he threw it into the open stove. But it wouldn’t burn.”
“That sounds like a shadrach charm. Very powerful—impervious to common flame.” She examined the spine. “Someone has gone to great lengths to protect this volume. Perhaps we can learn what makes it worth protecting.” She lifted the latch and opened to the title page. Sophie heard a catch in her breath. “The Book of Who . . .” Her voice was almost a whisper. Sophie watched her face, which was carved into an expression of perfect wonder.
“You’ve heard of it,” Sophie said. It was not a question.
“If you were not so smart a girl, I would lie to you and say that I did not know of it.” She traced her finger along the edge of the page in an almost sensual way. “And then I would offer a trinket in exchange.”
“I told you I didn’t want trinkets.”
“Which is why I offer none.” Madame Eldritch stepped out from behind the counter, carefully removing her gloves as she spoke. “You said someone brought this book to you. Who was this person?”
Sophie stepped back. “It was a boy and his . . . friend. I think they were sent by a man called the Professor.”
“The Professor?” The woman examined a jar of sprites hanging just above her head. She tapped lightly on the glass, watching the creatures blink and buzz. “I have heard rumors of a man who calls himself by that name.” She looked at Sophie. “If the rumors are true, then he is not one to be trifled with.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Sophie said with more conviction than she felt.
“Oh, but you should be. And of any other person who knows what you hold.” Madame Eldritch cocked her head, as if the thought were just occurring to her. “Myself, for example.”
Sophie stared at the woman, who suddenly reminded her less of a shopkeeper than a spider. She glanced toward the trapdoor at the top of the stairs, which was now closed. Had she shut it on her way down? She held out her open hand. “May I have my book back, please?”
“Your book?” Madame Eldritch opened a portable maquillage and began applying a fresh coat of red paint to her lips with a small
brush. “It does not belong to you. You admitted as much a moment ago.”
“It’s getting late,” Sophie said. “Papa knows I’m here and will summon the guard if I’m not back shortly.”
“Summon guards to my shop?” The woman laughed, and for the first time, the laugh sounded genuine. She pursed her red lips, peering at herself in a mirror. “Tell me, little bookmender, do you know why this place is called the oubliette?”
“Oubliette means forgetting place.” Sophie peered past her at the book, still lying on the counter. “The people upstairs, they come here so they don’t have to remember things.”
The woman stepped toward Sophie, who stumbled back. “True. But that is not all. Down here, it is called the oubliette for a different reason. When a person enters with something valuable, something I desire, that something is soon forgotten.”
“And if the person doesn’t want to part with it?”
The woman smiled, her red lips glistening in the sprite-light. “Then that person is also forgotten.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MANDRAKE
Sophie tried to step back but bumped into a harpsichord made of animal bones. “If you touch me, I’ll scream,” she said, knowing even as she said it that screaming would be useless. Her eyes darted from the book to the staircase at the opposite end of the room.
Madame Eldritch insinuated herself closer. “Such a talented girl,” she said, reaching out and holding Sophie’s chin in her thumb and forefinger. “It is truly a waste.”
Sophie tried to pull away, but the woman held her fast. She detected a sweet aroma on the woman’s breath—like the tobacco upstairs, only stronger. She craned her neck to escape the nauseating smell. Her eyes fell on the glowing jar hanging just above her head.
The jar full of angry sprites.
Sophie lunged upward and grabbed the jar, swinging it as hard as she could toward the wall—
Kssshshh!
The glass shattered, releasing twelve furious sprites into the air, hissing and snarling.
Madame Eldritch stepped back. “What have you done?”
The creatures swept through the room like a cyclone, shattering the other jars and anything else they could find. Glass rained down, and soon the chamber was filled with hundreds of shrieking little furies. Sophie crouched and covered her head as the creatures whizzed past her and descended upon Madame Eldritch, clawing and biting her face and hands.
“Get away!” she shrieked, tumbling to the ground.
Sophie did not try to help the woman. She sprang to her feet and took The Book of Who from the counter. Shielding her face with it, she ran up the curving staircase. She winced as her bare feet came down on shards of broken glass. She reached the trapdoor, only to find it shut tight. Through it she could hear the lilting sounds of the sitar. “Help!” she cried, pounding on the door. “Open the door!”
Sophie braced herself and rammed a shoulder against the door, which suddenly flew open. She was knocked to one side as a swarm of sprites whizzed right past her and into the room. Sophie pulled herself up after them. Delirious men and women cried out in confusion as sprites tore through the chamber, smashing pipes and tea trays and anything else they could reach. She tried to make sense of the commotion, but it was difficult in the sprite-filled haze. She clasped the book to her chest, feeling her heart pounding in her ears. Cold night air streamed in from the open front door across the chamber. She picked her way over shredded pillows and broken teapots, wincing with each step.
“Taro!” Sophie heard Madame Eldritch’s voice ring out from the chamber below. “The girl!”
A small figure stepped from the shifting haze.
It was Mister Taro. His hood had fallen back to reveal his face. His smooth skin appeared almost green in the flickering light. He stared at her with unblinking black eyes.
“W-w-what are you?” Sophie said.
Taro did not answer, and a moment later Sophie understood why. A stray sprite landed on his shoulder, illuminating the rest of his face—his mouth was stitched shut with silver thread.
Sophie stared at his expressionless face, fighting revulsion. Keeping her back to the wall, she inched toward the doorway.
Mister Taro followed her with his unblinking eyes but otherwise did not move.
“Taro!” The voice was so loud it made Sophie jump. She glanced back to see Madame Eldritch pulling herself up through the trapdoor. Her beautiful face was marred by a hundred bites and scratches where the sprites had assaulted her. She wiped blood from her cheek and pointed straight at Sophie. “Bring me the book!”
The silent figure instantly obeyed, dashing toward Sophie, who ducked to one side, narrowly missing his outstretched hands. Then she sprang forward, racing through the open doorway and out of the oubliette.
Sophie stumbled up the narrow gangplank that led to the dock, very nearly falling into the black river below. She could feel Taro behind her, grasping for her skirt with his small hands. She crouched down and grabbed the base of the plank she had just crossed. She shoved it with all her strength. The plank slid off the edge of the dock and splashed into the dark water—the creature falling with it.
Sophie did not linger to see whether he could swim. She staggered along the path that would take her to the pier. She didn’t know where she would go after that—she only knew she had to get away from that creature.
“You there!” a voice cried in the shadows ahead. “Halt!”
Sophie looked up to see the two sentries on the lower docks, standing between her and the ladder that led to the shore.
“Help me,” Sophie said, gasping. “Madame Eldritch—she’s after me. Her servant, he’s—”
“Hold up,” said one of the men, stepping closer. “I know you. You’re the book thief who attacked us on the bridge. There’s a warrant out for you.”
That Inquisitor Prigg would have issued a warrant for her arrest was troubling, but not half so troubling as the prospect of seeing Mister Taro again. “Please,” Sophie said. “You can arrest me, escort me to Inquisitor Prigg, only—”
The deck beneath her abruptly heaved to one side with a loud slosh. Sophie fell to her knees, dropping The Book of Who.
“What was that?” the first sentry cried, peering into the darkness. The deck shuddered again. He pointed. “Something’s in the water!” He and the other man unshouldered their muskets.
The deck shook, and this time a hand burst right through the wood planks at Sophie’s feet. Sophie and the men all leapt back in alarm.
The wet hand glistened green in the moonlight.
It had more than five fingers.
Sophie watched as Taro pulled himself up through the hole. He stood in front of her, dripping on the deck. His robe had come off in the water, and she could now see that his legs and arms were twisted and misshapen. The threads binding his mouth shimmered slightly in the darkness.
The first sentry aimed his musket, which was shaking in his grip. “W-w-what is that thing?”
Two cracks split the air as he and his compatriot discharged their weapons straight at Taro. The smoke cleared to reveal Taro, still standing. Sophie could see two dark spots where the musket shots had plunged into his green flesh. If the wounds pained him, it did not show. He tilted his head slightly, like one working a crick from his neck, and the musket balls seemed to push themselves out of his body. They landed on the dock with two dull thumps.
The sentries stared at him, eyes wide. The first man lowered his musket. “R-r-run!” He dropped his weapon and ran toward the water, diving headlong into the black river. The other sentry ran in the opposite direction before doing the same.
Now Sophie was alone with Taro, who was facing her, perhaps waiting for her to run as well. She stood and looked him straight in the eye. She was frightened, of course, but a part of her was simply awed. What sort of creature could survive two musket shots to the chest? And why would such a powerful creature so blindly obey a woman like Eldritch?
“Mister
Taro,” she said, shivering. “That’s your name?”
He nodded and then stepped closer.
Sophie remembered how Taro had not moved to stop her from escaping the oubliette until Madame Eldritch had told him to do so—it reminded her of a djinni or golem, bound to the commands of its master. Sophie wondered if that might be the key to her survival. “You have to do what she says, don’t you?”
He nodded again. And stepped closer still.
Sophie glanced down at The Book of Who, clasped once more in her arms. “‘Bring me the book.’ Those were her exact words. And you will not stop until the task is done?”
Another nod.
Sophie felt her heart beating hard against the book’s cover. She knew that in a story the hero should do anything to protect her magic book. But this was not a story anymore. She remembered Madame Eldritch’s bloody face, mangled by vengeful sprites. These things were real. And they could kill her. No book—not even a magical one—was worth losing her life.
Sophie knelt down, holding Taro’s gaze as one might do with a rabid dog. “Here,” she said, setting the book at his feet. “You have the thing she asked for. Now will you let me go? Please?” She hoped in this case that what people said about please being a “magic word” was true.
Taro looked from the book to her. He nodded yet again.
“Thank you,” Sophie whispered. She turned and ran to the ladder. She climbed up it to the main pier that led into town. When she reached the street, she looked back toward the docks, but the creature and the book were gone.
Soaking and exhausted, Sophie limped through the cobblestone streets. Her feet throbbed from where she had cut herself on the glass, and her lungs felt as if they might burst in her chest. She knew that if she stopped moving, she would collapse. Her only thought was of seeing her father again, of throwing her arms around him and apologizing for not listening to his warnings, of begging for his forgiveness. At long last, she reached the small, familiar alley that led to her home.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 7