“Papa!” she called, staggering up the front steps of the shop. The door swung open, and she was relieved to think he might still be awake. She saw the warm glow of the stove in the back of the shop. “Papa!” she called, racing between bookshelves. “It’s me!”
But as she approached his old chair in front of the stove, something felt wrong. Instead of his slippered feet, she saw a pair of heeled boots and sharp black crinoline. She gripped the empty bookcase beside her. “You . . .”
Madame Eldritch sat in the chair, holding The Book of Who. The woman did not look angry. In fact, she appeared almost amused. Her face was smooth, bearing only the tiniest traces of the cuts Sophie had seen not half an hour before.
The woman stood and approached Sophie. “Hello, my little bookmender.” Her smile flickered dark red in the firelight. “You left without saying good-bye.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to Sophie’s forehead.
Sophie blinked, stumbling to one side. She touched her head, and when she pulled her hand away, her fingers were covered in sticky red paint—a mark from Madame Eldritch’s lips.
Sophie stared up at the woman, whose face seemed to be moving in and out of focus. “What . . . ?” she began through shallow breaths. “What did you do to me?”
The woman raised a shoulder. “What the occasion called for.”
Sophie swayed backward, trying to keep herself upright. The room around her was moving now, expanding and shrinking with every breath. Her vision blurred, and she felt her whole being slipping into darkness. She let go of the bookcase and collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A GIFT
Sophie stirred in the darkness. She opened her eyes to find herself curled up on a leather bench, her body rocking back and forth in a lurching rhythm. She thought for a moment she was back in the oubliette but then realized that she could hear hoofbeats. She was in a moving carriage. A single lamp hung from the ceiling. It swung from side to side, drawing odd shadows across the floor. Madame Eldritch sat across the carriage, with Taro at her side.
Between them lay The Book of Who.
“You finally wake,” the woman said, looking away from the moonlit window. “I trust you dreamt well.”
Sophie sat up, feeling a crimp in her neck. She massaged her throbbing forehead. What had happened to her? She remembered running to the bookshop, calling for her father, and finding Madame Eldritch waiting for her, and then . . .
“You drugged me,” she said.
Madame Eldritch did not bother trying to deny it. “I thought it would make you easier to transport.”
“You mean abduct,” Sophie said. She grabbed the door handle and pulled with all her might, but it was locked. “Stop the carriage!” she called, pounding her fist against the driver’s window. “I’m being kidnapped!”
Madame Eldritch made no move to stop her. She waited until Sophie had exhausted herself before speaking. “Your efforts are wasted. The man driving this carriage has been paid too well to be moved by the pleas of a little girl . . . however comely she may be.” Her eyes flicked down to Sophie’s clothes.
Sophie looked at herself and noticed that her plain dress had been replaced with a fine gown that pinched at the waist. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and she felt exposed, even in the dim light. Mercifully, she saw that she also had been equipped with a hooded cloak and a pair of leather boots. That, at least, was something. “Why am I dressed like this?” she said.
“Forgive the liberty. Your frock was torn. And it was . . .” Madame Eldritch paused to consider the word. “Disadvantageous.”
Sophie understood the implication, and it might have been true for someone like Madame Eldritch, but not so for Sophie. “A gown’s not very practical for travel,” she said, pulling her cloak tightly over her shoulders.
“I think in time you will disagree.” Madame Eldritch leaned closer, in the manner of a person wanting to share a secret. “Here is a lesson for you, little bookmender: A walled garden must have a lattice gate. Before a woman can be desired, she must reveal a bit of what makes her desirable.” She reached across the cabin and drew a curl of dark hair from behind Sophie’s ear, laying it artfully down her bare neck.
Sophie pulled away and retucked the hair behind her ear. “I’m not a garden. And I have no interest in being desired.”
Madame Eldritch did not laugh outright but looked as if she wanted to. “Everyone wants to be desired—it is only a question of for what and by whom.”
Sophie had no energy to debate the point. She sat up and peered out the round window in the carriage door. A half moon shone above the receding trees. It was a different moon from her night in the oubliette, and she realized that they had been traveling for at least two days. “Where are we?” she said.
“Can you not tell by the stars? We are taking the eastern road through the Grimmwald.”
“The Grimmwald?” The name was enough to make Sophie shudder. She peered again through the window, looking for signs of danger in the moonlit forest. “You’re not afraid of wild beasts? Or highwaymen?” There were, of course, rumors of much more dangerous things lurking in the Grimmwald, but Sophie preferred not to consider them.
“I do not fear the darkness, nor should you. Our door is securely locked—as you already know. And our driver carries a musket at the ready. And if that is not enough, we have Mister Taro.” She looked fondly at the creature sitting silently beside her.
Sophie studied the manservant who had spared her on the docks. He was now wearing a black velvet suit that looked appropriate for a footman or valet. She tried to read some expression on his face, but it was impossible to see anything beyond the silver thread that held his lips together. The very sight of it made her ill.
Sophie sighed, flopping back down in her seat. Even if she could escape, there would be little hope of making it back to Bustleburgh before Taro intervened. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her body rocking with the motion of the carriage.
“We are going to visit someone who will take a great interest in this book of yours.” Madame Eldritch’s hand rested casually atop The Book of Who, one red fingernail playing at the latch. “Someone who will pay handsomely for it, I think.”
Sophie stared at the book. Her book. Perhaps the only hope she had of learning about her mother. “Did you read it?”
Madame Eldritch smiled. “I am a simple shopkeeper. The contents of this book are irrelevant to me. I am only concerned with its value.”
“So you’re just going to sell it off for money?”
“Money is vulgar but useful. It hired this carriage, for example. Still, you are right—I hope to exchange this book for something that cannot otherwise be bought. Something no bank or coffer can hold.” She said this, as she said many things, in a way that implied some illicit secret. “But where we are going is not your real question, I think. What you want to know is why, if I already have the book, did I also bring you?”
Sophie shrugged. “I assume you’re planning to sell me, too?”
The woman shook her head. “It is a weakness of sentiment, perhaps.” She drew her finger along the curve of Sophie’s chin. “I am liberating you. A girl like you does not belong in that dusty little bookshop.”
“Of course I belong in that dusty little bookshop,” Sophie said, pulling back. “I’m a bookmender.”
“I have it on good authority that your position in the city was not exactly what one could call secure.” Sophie thought that Madame Eldritch must have learned about her flight from Inquisitor Prigg. “Besides, you are no common bookmender. You are the daughter of Coriander Quire. Among discerning populations, your mother was the only bookmender. The one person who could repair a book without letting its magic slip away.”
Sophie sat up, suddenly listening much more closely. The woman must have read the wonder on her face, for she went on. “People traveled great distances to commission Coriander Quire, and many of us were disappointed to lose her services. You, like your
mother, possess a rare and valuable talent—one that might serve me well.”
Sophie recalled the look on Madame Eldritch’s face whenever she returned a repaired book to the woman. Awe. And a touch of envy. “So I’m to be your servant,” she said.
“I already have a servant.” Madame Eldritch leaned back. “What I seek in you is . . . a protégé. There is much I can teach you about the world. There are places and things beyond your well-fed imagination. Things too fantastic even for books. Well, most books.” She glanced meaningfully at The Book of Who.
Sophie folded her arms and stared out the window. “I suppose I should have just sold the book to you when you gave me the chance.”
“You do me injury, little bookmender. I am no thief. Reach into your pocket.”
Sophie looked down to find that her dress—ridiculous though it was—indeed had pockets. She reached into the left pocket and removed a leather bundle rolled up and secured with a ratty cord. “What is it?” she asked.
“A gift.”
Sophie untied the cord and opened the bundle. Inside lay a row of tools: hand clamps, pincers, an awl, a leather-punch, paste spoons, and brushes. “They’re . . . bookmending tools,” she said. Such tools were not expensive, but something about these nonetheless filled her with hushed awe.
“They belonged to your mother,” Madame Eldritch said.
Sophie looked up at the woman, unsure whether she was being mocked. But when she turned back to the tools and placed her fingers over them, she knew. There are legends beyond counting of enchanted objects that hold a sort of memory: swords that still ring with the screams of their victims, boots that still creak with roads long since trod, and, apparently, in this case, bookmending tools that bore the imprint of Sophie’s mother’s hand. “How did you get them?”
“She gave them to me.” Madame Eldritch made a small shrug, as if mirroring Sophie’s own surprise. “It must have been a dozen years ago. She came to my shop and asked me to prepare for her a great number of very powerful charms. She did not have money to offer, so instead she gave me those tools.”
Sophie shifted in her seat. “What were the charms for?”
“They were protective charms. Guarding against all manner of harm: fire, ice, wind, earth, steel, spark, poison, disease—the ghastly gamut. I did not ask her intentions, but it seemed to me that she was planning to do something dangerous that very night, something from which she feared she might not return.”
Sophie recalled what her father had told her about the night her mother left. “The charms didn’t work,” she said, looking down. “My father found her in the shop, dead.”
Madame Eldritch raised an eyebrow. “Then she must have encountered something very powerful indeed. And all the more fitting that I return these tools to you now. Consider it a refund.” She smiled not unkindly. “All charms guaranteed.”
Sophie ran her fingers over the tools. “I . . . thank you.” But as soon as she said these words, she regretted it. This was the same woman who had tried to trap her in the oubliette. The same woman who had drugged her in the bookshop. She massaged the spot on her forehead where Madame Eldritch’s lips had touched her. “Papa would never let you take me from him. Did you kiss him, too?”
The woman made a noncommittal gesture with her hand. “For him I employed a more subtle attack.” She turned to her manservant, who had remained so still that Sophie had very nearly forgotten he was in the carriage with them. “Mister Taro, maquillage.”
Taro nodded and produced a black box with a silver handle on top. He opened the case to reveal a collection of oils and powders and implements that one might find on the counter of a fine lady’s dressing room. The bottles clinked as the carriage rattled beneath them.
Madame Eldritch reached into the case and removed a round bottle of what looked like perfume. “This vial contains a wallflower charm—it lets me pass unobserved, and if someone does manage to notice me, they forget the moment they look away. Your father is doubtless sleeping soundly in his bed.”
Sophie eyed the array of powders and potions, feeling a twist of confusion that was as much about her ignorance of the feminine arts as of the magical arts. “How did you learn to make all of those?” She had tried making spells when she was younger. A few of the older books from the shop hinted at recipes—newt eyes and dandelion stems and such. The results, however, were nothing but foul-smelling cups of tea.
“It only takes a little bit of practice. I could teach you, if you would like.” The woman dug through her case and removed a small tin of what looked like talcum powder. “Taro,” she said. “Your arm.”
The creature rolled up the sleeve of his coat to reveal his bare arm. Sophie stared at his skin and felt a wave of repulsion. Taro’s arm was like a stick that had been whittled to the bone. Jagged scars covered every inch of it. “I . . . I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “Who did this to him?”
“I did, of course.” Madame Eldritch drew from her case a shining silver scalpel. “You have read many things, little bookmender. What have you read of the mandrake?”
“The mandrake is a root,” Sophie said. “The proper name is Mandragora. It’s said to be useful for making potions and spells.” The woman nodded approvingly, and Sophie went on. “They say if you pluck a mandrake from the ground, its roots cry out like a newborn baby . . . and anyone who hears the cry will be instantly killed. But I don’t see what this has to do with . . . him.” She glanced at the manservant.
“Don’t you? Perhaps you should look more closely.”
Sophie studied Taro’s greenish skin, ribbed with horizontal lines, his small, unblinking eyes—he reminded her of nothing so much as the texture of a gingerroot. “You’re saying he’s an actual plant?” She had to stop herself from touching his face. “But that’s not possible.”
“You yourself observed that the mandrake root could move and speak. I ask you, what would happen if someone could prevent a mandrake babe from uttering his deadly cry?”
Sophie suddenly realized why Taro’s mouth had been stitched shut with silver thread. “You stitched his mouth to stop him from speaking.”
“Clever, no?” Madame Eldritch smiled. “And now I have an endless source of this most rare and versatile ingredient. This is another lesson: To control the spring is to control the sea.” She sliced off one of the tuberous knots growing from Taro’s elbow. Sophie tried to imagine what it must feel like to have someone simply take a part of you. Taro was staring forward, his face devoid of emotion. It was clear he was aware of what Madame Eldritch had done, but it was not clear how he felt about it.
Madame Eldritch took the tiny bit of root and dropped it into the tin of powder. Sophie watched the woman grind the root with a miniature pestle. A heavy, sweet aroma filled the cabin. Her work completed, Madame Eldritch dabbed the powder on her face with a flat brush.
Sophie recalled the ghastly vision of Eldritch being swarmed by sprites. “When I ran from the oubliette, your face was covered with cuts . . .”
“And now it is not.”
This was true. Her skin was clear and smooth and bore no traces of the attack. Madame Eldritch replaced her tools and closed the lid of her case. “Rejuvenation is but one of many useful charms. I shall teach them all to you in time.” She reached out a pale hand and drew back the edge of Sophie’s cloak to expose her throat. “This bell. Where did you get it?”
She was talking about the necklace that Sophie always wore. “My mother left it for me,” she said. Sophie took the bell between her fingers and shook it. “It doesn’t work, though. There’s no sound.”
“Of course there’s no sound,” Madame Eldritch said. “It’s a dispell bell.”
Sophie stared at the little silver bell. “What does that mean?”
“Charms can be tricky things. And sometimes there is need to unwork them. A dispell bell is used to break certain charms.”
“So I can undo charms, just by ringing it?” Sophie looked at the bell, which shone white in
the lamplight. “How do you know all this?”
“Because it was purchased from my shop.” Madame Eldritch sat back in her seat, looking more than a little smug. “If your mother left that bell with you, then she must have feared that whatever evil she faced might soon come for you. Perhaps it is a luckier thing than I realized that I have taken you from Bustleburgh.”
Sophie let go of the necklace. “Or perhaps you were the thing she was afraid of?”
Madame Eldritch said, “I would think a girl so well-read as yourself would know that there are more frightening things in the world than shopkeepers and mandrakes.”
Sophie’s body was thrown forward as the carriage suddenly slowed. She heard the driver’s voice outside the cabin. “Whoa!” he called to the horses, stopping them in the road.
“I have instructed our man to deliver us to a comfortable inn,” Madame Eldritch said. “It seems we have reached our destination.”
The carriage remained still, but the driver did not dismount to open the door. Sophie peered through the window, glimpsing the unlit, narrow road ahead of them. “I don’t think we’re at the inn,” she said. Her reading had taught her that roads near inns were usually wider to accommodate riders passing in both directions.
“Who goes there?” the driver called. “Show yourself.”
Another voice rang out from somewhere ahead: “Stand and deliver!”
“Stand and deliver” was a common cry of bandits who assailed hapless travelers. “Highwaymen,” Sophie whispered.
Madame Eldritch nodded to Sophie. “It seems you are correct.” She sat back, displaying absolutely no signs of distress. “There is a reason our driver is armed.”
Sophie gripped the edge of the bench, trying to picture the deadly encounter about to transpire just outside their carriage.
“Let us pass!” the driver called. “We have no quarrel with you!”
The horses neighed loudly, and the carriage jolted to one side. There came shouts and then a loud crack as a musket ball split the air.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 8