The Hatmakers

by Tamzin Merchant

  She pointed to a tall door with a crest carved over it: a shield with a plume-feathered hat, surrounded by seven stars.

  “Oh!” Cordelia was surprised to see the familiar Hatmaker emblem looking perfectly at home in this strange, ancient place.

  “Do you know why there are seven stars on the Hatmaker crest?” Aunt Ariadne asked her.

  Cordelia shook her head.

  “There’s one for each Maker family,” her aunt told her. “And the seventh star represents the idea that the Makers shine brightest when they all work together. You can have a hat, or a pair of gloves, or a cloak, but alone they have less power. The most potent magic is said to ignite when all six Makers unite.”

  Uncle Tiberius growled low in his throat and narrowed his eyes at a portrait of a plump Glovemaker smiling benignly from the wall.

  “We all shared our secrets and ingredients and new techniques and discoveries very happily,” Great-aunt Petronella told Cordelia. “There was a slight disagreement between the Hatmakers and the Bootmakers in the early 1600s, and a spot of bother in the middle of the century with a chap called Oliver Cromwell. But, generally speaking, generations of Makers got along very well for about two hundred years …” Her great-aunt stopped.

  “Then—what happened?” Cordelia asked.

  “Thirty years ago … Solomon Canemaker broke the Makers’ pledge.”

  “You mean the pledge to do no harm?”

  Great-aunt Petronella nodded gravely. “He began secretly Making swordsticks. He would encrust the handles of his canes with jewels and carvings to encourage hot-headedness or excessive pride or vanity, and hide a thin blade inside the cane.”

  Cordelia looked around the great room for the Canemaker crest. She saw it, mounted over the door opposite the Hatmakers’ crest: two crossed walking sticks that sharpened into lightning bolts at the bottom.

  “He was using Menacing ingredients in his creations,” Great-aunt Petronella said, and Cordelia felt her eyes widen. “Back then, every evil ingredient a Maker found on their travels was locked in the Menacing Cabinet here, at the Guildhall.”

  Her great-aunt extended a pale finger and pointed to the far wall. Set into the wood paneling was a tall iron door. Cordelia shuddered: carved into the door was a grinning skull.

  “Is it like the Menacing Cabinet at Hatmaker House?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Her great-aunt nodded. “But this one is much bigger. And it was locked with six locks—do you see the keyholes?”

  Cordelia crept closer to the cabinet. There was a row of six bones beneath the skull, each with a keyhole.

  “Each family of Makers was entrusted with a master key, so the Menacing Cabinet could never be opened without everyone’s consent. The purpose of the six keys was to keep the evil ingredients from ever being used.”

  Cordelia nodded. The skull stared at her out of empty eye sockets.

  “But Solomon Canemaker wanted something different. He went out searching for Menacing ingredients. He collected them secretly. He didn’t tell the other Makers about the wicked things he had plundered from around the world.”

  Cordelia turned to her great-aunt. “Why?”

  “He was greedy. He wanted everyone in London to own a Canemaker cane. He secretly turned the ingredients into weapons, so that everybody would be frightened of walking around without the protection of their own cane. Perhaps the most dangerous ingredient he used was his own bad intentions: he twisted evil into each swordstick. He Made hundreds before he was caught.”

  “How was he caught?”

  Great-aunt Petronella’s face clouded.

  “A young man was killed,” she said quietly. “He wasn’t much more than a boy, really. His name was Abel Dudlook, youngest son of the Duke of Dudlook. One night young Abel exchanged angry words with the son of a squire, on Piccadilly. Witnesses said the quarrel quickly became a fight. Both boys were carrying Canemaker swordsticks. There was the clunk of wood hitting wood, then a stripe of silver flashed out of one cane, then the other, and within a minute one boy lay dying on the pavement and the other had fled. Both boys, it turned out, had bought their new canes that very day.”

  Cordelia was cold with horror. Making had made that happen.

  “The Duke would not rest until his son’s murderer was found,” Great-aunt Petronella went on heavily. “The poor foolish boy was discovered and hanged at Newgate. When the Lord Privy Councilor found the swordstick used in the fatal fight, he realized the Canemakers’ treachery. The Canemaker family was stripped of the royal charter and Solomon was branded a traitor and executed on Tower Hill. Mrs. Canemaker and the two children were thrown into a workhouse, penniless and in disgrace. They all died less than a year later. The young Miss Canemaker was a little younger than you are now. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  Cordelia gazed at the carved Canemaker crest. There was something chilling about it: something furious about the way the lightning bolts struck down, like vengeance. She thought of the young Canemaker girl—ripped away from the enchanted life she knew and thrown into a dingy, stinking workhouse. And she had died there.

  Cordelia shivered with sorrow.

  “But why is the Guildhall empty now?” she asked, looking across the abandoned room to the glowing stained-glass window. The window depicted six Makers in Elizabethan clothing holding their creations aloft, but someone had smashed the Canemaker’s face, so the body was creepily headless. “Why did everyone leave, if just the Canemakers were disgraced?”

  “Well, dearest, old tensions tend to surface in times of crisis,” her great-aunt said wisely. “Everybody was shocked by what had happened, and emotions were a little raw. Then the Bootmakers accused the Hatmakers of stealing ideas—”

  “BAH!” Uncle Tiberius exploded, his voice echoing around the vast chamber. “Those Bootmakers were keeping secrets. And the Cloakmakers weren’t sharing either! The Watchmakers were the first to go. Said they couldn’t hear their precious watches tick, what with other Makers having shouting matches in the grand hall. After them, the Cloakmakers packed up and left. The Glovemakers weren’t far behind. Then it was just Hatmakers and Bootmakers, and we couldn’t stand the sight of those useless—”

  “Tiberius!” Aunt Ariadne hissed.

  Uncle Tiberius broke off mid-sentence, and Cordelia turned around.

  Every Maker in London was standing in the great chamber.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE TEN GLOVEMAKERS GLARED IN A GROUP. The old Watchmaker stood silently beside a pillar, holding the hands of his two little grandchildren. The Cloakmakers all loomed by the staircase. And the four Bootmakers glowered in the doorway.

  Cordelia, on the point of waving hello to Goose, caught herself just in time. They would have to pretend to be enemies. He looked very stone-faced and she tried to follow his example, jutting out her bottom jaw and knitting her eyebrows together in a frown. He was doing a very good impression of being furious to see her.

  “Tiberius Hatmaker!” Mrs. Bootmaker boomed across the room. “As usual, your voice is even louder than your hat. Quite impressive.”

  Cordelia thought she heard Uncle Tiberius growl. The red Flabbercrest feather that topped off his extremely tall hat quivered.

  “Nigella Bootmaker.” He grimaced, sweeping his hat off and bowing flamboyantly in her direction. “Your expression, as ever, resembles one of your finest pieces of footwear.”

  Mrs. Bootmaker’s nose twitched. Cordelia stole a glance at Goose, who scowled at Uncle Tiberius.

  One of the Glovemaker twins swiveled his head to waggle his tongue at Cordelia. She retaliated with the wickedest grimace she could manage.

  “Now, now, let’s try and be civil,” the tallest Cloakmaker drawled, flicking his shimmering cloak so it shivered through the air. “Fighting really is beneath us.”

  Mrs. Glovemaker said “HAH!” very loudly, which caused the Cloakmaker to snap his head around to glare at her. “We know you think everything’s beneath you, Cloakmakers,” she sneered. “Inc
luding all of us.”

  The old Watchmaker tutted fretfully. The two junior Watchmakers blinked like owls. The younger one was sucking his thumb.

  “Somebody here is beneath the rest of us,” the tall Cloakmaker hissed, narrowing his eyes at each family of Makers in turn. “Somebody here is a thieving scoundrel of the murkiest variety.”

  “Don’t look at us!” Mr. Bootmaker exploded. “We’re the ones who got robbed last night!”

  “We were robbed yesterday afternoon!” a pair of Glovemakers cried.

  “And us, yesterday morning!” snapped the tall Cloakmaker.

  “We were burgled the night before last!” Uncle Tiberius bellowed. “Don’t you dare point your gloved fingers at the Hatmakers!”

  “The Watchmaker’s the only one who hasn’t been robbed,” a young Cloakmaker spat. “He must be the thief!”

  Everybody turned to the elderly Watchmaker, who shrank against the pillar in fright. There was a moment of silence, then:

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Goose’s older brother, Ignatius, scoffed. “He’s ancient! He couldn’t rob a biscuit out of his own biscuit tin!”

  “I beg your pardon—” the Watchmaker began, tremulously, but he was drowned out by the clamor.

  “How do we know you didn’t rob yourself, Old Boot?” Uncle Tiberius shouted. “To make yourself look innocent!”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Nonsensical!”

  “Our Peace Gloves are gone!”

  “The Cloak was almost finished!”

  “Our Menacing Cabinet was broken into!”

  “Who’s the sneak-thief?”

  “Rapscallion!”

  “VAGABOND!”

  Cordelia surveyed the raging Makers around the hall. Every face was contorted with wrath as Maker bellowed bitter blame at Maker.

  Perhaps this was what the Guildhall had been like thirty years ago, she thought, when the Canemaker’s villainy was revealed and everybody’s friendships were smashed by grief and distrust.

  Cordelia chewed her lip, watching Goose hurl hurtful words in her direction. He really was giving a most convincing performance.

  “Who wound the Summoning Clock?” Aunt Ariadne’s question cut through the din. “WHO wound the SUMMONING CLOCK?”

  All the Makers fell silent.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Somebody was hammering on the Guildhall door.

  “Who could that be?” Mrs. Bootmaker barked. “Lucas, go and see.”

  Goose scuttled out of the hall.

  “Is nobody going to admit to calling us all here?” Aunt Ariadne asked crisply. “Or explain the reason why?”

  Cordelia studied the Makers’ faces. Everybody glared at each other, waiting for the culprit to reveal themselves. She thought she heard a faint, snickering laugh echo around the domed chamber. She glowered at the Glovemaker girls, who sneered silently in reply.

  Goose trotted back into the chamber, followed swiftly by Lord Witloof. The Thieftaker stalked in behind them.

  “Lord Witloof!” Mrs. Bootmaker sank into a low curtsy.

  Not to be outdone, every other Maker bowed and curtsied too. One Glovemaker’s nose almost touched the floor, he bowed so low.

  “You grace us with your presence this morning, my lord,” Mrs. Bootmaker began. “I am most humbled—”

  But Lord Witloof waved a flustered hand for silence. He cut a path through the Makers and climbed two steps up the sweeping staircase so that he could see everybody clearly. Thieftaker Sternlaw lingered by the door.

  Lord Witloof cleared his throat. “I am surprised that all of you are standing around having a party when the Peace Clothes are so distressingly delayed,” he said.

  Mrs. Bootmaker puffed herself up like a pigeon, opened her mouth to reply, and slowly deflated as Lord Witloof went on: “The peace talks are the day after tomorrow and you Makers are slacking. Never, in my years as Lord Privy Councilor, have I witnessed such vexatious and troubling behavior.”

  “But, my lord,” began the tallest Cloakmaker, looking peeved. “We have all been burgled—”

  Lord Witloof crinkled his forehead and blinked several times at the Cloakmaker.

  “Burgled!” the Thieftaker repeated. “I suspect you could all have faked these burglaries to make yourselves look like victims.”

  The Cloakmaker’s mouth fell open.

  “Indeed! Have you actually been Making the Peace Clothes at all?” Lord Witloof said querulously, twisting his hands in agitation. “Do you care about your duties to the Crown?”

  “My Lord, we have been working on the Peace Clothes day and night—” Aunt Ariadne began, but Lord Witloof’s indignant voice continued over her.

  “Do you wish these peace talks to fail? Will you cheer if England succumbs to the French? Would you welcome an invasion, so you can sell more gloves, more cloaks, more hats?”

  “And boots!” Ignatius Bootmaker added. His mother elbowed him in the ribs.

  Lord Witloof bristled with anger. “First you failed to help the king, and now you are failing to Make the Peace Clothes. Her Highness has told me she is seriously considering scrapping the royal charter of Makers.”

  Cordelia heard her aunt’s sharp gasp, her uncle’s moan of despair. A swell of noise began, but Lord Witloof held up his hand for silence.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?” he said. “Without a royal charter, you will no longer be allowed to Make at all. It will be an end of the ancient tradition of Makers in England.”

  Cordelia’s stomach plummeted. No more Making! She felt sick just thinking about it.

  “Lord Witloof, you must believe us!” Mrs. Bootmaker burst out. “We left our workshop at midnight last night and when I opened the doors again at dawn this morning the Peace Boots were gone. And our Menacing Cabinet was broken open, everything stolen!”

  Her voice was taut and quivering, like a fiddle string wound too tight … and suddenly it snapped.

  “It was HER!” Mrs. Bootmaker bawled, pointing one furious finger at Cordelia. “SHE’S THE THIEF!”

  The room gasped like one big animal and all eyes turned to Cordelia. She felt as though the collective gasp had sucked all the air out of her body.

  “That is an outrageous allegation!” Aunt Ariadne snapped.

  “Preposterous!” Uncle Tiberius barked.

  “Derisible!” wheezed Great-aunt Petronella.

  “She was beneath our workshop window yesterday morning! Before we were robbed! She was skulking! Lurking! LOITERING WITH MALICIOUS INTENT!” Mrs. Bootmaker screeched. Her eyes were knives and her mouth was all teeth.

  The Thieftaker stalked toward Cordelia. She felt light and shaky, and her heart was beating horribly hard.

  “Skulking? Lurking? Loitering with malicious intent?” the Thieftaker intoned, leaning down to inspect Cordelia. His nose was an inch from hers and he had the unblinking eyes of a fish.

  Cordelia’s voice had slipped down to somewhere under her stomach. She dredged it up. It did not come willingly.

  “I—I—I would never do anything with malicious intent—whatever that means!” she choked. “And I’ve never robbed or burgled or stolen anything!”

  She felt the prickle of everybody’s eyes: some narrowed in suspicion, some wide with surprise. Lord Witloof peered from the stairs.

  “I do not know who is responsible for the thefts, but Cordelia is not guilty of this absurd accusation,” Aunt Ariadne declared, in a voice nobody could hope to win an argument against. “It is pure hysteria.”

  “If I find you skulking, or lurking, or, indeed, loitering, anywhere you have no business being, Miss Hatmaker,” the Thieftaker growled, his voice heavy with menace, “you’ll be inside my prison-wagon before you can say nicked.”

  He straightened up, but continued to stare down at her from his great height. Cordelia searched for Goose in the blur of people. She saw him, frowning stoutly at his boots. She wished he would look at her. She could do with seeing a friendly face.
<
br />   “I think the strain of Making has got the better of you, Mrs. Bootmaker,” Aunt Ariadne said, her voice like a drawn sword. “Perhaps you are in need of a holiday.”

  “Nice try, Hatmaker!” Mrs. Bootmaker spat back daggers. “I can Make a better boot than you can Make a hat, any day of the week.”

  “Then I beg you to do so!” Lord Witloof pleaded, looking completely exhausted. “By order of the Crown Princess, I command all of you Makers to go home and get to work! You have until noon tomorrow to produce the Peace Clothes. If you fail, the peace talks will fail, and our country will be at war. And you will all be forbidden from Making anything ever again!”

  CHAPTER 21

  THERE WAS A SURGE OF MAKERS HEADING FOR the exit as Lord Witloof shooed them out. In the scramble, Cordelia felt the eyes of the Thieftaker still watching her. She stared defiantly back at him, jutting her chin out to make herself feel braver, even though her legs were a bit wobbly.

  “Come along, Cordelia!” Aunt Ariadne grabbed her hand and towed her away, scattering a gaggle of Glovemakers.

  “I’ve always been curious,” Uncle Tiberius said loudly, pushing Great-aunt Petronella. “Which came first: an old boot that looks like a face, or having a face like an old boot?”

  Mrs. Bootmaker glared at him as she marched past, Goose trailing in her wake. Cordelia tried to catch his eye, but he stared stonily at the floor.

  In the pitch-black entrance hall, everybody got bunched together. The main doors were stuck closed and Makers started shouting instructions and making irritated comments about wasting time. The dark was full of elbows and impatience.

  Cordelia took her chance. She yanked her hand out of her aunt’s and threw herself forward, as though she was stumbling over somebody’s foot. A squash of bodies staggered and gave way. Amid the shouts of protest, she heard Goose yelp, “Ouch! My toe!”