A noise. Someone was here.
Footsteps click-clacked across the flagstones. Not the powerful gait of the baker. These were sure and sharp.
Stupid! He should have checked there was no one around. If he’d been seen climbing into the carriage, he was in bigger trouble than ever.
‘Who’s there?’ a woman’s voice called from the far corner. ‘Who is in my carriage?’
Leander’s heart raced. Whoever owned this collection of strange and eerie things wasn’t a person he wanted to meet. He jumped out and darted behind a wooden post.
‘What mischief is this?’ the woman said.
Click, click, click.
The footsteps came closer, slower now but unhesitating. Blood pounded in Leander’s head and he pressed his back against the post. His warm breath made white clouds in the cold air.
‘Come out. I know you’re there. I can smell you.’
Out of sight, horses shifted in their stalls, hooves scraping over straw and stone.
‘Now then, don’t be shy.’ There was almost a laugh in the woman’s voice. She paced round the carriage towards Leander’s hiding place.
Beyond the inn door the muffled fury of the baker’s voice grew louder. If Leander stayed put, the baker would see him the moment the door opened. But, if he ran for the back door, he’d collide with the carriage owner. He felt like a fox with hounds closing in on both sides.
Thinking quickly, he dived under the carriage, feeling the pie squish in his pocket as he rolled over and tucked himself behind the back wheel.
The inn door was flung open.
‘When I get my hands on you—!’ the baker roared, stopping abruptly as he noticed the woman. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am. Did a boy come this way?’
Leander’s chest tightened. Any moment now, he’d be dragged out and…
‘No,’ replied the woman. She stepped in front of the wheel and flicked out her dress, obscuring Leander’s hiding place. ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’ Leander could only see her ankles, but from her fancy blue dress and crisp speech he could tell she came from money.
‘Been thieving. Yay high,’ the man said, panting. ‘Long hair, short trousers.’
‘I assure you I’m quite alone.’
Leander was confused. Why would this woman lie for him?
‘Right you are,’ said the baker. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Sneaky little blighter. I’ve ’ad a few things go missing lately. First time I’ve seen who was responsible.’
‘Is that so?’ the woman said.
‘Best keep an eye out, ma’am. He’s a wrong’un.’
‘Thank you, I shall.’
Leander held his breath as the baker’s footsteps retreated. He listened for the creak-thud of the inn door closing.
‘A thief, is it?’ the woman said. ‘Out with you, then.’
Not likely. Leander scrabbled away beneath the carriage and out the other side only to find the woman already looming over him. She was tall, with coal-black hair piled high beneath a peacock-green hat. Although she was beautiful, a coldness hung around her, more biting than the November air.
‘Why were you in my carriage?’ she asked, not unkindly.
‘Wasn’t.’ He sidestepped to get round her, but she blocked his path.
‘There’s no need to lie, but you must explain yourself.’
The blue satin of the woman’s dress brushed against his legs. Any closer and she’d be standing on his feet. He sized her up; something was unsettling. Why would this grand lady have a carriage full of feathers and bones and other oddities? And why would she save him from a beating from the baker…?
‘I wasn’t doing anything.’ He shrugged. ‘Just looking round.’
‘And if I should check your pockets?’
‘Check them.’ He raised his chin defiantly.
‘Terrible things happen to liars and thieves, little boy.’ Her voice was musical, her lips smiling.
Their eyes met and, for several seconds of hideous silence, Leander didn’t dare look away. It seemed the woman could see every dark spot on his soul and every bad thing he had ever done.
‘What’s around your neck, child?’ Her voice was still steady and calm. ‘Something of mine?’
‘No. Truly I didn’t take anything.’ The moment she looked away, he’d be out of there. She might have protected him, but he didn’t trust this woman with her strange carriage. He desperately wanted to go somewhere safe and eat his pie.
‘Come now, I won’t hurt you. Show me.’
The woman stared at his throat like a wolf ready to bite. Leander pulled the locket from his grubby linen shirt. ‘It was…’
‘Your mother’s,’ she finished for him.
A pit opened in Leander’s middle. ‘How did you know?’
‘Ah yes,’ she whispered, a dreamy expression crossing her face. ‘Now I see. A motherless child – an orphan, yes?’
Leander couldn’t form words. What witchcraft was this?
‘All alone in the world.’ She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, feather-light. ‘Lost.’
He stuck out his chin. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘May I?’ she asked, fingers already curling round the locket. She leaned in, the thick scent of lavender and violets smothering him. ‘Interesting.’
He wriggled from her grip. ‘I have to go.’
‘You are miserable,’ she said. ‘I know a little about misery. I could help you.’
‘Don’t need help.’ Leander knew she was just pretending to care so she could feel virtuous. He didn’t want her pity. Yes, he was alone, but that was fine. No one to let him down. People only cared about themselves.
She laughed. ‘I think you do. You can trust me. You must be famished.’
Then again… Maybe if he played for sympathy she’d give him some money, or food. He could be nice, for a minute, and run if things went wrong.
‘I collect trinkets, as you’ve seen.’ She gestured towards the carriage.
Trinkets? A rat skeleton was hardly a trinket, but Leander bit his tongue.
‘I’d be willing to buy your locket, as a kindness. It’s clear you need the money.’
‘Or you could just give me money.’ He tried a cheeky smile.
‘Impertinent little thing, aren’t you?’ She laughed. ‘No. It must be a fair trade. No nonsense.’
Leander’s mind whirred. He’d already pawned his mother’s boots and coat, sold her pots and pans and even traded her bed sheets to the ragman. The locket was the last thing he had left. If he sold that, too, there would be nothing of hers to hold. It would be like she never existed. The thought made his eyes sting with tears. No. He couldn’t part with it. He wouldn’t. Then, as if reminding him of the reality of his situation, his stomach growled loudly. What choice did he really have? He had no other way to make money, and the more he stole, the more chance he’d be caught. Today had been a close call with the baker, but what happened when his luck ran out?
‘It’s not real gold,’ said Leander. Should he…?
‘Indeed not. But I am a soft-hearted creature, and I’ve taken a liking to it.’
‘I don’t…’
‘It would be hard to part with it, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘But your mother would understand. Do you think she’d rather you went hungry?’
And he was hungry. So hungry. Her words brought the ache back to his belly. The flattened mutton pie wouldn’t fill him for long. Three days ago he’d spent his last penny on a pint of pea soup and a hot potato. Yesterday all he’d had were three bruised pears he’d swiped by climbing someone’s garden fence. There was never enough food.
‘Is the latch still intact? Does it open and close?’ she asked.
Leander nodded. To go from being caught stealing to earning some honest money was a good turn of events, but his mother’s locket… Could he?
‘I’m sure I can find you a tempting sum. Shall we say ten shillings?’
&nb
sp; Ten shillings! He couldn’t remember when he last had a full shilling to his name.
Behind the woman, a girl appeared at the open carriage door. Leander blinked in surprise. Where had she come from? There had been no one inside a moment before… The girl put her finger to her lips, urging him to stay silent. Was she trying to steal something, too? No. She looked too neat and well dressed to be a street child. The woman’s daughter perhaps? She looked about eleven, like Leander, and had the same dark hair as the woman.
‘Six, seven, eight…’ The woman counted coins from an embroidered pouch. ‘What do you say, boy?’
The girl shook her head frantically and mouthed, ‘No,’ her expression a picture of panic.
The girl’s urgency alarmed Leander back to his senses. He couldn’t possibly sell the only thing he had left of his mother!
‘No,’ he said firmly.
The woman’s face fell.
‘It’s very kind of you, miss, but I couldn’t part with the locket.’
She stiffened up and scowled. ‘A shame. If you change your mind, I shall be here until morning. Ask for Madame Pinchbeck.’
Was that it? She was letting him leave?
Leander glanced towards the girl. The movement alerted the woman, who spun round.
‘How dare you?’ She lunged towards the girl, who retreated into the carriage, the door slamming.
Leander took his chance and ran.
Continue Reading…
The Vanishing Trick
Jenni Spangler
About the Author
Jenni Spangler writes children’s books with a magical twist. She loves to take real and familiar places and events and add a layer of mystery and hocus-pocus. Her debut novel, The Vanishing Trick, was selected as Waterstones Children’s Book of the Month and longlisted for the Branford Boase Award. The Incredible Talking Machine is her second book with Simon & Schuster Children’s Books.
Jenni lives in Staffordshire with her husband and two children. She loves old photographs, picture books and tea, but is wary of manhole covers following an unfortunate incident.
www.jennispangler.com
Follow Jenni on Twitter @JenniSpangler1
www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Jenni-Spangler
About the Illustrator
Chris Mould is an award-winning illustrator who went to art school at 16. A sublime draftsman with a penchant for the gothic, he has illustrated a huge range of books, from picture books and young fiction, to theatre posters and satirical cartoons for national newspapers. His children’s book work includes Matt Haig’s bestselling Christmas titles, a reimagining of Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man (shortlisted for the 2020 Kate Greenaway Medal) and a recently published illustrated Animal Farm.
Chris lives in Yorkshire with his wife, has two grown-up daughters, and when he’s not drawing and writing, you’ll find him… actually, he’s never not drawing or writing.
chrismould.blogspot.co.uk
Follow Chris on Twitter @chrismouldink
www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Chris-Mould
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
Text copyright © 2021 Jenni Spangler
Illustrations copyright © 2021 Chris Mould
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Jenni Spangler and Chris Mould to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN 978-1-4711-9039-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-4711-9040-7
eAudio ISBN 978-1-4711-9988-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Incredible Talking Machine Page 19