The Vanishing Trick

by Jenni Spangler

  ‘You should be scared, boy. You will give me my money or I’ll haul you before the master. He won’t take kindly to a little ratbag thief sneaking round his private estate.’ She glided out into the charcoal-dark hallway.

  Leander clambered up on to the empty shelf where he slept and rested his head on the grain sack he used as a pillow. The shelf was hard and barely long enough for him to lie down on, but it made him feel sheltered and safe – as safe as anywhere in this horrible world. At first Leander was relieved Mrs Smart hadn’t turned him in, but soon another feeling began to gnaw at his insides.

  How dare she talk of luxury, and of giving him a home?

  Mrs Smart had known Leander’s mother and knew he had been left an orphan when she died, but she never troubled herself to check on him. She didn’t care about the nights Leander lay shivering and sobbing, no one left to love him. She only cared about the jingle of coins in her apron pocket.

  To take his mind off her, Leander reached for his favourite book, the only book in the library he cared about: an illustrated book of fairy tales with gold-edged pages.

  As he lifted it, the book fell open to the page he visited most. Although he couldn’t read many words, he knew the story by heart. Long before they arrived at Litchfield House, his mother used to tell tales of the Rat King, a man who could turn himself into a rat and creep through cracks in the walls to carry away naughty children. Such stories were never scary by the warm fire with a loving parent. Now, with his mother gone, Leander often lay alone, trying not to dwell on scrabbling noises in the attic and gaps between floorboards, until he could think of nothing else.

  On the day he moved into the library, he had found this book fallen from a shelf, open at the picture of the Rat King, and it felt like a message from his mother. He had spent many a lonely night poring over the pictures, wishing she was there to read the rest of the stories to him.

  Books . . .

  The rich lady in the coach house – Madame Pinchbeck had she said? – had a stack of books in her carriage, so she must like them. Perhaps he could sell her some from the library! It was stuffed with books, whole walls covered in shelves, some so high they needed a ladder. Lord Litchfield never read them – what was the harm in taking a few?

  Leander knew some books were expensive, but which ones? He could barely pick out his letters. It’d be a shame if he chose worthless ones and carried them all the way to the coach house for just a few coppers. Then again, books weren’t the only valuable things in the library.

  A thrill of rebellion stirred in him. Madame Pinchbeck had been willing to pay ten whole shillings for his mother’s old brass locket. This house was full of many luxurious things, all but forgotten by their owner. Imagine what he could get for those . . .

  He wouldn’t take much. Just a little, just the forgotten things from the closed-up rooms. Lord Litchfield would never miss them. Mrs Smart had told him not to come back. Well, she would have her wish and, by the time she noticed anything was gone, he’d be far away.

  Leander had never dared take things from the house before; even if his conscience allowed it, he certainly couldn’t sell them in the local town where they might be recognized. But Madame Pinchbeck was passing through. He could race back to the coach house now and be waiting for her in the morning. He’d sell the stolen objects and be on his way to the city by noon. Sixty miles to Manchester – he’d surely earn enough for a train fare – then he’d get a bed in a boarding house and find a tradesman who needed an apprentice.

  Or he could work in a factory. Manchester was always in want of strong children for the cotton mills. Whatever the job, he would find somewhere he was wanted. Unlike here.

  Quickly on his feet, Leander unfolded his sack pillow and tiptoed across the floor.

  There was no time to waste. The book of fairy tales went in. If it wasn’t worth much money, Leander would keep it himself, for the memories.

  He looked around. What else could he take? The mantelpiece held two silver candlesticks, which he slipped into his bag.

  In the centre of the room sat a heavy oak writing desk. Two fine pens with gold nibs were nestled in the drawer – he took both.

  A glass display case was full of treasures. He chose a sugar bowl with a fancy design.

  That should be enough.

  He felt a twinge of guilt. But what choice did he have? And once he made his fortune he could send money back to pay for his sins. Maybe he’d visit the master as a wealthy businessman and hear Mrs Smart call him ‘sir’ as she poured the tea!

  Climbing out of the window, Leander hesitated, suddenly remembering the girl from the carriage who had warned him about selling his locket. Had Madame Pinchbeck been trying to cheat him? And how did the woman know the locket belonged to his mother, or that Leander was an orphan? And what to make of her peculiar collection in the carriage?

  If he left Litchfield House with these stolen objects, he could never come back. It was risky, but what had caution given him so far? A lonely, hungry life.

  Leander made his choice.

  The bulging sack bumped his leg with each step. There’d be a bruise tomorrow, but it’d be worth it.

  *

  Leander arrived back at the coach house. The carriage was still there – Madame Pinchbeck and the girl were likely asleep in the upstairs rooms. The best thing to do was bed down in the coach house, to be sure he wouldn’t miss them in the morning. It was cold, but he could make a nest in the straw and wait.

  He slipped through the side door. There, to his surprise, sitting on the steps of the carriage, was the girl. She was dressed in an elegant dark-blue dress and her hair was pinned in two braids to the back of her head. Now he could see she was older than he’d thought at first, older than him certainly. Thirteen or so, almost a lady. She sat in a dainty way, back straight and ankles together, and stared at the flagstones, lost in a daydream.

  ‘Excuse me, miss?’

  The girl gasped and leaped up. She dropped her enamel cup and was in the carriage even before it clanged against the stone floor. The door fell closed behind her.

  ‘Beg pardon, miss, didn’t mean to scare you,’ he called. ‘Is your mother there?’

  No reply came. This was Leander’s chance to ask why she’d stopped him selling the locket earlier. He hoped she hadn’t got into too much trouble.

  ‘You dropped your cup.’ He picked it up and opened the carriage door, meaning to hand it back, but he couldn’t see her. A small candle burned in a glass jar, but there was no trace of the girl. He climbed inside. ‘Where are you?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Very clever.’ He hated people playing jokes on him. ‘Good trick. Show yourself.’

  The creak of an opening door. Clicking footsteps. Oh no. He couldn’t jump out again – if the woman found him in her carriage a second time, he’d never convince her he wasn’t stealing. She’d raise the landlady for sure, and when they saw what was in his sack he’d be done for.

  His only choice was to hide. Stay low and not make a sound. He lay on the floor and pulled a blanket over himself. The footsteps were brisk and sharp – it was definitely Madame Pinchbeck. But she might not open the carriage. If he was very lucky and very quiet, he might get the chance to sneak out.

  Luck had to be with him. He was so close to a new life.

  There was a heavy scraping, the hollow clop of hooves and a soft neigh. The horses! She was tending her horses. Leander closed his eyes and mouthed a thank you in prayer. Hugging his knees to his chest, he breathed as softly as he could, listening for his moment to escape.

  Then the carriage began to move.

  3

  The Empress:

  Powerful Woman,

  Mother Figure

  He was in trouble now. He tried to stand, but the unfamiliar swaying of the carriage made him unsteady and he fell back on to the pile of blankets. Glasses and jars and bottles rattled and shook with the shuddering of the carriage. Hooves clattered against the road and raindrops fe
ll faster and faster, louder and louder, hammering on the thin roof.

  He sat up, clutched the edge of a shelf for balance and lifted the corner of the velvet drapes. Black clouds had covered the moon and Leander could see little in the gloom. He pressed his cheek against the cool, rain-streaked glass. Lanterns were lit up front; trees and fence posts emerged into the bubble of weak light as they approached and faded as they passed by, as if pulled by a ghostly tide. Leander had only travelled by coach once, when they first moved to Litchfield House, and it hadn’t gone nearly as fast.

  It was going too quickly to jump out. He must be alert for the first sign of slowing, but the journey stretched on. There was no way Madame Pinchbeck would trust him after this – he’d be lucky if she didn’t call the constabulary. No, once the carriage stopped, he would leap out and leg it. He’d have to find someone else to buy his loot. At least he’d be in a new town, where people might not recognize Lord Litchfield’s treasures.

  The jars, horses and rain fell into an easy rhythm as the carriage travelled on. It was almost soothing. He’d been awake for such a long time . . . But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, mustn’t fall asleep . . .

  *

  Leander jerked upright.

  The carriage was moving over different terrain than before. The hoofbeats were softer and less distinct, and the rain had stopped. Another peek through the window showed early-morning sunbeams through bare branches. He had slept, then. Leander silently cursed himself. How could he have fallen asleep in such a dangerous situation?

  He felt the carriage begin to slow. Leander looked down to see his sack open on the floor, its contents spilled and scattered round the tiny space. He quickly gathered up the candlesticks and shoved them back into the bag. Carriage still in motion, he opened the door, screwed up his eyes and jumped.

  Leander hit the ground, rolling through wet leaves until his shoulder slammed against a fallen tree.

  The carriage stopped not far from where Leander lay, but the woman climbed down and went straight to the horses without a backward glance.

  Phew. She hasn’t noticed me, he thought, already planning his next move.

  Leander stayed low and crawled in the opposite direction, wary of attracting attention by rustling the straggling bushes. His sack caught on a dead branch. He tugged at it and, with a great crack, the branch snapped. The sack flew free, banging the candlesticks together with an almighty clang that rang through the trees as clear as church bells. He froze.

  Fool! He should have left the bag where it was or stayed still so as not to give away his position.

  ‘It’s much too far to crawl home, boy,’ Madame Pinchbeck called.

  Other than the dirt track they were on, there was nothing but woods on all sides. Leander wondered how far away the nearest town was, and in which direction. They might have travelled miles through the night. He was sure he could outrun the woman – long dresses and fancy shoes were hardly made for chasing through the woods – but he had no idea which way to go.

  ‘As you wish.’ She moved between her two black horses, adjusting straps and stroking their necks. ‘But many a man has come to an unpleasant end in the woods.’ She turned her back, travelling cloak swishing round her ankles. ‘I shall be here a while if you decide a hot cup of tea would be preferable to perishing in the forest.’

  She didn’t even sound angry that he’d stowed away. Leander slowly rose to his feet. He could never go back to Litchfield House now; by the time he returned, Mrs Smart would have discovered the theft. She’d kick up a stink and make him pay more for her silence, or worse, tell the master of his stealing. He had no choice but to sell his goods, one way or another.

  Madame Pinchbeck was now arranging firewood and paying him no mind. She didn’t seem to be a threat. Perhaps he could still convince her to buy his things, or at least let him ride along to the next village. And she was right – he could easily come to harm if he got lost in the wintry woods. It didn’t seem he had much choice but to trust her.

  ‘Don’t stand idle. Find some dry leaves to get this fire going.’ She spoke like a schoolteacher, no doubt in her voice that Leander would obey.

  He kicked aside the soggy leaves by his feet to get to the dry, crunchy layer beneath. Then, without letting go of his sack, he gathered up a handful and carried them over to the pile of twigs, dropping them from arm’s length.

  The woman nodded briskly. ‘More, child, more. Don’t you know how to build a fire?’

  ‘I wasn’t in your carriage.’

  Stupid. He shouldn’t have started with that. She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘I . . . I was looking for you. The man at the inn said you went this way, so I followed you. I came to sell some things.’

  She put one finger to her lip to shush him. ‘Fire first, excuses later. Kindling. Leaves. Twigs.’

  ‘Honest, I came back to the inn,’ Leander began, scraping around one-handed for more leaves, his sack clutched tightly to his body. ‘But you were gone, so I followed you.’

  ‘My, my. You must have run awfully fast to catch up with me.’ A tiny smile almost made it look like she was teasing him.

  ‘I set off right after you.’ Leander’s words didn’t even sound convincing to him. He dropped his next handful of leaves on to the sticks.

  ‘How fortuitous.’ She swept back her skirts before crouching by the fire to arrange the kindling. ‘And I daresay those boots were a tremendous help as you raced along behind me –’ she struck sparks from a piece of flint and coaxed the flames to light – ‘for six miles.’

  Leander glanced at his shabby shoes, the leather so worn the sole was coming loose. ‘I ran quickly so you wouldn’t miss out—’ he lied.

  ‘Empty vessels make the most sound. See if you can hold your tongue until the kettle sings,’ she said, hanging it over the fire, ‘and then you can tell me some truths.’

  She pulled out two folding stools from the carriage. An age passed as the water came to the boil, Leander’s insides churning and bubbling along with it. Had he made a grave mistake? Out in the woods – with no one around – some folks would snatch the sack and abandon him. Madame Pinchbeck looked respectable enough, but you could never tell what was in someone’s heart.

  But she could have stolen his locket back at the inn, or turned him in as a thief. No one would have believed his word over that of this well-spoken lady.

  She handed him a tin cup full of something hot. His cold- numbed fingers throbbed with appreciation at the heat. The last time someone had taken care of him this way was when the church ladies made soup for the needy after Sunday service. But then they started asking questions – wouldn’t he be better off in the care of the parish? – so Leander never dared return, for fear of being sent to the workhouse.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Leander.’

  ‘Manners?’

  ‘Leander, miss.’

  ‘Well then. Let’s see what you’ve brought to sell.’

  Leander passed over the dirty sack. He didn’t have a clue what the objects were worth, but maybe it didn’t matter as long as they made him enough money to get to Manchester. How much did train tickets cost? And he’d need board when he got there. New boots, to look smart.

  He puffed up his chest and tried to look confident, like he would know a good price when he heard it.

  ‘Interesting.’ She pulled out the silver sugar bowl and turned it over in her hands. ‘A handsome little thing. What’s this monogram? M. J. L?’

  ‘It’s from the big house, Lord Litchfield’s place.’

  There seemed little point in lying; better to be as honest as he could and try not to raise any more suspicions.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes widening. ‘Litchfield House?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Whatever she offered, he’d tell her to double it. She was obviously wealthy. He wondered why she wasn’t travelling with a servant.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve heard that name.’ She traced
the raised letters with her fingertips and smiled. ‘Of course, I knew we were in the area . . .’

  Did she know Lord Litchfield? It would be a disaster if she was some distant relation, and Leander had presented her with Litchfield’s stolen silver. Too late now. He would hold his nerve and hope for the best.

  ‘And how did it come to be in your possession?’

  ‘I live there,’ said Leander. It wasn’t a lie.

  ‘You can’t be Lord Litchfield’s son,’ she said, watching him from the corner of her eye.

  ‘No, miss.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘A servant?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Leander chose his words carefully. ‘There aren’t many servants any more.’

  ‘No? Why?’

  ‘He went a bit funny, people said, because his daughter went missing.’ He slurped the tea. The taste was awful, but the warmth was very welcome. ‘He sent most of the servants away.’

  ‘Tell me, does he still grieve for the child?’ She leaned towards Leander, her head tipped slightly to one side. There was something unsettling about her expression, as if she hoped the answer was yes. It reminded Leander of a cat that has suddenly spotted something small and furry.

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Leander with a shrug. ‘I only met him once.’

  ‘And he told you about the girl?’ A dark curl fell across her face and she swept it back without breaking eye contact.

  ‘Oh no, miss. People in the town talk about it. We didn’t get there until long after the girl was gone.’

  ‘Well, what did he say to you?’ She was talking faster now.

  ‘Nothing really. He was telling my mother what her duties were.’

  She continued to stare as though she expected more from him.

  ‘I remember he looked very sick, all bundled up under blankets even though it wasn’t cold,’ Leander added. He leaned away from her. He didn’t like the way she was asking her questions. ‘Did you know him, miss?’

  She smiled and relaxed her shoulders and the tension was broken. ‘I met him, a long time ago. Never liked the man. He used to do some interesting work, but I found him to be most untrustworthy. Now what else have we?’