The Vanishing Trick

by Jenni Spangler

  While they prepared dinner, they spoke of magic and charms, but came no closer to working out the secret to breaking Pinchbeck’s hold over them. The magic in her books was nothing more than herbal medicines and fortune-telling. But something kept bringing Charlotte’s mind back to her book of fairy tales that Leander had brought with him – the idea of the Rat King using up all his magic to steal children. It was just like Pinchbeck and the obvious strain she felt holding three Cabinets.

  Time was running out. Either Pinchbeck would use up her magic and then who knew what would happen, or she would run out of patience and get rid of one of them for good.

  After hours of deliberation, their only idea was to write a letter and leave it behind when they performed at Litchfield House; Charlotte had written it on a stolen piece of paper and held it close to her chest.

  Uncle,

  I know this will be hard to understand, but Augustina Pinchbeck has been holding me captive since my disappearance. She has imprisoned me and two other children.

  Please do not believe her lies. I am not dead, just being held against my will.

  You must apprehend her, and see that none of her possessions are destroyed or we will be lost for ever.

  Your loving niece,

  Charlotte

  Next to her name she drew a honeybee – his nickname for her when she was small. She didn’t seek to explain the weird magic binding them to Pinchbeck – it was too implausible, and might confuse matters. Charlotte wasn’t even sure he would believe the note, but they had to try. It was better than doing nothing, but still a wild and desperate plan.

  ‘It’s here!’ Pinchbeck burst through the door, smiling and waving a sheet of folded paper. ‘My invitation has finally arrived! My big moment is fast approaching. We won’t be stuck in this old place much longer!’ She sat down in the best chair, reading the letter.

  A small grey rat poked its head out of a crack in the wall to see what the commotion was about. Charlotte stamped her foot to scare it away. Then she scraped the food on to their mismatched crockery and the four of them once again sat down to eat, a mockery of a family.

  ‘We’ll pack the darkroom tonight, ready to leave in the morning.’ Pinchbeck was gleeful. She scribbled a note into her commonplace book and tucked it safely into her pocket. ‘I will develop the photograph immediately after the seance so the sitter can watch and see there’s no swindle.’

  This made Charlotte all the more certain the next performance was going to be for her uncle. He wasn’t the type to accept Pinchbeck’s word, for all her showmanship. He’d want to inspect the equipment and be present for every step.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Leander through a mouthful of bread. ‘Is it back to my old house?’

  Tactless idiot! Charlotte glared at him. She would have asked questions gently, searching for subtle hints and clues, teasing out Pinchbeck’s plan without making her wary. Charlotte braced herself for an outburst, but none came.

  ‘That’s right, dear boy. I suppose Charlotte has already told you who she is.’ Pinchbeck smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘It is time to tell Lord Litchfield of the tragedy that befell his poor little niece. I’m going to tell him she drowned in the lake, at just thirteen.’ She drew out the vowels in the word ‘drowned’, savouring it.

  The heat drained from Charlotte’s body. ‘You can’t. You’ll break his heart.’

  ‘No. It’s a kindness. More kindness than he deserves, the rogue. Better than always wondering what happened to you. Maybe you will finally have a funeral. Imagine that.’

  ‘My uncle’s no rogue,’ said Charlotte, unable to resist arguing back. How dare Pinchbeck the child-snatcher call Charlotte’s beloved uncle a rogue? ‘He’s a gentleman.’

  ‘Your memory is playing tricks on you. Remember, dear Uncle had no time for a little girl, what with his very important work.’ Pinchbeck patted Charlotte’s arm in a condescending way. ‘I’m sure you were fond of the old man, but you were keen to get away from him. He deserves to wonder what became of you. It’s extremely kind of me to end his misery.’

  It took all of Charlotte’s will not to lunge for Pinchbeck’s throat. But she had to stay in control. If Pinchbeck suspected that Charlotte would rebel during the seance, she’d have them sealed in their Cabinets in an instant. And then any hope of getting the note to her uncle would be lost. Worse still, Charlotte would become useless to Pinchbeck at once, and then what would stop her from destroying her Cabinet? So she swallowed down her rage and did her best to lie. ‘Yes. Perhaps it is a kindness.’

  When Charlotte first met Pinchbeck, her relationship with her uncle had been strained. He was always a hard worker, writing articles and giving lectures, but in the past year or two he had become obsessed with his work. He spent every hour in the study, scribbling away, or meeting with other gentlemen and holding heated conversations into the early hours. Though they had been very close when she was small, she had begun to feel like he didn’t know her any more. On the rare occasion they ate dinner together, he would ask silly questions about her dolls or her drawings as though she was still a little girl. He had barely noticed that she was almost grown.

  On the night before she was taken, they had argued fiercely about just that. Charlotte remembered feeling furious with him for treating her like a child. Perhaps that’s why she had fallen for Pinchbeck’s trap. The woman had talked with her as an equal when they’d met, suggesting that Charlotte might like to travel with her as her female companion, promising to show her more of the world, and Charlotte had believed her. Then, once she was captured by her magic, Pinchbeck had tried to convince Charlotte that her uncle didn’t want her anyway. She would tell her that the old man would be much happier without her now he could focus on his work without distraction. She even claimed that her wealthy clients said Lord Litchfield had gone travelling to research his latest article and was relieved to be free of his burden.

  At first Charlotte nodded along with whatever Pinchbeck said, mostly because it eased her guilt to think of him happy without her, instead of grieving her loss. But, deep down, Charlotte knew that her uncle loved her. And, as the years had passed, she had cursed her foolishness for ever trusting Pinchbeck.

  Then Leander’s appearance with tales of her uncle’s misery proved Pinchbeck had lied from the very start. She had hurt Lord Litchfield by stealing Charlotte, and now she was going back to twist the knife.

  As if she knew what Charlotte was thinking, Pinchbeck set down her teacup and glared.

  ‘I will not tolerate anything that prevents me from doing this.’ Her tone was darker, sharper. The shadows around her eyes seemed to darken, too, and her lips, for the barest second, looked almost black. ‘If anyone should be uncooperative, I will be most displeased.’

  The children watched her the way one dare not turn away from a venomous snake. A thick yellow silence filled the room like smoke.

  Pinchbeck laughed, a hollow, brittle sound. ‘Now then! Such serious faces. I daresay there will be a few extra pennies left over for well-behaved children.’ The creases on her cheeks were more prominent than a day ago. She was transforming from a young woman into a crone, hour by hour.

  As soon as Pinchbeck was asleep in the enormous wooden bed, camera within arm’s reach, the children crowded into the carriage to discuss their plans once more.

  ‘What’s in that book she always carries around?’ Leander asked.

  ‘All sorts,’ said Felix. ‘Notes on the seances. Addresses. Charms.’

  ‘Notes on photography now probably,’ added Charlotte.

  ‘I think we need to get hold of it,’ said Leander.

  ‘She’s never apart from it,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘That’s what I mean!’ Leander swept his hair back, fingers catching in the tangles that had already returned. ‘She wouldn’t keep it so close if it didn’t have something important inside. Maybe the way to break her magic . . .’

  ‘We’ll never get it away from her,’ said Fel
ix.

  ‘I can,’ said Leander. ‘I’m a thief, remember?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get caught.’ Leander was insistent.

  ‘You have too much courage and not enough brain.’ Charlotte fixed her face in her favourite frown.

  Leander smiled to himself. Even though she called him stupid, she also said he was brave. He was winning her over.

  ‘We know you’re good at lifting things,’ said Felix, ‘but, even so, don’t do anything foolish, Leander. We don’t know how Pinchbeck would react if she caught you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘Felix is right. You mustn’t try and take the book. We’ll have to hope the letter works. Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ muttered Leander.

  He lied. Of course he was going to steal it. The book had to hold the secret that could help them break the magic. He would be the one to take it, and prove to Charlotte and Felix that he was worth something after all.

  *

  Charlotte and Felix feel asleep, as close as kittens. They were anxious, but days of fear and secrecy had taken their toll.

  Leander was about to be a traitor and a hero all at once. Pinchbeck had fed and clothed him. Well, sometimes she’d fed him. Either way, she’d given him more in the last week than any other adult since his mother had passed away. He understood now that she wasn’t to be trusted, but it still felt like a betrayal to turn against her.

  Silently, he tiptoed into the house and towards Pinchbeck’s room. He paused behind the door.

  Can I really do this? The others were so sure it would end in disaster, but Leander was good at picking pockets. He’d had lots of practice. Doubt pecked at his insides, and that old feeling of guilt began to gnaw. He seemed to be making a habit of being a thief, even though he didn’t choose that path. His soul was heavy with sin.

  Stealing from a monster doesn’t count.

  He felt useful and important and worthy for once. He’d show Charlotte. She wouldn’t be rude to him when he saved her life. It was worth the cold panic seeping upward from his toes.

  He listened for stirring. The night was full of sounds. Dry leaves skittered over the flagstones with every puff of wind. Night-time birds cooed and, in the corners of his vision, bright-eyed rats scuttled between shadows. But inside the room was silent.

  Fingers on the door, edging it open as lightly as an autumn breeze. One, two, three, four steps brought Leander over to the side of the bed. The bed curtains were missing, but the canopy above was still intact, thick with a decade of dust and cobwebs. Pinchbeck lay on her back, one arm beneath her head and the other across her chest. Leander stood over her.

  The sheets and blankets, like those from the carriage, had been repurposed to make the darkroom where she developed her photographs. The house was cold, so she was sleeping fully dressed with her cloak wrapped round her for warmth. Her breathing made a steady rhythm, the folds of her cloak moving in time with her ribs. The pocket that held the book was on her right hip. If Leander was quick and careful, he could reach in at exactly the right moment.

  If she catches me, I’ll be dead.

  But they were all in danger anyway. He must be strong.

  Trembling fingers reached out. He was close enough to feel Pinchbeck’s hot breath. In. Out. In. Out. Do it! Why couldn’t he do it? It was as though she was surrounded by a fog of fear; it coiled round his throat like the hangman’s noose and threatened to choke him.

  He slipped his fingers under the cloak, reaching for the pocket. The book! He touched the corner of it, but withdrew his hand. The angle was wrong – the slightest catch on the fabric could be his undoing. Would she only punish me? Or would she think we were all in it together?

  Now.

  On the in-breath, he reached in and gripped the corner of the book between thumb and forefinger. He started to pull gently, gently—

  Pinchbeck stirred.

  No, no, no.

  The woman gave a single great snore and Leander snatched his hand away. He stayed frozen. If he moved, Pinchbeck would surely wake but, if he stayed where he was, she might wake anyway, and he would have no explanation for his presence.

  Pinchbeck mumbled in her sleep and moved her arm. Her sleeve brushed Leander’s jacket.

  Ten seconds later, Leander finally dared to breathe again. This shift of position had worked against him: the edge of Pinchbeck’s cloak now covered the pocket and her arm was blocking the way. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as sawdust.

  Try again. Again, Leander!

  But his hands wouldn’t co-operate. Tears filled his eyes. He crouched by the sleeping woman for what felt like for ever, willing himself to reach for the book, but his courage was gone.

  He slunk out of the room, hating himself. He had failed and now they’d never be free.

  He was as useless as Charlotte said he was and she and Felix would never accept him now.

  He returned to the kitchen where the others were sleeping. Felix opened one eye.

  ‘Leander? What’s wrong?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing,’ Leander lied.

  12

  The Hermit:

  Solitude, Caution, Vigilance

  Less than a full day later, they were back at Litchfield House.

  The air around him sighed with relief as the locket opened. Leander heard his name and stepped out into the brightly lit parlour, marvelling at how easily he could appear now. The room was beautiful. Two enormous candelabra sat atop a vast table, a fire blazed beneath an ornate mantelpiece and huge portraits frowned from brass frames on every wall. Pinchbeck’s camera stood to attention on the stand before the hearth.

  ‘Move, boy!’ Pinchbeck hissed at him and pointed to a door in the far corner. Leander obeyed, slipping through the door and closing it as softly as he could. His eyes took a little while to adjust to the gloom in the hallway. Behind him he could hear people coming into the room. Polite greetings were exchanged and chairs scraped the floor. A man with a deep, oaky voice commented on the camera.

  While the seance was taking place, Leander had been instructed by Pinchbeck to sneak through the house and fill his pockets. The untended rooms in the wings would be full of treasures that wouldn’t immediately be missed.

  ‘Not too much,’ Pinchbeck had warned. ‘Nothing too obvious. Just a little to tide us over until word spreads about my talents, then we shall have more money than we know what to do with.’

  But Pinchbeck was unaware that Leander had another mission, too. He, Charlotte and Felix had come up with a plan. Leander had volunteered to go right into the heart of the old house and leave a note in the master’s chambers. Charlotte had taught him the way by tracing maps into the dirt and Leander had recited the directions until he knew them perfectly. He’d never ventured into this part of the house before; as a servant’s child and then a stowaway, he knew better than to be seen near the lord’s rooms. But he was the only one who had permission to go out of Pinchbeck’s sight, and his days of thieving had taught him how to sneak around. It was all down to him.

  While Leander was creeping about, Charlotte and Felix would play their part and perform the seance, just as Pinchbeck wished. That way she wouldn’t suspect anything. If Pinchbeck thought they were up to no good, she could seal them in their Cabinets, or worse, destroy them completely, so they had to make her believe they were obedient.

  Leander might have been an unschooled orphan, but even he knew the plan was weak. What if Lord Litchfield didn’t believe the letter? It sounded like such nonsense written down. No sensible man would believe magic. And then – what if he wasn’t sensible? Rumours had been rife among the remaining servants at Litchfield House that the old man had gone strange in the head after Charlotte went missing. He had seemed ordinary enough the one time Leander met him, but that meeting had been brief. So much of their hope rested on the lord being open-minded enough to believe in Pinchbeck�
��s twisted magic, but not too frail and muddled to help them escape. Leander knew it might be a hopeless mission.

  For the seventh time, Leander checked his pocket to make sure the letter was still there and recited the directions in his head: Left down the corridor. Staircase on the right. A step creaked and Leander froze, expecting someone to burst out of the parlour and catch him. No one came. He continued up the stairs on the balls of his feet: he wouldn’t be chicken again. On the landing, he headed towards the master’s bedroom, counting the doors as he passed. Two, three, four . . .

  A door opened. Leander was sure it was the door to the very room he was looking for . . . But Charlotte had said this room was out of bounds because her uncle feared the servants would disturb his work. Why was someone there? Panic gripped him. Charlotte had been gone for years; things could be different now. Maybe Lord Litchfield didn’t use this room any more. Leander flattened himself against the nearest door, relying on the deep indentation in the panelled wall to hide his small frame.

  A woman crossed the hallway to the servants’ staircase, barely an arm’s length from where Leander was hidden.

  Mrs Smart! What was she doing in the master’s private room?

  She disappeared from view and Leander stole across the carpet and opened the study door . . .

  A creak came from the servants’ stairs – Mrs Smart was coming back!

  Leander darted into the room and crouched behind the nearest chair. The woman entered a moment later and crossed to the tall cupboard on the other side of the room.

  She hasn’t seen me, Leander thought. Breathe quietly. Don’t move.

  Mrs Smart rummaged through a drawer. Moving over to the shelves, she stroked the spines of the books with a bony finger. She opened a small wooden box and peered inside, pulled out a coin and dropped it into her apron pocket.

  She was stealing!

  She had waited until the master was distracted with visitors so she could use the opportunity to rifle through his things.