The Vanishing Trick

by Jenni Spangler

  ‘That’s how she’s so convincing,’ Felix explained. ‘She collects information before she visits. Makes it seem like the dead are telling her the family secrets.’

  There were lots of rats. Detailed pen-and-ink drawings with labels, including an entire page drawing of a rat skeleton. More rat-banishment poems like the one they had found in the carriage. All manner of quotes and verses mentioning rats and their superstitions. And, on the edges of many pages, scribbled pictures of rats so realistic Leander expected to see a whisker twitch.

  ‘What’s this?’ Leander jabbed his finger at an onion-shaped drawing filled with rows and rows of thin, winding lines. It reminded him of the long-dead hedge maze in the grounds of Litchfield House.

  ‘A labyrinth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If a ghost or a witch comes across one— Oh!’ A tarot card fell on to the open book. The Moon. Leander glanced up – it must have been caught between the blanket and the tree branches. Felix seemed cheered by this omen. ‘The Moon. Secrets. Mysteries. We’re close.’

  He turned to the next page. ‘A witch ball. Lists of herbs and stones. She could be using any of this to hide Charlotte. She’s been building magical barriers to hold Cabinets, so she can go on without being weighed down by the charms.’

  Above them, rivulets of icy water were making their way through the dense branches. The blanket Leander had propped up was sagging as it absorbed the rain, and drops began to bleed through.

  ‘A man covered in mud?’ Leander pointed at a strange image in the corner of the page.

  ‘A clay statue. People used to say you could catch a soul in one.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Well, Pinchbeck can’t. She needs something that can open, like our Cabinets. But clay . . .’this soil is full of clay. I wonder . . .’

  The next page was nothing but lines and lines of Latin. Any of this might tell them how to rescue Charlotte, and yet without her they couldn’t read it. Leander picked up stone and threw it in frustration; it clattered down through dead tree branches.

  Then there was a map, roughly drawn and smudged in places, but definitely a map. Leander could make out roads and little boxes for buildings, a snaking stream and a heavy, blocky line two-thirds of the way up the page. There was a break in the line, a finger’s width across, and beside it a spot where the nib had poked a black hole through the paper.

  ‘The Four Ashes,’ said Felix, pointing to a label. ‘We passed that earlier. Here’s the church and there’s the bridge we crossed to get to Pinchbeck’s cell.’ A drop of water fell on to the page, rolling down the paper like an inky tear. The boys shuffled right back against the tree trunk.

  Above the hole in the paper was a symbol drawn in redbrown ink. Triangles and a curly line.

  ‘I recognize that . . .’It was on Pellar’s grave!’ said Leander. His heart gave a single hard thud, like it wanted to escape from his ribs and race towards the town gates. ‘Is it . . .?’ He could barely find the words. ‘Is it a sign? Is her hiding place . . .’

  ‘It has to be,’ said Felix. ‘Charlotte’s in the town wall!’

  As though the heavens agreed, there came a monstrous clap of thunder. The blanket finally gave way under the weight of the water. The boys were instantly soaked and the precious book was washed practically clean as torrents of rainwater left cloudy puddles in place of Pinchbeck’s writing.

  Felix shoved the book into his pocket. They stood and ran, leaving everything else behind them.

  We’re coming, Charlotte, Leander thought. We’re coming!

  18

  High Priestess:

  Mystery, Intuition,

  Impatience

  They stuck to the trees as far as they could. Leander tripped and stumbled; running through the woods was exhausting but, after he was almost caught at the constable’s house, they needed to avoid being out in the open.

  Eel-like roots made the ground uneven, and dry, thorny shrubs tore at every inch of bare skin. A low branch snagged at Leander’s neck and yanked him backwards. Losing his footing in the slippery mud, Leander came down hard on his buttocks in an inch-deep puddle. Felix, a few paces ahead, turned back and helped him to his feet, and they continued.

  It felt like they were racing against nature itself, tearing through the prickly undergrowth. The storm swelled above them, drenched clothes sticking to their skin, sucking out the last warmth from their tired muscles.

  At the edge of the woods the pair dashed from the cover of the trees into the nearest lane. The walls on Pinchbeck’s map were at the furthest corner of the town. Felix led the way, snaking down alleys and through rain gutters, slipping on cracked flagstones, on and on and . . .

  There!

  The walls were crumbled and broken but wide and thick. Felix quickly began hunting for any openings or cracks, while Leander rounded the gatepost to check the other side.

  ‘Felix!’ Leander had to shout to be heard over the storm.

  ‘Do you see something?’

  ‘I feel strange!’

  Ever since they’d left the trees, Leander’s body was getting heavier and heavier. Here by the wall he felt dizzy. The air around seemed to be straining against him, thicker somehow, the ground distant beneath his feet.

  ‘I feel it, too. We’re too far from Pinchbeck. If Charlotte isn’t here, we’re in trouble. We may not be able to go any further before we lose all substance.’

  The thought was as chilling as the winter rain. Leander rapped his fist against the mossy wall. He was still solid, for now.

  The evening was gloomy and it was becoming harder to see. A blanket of black cloud hung overhead and the street lamps were not yet lit. The lamp. I took a lamp from the carriage, but we left it in the woods!

  Except . . .

  Except a big, flat stone had clean lines where the moss had been pulled away.

  ‘Felix,’ called Leander again. There was a mark on the rock, a reddish brown loop. Was it—? He tugged at the moss, which came away in clumps like rotten cloth. The symbol was there. The same triangles from Pinchbeck’s book and Pellar’s gravestone. He had found it!

  Felix rushed to his side, violin case dipping into the mud as it hung over his shoulder. They worked together to prise the rock from its place, fingers raw. There was a small hollow behind it, then a rough layer of damp clay, still slick and shiny.

  They worked swiftly, hardly caring for the rain and icy wind and the thunder crashing overhead. Charlotte was here. She had to be here. If she wasn’t . . .

  Felix pulled at the clay with his fingers and Leander used a sharp stone. Behind the clay was a gap about six inches deep, then a solid metal wall. Small objects littered the space – bundles of dried leaves, oddly shaped rocks and ancient yellowed feathers. A pattern painted on the rock in smudged charcoal resembled the labyrinth in Pinchbeck’s commonplace book.

  ‘Charms. Charlotte must be in there,’ said Felix.

  ‘Or something must,’ said Leander.

  They hesitated and looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Pinchbeck could have any number of hiding places. What if the spirit wasn’t Charlotte? They might unleash another vengeful ghost; another Pellar.

  ‘If someone else is in here, they’ll be in their own Cabinet,’ reasoned Felix. ‘We know what Charlotte’s lantern looks like. If we find anything else, we won’t open it. Not yet. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leander. A fresh gust of wind blew stinging raindrops into his eyes.

  On further inspection, the metal wall was the door to a stout metal box. A safe. It had obviously once been painted black, but the paint was chipped and peeling, with rust beneath. A small circle of metal covered a deep keyhole, with fresh scratches around it. On the circle was an engraving, rough and rusty, but unmistakably a rat.

  ‘It might not be locked.’ Leander wiggled his finger into the keyhole and pulled hard. Rust marks stained his skin, but the door did not budge. He felt round the edge of the box, hoping to pull the whole
thing out, but it fitted so tightly in the space that not a wisp of smoke could have crept between metal and stone.

  ‘It’s as though the wall was built around it.’ Leander leaned back on his haunches, and Felix dived in to try, his face as blank as the stone, his trembling arms giving away his desperation.

  The wall was as tall as Leander, with huge old rough-hewn rocks overlapping each other and forming a barrier two feet thick. Even if they had all the time in the world, they stood no chance of removing enough stones to dig the box out, especially as weak as they were.

  ‘It’s no good. We need the key,’ said Felix.

  Leander felt a warm trickle on his rain-numbed cheek; a tear. At least the rain would hide it from Felix. Another dead end. They had searched the carriage and lived in it – there were no keys among Pinchbeck’s ghoulish collection. And the constable had emptied Pinchbeck’s pockets when she was arrested, so the key couldn’t be on her person.

  ‘It could be anywhere,’ said Leander. He sat down in the mud, not caring about the frigid water on his skin. A little voice in his mind told him to lie down, give up, let the winter night take him.

  ‘Think,’ said Felix. ‘We opened every drawer and box in the carriage. There must be somewhere we haven’t checked. Where would Pinchbeck hide a key that no one would ever look?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Leander. His eyes wandered back to the locked box and its engraving –

  He had it.

  ‘Rats!’ he shouted. ‘The rat skeleton jar! No one would open—’

  But Felix was already running.

  Leander scrambled to his feet, pausing to shove the flat stone back over the opening in case somebody else noticed it. He caught up with Felix, breathless, but not tired, a new energy surging through him at the sight of Felix’s determination. The storm cheered them on, as loud and grand as an orchestra.

  They had to be right. The rat skeleton was in the biggest jar. There was plenty of room for a key in the cloudy liquid, and both the lock and the map had the picture of a rat . . .

  We’ll find the key, and rescue Charlotte, and she’ll read the Latin words in the commonplace book and somehow, somehow it will give us the secret to our freedom.

  The heaviness in his limbs was fading – because he was closer to Pinchbeck, or because he was buoyed by hope?

  As they skirted the woodlands near the constable’s house, they saw the black bulk of the carriage beside it. The men had moved it while the boys were on their quest. No sign of the horses, who must have been taken to shelter. They edged nearer, watchful for any sign of the constable’s men.

  Path clear, they scurried over to the carriage, hugging the shadows like cockroaches. Although the rain had made wet rags of their clothing and sliced at their reddened skin, it was also the blessing that kept other people indoors.

  The carriage was even messier than before. All of the drawers had been opened and tipped out. Two shelves had been knocked askew and their contents lay in a higgledy- piggledy heap. Things were missing here and there. The men had collected evidence of Pinchbeck’s thieving ways – or lined their own pockets.

  The rat jar had been on one of the now-broken shelves. The boys dropped to their knees to dig through the remains, relying on their sense of touch as much as their eyes. A hot, sharp pain stabbed through Leander’s hand. He pulled it back to find there was blood on his knuckle, almost black in the darkness.

  ‘Careful,’ he whispered to Felix. ‘Broken glass.’

  He licked away the blood, found a cleanish rag and wrapped it round his hand to protect it from the dirt.

  Suddenly Felix held something aloft. The skeleton jar! Leander bit his lip to stop himself weeping with relief as Felix twisted the stopper free. He poured out the sour, murky liquid on to the pile of rubbish, cringing as the bones poked out and touched his fingers. He straightened the jar and they heard the clink of metal on glass.

  Voices came from outside.

  No! They were so close. This couldn’t be happening. Rainwater and terror on Leander’s skin turned to ice as the voices grew louder.

  Felix swung the violin case off his back and shoved it under the bench, wedging it open. He flung the key inside and vanished after it.

  Leander tried to disappear as well. He willed his flesh to fade, slowed his breathing, imagined nothingness.

  It didn’t work.

  A thick, hairy hand opened the carriage door.

  Now. Go. Vanish, please! Nothing. Leander put his hand to his throat, but the locket wasn’t there. The woods. The branch that had caught at his neck and then snapped him free. He had lost it.

  The constable grabbed him by both shoulders and yanked him out of the carriage.

  ‘Aha! You’re the little toerag our Martha’s been fancying a ghost. I’ve gotcha, lad.’

  *

  Charlotte pushed as hard as she could, but it was no use. Escape was impossible when the lantern was latched shut. She listened for the slightest sound – some tiny hint of where she might be or what was happening. Earlier she’d heard a rasping noise, but it had stopped.

  This is what Pellar had felt, sealed up in a leaky coffin in some long-forgotten grave.

  How she longed for Felix’s music, or Leander’s idiotic questions, or, best of all, the scratch of her uncle’s ink pen as he worked in his study.

  Comfort. She needed comfort. Stretching her mind back into the past, she sought out a warm memory to soothe herself.

  The smell came first. Wood polish and paper, solid and warm, mingled with the springtime scent of cut grass and loamy earth. In her imagination, she danced down the corridor and her lilac dress – a new one her uncle had brought from London – swished and swirled about her. She opened the library door. Her uncle put down his paper and smiled.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said with a little bow. ‘Oh, Charlotte, it’s you! I thought you were the fairy queen, all dressed in bluebell petals!’

  Charlotte giggled and spun in a circle. How old was she? Seven, eight? Only a few months under his sweet care. ‘What news today?’

  ‘Only dull and dreary things in the papers,’ he continued. ‘Though I wanted to show you this.’ A new book, the papery edges dusted in gold.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A little book of stories for a good girl who has been learning her letters.’

  She squealed. ‘Thank you! Can we read it now?’

  ‘I was hoping we would.’

  The big brown armchair was their favourite spot for reading together. Charlotte tried to recall the cool leather under her fingers, and the way the light from the windows pooled in warm patches at their feet.

  But it couldn’t block out the miserable nothingness of this tomb.

  What were the chances of Leander turning up with that very book in his sack? And the story of the Rat King . . . she couldn’t shake the notion it was important. The part at the end, where he used too much magic and got stuck in his rodent form . . .

  There was more to the memory.

  ‘This book has a secret,’ said her uncle. He opened the cover and gently bent back the block of pages, causing the edges to fan out. The gold seemed to disappear, and a picture emerged, the tiniest fraction of the image painted across the edge of every page. A hidden illustration, visible only when the paper was spread just so. He closed the book, and the picture disappeared.

  What was the picture? Charlotte couldn’t bring it to mind; it slipped away like a dream upon waking. The answer was frustratingly close, just beyond her grasp.

  What did it matter anyway? She was helpless. Stuck. Alone.

  And the boys – what had become of the boys? Had they just left her to her fate? Or were they imprisoned, too?

  19

  The Devil:

  Despair, Obsession,

  Wickedness

  Leander struggled and twisted as the constable dragged him into the house by his ear. In the little office room, rough hands pinched and poked and shoved as his pockets were searched; th
e constable’s face was a picture of disgust as he pulled out a handful of sodden crumbs and sticky fruit.

  Who was he? Where did he live? Who were his parents? Why was he in the carriage? What did he steal? Why did he break into the house?

  Question after question was fired at him and throughout it all Leander played dumb. It was slightly warmer inside the house, but this room had no fireplace. Now he wasn’t racing about, his sodden clothes were icy and heavy and his teeth began to chatter. He still said nothing.

  ‘He’s obviously backward,’ said the woman, watching from the corner. The same woman who had chased him out of the house earlier. She had a plump face with a prominent nose and her belly was swollen with child.

  ‘Better an idiot than a ghost, eh, Martha?’ the constable teased. The woman scowled and folded her arms across her apron. The man shook Leander. ‘I shall keep you out of trouble until I can get you before the magistrate. We don’t like thieves around these parts.’

  ‘Where will you put him?’ asked Martha.

  ‘Out with the woman. It’s probably her rotten son.’

  ‘Am not!’ said Leander with a snarl.

  ‘It does talk, then,’ said the constable.

  ‘He’ll freeze out there,’ said the woman.

  ‘Be a good lesson.’ The constable reached for a key hanging on a rusty hook by the window frame.

  ‘I don’t want to think of him in the cold, Sam. He’s just a child, whatever she has him mixed up in.’

  ‘He’s a thief, Martha. You want him in the house with you?’

  Martha sighed and opened a dusty chest by the wall. She pulled out a threadbare blanket and draped it over Leander’s shoulders.

  The constable sighed. ‘Women,’ he said, but he let Leander keep the blanket.

  He bundled Leander out of the doorway and hauled him towards the root cellar. The thought of being trapped in a tiny room with Madame Pinchbeck terrified and disgusted Leander. He made a last attempt to wrestle himself free and sprint for the woods, but the constable’s fingers were as strong as iron manacles, and Leander was exhausted from terror and from running and running. All he could hope was that Felix was on his way to find Charlotte and would then return for him.