Broom with a View Page 3

  There was a knock on the door. Before Violet could reach it, Vera had dashed in front of her and pulled it open only just wide enough as to seem not entirely rude. Behind it stood Sebastian, looking grave as ever. In response to Vera’s startled gasp, he said, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I believe I left something behind and wish to retrieve it before you go to sleep.”

  The Vampire must have taken Vera’s open, gaping mouth as an invitation enough because he glided past her with astonishing speed and grace and approached the desk. Mutely, Violet fell back, creating plenty of space between them. Without so much as a glance in the young Witch’s direction, Sebastian slid open the desk drawer and deftly removed a piece of paper, which he quickly rolled into a tube. Bowing to both the ladies, the Vampire turned to leave.

  Vera found her tongue. “Mr. Du Monde, it was very generous of your father to offer to exchange rooms with us.”

  “As was already said, it benefited us as well as you,” he replied.

  “But we are still grateful, and I would like to thank Count Du Monde personally, if you would be so kind as to take me to him,” Vera persisted.

  This the Vampire was not expecting, and it was obvious the request mildly perturbed him. “I can take any message you have to my father.”

  “I would much rather it be in person,” Vera explained.

  Sebastian looked slightly pink, if it was possible for a Vampire to blush. “Could it wait until tomorrow?”

  Vera was staunchly tenacious when she thought herself to be right. “I’d much rather do it now while the favour is still fresh.”

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it is impossible at the moment.”

  “I don’t see why. It will only take a few minutes of his time.” Vera began to get the impression that Sebastian simply didn’t want a Witch, such as herself, conversing with his father. “I insist,” she added, with all the firmness she could muster.

  Bowing again to both of them, the Vampire said, “I’m afraid it will have to wait until tomorrow. My father, you see, is in his coffin.”

  After such an encounter, Vera was adamant about exchanging rooms with her young niece immediately. It took the better part of two hours before Violet was settled again. By then, she was more than ready to lay her head to rest on a pillow.

  Even though the bed was soft and her body yearned for sleep, Violet could not close her eyes. She couldn’t forget what she’d seen in the drawer before Sebastian came to retrieve his property. It had been a sketch done in charcoal. That alone was not the alarming part. What did keep her from her slumber was that the subject of the sketch appeared to be herself.

  The young Vampire must have spied Violet and her aunt as they first entered the Pensione Belladonna, when the girl was still feeling flustered from having secretly conjured the enhancement spell to aid with her aunt’s feeble seeking spell. Her face had been flushed and her hair coming a bit undone. The artist had captured her in that perfect state of breathlessness that one gets, not from physical exertion, but from starting an adventure.

  Chapter 3: Discovering the Charms of a New City

  “I suppose you are vastly disappointed with me, Violetta,” Vera said as she straightened her hat in front of the mirror. They’d not been in X for a full day, and her aunt was already trying to affect local ways, Violet noted. Although she wasn’t sure Violetta was the proper pronunciation of her name in any language. In fact, she rather suspected it wasn’t.

  “Not at all,” the girl insisted. “It’s only natural that you would want to catch up with your friend.”

  “I suppose you will spend your morning writing your mother about how neglectful I am as a chaperone,” Vera hazarded.

  “I will write nothing of the kind. Don’t be silly,” Violet exclaimed.

  “But you share everything with her.” Vera added a second hat pin to her coiffure to doubly ensure it wouldn't slip. She did not approve of ladies whose hats went askew.

  “Not little things that are of no consequence,” Violet assured her. “Although I would like to tell her that you’ve discovered an old friend. How is it that you and Miss Hopkins are acquainted?”

  “We were girls together at Turnbridge Wells.” Satisfied with her appearance, Vera turned to face her niece. “We spent all of our time together and dreamed up the most marvelous adventures we were to have when finally of age. We even planned a trip to X. Of course, the city had quite the untamed reputation back in my day.”

  “Then what happened?” Violet furrowed her brow. “How did you drift apart?”

  “Hippolyta’s father got called away. There was a lot of trouble with the Vampire Kingdoms of Eastern Europe back then, and he was a high-ranking official.” Vera let out a deep sigh and perched on the corner of her bed. “We swore we’d stay in touch and be friends forever, but those kinds of promises slip away so easily when you are young.”

  Just then, there was a brisk knock at the door, and Hippolyta herself bustled in without waiting for an invitation. “There you are, Vera. I hope you are ready. Adventure awaits,” Miss Hopkins said, standing resplendent in a rich purple coat with a silver fox collar and a matching muff.

  “Oh, my.” Vera turned back to the mirror, considering the application of a third hatpin.

  “Are you going to visit the cathedral?” Violet asked. She wasn’t all that interested in their plans, but thought asking a few questions about how the ladies intended to spend their morning was probably the polite thing to do.

  “Good Goddess, no.” The older Witch laughed as if the girl had just said the silliest thing in the world. “I did say adventure, did I not? I’m going to show your aunt the real X. The one that tourists never see.”

  “Oh.” Violet wasn’t quite sure how to react. She’d thoroughly skimmed her Baedeker and hadn’t seen anything listed on the “real” X. “Where is that?” she couldn’t help but inquire.

  The question elicited another immodest chuckle. “La Villa de la Notte.”

  Vera let a sharp gasp. She knew her dear friend wanted to explore the nooks and crannies of the city, but she never in her wildest dreams thought that meant descending below the city’s beautiful buildings and piazzas and exploring the Vampire ghetto.

  “Are you mad! That is no place for Witches,” she sputtered, all the color disappearing from her face. “We’ll be murdered and our drained corpses left in some squalid alleyway, or worse.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Vera.” Her friend laughed. “I’ve been dozens of times. I can assure you, Vampires are just like you and me,” she insisted, “only dead.”

  Hippolyta hurried Vera into her coat and out the door before she could find enough resolve to change her mind. Violet was left standing alone in her great-aunt’s room, not quite sure what to do with herself.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  “I thought the entrance to Night Town was nearer the cathedral,” said Vera in an almost pleading voice. “Didn’t I see it listed clearly in the Baedeker?”

  Indeed, Miss Tartlette had seen the official entrance the previous evening, at the end of a narrow, winding street that opened into a wide square. It was a massive archway, yawning in the bare stone of Mt. Drood. Statues of angels and demons adorned it, grappling with one another, but whether in hatred or lust was hard to tell. The mere sight had made Vera take Violet by the hand and scramble away wordlessly. She hadn’t thought that she would find herself anywhere near it again. She cleared her throat meaningfully. Vera’s throat clearings could mean a great many things, but this one screamed “I want to go back to the guest house immediately!”

  Hippolyta ignored it.

  They had found their way through the winding streets and alleys of X until they came across a crumbling cemetery called St. Atrocious lurking in the deep shadows beneath the looming mass of the mountain. Vera couldn’t abide cemeteries at the best of times, but in this one, statutes would turn and watch as you passed. She couldn’t imagine why anyone, Witch or apostate, would think that visiting such
a Goddess-forsaken sight was a good idea.

  They came to a halt before an ancient crypt overgrown with moss and lavender flowers, but with a few suspect signs of regular traffic in and out such as the trampled earth beneath their feet. Matching statues of Anubis flanked its entrance. Vera could have sworn she’d seen the eyes of one of the devil dogs shifting in her direction, but Hippolyta insisted she pay it no mind. From her small, German silver mesh purse, Hippolyta extracted a large crowbar. Vera had seen her deposit her parasol into the bag earlier. It made her wonder about the size of her friend’s trunks or whether she just enchanted all of her possessions to fit into an area that should only be large enough to contain a few coins and a pair of gloves.

  Hippolyta slid the end of the crowbar between the stone door and its frame. Putting her body into it and grunting in a way that made Vera glad there was no one but themselves to hear, she heaved, and the crypt door swung open, releasing an odor of copper pence. Miss Hopkins closed her eyes. “Breathe deeply,” she instructed as Vera clutched her handkerchief to her nose. “You are about to experience the true X.”

  Vera drew back from the doorway a step. “If it’s all right by you, Hippolyta, I think I’d much rather just experience the regular X, after all. I’m afraid this might be too much for my first full day abroad.”

  “Nonsense,” Hippolyta barked, insistently hooking her arm through Vera’s. “We always swore we would have grand adventures together, and here we are at last. You’ve lived in Turnbridge Wells too long, my girl.” With determined steps, Hippolyta marched them both across the threshold and into the crypt.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Violet had finished her letter to her mother, fixed her hair, oiled her wand, and straightened her room. At last, she realised that nothing was less satisfying on one’s first trip abroad than a quiet morning alone in a hotel room. She wandered downstairs.

  Even though the sun was high, the orientation of the windows left the parlour in chilly shadows. It seemed even more still and lifeless than her room, and she searched around for a means to drive the gloom away. She found a reading lamp by stumbling upon it. She made a fumbling catch, but its cheap glass shade detached itself and shattered spectacularly against the parquet floor. Only then did she hear the harsh voice of the ill-tempered proprietress shouting at her chambermaids a few rooms away. Thoroughly flustered, Violet drew her wand and flicked it decisively towards the shards of glass, desperately muttering a spell of rectification. The pieces waltzed across the floor and sprang into the young Witch’s hands, reforming themselves but not into the simple shape of the lamp shade. Violet found herself holding a large cluster of glass grapes, cherries, apples, and pears all shot through with tiny flecks of gold. “Now what am I to do?” she wondered, a little bewildered, while setting the Murano fruit on the mantelpiece.

  “Perhaps a fire for the hearth?” a deep voice suggested from somewhere behind her.

  A little startled, the girl spun around. “Mr. B,” she exclaimed, spying the Sorcerer lounging in a tall, wing-backed chair. “I didn’t see you there. I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of this poor lamp shade.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mr. B said in a kindly voice. “I can set it right if you are concerned.”

  “Would you?” The girl blushed. “Sometimes I’m simply hopeless with magic.”

  “I’d be glad to,” he said, folding his paper. “But just for now, if you would be so kind as to light the hearth. It’s a beautiful day outside, I’m told, but I find this room a touch chilly for my old bones.”

  “Of course,” said Violet, doing her best to conceal her reluctance, unsure she could remember even this simple spell whilst the High Sorcerer watched her so keenly. She wondered why he didn’t simply conjure a fire himself but felt it was not her place to ask. Raising her wand, she placed its tip in the palm of her left hand and began to trace a circle. As she stirred faster and faster, a bright, warm point of light formed in the center of her palm. It swelled, taking the form of an egg, which glowed as though the contents were white hot. Taking her wand away, Violet held the egg out and stared at it, puzzling out whether the spell had gone wrong. Mr. B watched fixedly.

  With a tiny explosion, the egg hatched, and a small, plump bird made entirely of flame sat in Violet’s open hand. Feeling suddenly as if the next step was obvious, Violet lifted it to her lips and blew lightly. The little fire-bird spread its flickering wings and glided obediently to the fireplace, where it nestled comfortably, chirping a happy melody and making a nest of kindling.

  After a moment of silence, Mr. B began to laugh uproariously, clapping his hands. “Delightful,” he said. “Goodness, it’s been years since I’ve seen any Witch make such a charming fire. Won’t you please do something else wonderful?”

  “You’re very kind.” Violet brushed off the compliment, her voice tinged with discomfort and irritation.

  Mr. B leaned forwards. “I beg your pardon, my dear. Am I being presumptuous?”

  “No, of course not,” she told him. “It’s just...” She composed herself, feeling her face flush. “I rarely perform magic at home. Mother says it makes me peevish.” After thinking about it a moment, she said, “Would you please excuse me? I have a letter to mail, and a bit of fresh air might make me feel better.”

  As Violet hurried out of the parlour, the Misses Fate ventured in. Mr. B had learned that their full names were Miss Abigail Fate, Miss Hazel Fate, and Miss Esther Fate. Telling them apart was such a challenge that Mr. B suspected they did it on purpose, but the determined Sorcerer had already identified a few distinguishing qualities for each of them. For example, Miss Hazel had a way of always tilting her head slightly to the left.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said in a loud, clear voice. Miss Esther Fate had the opera glasses and was leading her sisters single file into the room. None of them were particularly hard of hearing, but he had no wish to startle Witches of such extreme age with his unexpected presence.

  Miss Esther used the opera glasses to survey the room. “Who is it?” one of the sisters following behind her asked.

  “I believe it is Mr. Beelzebub,” was Esther’s reply.

  “Indeed it is,” the Sorcerer assured them, getting to his feet to escort the ladies to the loveseat that he knew they favoured.

  Once the three sisters were settled, Miss Abigail Fate took her turn at the opera glasses. “Oh, there you are, Mr. B. What are you doing in the parlour all by yourself?”

  “Actually,” he told them, “I was most amiably engaged.” He gestured towards the fire, where the little bird had grown to the size of a hen, nestling proudly in its nest of flames. The three sisters took turns admiring the fowl through their opera glasses. “Complements of our young Miss Popplewell,” he explained to their surprise and delight. “I was just contemplating that should Violet Popplewell venture to live as gloriously as she performs magic, she will become quite a formidable Witch indeed.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Hippolyta lifted an oil lamp high in the air, but it didn’t so much banish the darkness as reveal it. The tiny pools of light glanced off the strange, cobblestone walls and the soft, diaphanous ceiling, so thick with cobwebs you couldn’t see the stone above. It took Vera a few moments to realize that the cobblestones in the walls were actually skulls, literally stacked floor to ceiling. She squeaked, words failing to form in her tightening throat.

  “They’re all the bodies from all the cemeteries over the past ten centuries,” Hippolyta whispered, turning a smile towards her companion in the darkness. “All cities are built on human bones.”

  The catacombs seemed impossibly complex, but Hippolyta knew her way even without the aid of a seeking spell. At last, the passage ended before an ornately carved stone doorway.

  The ironwork door seemed immovable, but Hippolyta knew her business. To one side of the doorway was a stone angel, sagging piteously against the masonry. Hippolyta’s searching fingers found two little holes in the angel’s stone n
eck and pressed inwards. Its hand moved, and with a dull, metal click, the door swung open. Hippolyta flashed a smug yet excited look in her companion’s direction. “Welcome to your first true adventure,” she said.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  The faces were the worst, Vera thought. As the two Witches emerged into a wide tunnel, like an underground avenue, and walked among the subterranean dwellers, pale faces appeared from within balaclavas or from under veiled hats or from behind dark curtains of hair. They were ghastly, almost luminous in their pallor, but even worse, their eyes were pits of darkness that would catch the lamplight in the most alarming ways, unearthly black stars twinkling in the darkness.

  “My Goddess,” whispered Vera, squeezing her companion’s hand for reassurance.

  The underground street in which Vera and Hippolyta found themselves seemed to be constantly holding its breath. All voices whispered. All footfalls were soft. The loudest noise was the trickle of a canal that twisted its way through Night Town, transporting flat little barges carrying barrels and goods through the tunnels. The street was lined with market stalls, but unlike markets in the world above, there was no need for awnings to protect merchandise from sun damage or rain. No wind would blow goods away, so walls could be made of the finest silks. Only light, or the lack of it, was a problem, and it was addressed in the barest possible way with minimally placed candles or shaded candelabras. Vera felt her eyes almost popping out of their sockets in an effort to penetrate the gloom.

  Hippolyta didn’t seem to mind. She flitted lightly from one stall to the next, caressing silks Vera could barely see and ogling jewelry encrusted with large stones that glittered in the dark.

  “The best fashion stalls are this way,” Hippolyta said excitedly as she pulled Vera along the street. “Vampires are the only people with any real understanding of fashion.”