Chapter 2
2
The bell above the museum's door tinkles, heralding our arrival. A balding man with silver-rimmed spectacles stands behind the museum foyer counter, and he places the chocolate biscuit he's nibbling beside his mug. Either the biscuit tasted terrible, or we're the ones he finds distasteful because his expression sours.
"Whoa," says Rowan, now by my side.
I wrinkle my nose. "Yes. There's rather a pungent smell to the place. Old things. Dead things."
"No," he whispers. "The energy. I'm not touching anything and my head hurts with all the held memories shouting. I can't switch off the magic and close it out."
"Ah. I never considered this may affect you. Would you like to wait outside?" Rowan shakes his head. "Good, because that would be unhelpful."
I rarely receive a warm welcome wherever I go, but the museum's curator's is particularly frosty as if he'd happily freeze us in place and stop us from moving further. We squash together in the carpeted space opposite the reception desk, where a door to the right leads into the exhibits. Thin guidebooks, a collection of pens, and magnets that feature the building line the desk, and an old black-and-white photo of the street hangs above the man's head.
"Fun times ahead," says Grayson, and I've learned enough recently to know that's definite sarcasm.
An odd clove smell emanates from him, something I'd associate with witches. I study the white-haired man more closely. He's dressed in a brown suit with green patched elbows, but there's no sign of anything supernatural about him.
The man switches his look of abhorrence from me to Grayson, his lip curling slightly before he looks at Holly.
"Hi!" Holly gives him a small wave. "I'm Holly, and we're from?—"
"Five pounds," he says, slapping a folded brochure onto the wooden reception desk.
"Excuse me?" I ask and step closer.
"Entry to the museum costs five pounds each."
Taking the brochure from the desk, I unfold it and stare at the contents: a brief guide to the museum, including unprofessional-looking photos of apparent notable exhibits. Few exhibits.
"No wonder your museum isn't a hive of activity," I say, placing the brochure back down. "And that's extortion."
"All proceeds go towards the upkeep of the building and preservation of exhibits," he says stiffly. "Those that weren't stolen from us by witches."
Aha. The reason behind the curator's awful customer service towards Thornwood students. "Stolen exhibits? Do you mean magical artifacts retrieved by the supernatural council?"
"Items that were part of the museum collection for many years," he retorts. "Before you lot suddenly appeared, created your own government, and think you can steal anything you want. It's not right."
So, definitely not a witch—or a fan of the new world created when vampires, shifters, and witches revealed they'd lived amongst humans for centuries. A number of other humans share his opinions, but generally for more pertinent reasons than losing museum exhibits.
"The council didn't steal. They merely removed artifacts that should be kept safe from magic users who've ill intent. Ones who would do more than steal from you."
His jaw hardens. "Supernatural kids don't come here."
"Then you are excluding a lot of prospective clientele," I say.
"I don't exclude them. They don't come here," he repeats.
"No. They have better things to spend their money on," mutters Holly beneath her breath. She side glances at me. "You'll pay for this."
I frown. Does Holly mean financially or otherwise? I do not want to owe Holly any more 'favors.'
"And cash only," says the curator stiffly.
"Nobody uses cash," says Grayson.
"What a shame. You can't pay for entry." The man gives a thin-lipped smile. "Goodbye."
"Good grief," I say. "You behave as if you don't want anybody to set foot in the place."
"Supernatural kids don't come here."
"I am neither deaf nor stupid—I heard you the first time. Perhaps if you expanded on your words, I could deduce whether you're stating a fact or warning us of impending trouble should we stay in the museum."
He gawks at me. "Pardon?"
"She means are we banned because we're supes?" puts in Rowan with a small sigh.
His eyes narrow to slits behind his spectacles. "I have a list, you know."
"As do I. Several. What's on yours?"
"People banned from entering the museum."
"A long list?"
"Long enough."
"For what reasons? Racism or did they damage an exhibit?"
"Violet," whispers Rowan. "Can we just look at what we need to and leave?"
"Do you have cash?" I ask him, and he shakes his head. "Any of you?"
"I do, but not enough for all of us," says Holly.
"Hmm." I eye the curator, who continues to eye me .
Rowan's mouth parts as he catches my smile. "No, Violet. Don't cause trouble."
Ignoring him, I turn back to the man. "You've an iconic and exciting exhibit you wish to show us."
His brow knits. "I do?"
"Yes. In the middle of the museum." I point. "Through that door."
Words form on his lips but fail to leave his mouth.
"Violet," urges Rowan. "Stop using magic on a human's mind. That's illegal."
"No. Let her. I'm not wasting my money," says Holly. "I didn't want to come here, remember?"
In surprise, I break from my burgeoning mind control to side-glance my strait-laced human friend. She's encouraging illegal magic rather than preparing to lecture me?
The bell behind tinkles again, and my friends edge from the door. An elderly couple stares at us as if we're apparitions. The man dresses similarly to the curator, although he prefers beige elbow patches and shoes of a matching color. His snowy white hair is clipped short, and the woman in the floral dress wears her gray hair in a long, loose braid.
"You're early," says the curator, shaking back his jacket sleeve to examine his wristwatch before gesturing at the poster on the wall. "The meeting doesn't start for half an hour."
Little Wittering Historical Society
Monthly Meeting
June 6th
4PM
"Mabel can make the tea," says the man with a smile. "I do hope you bought more of those delicious biscuits."
The new man studies us with curiosity rather than disdain. Do all humans in this age group smell weird? A pungent mix of leathery and soapy scents smother the couple, along with a mustiness to match their surroundings.
"Who are these young people?" asks the man.
"The answer is obvious, unless the museum never has patrons, in which case, we're a random group of teens who decided to attend the meeting," I say, pissed these individuals ruined my mind magic by snapping away the curator's attention.
" Are you here for the meeting?" Mabel asks.
"Um. No," says Grayson, staring as if she's insane.
"Shame. Young blood might encourage a new love of history amongst their peers, don't you think, Reginald?" Mabel says solemnly to her companion.
Holly laughs. "You'd fit in Violet. They talk like you do."
I ignore them all and catch the curator's eye again. "Thank you for your information. We'll be sure to look at that exhibit you mentioned. We'd best visit now—if you have a meeting with your friends, the museum must be closing soon. I couldn't bear to miss out."
"What?" He blinks and then looks at his weird-smelling companions. "Oh. Right. Meeting."
Nodding at the curator, I stride purposefully towards the doors. Holly pokes Leif, who is intently studying the ceiling and yawning, before they follow Rowan and me, with Grayson trailing behind.
"Five pounds,” Leif mutters as the door swings closed behind us. "That's crazy."
"I guess I did pay for this," I say to Holly smugly.
"With illegal magic," whispers Rowan.
I slant my head, ready to make a pointed comment about the use of illegal magic he performed over the years. Yet Rowan's concern is valid. If the curator realizes I used magic on him, he'll report me to authorities.
But the curator's mind was rather weak, like cracking the spine of an old book, and once I'd waded through the prejudice, I easily manipulated the man's thoughts.
"Bloody hell. This is what we paid to see?" asks Grayson incredulously.
The half-empty museum's mundanity spreads into the windowless room, where the walls are painted in faded pastel hues and chipped in places. Only a few overhead lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the dim interior and sparse exhibits.
"I expect he needs to keep his biscuit supply topped up for his meetings," says Rowan, who wanders to the nearest glass cabinet.
"Or he's saving for a new suit," says Holly with a snicker.
"Do you think the curator knows who you are, Violet?" Rowan examines a hand-written label on yellowed paper beside an old top hat.
Fascinating.
"No. He hates supes for taking away his items and, by all accounts, shrinking his museum display by half. Therefore, if he knew I'm the daughter of the man who leads the supernatural council, I don't believe any amount of money would permit me entry."
Hands linked together behind my back, I pace slowly around the room, across worn floorboards, as I follow the chronological history of Little Wittering displayed on cards and photos on the wall.
Interesting—there are no references to shifters whose history preceded both the witches and the humans. The museum owner could've included that rather than pretending supes were never part of the area's past.
I pass through an arched entry into a U-shaped room with an open display in the center, then abruptly halt, boots squeaking on the floor as I do. Grayson's hand goes to the small of my back as he supports me unnecessarily, but the guy hasn't touched me all day—something akin to a miracle. Still, the gentle pressure from his fingers awakens the desire for his blood within me, and I quickly sidestep.
"Good grief."
"What? I barely touched you," he says.
"No. Not good grief at you pawing me—good grief at that ."
Ahead of me, a tableau stretches the room as animal figures intermingle with fake plants to depict the local flora and fauna. I walk forward and sniff, then wrinkle my nose at the smell of chemicals and death. Taxidermy. If you ask me, the practice isn't too far removed from necromancy since both interfere with dead bodies. And both create something to possess.
But nobody would ask me.
A rabbit. A badger. Fox. Small rodents. Sparrows and robins. All are positioned on fake grass, around dead tree branches designed to paint a 'natural environment'. Something squeaks nearby, and as I consider whether the museum extended its budget to sound effects, the source of the noise passes me.
Holly.
" Omigodsogross ," she breathes out.
"Yes. Such a waste," I say blithely and tap my lips. "At least when I preserve bodies with magic, mine can still move."
I glance at Holly when she doesn't reply. "You're paler. Don't worry, there's no blood. You won't faint."
"That's not why—" She shakes her head. "Never mind."
On the wall, cards are placed beneath each exhibit's photograph, providing visitors with information about each animal. One of the images depicts a man in an old-fashioned three-piece suit beaming at the camera, a Frankenstein with his creations displayed on a table before him. Fortunately, his body isn't part of the display.
The card beneath his photo reads Exhibits created by Arthur Redridge, award-winning taxidermist c.1840. Donated by the Redridge family.
Award-winning. What accolade would that bestow? A golden stand to mount his stuffed creatures on?
Holly reads, too. "I'd also donate these things to a museum if I inherited them. They're creepy."
"What's the point in all this?" asks Grayson, walking over and tentatively placing fingers on the head of a stuffed fox.
"Do not touch the exhibits!" comes a loud voice.
I pivot. Stalked by the curator . "Don't you have a meeting?" I ask.
"You heard me. Thirty minutes. I'm not leaving you in the museum alone." He jerks his chin. "I don't know if you're friends with the last lot."
"Last lot?" asks Rowan, joining us.
"The last lot of kids who visited and thieved from the museum. Bunch of yobs," says the curator. "They visited on a high school excursion a couple of months ago, and if I didn't need the funding, I'd never allow kids from that place in here again." He gestures at the corner of the ceiling, where a red light blinks on a small white security camera. "The hooligans stuck gum over that so I don't have any record of the theft."
"No finesse—definitely local kids. And quite primitive methods compared to your technological expertise, Rowan."
"Violet!" Rowan looks especially annoyed this time.
"Why? Is he a master thief?" asks the curator suspiciously.
"No," he puts in sharply.
"What did the delightful teenagers steal?" He scowls in the direction of his macabre tableau, and I flourish a hand at the dead animal collection. "One of these?"
If this man's face gets any tighter, his features will disappear. The curator points at a small space at the edge of the taxidermy display. A circular indent on the green velvet setting indicates a missing item. "They took a mole."
"A mole?" I ask.
"Yes. That one." He jabs a finger at the mole's photo and description, which are still attached to the wall. A white mole? How curious.
Behind me, Leif laughs. "Oh, the mole . I saw the pictures."
"I saw the pictures too. That is not the way to treat a hundred-year-old, valuable item," snaps the curator.
"Valuable?" scoffs Grayson. "A scruffy dead thing?"
"What photos?" I ask.
"Oh!" Holly's mouth parts. "Do you mean Marvin Mole?"
We have nothing in common, but at this moment, the curator and I synchronize our responses. "What?"