A Remedy for Fate (Hodderscape)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

One

Thea hurried down a winding street, her pockets stuffed with handfuls of rosehips and fresh thyme, a single crow’s feather tucked behind her ear. The basket

of blackberries she had hooked over one elbow swung with every step, her velvet cloak billowing behind her like a spectre. She was late. Too late to stop and admire her surroundings.

Prague, with its glittering spires and dreaming domes, felt like an enchanted city.

The cobbled paths and buttery pastries made it feel like there was a snap of magic in the air.

And there was . . . But only if you knew where to look.

Most people had no idea that magic existed, let alone that there was a secret Magic Quarter hidden underneath their noses in Prague.

Thea dashed over Prague Bridge and headed straight to the oldest statue standing sentry: St John of Nepomuk.

There she paused, sweeping a look over the bridge.

A few shoppers were dashing off on errands, a couple of carriages clattered by, a child dropped a biscuit.

But just as Thea pressed a hand against St John’s stone base, she caught a stranger’s piercing, emerald gaze.

As the protective ward – an invisible shield of magic that kept out any unwanted visitors or trouble – recognised Thea as one of its own, she was enclosed in an invisible whisper of magic, removing her, and anything . . . unusual from view.

The woman’s eyes widened, looking around the now empty spot. Thea winced, hoping the woman would put her disappearance down to a vivid daydream or a moment of dizziness – it was remarkable how little most people noticed.

St John’s stars glittered, whirling around his head like a galaxy, as with a deep groan, the base of the statue snapped open, revealing a spiralling set of stairs.

They should have led to a dark, subterranean chamber beneath the city streets.

And they would have, if the world marched along to logic and reason.

If it wasn’t a glorious web of magic and whimsy.

Instead, when Thea’s foot touched the last step, she was ushered out into a tangle of narrow streets with dagger-sharp twists and turns: the Magic Quarter, the heart of all enchantment in Prague.

It was wreathed in mist and framed with old, watchful oaks that bore a parliament of time-telling owls.

A weather-witch was busy extinguishing the flickering witch light from each street lamp, and messenger ravens, some carrying tiny packages, flew in all directions.

Thea beamed, filling her lungs with the scent of caramel and hot chocolate.

Home. The Magic Quarter was one of a handful of safe havens for magical folk in Europe, where there were no exorcisms for ghosts, nor a wooden stake for the solitary creaky vampire who lived in the attic of his antiques shop, the Crypt.

Empress Maria Theresa might have outlawed witch-burning and torture last year in 1768, but witches – real witches – still preferred to stay hidden.

And their quarter was protected with wards that kept almost everyone out: magic was a secret most people couldn’t be trusted with.

Those that could, found their way to it – magic seeks those who deserve to know.

An owl nestled into one of the oaks hooted the time at her.

Thea groaned and rushed past a line of shops, their pastel-painted stonework like a box of sugarplums: the Gingerbread House, Zdenka’s Fortunes, Fleur’s.

Their signs shimmered as Thea passed. Fleur waved, happily ignoring her waiting customers as she battled a voluptuous gown in her window display.

An autumnal gust of wind sent crisp leaves scuttling over Thea’s boots like beetles.

Halfway down the street sat Stiltskin’s Apothecary, a three-storeyed building in mint green with a curved mansard roof, an abundance of windows, and a gilded weathervane perched on top that bore a different animal each time Thea looked. Today, it was a hare.

A long line snaked from the door. The hare-weathervane twitched its nose anxiously.

With a wince, Thea hurried faster. Sunrise had found her strolling along the Vltava, gathering fresh ingredients for her potions, along with little curiosities she’d found along her early morning walk.

Her fingers purpling from picking wild blackberries, the time had seeped away until she’d realised with a jolt that she was late.

‘My apologies.’ Greeting the grumblers with her sweetest smile, Thea rummaged through her cloak pockets, pulling out delicate bird bones and an oval polished stone she’d found along the riverbank, before she finally located her key.

It was dim inside, lit only by a large moon.

It hung from a bronze chain down the centre of the apothecary and echoed the phases of the real moon; currently, it was a sharp crescent.

Thea ran a discerning eye over the gleaming wooden floors, the spiral staircase that wove up to the mezzanine, and the banisters she’d polished yesterday.

Shelves huddled into every nook and cranny, from floor to ceiling, hugging each slanted floorboard, each crooked wall, each wooden beam, groaning under the weight of rows upon rows of glass bottles.

Against the dark wood, the walls were a soft spring green, hand-painted with wildflowers.

Thea set down her basket and scurried from lamp to lamp, illuminating the thick gloom with buttery candlelight as shoppers crammed inside, jostling for space and gossiping.

Some days, the apothecary smelt like a salt-rimmed shore.

A flower-strewn meadow. The crackle of an incoming storm.

Today, it smelt like rain. Rain and lilacs.

Thea inhaled deeply before sliding behind her thick, oak counter, tucking her golden hair behind her ear and smiling at her first customer of the day.

Smiles cost nothing, but spreading happiness was priceless.

Removing her cloak, she hung it on a brass hook her side of the counter, smoothed down her emerald-green dress, and strung an apron around her waist.

‘My son’s got a bad case of boils,’ a large, frazzle-haired woman announced, pushing the boy in question forward. ‘Show her, Geoffrey.’

‘That’s not necessary—’ Thea began, but she was too late; the boy’s shirt was whipped off, the nearest shoppers backing away as if it would catch. A couple of pixies darted behind the counter.

Paní Dagmar, an elderly witch who Thea hadn’t realised was also standing in line, peered closer at Geoffrey. ‘I would pay excellent money if you allowed me to lance one of them,’ she offered brightly. ‘A good ingredient oughtn’t to be wasted, you know—’

‘Here’s an ointment,’ Thea interrupted as the customer’s expression curdled like milk, plucking a jar of healing cream from the nearest shelf. ‘It should clear that up straightaway.’ She narrowed her eyes at Paní Dagmar in warning.

The customer eyed the glass jar. The contents were a benign beige colour, studded with calendula petals, though it did emit a faint glow from the dash of ghosts’ luminescence Thea had added, to make said boils vanish. ‘Is this really magic?’ the customer whispered.

Thea smiled; it must have been their first visit to the Quarter. There were few non-magical folk who were allowed past the warded entry. Only those who truly had need of the Quarter, whose motives were pure, could enter the spelled bubble of protection. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Are you a witch?’ Geoffrey piped up. ‘Everyone says there’s no such thing as real witches, but this street appeared out of nowhere when we were crossing the bridge today!’

Before Thea could explain where they’d found themselves, Paní Dagmar poked her nose in. ‘No, no, dears, Thea is no witch.’

The customer looked up from the jar. ‘You’re not?’ Her brow wrinkled.

‘No—’ Thea began.

‘Oh no,’ the elderly witch chuckled. ‘She’s much worse than that!’

The customer’s confusion thickened like fog. Thea rubbed her forehead. ‘Really, Paní Dagmar, you’re not help—’

‘She’s human,’ Paní Dagmar confided with an outlandish wink in Thea’s direction.

‘You’re in the Magic Quarter,’ Thea said loudly, deciding to ignore Paní Dagmar.

‘It revealed itself to you because you were found worthy to enter, but if you’re not sure you’re ready to try magic, you could try the apothecary in the Old Town.

’ Thea hesitated; she wasn’t one for boasting of her own abilities, but she was a firm believer in not shrinking yourself down for the comfort of others.

‘Though theirs is made with scorpion oil and pigeon dung, which I can assure you will not work faster than mine, if at all.’

Geoffrey gagged.

‘There was a reason you were allowed entrance to the Magic Quarter,’ Thea continued in a softer tone.

‘The wards only permit those who need our services to enter, those who bear us no ill will. The last thing I would ever wish is to sell you something harmful. Trust me, you are safe here.’ She offered a warm smile.

The customer nodded and parted with some hellers, dragging Geoffrey through the crowd as he gaped at the shelves stacked with potions and elixirs.

The next shopper stepped forwards to unburden their woes.

Magical folk flocked to Thea’s apothecary, and whether they were sad or sick or just fancied a chat, she made sure to smile at each and every one of them.

Everyone had their own story and you never knew what page they might be on that day.

It was why she’d painted the walls with a meadow of wildflowers: daisies and daffodils, lilacs and snowdrops.

Even in autumn, when the nights were drawing closer, entering the apothecary tasted like a mouthful of sunshine.