CHAPTER SEVEN
All she could do was stand frozen in her hiding place, staring out at the darkness, too afraid to move. Dot was trespassing in not only the most holy building in Alliaster, but in the entire continent.
Wedged in the alcove, she descended into panic.
Would the government take both her hands for this?
How many thousands of silver pieces would the fine be?
What would happen when she could not pay it?
Would they send her to gaol? Oh, how the customers at the Divers’ Café would gossip when they heard about ‘That Dorothy’.
Nice girl. Good family. Such a bloody shame. What would Archie think?
She spiralled like this for a good while until she was interrupted by the sound of leather shoes clacking against the marble. Silently, Dot peered around the edge of the cabinet.
In the dim moonlight, a lanky figure strolled beneath the dome.
He paused before the holy dais, facing the throne of Saint Penelope.
Dot squinted. Was he a guard of some kind?
The figure stooped before the throne. He moved and crouched and moved again.
It took her a moment to realise that the man was drawing upon the holy dais.
It was vandalism, then! Dot stepped out from the alcove, ready to chase after the villain, when he straightened and raised his arm.
A strange wind kicked up. Dot glanced about.
No windows were open. In tumbled the sweet smell of burning wood, gunpowder, incense and something else she couldn’t pick.
Citrus? She heard, from nowhere in particular, wind chimes and chanting.
The figure stepped up onto the dais and light erupted from beneath his feet.
He was a Magician.
She moved almost involuntarily toward him, drawn to the light.
The spell circled the man, whipping his dark hair.
He made to climb onto the throne, placing one foot down on the seat, but the moment his shoe connected with the holy cushion, the spell burst. A shriek erupted and Dot threw her hands over her ears.
The man was shot out from the throne, high into the air, and landed on the marble with a painful-sounding smack.
The magic was gone; darkness swallowed them.
‘That was magic,’ cried Dot, and the man startled as she rushed to him. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘Where in Saints’ name did you come from?’
She could see him properly now and, sprawled on the marble as he was, he was handsome. The Magician climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his fine, tweed jacket. He had a short black beard, a long nose and a warm brown complexion. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair.
Dot watched the man as he turned back toward the throne. He was only a little taller than her. He wore no hat. His arms were folded. ‘What were you doing?’ Her voice was small, her eyes on her hands.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, indignant. ‘Why are you in here when the cathedral is closed?’
Dot had no answer. It did not matter. He had already turned back to the dais.
‘Do you have a licence to use magic?’ asked Dot.
‘Are you going to report me?’ asked the young man with an ironic grin.
Warmth spread over Dot’s face. The man’s smile was lovely, even when it was in mockery.
‘You are aware that you would have to explain to the authorities exactly how you also came to be in Saint Penelope’s Cathedral after the doors were locked. ’
‘I’m not going to report you,’ said Dot.
‘Obviously,’ he said, turning back to the dais.
Dot bristled. ‘You’re the only Magician I’ve met.’
‘What an honour.’
‘I mean to say,’ said Dot, stepping forward, ‘that, well, I have tried everything else, and I suppose you’re hardly going to have me arrested because I just watched you use unlicensed magic, and so I might as well ask.
’ The man glanced at her then and Dot forced herself to meet his eyes.
‘Do you know where to find Theodora’s Tea Shop? ’
The Magician baulked. A mild horror played on his face and then, after a moment, he let out a dry, exhausted laugh.
‘Of course you’re looking for Theodora,’ he said at last, shaking his head.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dot.
‘You want to know what I was doing?’
‘Performing sorcerie, of course.’
‘I was casting a portal,’ he said. ‘Would you like to know to where?’
He looked pointedly at Dot.
‘Not the tea shop?’ gasped Dot.
‘No, but close enough,’ he said. ‘The Raven’s Attic.’
‘Oh,’ said Dot. ‘What is that?’
‘Her club,’ said the young man. ‘It’s located in the Commerce District, but I am certain it connects to the tea shop somehow in the Market District.
She runs them both. Theodora sells packet spells to the government and the royal family and any well-to-do without a licence.
Only, she’s not Theodora, there. She’s Bianca De León. ’
‘Minister De León?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the young man. ‘As I said, the club must be attached to the tea shop. There’s no other way she could dip between the two without leaving a trace.’
He was off talking to himself now.
‘Why didn’t it work?’ asked Dot.
‘Hm?’
‘The spell,’ said Dot. ‘It shot you straight back out again. Did you make a mistake?’
‘No,’ he said, tartly. ‘Theodora has simply barred me from every one of her establishments. How in heaven’s name am I going to reach her?’
He put his hands on his hips. Then, his expression changed.
‘Theodora might have barred me from using her portals,’ he said, ‘but she has not barred you.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Nonsense. You wanted to meet her, didn’t you? There’s a spell you’re after? I’ll help you through the portal and, in return, you can deliver her a letter.’
‘Surely, I should not trust you,’ said Dot, retreating.
‘Why ever not?’ asked the charming young man.
‘You broke into the cathedral,’ said Dot. ‘You’ve no licence and you’ve walked all over the holy floors in your shoes, even though the signs clearly say not to.’
‘I only broke into the cathedral out of desperation,’ he said.
‘The throne is a powerful object of magic, you see. I was hoping that if I drew the rune right onto the holy dais, I could use it to amplify my portal. The past weeks have exhausted me. You watched the outcome of this just now. Even though I used my chalk, even though portals are my talent, I failed spectacularly. So, I ask for your kindness and your help, Miss. I need to see the witch who calls herself Theodora.’
Still, Dot hesitated.
‘Didn’t you say that you had tried everything else?’ asked the young man gently. ‘What other choice have you?’
Dot looked down at her bitten fingernails.
‘What is your name?’
‘Dorothy Walcott.’
‘I’m Lio.’
‘Have you no surname?’
‘Why would you need to know it?’
‘If you don’t trust me enough to tell me your surname, I hardly think I should trust you.’
‘Good lord,’ said the man. ‘Fine. My name is Robert Liutprand Lashkari and I’ve never liked it. “Robert” is stuffy and “Liutprand” is archaic, so I go by “Lio”. Is that enough for you to trust me, Miss Walcott?’
He held out his hand.
She thought for a long moment and then said, ‘I suppose,’ and shook it.
Fifteen minutes later, a letter was penned on conjured paper, the rune was redrawn in chalk and Dot stood on the carpet of the holy dais before the throne of Saint Penelope.
‘I really believe we should get my shoes.’
‘Once again,’ said Lio, ‘you will alert the monks if you open that door.’
‘Couldn’t you conjure the shoes for me?’
‘That would be worse than opening the door, much like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle by setting it on fire. You’ll have to meet Theodora in your socks.’
Dot frowned. Surely that would cause a bad impression.
Lio handed her the letter and then, in a soft voice, asked, ‘Ready, Miss Walcott?’
She almost said no. But, somehow, the way Lio said her name made her want to appear braver and more capable than she was, and so, she nodded and placed the letter in her pocket and hoisted her carpet bag high on her shoulder.
Lio raised his hand over the rune, and the wind kicked up. Chanting came again from some distant place. Dot, now in the eye of the spell, felt the prickly sensation of magic. As if remembering a snippet of a half-forgotten dream, she knew this warmth.
‘Go now,’ said Lio.
She stepped up onto the throne of Saint Penelope, and the moment her foot connected with the cushion, she was sucked clean through the chair and into the whirling darkness beyond.