CHAPTER ELEVEN
The tea shop proper had wide, arched, north-facing windows which let in the midday sun to nuzzle the table legs and loll, warm and bright, against the floorboards.
The light rubbed its back upon the lily-of-the-valley wallpaper, catching the brown picture frames of daguerreotypes and watercolours and newspaper clippings and poetry.
If Dot had been alone in the tea shop, she would have dragged her fingertips along the edges of the frames, squinting at the paint splatters, sounding out the similes.
Instead, she sat in a comfortable armchair by the window, peeking at the customers, listening to their chatter, bewitched by it all like a child at the aquarium.
Theodora, Dot had learned, had warded the space to repel aspiring apprentices.
It made Dot grimace to envision herself peering in, utterly unaware that the customers and staff would have watched her doing so.
Now, with the false dereliction gone, and the wrought-iron sign outside reading the true name of the establishment, Dot could properly take in Theodora’s Tea Shop.
It was a narrow space. Toward the far end was the counter, the grand silver till and the blackboard menu wreathed in golden wattle. Covering the walls were several shelves of copper tea pots, porcelain jugs, glass siphons and innumerable jars of spices and herbs.
Upon the wooden floor was a large, circular engraving. Table legs and chairs and the edges of the customers’ shoes partially obscured it from Dot, but she glimpsed the symbol’s odd angles and flourishes cut in a delicate hand.
Dot wondered how the patrons could simply open their packet spells, wipe lipstick from tea cup rims, place their hats on opposite chairs, and not feel aware that they were participating in a pantomime of everyday enchantment?
How the customers varied, too. Elderly couples, young parents, university students with textbooks.
The wood floor thudded with the heavy heels of their lace-ups.
The radio played soft, crackling jazz. Someone dropped a spoon; someone gasped to his friend.
‘I said to her, Maria – you’ll enjoy this – I said, “Sofia, we would love to be the kind of family who owned a hatstand, but we simply aren’t there yet.”’
‘Oh, Mrs Liu, give it a minute. Theodora’s spells are far the better than Salamander’s. Hers actually work, after all.’
Only two members of staff were working presently: Lio, who was cursing to himself as he grated bergamot, and Thistlethwaite, a mid-sized spirit with white, soft fur that sparkled in the sunlight.
She reminded Dot of an illustration she had once seen of a snow monkey.
Thistlethwaite now placed a purple mug in Dot’s hand.
No spell packet; just black Eyreish tea.
‘Never worked a day in his life,’ the aged spirit croaked, nodding toward Lio.
A far yelp sounded, and Lio clutched at his hand where the grater had slipped and nicked him. At this, Thistlethwaite glanced down at Dot as if to say, See?
‘Nearly twenty centuries I have lived,’ muttered the spirit, ‘and never have I met a creature so terribly precious.’
Dot merely smiled and sipped her tea and watched Lio dust zest off his apron. His eyes met hers, and she quickly dropped her gaze, her cheeks turning pink.
It was Dot’s hypothesis that magic manifested a little differently for everyone. Lio, who was listless and easily frustrated, had a talent for running away. Belchamber, in all of his bell-like beauty, existed, she felt, to soothe and to charm. Theodora—
The witch popped her head into the café and waved to Dot. ‘Ready, Dorothy?’
Several of the customers glanced Dot’s way.
‘Oh,’ said Dot, ‘I – my tea just arrived.’
‘Bring it with you,’ Theodora called over her shoulder as she disappeared.
How could a woman so bold have a talent for hiding, of all things?
Belchamber helped Dot down to the basement where Theodora made all the packet spells.
Dot had grown quickly fond of the tin-coloured spirit.
He slept most nights in the armchair beside her and when she absentmindedly reached up to scratch her nose and was assaulted by the grotesque whiteness of the bandage – and was thus thrown into another fit of terror – he would soothe her.
‘Look about the room, Miss Dorothy. Name what you can see.’
‘Handkerchief. Jumper. Lamp. Sock. Orange peel.’
‘What you can smell.’
‘Vinegar. Wood. Blackberry. Laundry. Oranges.’
‘What you can feel.’
And so, he would go on calming her, teaching her to ride the waves of panic that crashed down upon her each time she was reminded of the affliction. On her tenth night in the house, Belchamber had told her it was time to remove the bandage.
‘No,’ she’d sobbed to him. ‘I can’t live with this. I don’t care if Theodora thinks the affliction is incurable. I’ll find a solve. I’ll rid it before I go home.’
And Belchamber had rested a hand on her and said, ‘Perhaps, Miss Dorothy, we should write a letter to your family.’
‘They hate me, Belchamber, I am sure,’ said Dot. ‘I ran away. All I left was a note. I was already an inconvenience. My mother did not obscure me from that knowledge.’
‘I am sure that is not true,’ said the spirit.
‘And I am sure it is,’ said Dot.
Belchamber had smiled in a sad way that had only made Dot feel worse.
When Dot wasn’t dozing, they chatted. Belchamber loved to read; he voted against the conservative party and he was paid 129 silvers per week by Theodora (before taxes), which he handed straight back to the witch for he had absolutely no use for it.
Now, he opened the door to the basement workshop.
‘Take a seat,’ said Theodora without looking up.
She was encircled by the bric-a-brac of potion-making: brass scales, jewelled knives and measuring cups of every size.
Beneath the cauldron was a large, circular mark carved into the wooden table.
It was the same as the mark carved into the tea shop floor.
The space was perfumed, thickly, by the flowers drying from the ceiling.
Through a sliver of window, she spotted the shoes of passersby ferrying across the pavement of Wren Court like waves.
Dot’s vision swam. As she reached for the table, she bumped Theodora.
‘Oh! Sorry.’
‘Every time you say that word, Dorothy, I’ll dock your pay twenty silvers.’
It took Dot a moment to catch the witch’s smile. A joke it had been, and not a scolding. She relaxed, and Theodora waved her hand and a second stool appeared. Dot took it. With that, Belchamber left them and Theodora set down her pen.
‘How many spells do you know?’
‘Oh,’ said Dot. ‘Well, none.’
‘None? What about runes?’
‘What are runes? Are they important?’
‘Heavens,’ said Theodora.
‘I’m sorry, Mistress. I—’
‘Twenty silvers, and do not call me “Mistress”, Dorothy. There are five years between us, not fifty.’
‘Theodora,’ said Dot carefully, ‘I regret to say that I know about the history of magic, only. The laws, the dates, Article Thirteen and the politics of it all. Why do you think I came all this way to find you?’
‘I shouldn’t have assumed,’ said Theodora, folding her arms and leaning back.
‘Alright, well – runes are the foundation of all human magic. Spirits of course invented runes thousands of years ago, although they do not depend on them for their power. Their fluency in magic is incomprehensible to us. Sacred, even—’
‘That’s why daemons are rare,’ said Dot, eagerly. ‘It’s a heinous thing to take away a spirit’s magic—’ She caught the witch’s surprise. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Theodora. ‘Interrupt all you like. You are correct. It is an abominable thing to turn a spirit into a daemon. Thus, the crime committed by that spirit must be truly terrible in order to justify such a grave punishment.
‘And,’ Theodora went on, ‘that is also why Article Thirteen is such an insult – to threaten daemotion for a spirit merely assisting a human in magic?’ The witch shook her head.
‘But I digress.’ Theodora picked up her pen.
‘Runes are for human Magicians, and they are the foundational amplifiers of magic. Weaker Magicians like Lio will use chalk to help them visualise the runes. Some, like Cate, will use other amplifiers. She has threads to help her See. But the runes, themselves, are the basis of all magic.’
‘How do the packet spells work?’ asked Dot, picking up a burgundy envelope beside her.
‘Ah,’ said Theodora, eyes sparkling. ‘This is a process I have spent the past eight years perfecting. Ever since I opened the shop, really. It’s a combination of powdered potions and spellwork.
Every packet spell is different. Some spells require more complexity and, thus, are more difficult to place in a packet.
I charge a lot more for those ones. Most of those involve Sympathy. ’
‘And what is that?’ asked Dot with such excitement she almost slipped off her chair.
Theodora chuckled. ‘Sympathy is a branch of magic. All spells have runes at their core, but Sympathetic spells also need an item of great significance. Say for example, your maps, Dorothy.’
‘My maps?’ Dot asked, surprised.
‘Even though they have been half ruined by the Lourdes, you still pore over them, stare at them, memorise them. They mean a great deal to you. They are a source of comfort. So, if I wanted to create a spell to find you or otherwise manipulate you, I could use one of those maps to help amplify my spell. If I tried to use a pair of shoes you did not like, the spell would be weaker. If I used something like your eyelashes, it would be even stronger.’
‘What would be strongest?’ asked Dot.
Theodora watched her for a moment. Then she said, ‘Your blood, but that is a taboo magic not taught at the Royal Institute.’
Dot thought of the phials dangling on the hips of the old witch. Moira had been her name. ‘The witches of Acanthi use blood magic.’
‘Very astute,’ said Theodora. ‘Are you sure you had no spell books in Seafarthing? It wasn’t just the factories and fried fish shops?’