EPILOGUE
Dorothy Louise Walcott was twenty-five years old, and still felt like a child. The jacaranda petals had returned to Alliaster again, and it was her third time watching them cascade like confetti over the city.
To the eyes of any passing tourist, the great flood was a thing almost unacknowledged. The trams soared again over the cobbled hills and the salt had been removed entirely from the red brick buildings.
The politicians of Calléum squabbled at length over whether the legislation on magic had contributed to or hindered the tragedy that took thousands of lives and cost their capital city hundreds of thousands in taxpayer silver.
No one was more dedicated to the restoration of their city than Ruth Armstrong, the new Minister for Sorcerie and Magic.
Now, she was joined by a bright-eyed colleague with curly, blonde hair – the young minister for City Infrastructure and Planning, who had only recently mastered the finger wave.
The Opposition Minister for Sorcerie and Magic watched them, session by session, from the opposite benches.
Marcidus had decried Salamander’s evil as an embarrassment to incorporeal kind and forfeited his inheritance of the daemon’s empire and department store; he did this to spare himself a daemotion and was left with nothing in the world but his role as a public servant.
‘A fair punishment,’ Belchamber had chuckled, waggling the newspaper before them as they ate cheese tartlets in the small café with wiry black chairs.
Across Alliaster, on the corner of Wren Court and Ethel Avenue, the tea shop had been rebuilt. It stood proudly with its arched front windows and its wrought iron sign. A jacaranda tree had been replanted beside it. It now bloomed with adolescent petals.
They added two additional levels to the tea shop.
They widened the rooms and instead of an attic created a terrace, with little chairs and geraniums and tomato plants.
Theodora took the bedroom between Dot’s and Lio’s.
They heard the witch’s shouts more fiercely now when she tore about looking for her keys.
She and Dot had scoured the department stores together for armchairs and wooden tables and vases and tea pots and anything they would need to restore the shop as best they could.
They found wallpaper adorned with lily of the valley; they found picture frames and new passages of poetry to place within them; they found lamps of brass and bright stained glass; a silver till; a wide blackboard and a fleet of twenty jars, all of different sizes, to contain the tea leaves.
The storey above the tea shop was entirely Lio’s design. Each of the classrooms had been carefully planned by him, with cauldrons and desks and every book he could possibly need, which had been ordered through the black-market magic channels that Theodora had connected him to.
Before the paint upon the skirting boards had even dried, there came a knock on the side door, which displayed a sign only visible to those who looked for it: Theodora’s College of Magic
‘Are you the head teacher?’ asked a boy with red hair and a bruise about his eye.
‘Sort of,’ said Lio, flummoxed. ‘Well, Theodora is, I suppose, technically the headmistress, but I will be teaching the classes. I’m Mr Lashkari. Who are you?’
‘Finn Armstrong,’ said the boy, who looked so much like his brother.
Lio led him inside before the boy could notice his sudden flurry of tears.
Before its first term was over, the magic school had thirty students: a mix of children, adults and the elderly.
Lio studied his own magic by night and, during the day, tailored his teaching to each student, grateful indeed that Theodora had suggested she put her name on the door and let her worry about financing and tuition and all of the things for which he did not care.
Dot, the only person in the house with a proclivity for arithmetic, thus became the treasurer of the tea shop and the school as well.
Now, as the jacarandas bloomed again, she sat at her desk, neatly looping her signature against the bottom of yet another invoice.
Her afflicted hand held the paper steady and her right pinched the pen in its unique grip that had now become normal.
She still woke often to a fierce burning or strange pressure where her finger should have been.
Still, she grieved the loss of it; she wondered if she always would.
Yet, right now, at her desk, she cast one hand at the door and summoned a plate of milk biscuits and a pot of chamomile and fennel tea, and up from the bustling tea shop the items flew.
She and Lio did not work behind the counter anymore – they had plenty of staff for that.
Now, her weekends were spent resting. She slept longer than everyone in the house.
Her fatigue, which came and went in waves, would never leave her.
She still, sometimes, had to take a break while climbing the stairs, but now she treated herself with kindness.
What did it matter, really, if she took a little longer than the others?
The affliction never grew again. Dot balanced her magic as easily as breathing.
And, in the safety of the tea shop, Dot finally explored who she wanted to be.
She realised that she quite loved ice skating and so the three of them and Belchamber went in the winter.
She tried her hand at baking and despised it.
She tried to play tennis but broke the net and racquet both.
On weekends, she led free walking tours through Saint Penelope’s Cathedral.
She took up dancing at the new Raven’s Attic when the members of parliament and the Prime Minister and the King were all too drunk to pay her any mind, her curly hair bobbing.
After the flood, the three of them had visited Rupert.
They returned often and, when the spring came back again, they brought Finn with them.
Dot laid a handful of chamomile flowers on the grave.
They stayed until the rains came and drenched the little house on the hill overlooking the valley of willows.
Theodora did not go inside, and it hurt her every time to recall that final conversation with her father.
However, like Dot’s phantom pain, this would be hers to bear forever.
An itch unable to be scratched. A heartache impossible to solve.
The witch, herself, had spent the better part of the past year and a half with her scrying glass, trying to find the final witch of Acanthi.
Eventually, sat upon the terrace, feet tucked under herself and mirror in her hand, she caught a glimpse of Cate.
It was on Opal’s birthday. Cate laid a handful of lilies over her daughter’s grave beside the pond where Opal and Tessa had once gone swimming.
Cate’s eyes flicked up, catching Theodora through the scrying.
She offered no acknowledgement. The older witch disappeared.
Theodora set down the scrying glass and rose.
She climbed down the stairs and passed Dot’s bedroom: the door was open, and Dot was at her desk, head bobbing to the records that played loudly on her gramophone.
Theodora continued down past the classrooms, where Lio sat beside one of his newest students.
She was his age, with pretty brown hair and starry eyes. She beamed at him, and he beamed back.
Down and down Theodora climbed, until she made it to the basement workshop.
She took out the safe that was underneath her desk and cast the unlocking charms and spun the dial that sealed the lid until it clicked. What had Dot said to her?
You only wanted to be loved.
Theodora reached into the safe and took out the bread knife that had once had cauliflower soup smeared upon the blade.
Theodora lit the stone cauldron, fortified it in several layers of spells and cast a thick dome of magic around it.
It took two hours until the cauldron had heated to the temperature she needed.
She cast charm after charm to protect herself from the heat.
Then Theodora picked up the bread knife and dropped it into the searing cauldron.
She watched it warm and melt.
In the moments before she destroyed it, Theodora could see the gleam of her own reflection in the grey of the metal.
She saw her calm features, warped slightly.
How vulnerable she looked; how tired, and honest, and finally at peace.
She softened at that vision, until all that was left was a person flawed, fallible and trying her best. Theodora left the basement, shut the door, and climbed back up the stairs to her tea shop.