Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

6 | The Shop That Was Not There

Hobbsworth crept by, no more than six feet away. Sadie could hear the squeak of his boots, the coarseness of his breath. "There's nowhere to hide, ya little monster. Hobbsworth'll find ya. You can count on it!"

Sadie led Oliver down another aisle.

Hobbsworth turned. "I hear ya, little one," he barked, dislodging some dirt from his teeth with a yellow fingernail. "Hobbsworth's gonna git ya!"

Sadie stifled a giggle at the janitor's tired patter.

Oliver, however, was a different story. He'd dropped to his knees beside a suit of polished armour and started rocking frantically. Hands clasped together, kneading the palms like raw pastry. With his body shaking, Oliver's head bobbed around on his shoulders like a marionette.

Sadie tried to pull him to his feet but failed miserably.

Slowly, Oliver's eyes closed.

His body froze.

Tick, tack, tick-tick, tack.

Sadie looked towards the sound.

It appeared to be coming from the other side of the room.

Grunting, Hobbsworth spun towards it.

Tick, tack, ticketty-tack, tack.

The janitor lurched, waving his lantern in front of him. Light see-sawed around the room.

Tick, tack, tack, tick, tack.

Hobbsworth skulked to the edge of the room and disappeared down the aisle furthest from Oliver.

Tick-tack-tack-ticketty-tack-tack.

Concealed in shadow, Sadie followed Hobbsworth.

And then, turning the corner, she saw it.

Moving rapidly, without the assistance of human contact, were the keys on an odd-shaped typewriter. It looked like a leather ball, cut in half, and punctured with forty or more large brass pins branded with letters, numbers, and grammatical symbols. A slim tray sat beneath, surrounded by thick brass where engraved words read:

Gladstone Writing Ball
1808, Patent Pending. Gladstone Brothers
Warrior District, Circle 5, San Cristophe, Norland

Previous visits had taught her that the Gladstone Writing Ball had been damaged beyond repair in the Divine Wars. But somehow, here it was, working perfectly.

The janitor shook his head comically as if this were some trick. But the ancient typewriter keys appeared to moved of their own accord. He waved a hand over the keys to check for strings or some such trickery. He leant closer, his nose almost touching the bouncing keys, when it let out a piercing—Bing!

Hobbsworth shot up, arms flailing, lantern crashing to the ground.

Sadie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

The janitor steadied himself and, grabbing the Writing Ball with both hands, shook it wildly above his head. Failing to have any effect, he wedged his fingers under the keys to stop them tick-tacking.

The machine resisted.

Dumping it back onto its stand, Hobbsworth pulled a sheet of manuscript from the slender mouthpiece below the Writing Ball. He staggered back, holding the parchment to the lamplight overhead. Hobbsworth's face turned pale. A tiny, child-like whimper rippled from his lips. Then, gibbering like a frightened schoolboy, he darted for the door, the manuscript drifting gently onto the red carpet in his wake.