The Necromancer Trilogy: Prophecy

Chapter Six - Of Bicycles and Death Sentences

“Oh,” Sophie tried not to feel abandoned. “Doing what?”

“Having a row with the Elders, I believe,” Chrysanthemum smiled thinly. “Are you coming?”

“Do you have a motorbike?” Sophie asked, hopefully.

Chrysanthemum sighed. “Sophie, dear, here is a good lesson for you. People who wear leather, like Celia, ride motorbikes. People who wear scruffy jeans, like you, ride bicycles. People who wear exquisite hand-embroidered skirts, like me, drive elegant cars. Do you understand?”

Sophie’s cheeks flushed pink and she glared at Chrysanthemum, not answering.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Chrysanthemum chided. “You know they are scruffy jeans. Come on. The car is this way.”

 The car turned out to be sleek and black and shiny. Sophie knew nothing about cars but she figured this was the kind that cost a year’s salary. At the very least.

“Her name is Joanne,” Chrysanthemum patted the smooth metal.

“You named your car?” Sophie said, almost teasingly.

Chrysanthemum looked offended. “Joanne was a fine woman who bore startling resemblance to this car. I expect you named your bike for less sensible reasons.”

Sophie looked down at Clarabelle ruefully. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“There we are then. Throw your bike into the bushes and hop in.”

Sophie blinked. “You just want me to leave the bike? Leave it? For anyone to steal?”

“Don’t be silly,” Chrysanthemum rolled her eyes. “No one will steal that thing. I just don’t want it in my nice car, thank you very much.”

Sophie glared at her but tucked the battered Clarabelle carefully out of sight and slid uneasily into the car.

“Don’t frown so much,” Chrysanthemum gave her a quick flash of a smile. “It ruins your skin.”

Sophie stuck out her tongue when Chrysanthemum looked away.

“Pulling faces isn’t any better,” the young woman added, but her voice was amused.

Sophie slumped down in her seat and sulked. Chrysanthemum laughed.

The waxwork blacksmith scared Sophie a little less this time, but it still creeped her out. There was something decidedly wrong about that misshaped, too smooth face. She scurried past again, eager to be away from the dead-eyed stare.

“Celia is right,” Chrysanthemum muttered. “We have a lot of work to do with you.”