"You missed one of your messages," Colin said, handing it to Ermin as they walked away from the mill. "It's from Georgie. The ink's still fresh. That's why I came. And before you ask, nobody saw me."
Ermin frowned down at the paper bird in her hand. Its wet wings quivered one last time. A chill shivered through Ermin's body. No matter how often she told herself that the message birds were nothing more than folded sheets of spell paper, the stillness—when it came—felt like a death.
She unfolded the paper bird to read the message inside. The purple scrawl did indeed belong to Georgie Scratch, their close friend and a former St. Anselm's inmate.
Sunday, November 15, 1829, at your earliest convenience.
BonMot
Sunday, November 15, was today's date and the note was signed with Georgie's nickname.
Ermin crumpled up the message bird in her fist. "That pincer press they use is finicky at the best of times, but Georgie usually gives me more notice than this."
"Her conjurements are usually better too."
"Keep your voice down!"
"Nobody's paying us any mind. They're all too busy watching the drainings, aren't they?" A note of bitterness crept into Colin's voice.
"Let's hurry," said Ermin, worry starting to grow in her mind.
A young person in a rush was a common enough sight in Garrison Creek. Miss Fetchkeep often sent orphans out on errands. The trick was to appear as if they weren't together so they wouldn't stick out, so Ermin and Colin headed to opposite sides of the street. Apprentices always included a precise time in their messages to tell Ermin when their mentors were away. It troubled Ermin that Georgie had specified no time. There was no telling whether or not the printer Rustman would be there at the shop when they arrived. Worse, the print shop was still blocks away. Georgie must have been in a hurry when she wrote the note–not a good sign. Hurry meant danger when you were an orphan in the Creek.
"We've still got a long way to go," Colin said, echoing her thoughts. "Maybe I could—"
"No! We can't take any chances, not so close to Redemption Square." Ermin pointed at a rusty expanse of pipe attached to a tiled gutter three stories up. "Rooftops—it's the quickest way."
She shimmied up the rain-slick pipe with practiced ease and Colin followed. Freezing water flowed over Ermin's hands as she grabbed hold of the gutter and hauled herself onto the roof. It was a good thing she and Colin were so small. Otherwise, the drainpipe might have collapsed under their weight.
The leaden belly of the sky pressed down on them. Smoke rose from the chimneys, sinking like fog in the humid air. Ermin didn't see them, not at first. They rose in a ragged huddle from behind one of the smokestacks: kid snatchers, wearing yellow-and-black-checked scarves. Ermin fairly threw herself off the edge of the roof and scrambled down the drainpipe, pushing Colin down.
"Wharf Rats!"
They slid to the ground as five greasy heads peered over the edge of the roof. One of them pursed her lips and blew out a three-noted trill. A similar cry echoed from several blocks away.
A signal.
Ermin raced back down Picking Cork Lane and into a maze of back alleys. She needn't worry about Colin; if they got separated, he knew the back ways as well as she did. Windows flashed past, like pictures in a gallery. In one sat a tailor, costly yellow satin spread out across his lap. Another revealed two gamblers tossing wooden dice across a gaming table. Another showed a large family sitting around a table in a very small room. Thick tallow candles illuminated the watery bowls of soup laid out before them. Still, the family clasped hands with such joy that Ermin had to look away. Memories rose up to tug at her like a moat full of hungry carp. She pushed them away.
Rare beams of sunlight broke through the clouds and bathed the buildings in a warm golden glow. It would have been beautiful if Ermin and Colin hadn't also been simultaneously lit up, so that they were little more than moving targets. They ran past yards where rows of moon cabbages grew at the bases of ancient dung heaps. Sweet smoke from resinous rock ember combined with the reek of rotting vegetables from numerous cellars. Loud shouts erupted from the doors of a tavern as patrons staggered out, some with their arms draped around brightly dressed street walkers. No matter how far Ermin and Colin ran or which way they turned, the trilling cries pursued them.
Sweaty and out of breath, they stopped to rest against one of the original log cabins built by the settlement's first immigrants. Ermin was a fair runner, but even she couldn't keep up the pace. "They're tracking us from the rooftops."
Not only that, but their escape had led them to the refuse fields behind St. Andrew's market, where grocers dumped the old or spoiled leavings from their shops. They'd come to the very heart of Wharf Rat territory, where Rory Smythe, their rat-faced leader, ruled with an iron-tipped cudgel. "They're herding us."
"Are they?" The tips of Colin's fingers flared red.
He didn't even need to chant the conjurement out loud. He disappeared, winking out of existence as if he'd never been. It was a disorienting experience for Ermin to look down and find herself invisible, with no physical limbs to anchor her in space. It was hard to tell whether she was standing or floating. How could she move without any legs? Not until hoarse whispers crept down the walls, and several pairs of Rat boots thudded down, did Ermin discover that her invisible legs worked just fine. She slipped past the four Rats who'd fanned out to search the street. She passed right under the dark silhouette of a fifth Rat who watched from the roof. Not one of them noticed her.
It wasn't until she reached the end of the alley that she even dared to whisper. "Colin?"
A spoiled squash rolled across the road, bowled by an invisible hand. It hit the signpost for Ink Street and burst open, its bright orange guts splattering everywhere. Ermin felt her invisible lips curve into a smile. Rustman's shop was located in Ink Street. She set off at a run toward whatever trouble lay ahead.
***
Ink Street was a riot of paper. Discarded flyers swirled through the air. They stuck to Ermin's legs as she and Colin morphed from smoky outlines in just a few steps. Colin must have used a timed conjurement. Only when Ermin stood beneath a wooden sign engraved with the rust-colored image of a pincer printing press did she bend down to peel the wet sheets away, relieved at the sight of her own hands. She didn't know what she'd do if she ever lost them.
Sunday, December 13, 1829
Come one, come all to the Magistrates' Ball!
7 p.m. at Frank's Hotel on Lake Street
Ermin flung the flyer away in disgust. Who were they kidding? Only those who could pay the hefty entrance fee to the ball were welcome, and you had to be able to afford all those fancy clothes besides.
Colin appeared at her side, his hands brushing away the clinging sheets. "Do we go in?"
Despite the rain and cold, the door to Rustman's Print Shop stood open. The wrongness of it shivered across Ermin's skin like a frosty gust. "We'd best take a look around outside first."
She strolled past the shop's windows. Each mullioned pane had been rubbed with thick streaks of soap to obscure the interior of the shop from curious passersby, especially any stray news hawkers looking to make a quick penny. Old Rustman didn't want anyone stealing his stories before he had a chance to release them. Cobwebs had hardened in the corners of the windows like blackened strands of spun sugar. Ermin circled back, checking for any Magistrates who might be patrolling the area. That she didn't see any didn't mean that Georgie was in the clear. Her boot slipped on a card lying underfoot: a black card with a white lightning bolt. She jumped back as if the bolt had struck her.
Colin was by her side in an instant. He let out a gasp of recognition. "Wizards' Resistance!"
Ermin gripped his arm in warning. Saying such a thing out loud was enough to get you carted off in a tumbrel. As for anyone found in possession of a card like that... well, it didn't bear thinking about.
"There's more than one."
Colin was right. Cards bearing lightning bolts fanned out on the road right in front of Rustman's. A horrible suspicion wormed its way through Ermin. "You don't think... "
"I'm going in."
"No, wait!"
Colin dodged around her, using a conjurement to evade her grasp. His body melted into the brick wall. Ermin's temper nearly boiled over in a familiar mixture of terror and anger. It was nerve-racking being dragged into Colin's madcap schemes without warning.
The interior of the shop was almost as cluttered as the streets. The pincer press squatted like a six-legged insect in the center of the shop, its seven pincers dangling. A large collection of type cabinets ringed the press. Each cabinet contained a series of very thin drawers divided into small square compartments made to hold small metal letters and numbers. The drawers, called cases, had been pulled clean out and the metal letters and numbers were strewn everywhere except for a cleared path around the table—the kind of path an apprentice's feet might make if she were circling the table to get away from an angry printer.
Colin re-materialized beside her, his golden hair plastered with sweat and his rosebud cheeks shining. "She's not here. I've checked all the rooms."
He pulled an apple from his pocket and took a big bite. For anyone else this might be a strange thing to do, but wizards were always in need of fuel, especially after they'd cast. The depletion or "blowback" from the conjurements he'd cast must be bad. At least he'd remembered to bring food this time. Ermin couldn't help feeling annoyed. Why had he bothered to waste more energy when he could just as easily have walked through the door?
"Where could she have gone?" asked Ermin. "She wouldn't just disappear, not after she sent for us."
"Not unless she had to."
A horrible feeling of foreboding took hold of Ermin. She inched closer to the table and swept aside the cases. Sheets of uncut card stock lay beneath. Each sheet showed rows and columns of white lightning bolts against a solid black backdrop.
"Blasted embers!" Colin breathed over her shoulder. "She really is working for the Resistance."
Ermin turned to face him. "Colin, this is really bad." Only then did she become aware of a lurid magenta glow blinking on and off again behind the door. She ran over and slammed it shut. A contraption like a spiked eyeball spun on a dusty length of silk ribbon. It was a wizard lamp, charmed to detect the presence of a wizard's conjurements, and either Colin or Georgie had set it off. Now its bloody spotlight shone down on both of them.
Colin jumped back in alarm. "Didn't know that old Rustman had one of those! Did I set it off?"
"Does it matter? We should have been somewhere else ten minutes ago. Don't run!" Ermin called after Colin as he bolted through the door. "It'll only draw attention."
Colin's response was to grab her hand and pull her into the street. "No time to worry about that! The Magistrates could be flying this way as we speak. Hurry!"
Colin led her behind a horse trough that obscured a narrow slice of space between two buildings. They only knew it was there because they'd sought shelter inside it one cold winter's night. It was a tight squeeze, much too small for any grown person to fit through. Even if the Magistrates arrived at the shop this very minute, they'd be forced to take the long way around to get to the other end. She and Colin would be long gone by then.
The narrow slip took them to Douglas Street, where a swift-running stream divided the road down the middle. A group of toshers squatted on the far bank. They swirled their hooked staves through the water, hoping to snag any valuable debris that had come downstream from the wealthy houses to the west. Of course, a stream had other uses as well.
Colin grabbed her hand and pulled her down the bank. "Come on," he said. "You know what we have to do."
Unfortunately, she did.
The toshers watched them curiously as they approached the steam. Colin went first.
He dove headfirst into the freezing water.
"Bit late in the year for a swim, isn't it?" one of the toshers called out as he surfaced.
Whoops of laughter greeted this witty remark.
Ignoring them, Ermin took a deep breath and jumped. The water was icy cold, but she forced herself to stay under until she was sure the magical residue left behind by Colin's conjurements had washed off. She surfaced with a gasp. At least the Magistrates wouldn't be able to track them now.
Colin was already clambering up the bank.
The toshers hooted louder than ever, slapping their knees in mirth. They sounded like a murder of crows at harvest time. Four shadows glided over the street. The noise abruptly died away as four figures in black cloaks swooped into view, conical black masks jutting out from their faces like beaks. Magistrates.
Ermin and Colin raced for the alleyway. Their wet clothes were a dead giveaway. One of the Magistrates threw an oblong pellet down into the street. It exploded on impact. They reached the alleyway just as green tendrils of tracking fog writhed forth, nosing the air like hungry snakes. Within seconds, all of Douglas Street was obscured from view. Ermin could hear the toshers coughing and swearing.
"We're trapped!" Colin said. "They'll search the alley for sure."
"Then we'd best take to the rooftops."
Ermin braced one foot against the outer wall of one of the buildings and, placing her hands on the adjacent building's wall to steady herself, pushed up to lift herself off the ground. She repeated the motion on the other side, bracing her other foot on the opposite wall to push herself still higher. Colin followed suit, bracing and pushing himself up the walls as the tracking fog billowed into the alley. When they reached the top of the buildings, they pulled themselves onto the right-side rooftop and lay down flat. Rough gravel scraped against Ermin's face. She hardly dared to breathe.
After what seemed like an eternity, she peeked over the edge of the roof. The writhing fog had melted away, having found no quarry. Her shoulders sagged in relief. The stream had done its job. The Magistrates flew off without a backward glance. A lone man driving a threadbare carpet brought up the rear. His stockings were mismatched and wrinkled, and his apron was stained with ink. A plain muslin cone-like mask protruded from the lower half of his face. Even so, Ermin recognized the fringe of grayish-red hair that bounced off his shoulders.
"Rustman." Colin's voice thickened with disgust. "I hope Georgie's gone far away from here."
A chill passed over Ermin. How far away could a runaway apprentice go before she was pressed into a gang, or worse? She and Colin had to find her, but how would they know where to look? If only she could sit by the water for a while and let her thoughts unspool, letting the snarls loosen until she could see her way clear. This was no time for dallying. When the Magistrates found the empty shop, they'd head out, looking for people to question. She and Colin didn't want to be here when they came back. She'd have to sort through the tangled mess later.
"Come on," she said. "We'd best get back to the school."
Where had Georgie gone? Ermin puzzled over it during their long walk back. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find an answer.
Author's Note: Did you like this chapter? Please vote for it! Thanks!