The Nowhere Emporium (16 page)

The magpie landed on Daniel’s shoulder, slapping him on the side of the face with the piece of black card in its beak. On the back of the card, there were three words, written in a hurried scrawl in gold ink:

Daniel stowed the card in his pocket and began the short walk from his wagon, through the hall of stairs, to the red curtain. The plan was simple, as plans go; in fact, it had barely been a plan at all. Ellie was a ghost to Sharpe. She could watch him, and he would be oblivious. But she could not touch him. She could not be the one to take the hair from his head. That job would have to belong to Daniel. And so Ellie would watch Sharpe, wait until he was asleep, and alert Daniel, who would then sneak in and cut a hair from his head.

When he arrived at the curtain, Ellie was waiting. She did not look happy; there was a strange look in her grey eyes and she was staring off into space.

“Are you OK?” Daniel said in a low whisper.

Ellie started. “Yes. I think so. He’s sleeping, but he’s been sitting at Papa’s desk all night, drinking whisky and throwing knives at the stuffed polar bear. Be careful, Daniel. He’s not right. If he wakes up, he’ll slit your throat.”

The shop front was warm and calm. The only sounds in Daniel’s ears as he crept towards Silver’s desk were the pounding of his heart, and the snap and pop of the fire.

Sharpe was slumped over the desk, head resting on one arm. The other arm was strewn across the table, hand clutching a large silver dagger. Beside him on the table sat a whisky bottle containing only a few amber drops. In the far corner of the room, the stuffed polar bear was stuck with three knives, two in the chest and one between the eyes.

Daniel was at the desk now, crouched so that his chin was level with the desktop, affording him a view of the top of Sharpe’s head. He reached into his pocket with great care, and slowly, gently, brought out a pair of scissors. Then, holding his breath, he leaned over the desk, touching the scissors to Sharpe’s short hair. Several silver hairs fell to the desk, glinting in the firelight.

Daniel placed the scissors back in his pocket and, with trembling fingers, reached out to collect the hair.

His arm brushed against the whisky bottle. He froze, watching in horror as the bottle spun on its base, and then toppled, landing on its side with a loud clink. Sharpe gave a huff and a snort, and opened one electric-blue eye.

Daniel was glued to the spot in terror. He stared into the blue eye, waiting for the other to open, and for Sharpe to spring from his chair and gut him like a fish…

But he did not. The blue eye rolled back in its socket, the eye closed, and Sharpe began to snore. Daniel stowed the hairs in his pocket, and crept away with as much stealth as he could.

Back on the other side of the curtain, Ellie gave him an
expectant look, the magpie hopping on her shoulder.

“Well?”

Daniel smiled, held out his hand.

“Got it.”

The magpie seemed to know what was going on; it twirled and looped through the Emporium, calling out in exited chatters as it led the way back to the Memorium.

Inside, the theatre lay silent and still. A patch of darkness fluttered, and the usher stood beside them once more.

“Ah, back again, are we? I told you, there’s nothing I can do with the past I showed you. The event, whatever it was, shall remain a mystery.”

“Someone else was there,” said Daniel. “The past belongs to that person too.” He held out his hand. “We’ve got another hair.”

The usher snatched the hair, and held it to his good eye.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said, and he opened his arms, indicating the theatre. “Please take a seat.”

They sat at the screen as the usher sewed Sharpe’s hair into his head. Then he sat, and flipped up his eye patch. The beam of light erupted from his empty eye socket and found the screen.

An image crackled to life. Daniel and Ellie sat back, and they watched the truth at last.

Vindictus Sharpe opened his arms and soaked in the applause of the audience, who cheered and whistled and stamped their feet, blown away by the show.

When the curtain closed, Sharpe walked in silence to his dressing room. He poured himself a large whisky and gulped it down. Then another. He put on his coat and gloves and scarf, and left the theatre through the stage door. The autumn air was cool and crisp; his breath danced around him as he walked the short distance to the grand house that he called home whenever he happened to be in Edinburgh, which was not very often these days.

No one met him at the door upon his arrival. He preferred to keep no staff. He removed his coat, and walked up two flights of stairs to his office. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat at his desk, beside a crystal glass. He poured a drink and sat at his desk. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a book with a battered leather cover, placing it with care on the desk. He lit a desk lamp, stretched his fingers, and began to read through the pages, his eyes taking in every detail.

“It will never work for you as it does for me.”

Sharpe knew the voice. He did not look up from the
Book of Wonders.

“Lucien. Would you like a drink?”

Lucien Silver stood at the entrance to the room, grey eyes fixed upon his book.

“You used Michelle – your own daughter – to get to me. To get the book.”

This time, Sharpe’s eyes left the pages.

“Yes,” he said.

Silver stepped further into the room.

“Why? Why steal the book? You know it will never work properly for you unless I give it up, or you challenge me and defeat me for it. And I will never give it up. There’s too much of my soul in those pages. The book is as much a part of me as my heart. I live inside it.”

Sharpe let the question hang in the air. He bit his lip, and his big hands trembled with anger.

Silver smiled as realisation dawned.

“You stole the book because you wanted to copy it! That’s it, isn’t it? You want one for yourself, but you can’t understand how it works. The book is beyond your talents, and it’s eating you up. Ha! The great Vindictus Sharpe, reduced to imitation!”

He stepped forward again, so that he was now directly opposite the desk. “So where is it? Where is your version of the
Book of Wonders?
Weren’t you able to create one?”

Sharpe stared at him with dangerous blue eyes. His lip curled into a sneer. “I have no time for such games.”

Silver held out a hand. “Give me the book and you will never hear from me again.”

Sharpe snapped the book shut, and rested a hand on its cover.

“Get out.”

Silver leaned over the desk, his face close to Sharpe’s.

“I am not leaving without my book. I have no wish to harm you, despite the fact that nobody could blame me if I did.”

Sharpe did not answer. The book trembled beneath his
fingers. He lifted his hand, and it flew off the desk, into the waiting grasp of Silver.

“Thank you,” said Silver. “You will not see me again. Goodbye. And good luck.”

He had reached the door when Sharpe spoke.

“I challenge you.”

Silver stopped. He hung his head.

“Do not do this, Vindictus.”

“I challenge you,” repeated Sharpe. “No funny business. No messing about. A duel to the finish – the way things should be settled – until either one of us submits, or is killed in the process. If I win, the book belongs to me.”

A pause.

“And if you lose?” said Silver.

Sharpe shrugged his great shoulders.

“I will leave that up to you,” he said. “It will not happen in any case.”

Silver thought for a moment.

“Years ago, at Birdie’s funeral, you never answered when I questioned you about why you never age. I was right, wasn’t I? You steal years from other people. Take away chunks of time from their lives. You eat their tomorrows.”

Sharpe nodded.

“There are branches of magic that require … sacrifice.”

“And it is wrong,” said Silver. “It is delayed murder. If I win, you will stop it.”

Sharpe stood his full height, a great bear of a man.

“And what are their lives compared to mine? What have they accomplished? They are oblivious to the possibilities this world can offer. Surely it’s not too much to ask that a few of them should meet their maker a year or two early in order that I might continue my work?”

“There are other ways,” said Silver. “Different paths to take. Other energies you could mine. Imagination, for one, has limitless potential. But you can’t see that because you are a maniac.” He paused. “I accept your challenge.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Sharpe was upon him, flashing across the room, throwing him against the wall. Sharpe lifted Silver with a single hand, pushed him back against the wall and punched him hard in the gut, folding Silver in two. Then, with a wave of his hand, Sharpe lifted his desk from the floor and sent it hurtling across the room. Lucien dodged out of the way, just as it crashed against the stone.

The sound of cracking glass made Lucien look to the window, where a pane of glass splintered into shards and flew towards him. He tried to bend them around his body, but there were too many, and several slivers stabbed him deep in the leg.

He limped out into the hallway, down a set of stairs. Sharpe stalked after him, a savage grin on his face. Lucien tried to buy a little time by bringing to life several figures from paintings hung around the hall. But as they attempted to block Sharpe’s path, he swatted at them; they dissolved into globules of paint and fell to the carpet.

Then the duelling magicians were rolling down the stairs, a ball of flailing arms and snarling teeth. Sharpe tossed Silver clear across the hallway into a grand sitting room. Silver scrambled backwards, pointing to the fire. Tongues of flame jumped from the fireplace and wrapped around Sharpe, encasing him in a blazing shell. He roared, and the fire turned to smoke.

“You should not have come here tonight,” he said. There were three daggers in his hands. He tossed the first at Silver, and Silver managed to bend it away towards a sideboard, where it became buried deep in the wood.

The second dagger hit Silver in the shoulder. He wrenched
back his head and screamed in agony, falling to his knees.

“The difference between you and me,” said Sharpe, “is that I am not afraid to end this fight.” He raised the final dagger above his head. The knife left Sharpe’s hand, and his aim was true. It spun through the air, handle over blade, as it had done so many times on stage.

Lucien stared at the spinning blade. Everything else faded away. From the edges of the world, he thought he heard a woman’s voice, familiar, soft…

“Father? Lucien? No!”

With the last ounce of his strength, Lucien Silver deflected the blade. It veered away to the right, gleaming and shimmering.

Lucien had not seen Michelle Sharpe arrive at the door.

The knife struck her in the heart.

When she hit the ground, she was already dead.

The world seemed to stop.

Sharpe stood perfectly still, staring at his daughter’s lifeless body. Lucien Silver’s eyes widened. He howled in agony and despair. Ignoring the pain from his own knife wound, he dragged himself towards her, holding her head in his hands. She was wearing a white nightgown, now stained crimson.

“Give me the book, and I will not involve the police,” said Sharpe.

Lucien stared up at him, grey eyes heavy with sorrow.

“We killed her!” he yelled. “She is dead, and all you can think about is a book?”

He ripped the dagger from Michelle’s chest, leapt to his feet, and pinned Sharpe against the wall, fuelled by wild rage. He was dwarfed by Sharpe, but in that moment, with the shackles taken off, no control or fear to bind him, he was a giant.

Sharpe’s blue eyes widened as the tip of the blade touched his throat. “
You
killed her, Lucien,” he whispered. “I did not throw
the knife in her direction. It’s your doing.”

Lucien shook his head. His breathing was harsh, desperate.

“No … no, I loved her! I would never hurt her!”

Sharpe stared at him, their faces only inches apart.

“Murderer,” he whispered.

Lucien Silver dropped the knife. He stepped back, clutching at his hair and his chest.

“No. No!”

“Murderer,” Sharpe said once more, and there was a terrible smile on his lips.

Lucien tore a clump of hair from his head. He felt the
Book of Wonders
in the pocket of his coat. He turned and glanced once more at Michelle’s body.

And then he was gone.

“This is not finished!” screamed Sharpe into the night. “The duel is not finished! I will find you, wherever you go, and I will kill you and take the book!”

Calmly, coolly, he stepped over his daughter’s body, opened a wooden cabinet, and poured himself a whisky from a crystal decanter. Then he left the room, leaving Michelle to stare sightlessly into the roaring fire.

Daniel sat in stunned silence as the theatre lights came back up. He tried to wrap his head around what he’d seen, and once again, in the back room of his mind there was something jumping out at him, screaming to be noticed. An idea … a possibility…

Beside him, Ellie’s shoulders were bobbing up and down, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Ellie?”

“I can’t believe it, Daniel. She died, all because of a book! You saw it. And Papa didn’t mean to kill her…”

“Of course he didn’t!” said Daniel. He shivered at the thought of Michelle lying dead on the floor. “Mr Silver didn’t even want to fight! She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sharpe’s the monster.”

A sneer of disgust crept over Ellie’s face. “He stepped right over her, like she was a piece of dirt. She was my mum! She was his little girl, and if he can do that to her, then what will he do to us?” Her wide eyes were miniature versions of Mr Silver’s. “Daniel, that man’s a monster. We’ve got to get rid of him and save Papa. Daniel … Daniel?”

Daniel’s mind had been turning, cogs and gears clicking into place. The idea in his head had caught fire.

“Ellie,” he said, “I realise I haven’t been here very long, but I reckon I know how Mr Silver works better than anyone. Something he said in the film we just watched … it got me
thinking. I can’t be sure, but I might know where your papa is.”

She stared at him. “You do? Where?”

“I can’t tell you yet. It’s safer if I’m the only one who’s in on it. You’re going to have to trust me. I have an idea. I’m going to ask you to do something. It’ll be dangerous, but I think it’s the only chance we have.”

Ellie returned Daniel’s stare, her jaw set.

“Anything,” she said.

“Good,” said Daniel. “First of all, I have to pay another wee visit to the room of Secrets.”

Grey Manhattan rain pelted the sepia-stained window of the Nowhere Emporium. Vindictus Sharpe sat at Mr Silver’s desk, throwing three silver knives one after the other at the stuffed polar bear.

Back at the Fountain, when the boy had first snatched the book, Sharpe had given chase, determined to find him and squeeze the air from his lungs. But the infernal Emporium had sent him running in circles. He had returned to the shop front, deciding instead to wait the boy out.

A whisper from the red velvet curtain caught his attention, and he spun to see the boy standing straight-backed, defiant.

Daniel had never been as frightened of anything as he was of Sharpe. Nothing, not even Spud Harper and his gang, came close to the cold blue stare that was fixing him now. He made himself as tall as he could.

“I know where Mr Silver is hiding,” he said.

Sharpe was upon him in a heartbeat, pinning him like a rag doll against the wall, a silver blade pressed to his throat. He took the
Book of Wonders
from Daniel’s pocket and tossed it on the
desk.

“Please elaborate,” he said.

Daniel swallowed, tried to keep breathing.

“No. I won’t.”

The knife dug into his skin, but not quite enough to draw blood.

“I could torture you, you know,” Sharpe said. “I could make you tell me.”

Slowly, Daniel reached into his pocket. When he pulled his hand out, a tiny snow globe sat in his palm.

Sharpe looked at it.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“It’s a secret,” said Daniel. “It’s the secret you want to know. It’s where you can find Mr Silver. I figured it out.”

Sharpe snatched the secret from his hand. Daniel relaxed a little as the knife was withdrawn from his throat. Sharpe shook the secret, held it to his ear.

“It won’t work,” Daniel went on. “That’s the whole idea of a secret, isn’t it? I don’t want you to know where Silver is. And as long as the secret is in that globe, you can’t force it out of me.”

Electric-blue eyes flicked from the secret to Daniel. “Why did you come?”

Daniel shrugged. “To challenge you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know how it works. I know that if I challenge you, you either accept, or you give up. So I challenge you. I’ll write a Wonder into the book just for you. Inside it will be your challenge. And you write one for me. We’ll go in at the same time, and whoever comes out first is the winner.”

Sharpe smiled. “If I win?” he asked.

Daniel pointed to the secret. “I’ll help you find Mr Silver. I know you need him to die for the book to be yours. But he’s not going to
come out to play. You’ll have to wait till the Emporium collapses on top of him, till it’s totally dead – and that could take a long time. This way, if you win, you can kill him, and the book will be yours.”

Sharpe nodded agreeably.

“And if I win,” continued Daniel, “you leave us alone, and you don’t ever come back.” He held out a hand. “Agreed?”

Sharpe scratched the silver stubble on his chin. Then his hand swallowed the boy’s, and an electric ripple passed through the room. “Agreed.”

Daniel walked to the desk, trying to look more confident than he felt. As he picked up one of Silver’s fountain pens, his mind began to fill with doubts. Would the Emporium support the creation of two new Wonders? Was his idea really as good as he first thought? What sort of challenge would Sharpe think up for him? What if he lost? He was gambling an awful lot on the belief that he was good enough to beat this man, that the Emporium would help him.

He opened the book to an empty page. “I’ll link the doors, so they should appear together.”

“Write away, Daniel Holmes,” said Sharpe. “Write away.”

Daniel gripped the pen tight so that his hand wouldn’t shake. Then he pressed the nib to the page, and the ink began to flow.