Yes! Finally!

It has indeed taken me a whole month to type this up from the longhand scrawl I wrote it in. In my defence, it’s just under 12,000 words! In other words, after 24 days of writing for a mere 15 minutes a day (I think the most I did was 25 minutes), you can write 12,000 words of a novel. Or several short stories!

Admittedly what you can write in that time will need some fairly strenuous editing. Even a moderately attentive reader will note that the narrative swings wildly from one genre to another, flailing desperately around to try to work out where it’s going, and the speech patterns flail with it. I was particularly thrown on Day 7 when the prompt was extremely short and largely involved drinking peppermint tea and having a nice winter walk, which totally didn’t fit with where I’d left the story on the previous day. But I think in the end the narrative settles down nicely to a rather creepy urban fantasy (if anything can be described as “urban” that largely takes place on the Isle of Man in the late 1800s). There are indeed a few scenes in Liverpool with characters we meet only briefly, and it isn’t explained how they’re linked to Mrs S and her friends, but I feel like a few extra scenes could explain this (perhaps they communicate by pigeon post?)

There is also one VAST plot mistake, where someone’s dead who later turns out not to be. That’s the problem with writing fast and not much thinking about what you’re doing as you go. But that, too, could easily be fixed – I’d just kill someone else!

So here it is. Apologies for the rubbish layout – sadly this is what you get when you paste properly laid-out text into WordPress. But longer gaps show where I started a new day’s writing, and if you’re really anal you can check each day’s output against the sachet of the day. I did think about creating a page to show the words included in the prompt, but that would be a lot more typing and I think you can tell that when I start talking about peppermint and cinnamon those were probably prompt words. I was quite proud of getting in some of the less obvious words too, however – socialising, half-burned, acid and guardian angel, for instance. (And can you spot the Sherlock Holmes reference?)

Obviously I’d like to look back in a few months from now and say “And that was the start of my urban fantasy novel and now it’s complete”, but we all know that’s not going to happen (and even if I did complete it, I’d never get it published, so why even bother? Writing in the 2020s is terribly dispiriting). But it’s been another fun experiment.

***

Mrs Sonnentor’s Spectacular Spice Shop

One day as she was walking along Victoria Street, admiring all the fine buildings there, Joaney noticed a narrow little lane she had never been down. She peered cautiously along it, but although it seemed dark from the shadow of the tall buildings on either side of it, she could see that it was far from deserted of people, and indeed there seemed to be quite a number of womenfolk coming and going, from housemaids in smart uniforms and skivvies with grubby faces to one or two fine ladies with silk skirts that rustled as they walked.

Joaney decided the lane looked safe for her to venture along, so she stepped into the shadow and strode confidently out.

At first all she saw were the blank sides of the elegant buildings facing onto Victoria Street, but as she went these gave over to smaller, more ramshackle constructions, all different heights and styles, and each with a different shop housed in its lower floor. Sounds of hammering came from one proclaiming itself to be Crellin’s Tinsmiths, a second was selling beautiful flowers of many bright shades, while a third… at the sight – and particularly the smell – of the third shop, Joaney halted, struck motionless in wonder.

‘Mrs Sonnentor’s Spectacular Spice Shop’, it said in gold on the green sign running the entire width of the building.

And spectacular it clearly was – for this seemed to be the place that had brought a good number of the people in the lane to this dim back street of Douglas. Skirting around a group of women discussing something that involved a great many shocked whispers and exclamations, Joaney timidly peeped through the open door. Somewhat surprisingly, the shop was empty of customers, but behind the counter a cheery middle-aged woman was standing, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling and a bright smile on her lips.

‘Hello’, said Joaney shyly. ‘You’ve a lovely shop. Would you mind if I look around? It smells wonderful good.’

‘Certainly you may look, my dear,’ said the woman. ‘My spectacular shop has something for everyone, and if you don’t look around however will you find it?’

This seemed a rather strange way to describe her establishment, but Joaney was so entranced by all the alluring sights and smells that she couldn’t resist.

Every inch of the shop was devoted to spices, herbs, teas, ointments and tinctures. There were racks of dried herbs hanging above her head, some with flowers, some with spines, but all smelling wonderful – or at least unusual. There were cleverly designed shelves holding rows and rows of shiny white jars, each with a name printed neatly on a piece of card. There were little piles of the most charming translucent soaps with leaves and even whole flowers inside the jewel-bright cakes. There were large open brass bowls of ground spices of every conceivable shade.

Joaney had little idea what they could all be – her mother’s culinary arts had been of the ‘Stuff them with potatoes and herring and they’ll need no seasoning but salt’ variety, and the cooking at Mrs Faragher’s boarding house was much the same. But she’d occasionally tasted gingerbread from the fair or eaten a piece of Aunt Nancy’s Christmas cake, all full of cinnamon and nutmeg and other good things. And more than that, she knew only that she wanted to bottle the combined scent of the entire shop and take it with her when she left.

As if by magic, a young man suddenly appeared behind the counter, bearing a wooden tray on which were arranged a pretty china teapot with a design of apples and oranges, a small jug, three cups, a saucer with lemon slices and a plate of dainty biscuits. Joaney realised he had come up through the floor, presumably from a kitchen space in the cellar.

He placed the tray on the counter, then went over to the shop door, turned the Open sign to Closed, and bolted the door top and bottom. Joaney was a little alarmed at this, but Mrs Sonnentor gave her a reassuring smile and said ‘We always have a little tea break around now. Won’t you join us? Quince has baked some new biscuits for us today and I would welcome your opinion.’

Joaney was so startled by the thought of a man baking biscuits – a man, she now noticed, who was wearing a frilly apron tied around his waist – that before she knew what was happening she found herself sitting at one of the three small tables in the corner nearest the fire and being served with tea by Mrs Sonnentor.

‘Ceylon tea’, said Mrs Sonnentor as she poured out some of the dark gold liquid into the fragile china of Joaney’s cup. ‘I hope you like it.’

Joaney, who to her own knowledge, had never drunk any tea more special than came from the Lipton’s tea chest containing the cheapest of all blends, could only nod and agree that she was perfectly happy with Ceylon tea.

‘And do please try a biscuit,’ said Mrs Sonnentor, in a voice that had more of the sergeant major about it than before.

‘Yes, please do’, interjected Quince in a youthful voice that made him sound like he was even younger than he looked. He pushed the plate towards her and she obediently took one of the small golden discs.

‘What flavour is it?’ Joaney asked. ‘It smells delicious.’

Mrs Sonnentor beamed.  ‘Ginger and lemongrass. Quince here is excellent with flavours and he’s been perfecting these for weeks.’

Joaney took a bite of the biscuit, which was still slightly warm and smelled spicy and exotic. She recognised the ginger component from eating gingerbread, but the other thing – lemon grass? She wondered what it looked like and where it grew – gave a tinge of something that was definitely citrusy but also quite obviously not lemon.

‘Lemon?’ asked Mrs Sonnentor suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. Joaney jumped a little, startled to have her mind read. Then she realised that Mrs Sonnentor was gesturing to the saucer of lemon slices at her elbow.

‘No thank you,’ she replied, ‘it’s too strong for me with lemon in it.’

‘Milk then, just like Quince. He always drinks his with milk in it, no matter how much I tell him it spoils the flavour.’

Quince blushed and appeared to be trying to sink through his chair, even as he did indeed add plenty of milk to his teacup from a small jug that matched the teapot.

‘Quince is a very unusual name,’ said Joaney, trying to relieve his embarrassment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody called Quince.’

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, and Joaney watched in fascination as a blush spread from the neck of his shirt up across his face and carried on all the way to his hairline.

‘It’s, well, it isn’t really Quince,’ he almost stammered. ‘It’s Quine really. Peter Quine.’

‘But I wasn’t going to have someone working in my shop who sounded like a fishmonger,’ interjected Mrs Sonnentor.

‘And I’ve always been loving quinces,’ said Quince, with a grin. ‘Dried quince fruit 2 shillings per pound, and beautiful and flavoursome they are too. And quince blossom in season.’

‘How did you learn all these different things?’ asked Joaney. ‘There are so many, it seems impossible that you could keep them all in your head.’

Mrs Sonnentor and Quince looked at each other briefly.

Quince spoke first. ‘Indeed, I cannot keep them all in my head. Culinary herbs and spices, yes, but I must admit that the medicinal uses, and some of the less common actives still perplex me. But it’s surprising how much falls into place after you’ve been here a little while.’

‘As for me,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘I have been running my little shop for many years, since I was not much older than you, my dear, and after such a long time it is no struggle to separate my apple mint from my melissa, my cornflower from my mallow.’

Mrs Sonnentor popped the last of her biscuit into her mouth and pressed her palms together decisively.

‘Now! Let us see for what purpose you came to our little shop today. Have you seen anything in here that you particularly like?’

Joaney was taken aback. She hadn’t come into the shop for anything, she had just been intrigued by the exciting scents and colours. She doubted very much whether, on her meagre pay, she could afford more than a couple of pinches of anything in this delightful shop. Certainly the beautiful soaps, marked at sixpence apiece, were far too expensive for her purse.

‘Oh, but I…’ she began, but Quince patted her hand as she began to get flustered and sought to push her chair back from the table.

‘Please don’t think we mean to charge you. People come to the shop for things they need, often, and it’s clear you are one such. All you need do is walk through the shop until something calls out to you. Not something you want to buy, but something that speaks to you, that wants to tell you a story. There’s always something.’

‘But what does it mean? How can a herb call out to me? I don’t understand,’ said poor Joaney, rather distraught at the strangeness of this shop, however much its two staff seem to be well-meaning.

‘As to what it means, we’ll know that when we see what it is,’ said Mrs Sonnentor soothingly, patting her arm. ‘You just have a little wander around the shop while Quince tidies the tea things and I serve Mrs Palmer, who I can see is waiting anxiously outside the door. And if nothing calls out, nothing calls out.’ She rose and smoothed her apron. ‘But I warrant it will,’ she said over her shoulder as she headed to the door of the shop, to unbolt it and turn the sign back to Open.

‘What a very strange shop,’ thought Joaney as she pushed her chair in under the table. ‘And what very strange people.’

And it seemed that more strangeness was yet to come, for no sooner had Mrs Sonnentor opened the door than Mrs Palmer almost fell through it, wailing and clutching at Mrs Sonnentor’s apron as though her life depended on it.

Jeannie had been brought up not to eavesdrop, but the shop would have to have been ten times the size not to hear poor Mrs Palmer’s tale of woe.

Helped to a chair by Mrs Sonnentor and given a cup of tea by Quince, it took several minutes before she was composed enough to speak comprehensibly. And even when she did, her narrative was punctuated by many exclamations of ‘What will become of us?’, ‘My poor Ned’, ‘Lost, we are all lost!’ and incoherent wailing.

Finally, she was induced by Mrs Sonnentor to calm herself sufficiently, and Joaney listened in horror as a terrible tale left the poor woman’s trembling lips.

‘It’s my Ned, you see. You know he’s a seaman on the Thistle Line, Mr Kinrade’s company that sails out of Liverpool?’ she asked tremulously.

‘Indeed I do,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘You were here last summer buying herbs to send with him on his next voyage.’

‘Aye, we were, and I wish to God he’d never gone on that accursed ship.’

Mrs Palmer took a sip of her tea, holding the cup in shaking hands.

‘The Ruprecht, it was, sailing to India, to Assam, for the tea trade. The outward journey went smoothly, Ned said, but the journey back was plagued with all kinds of ill fortune. The cabin boy fell from the rigging and broke his neck – and none could say what he was even doing aloft in the first place, when he should have been attending to the captain’s supper. Then they were becalmed and several barrels of salted meat turned out to be gone bad, so they were on short rations. And then when they were finally out of the doldrums they hit a fierce storm, a storm such as no one aboard had ever seen. They all survived, by some miracle, but the ship had lost a foremast and they had to put into port at Cape Town for three weeks while a suitable replacement was found.

And so when they finally reached Liverpool they were late for the contract and that meant no bonus and maybe no Thistle Line for much longer either, and then how shall we survive?’

Mrs Sonnentor began to say something placating, but Mrs Palmer interrupted her. ‘And that’s not the worst of it. My Ned said that as the voyage went on there was such a terrible feeling of dread and fear spreading through the ship that it was as if Old Nick himself was sitting down in the bilges puffing on his pipe and breathing out great clouds of sulphurous smoke, polluting their hearts and souls.’

At this, Mrs Sonnentor suddenly looked even more serious and Joaney saw her exchange a quick glance with Quince.

‘But your husband – is he well now he is at home in the bosom of his family?’ she asked.

‘Oh Mrs S! Indeed he is not.’ Here Mrs Palmer broke down again, and it was a minute or two before she could continue.

‘He was very tired when he got home three days ago, worn all thin like, with dull shadows beneath his eyes, and I put him straight to bed and have been giving him beef tea, and onion poultices for his chest.’

Mrs Sonnentor nodded approvingly.

‘But he has not improved – quite the opposite. He has become quite agitated and restless, unable to sleep and insisting he must be up and away to his next berth, even though there is no ship sailing this next fortnight. And today… Today I saw that on his hands, his dear hands, so gentle with children and animals for all that he’s such a big man and a seaman and all, his hands are all over patches of queer blackness, not like the skin of a black person, but the black of oil, all roiling and somehow…’ She looked around at them all as if daring them to disbelieve her. ‘Evil. That’s what they are, those patches. Evil! Something terrible’s been brought back with that cargo, and it’s got my Ned, and what’s to become of us all? How can we stop it? The Devil’s work is more than man can cure.’ And here she subsided into helpless sobbing once more.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Sonnentor firmly. ‘The devil’s work is not more than I can cure, and that’s certain. Quince, fetch my bag – the red one. You mind the shop and I’ll send for you if I need you.’

And with that, she set about getting Mrs Palmer on her feet, saying that she would accompany her back to her lodgings immediately.

As she put on her coat and hat she caught sight of Joaney, standing with a rather shocked expression near the fireplace.

‘You see, my dear, although my shop is indeed spectacular, sometimes those spectacles are very dark indeed,’ she said. ‘But you need not worry yourself. Look around while I am gone. I am sure there is something here for you.’

‘But… can I not help in some way?’ stuttered Joaney. ‘I feel like I must do something to help that poor woman and her wretched husband.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Mrs Sonnentor looked closely at Joaney. Quince appeared behind the counter carrying a large case of blood-red leather, held closed with two thick black straps.

‘Well tell me if that feeling changes, but if it continues perhaps this is what was meant for you. Do you think you can carry my bag while I manage Mrs Palmer?’

‘Indeed I can,’ said Jenny confidently, although in truth the bag was a rather large one.

‘Come along, then. I fear we may not have much time to waste.’

As they hurried away from the shop, Joaney was sad to smell the everyday world again after what seemed so long immersed in the scents of orange peel and vanilla pods.

And when they reached Well Road Hill, where Mrs Palmer and her family had their lodgings, even the everyday scents of horses, people, the sea and butcher’s shops were all suddenly as if swept away by an overpowering smell of… what was that? Something heavy and sweet but not altogether wholesome. Quite the opposite. Even the light of the day seemed to have grown dimmer. Mrs Sonnentor, looking around for Joaney as she waited for Mrs Palmer to fumble with her latchkey, saw Joaney’s expression and her own tightened in response.

‘You sense it too, do you girl? Well, it seems you are indeed called. What is your name?’

‘J…Joaney,’ she stammered, somewhat taken aback that the pleasant woman from the spice shop had been transformed into this rather stern female with more than a little of the schoolmistress about her. It seemed to Joaney that the other woman’s accent had also risen several social classes, and she was beginning to wonder whether she should not merely abandon both Mrs Palmer and Mrs Sonnentor to their respective fates and go for a nice restorative walk in the fresh sea air, when there came a crash and a shriek from inside the house.

Mrs Sonnentor’s head swivelled as though she was a bloodhound on a scent, and she swiftly seized the key from the unfortunate Mrs Palmer’s limp fingers and had the door unlocked and thrown open before the other woman could even begin to draw breath.

Inside the house, two shrieking children tumbling down the stairs and running straight into the arms of Mrs Palmer left little doubt that the Palmers’ apartments were on the first floor.

Without attempting to make sense of the children’s incoherent wailings, Mrs Sonnentor picked up her skirts and bounded up the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, Joaney found herself following.

On the landing they were greeted by a number of closed doors – and one open, from which a low sobbing and muttering was emerging.

Mrs Sonnentor turned to Joaney and said quietly ‘Do exactly as I say and we shall all come through this unscathed. All of us. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mrs Sonnentor,’ replied Joaney firmly, proffering the red bag.

Mrs Sonnentor’s eyes examined her face for a moment, then she nodded, and reached into a pocket on the front of the bag, drawing out what appeared to be a piece of chalk.

Armed with this, Mrs Sonnentor squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Right. Let us see what evil Old Nick has hidden amongst us this time.’

A pleasant walk amongst the trees on a Sunday afternoon. What could be nicer? Joaney thought. The sky was bright and blue, the trees were winter bare and yet she didn’t feel cold.

That was because she’d remembered to put on – she raised her fingers to check – yes, she’d remembered to put on her blue woollen bonnet that Aunt Nancy had made her for Christmas last year. And her stoutest winter dress. And… yes, her good thick coat that had been a hand-me-down from her cousin Kate. She was glad she’d dressed warmly, for there was a decided chill to the air.

A breeze blew icy fingers against her face and set the smallest twigs of the branches far above her to dancing. She smiled. These trees were like old friends, the woods around… around… well now, that was peculiar. She’d forgotten the name of this place, which she knew as well as her own name.

She turned to ask her mother, who had been beside her just a moment before, but she wasn’t there. The emerald turf showed only the marks of her boots, no sign of her mother’s dainty feet in their Sunday best footwear. And yet, Joaney was certain she’d been here. She spun around to ask her brother Michael, but he too was gone. All that was behind her was the sheep trail across the turf and the tall, lean shapes of the trees. She turned swiftly to the front, but there too, there was no one.

But she’d just now been in a group, the whole family of them in their white Sunday best, the men with straw hats and the women with parasols and… In winter? Wearing white in winter? And her father had never worn a white summer suit like a gentleman in his life. Still less had her mother carried a parasol. And that blue bonnet? She’d outgrown it long since – and the coat she’d had from Kate.

She looked around herself in confusion. The trees certainly looked familiar, but between them in the distance she could see hills and bare bracken slopes, not the level fields and neat cottages she’d expected.

Where was she? And where were the people she’d been with only a moment before? Or had she? She put a hand to her face as if checking that she herself was real. Only what moved towards her face wasn’t even her own hand. It was a female hand, certainly but older than hers and ungloved. And it swiftly struck Joaney across the cheek, two, three, four times. Hard, too. She tried to cry out, but her mouth wouldn’t move, she could take in no air, and the hand was coming again, this time holding something, a small glass bottle, and now…

CRACK!

The world shattered, or the glass bottle did, or the woods did, or she did, and there was a sudden overwhelming reek of peppermint. Strong and astringent enough to make her eyes water. She gasped and inhaled it, the smell cutting at the back of her throat, and suddenly a hand was thumping her on the back and a voice was calling her name, and she was coughing and her eyes were pouring with tears at the violently minty smell…

…and she was on the landing at Mrs Palmer’s lodgings, bent over the smashed remains of a small glass bottle, as Mrs Sonnentor patted her back and said ‘Good girl, well done, you’re safe now’.

Joaney shook herself, then pulled out a hanky to wipe her streaming eyes.

‘What was that?’

Mrs Sonnentor patted her on the shoulder and said ‘I will explain, but it will have to wait. We have no time now. Do you remember what to do?’

Joaney straightened, that schoolmistress voice having the desired effect. ‘Exactly as you say, Mrs S.’

‘Just so. Simply play your part and this will be over quite quickly. Now, wait here and come swiftly when I call.’

And with that, Mrs Sonnentor plunged through the open door, eliciting a horrible groan from the occupant of the room beyond.

Joaney trembled with fear, standing there on the landing still clutching the thick black handles of the heavy red bag. But she wouldn’t run. The weight of the bag was reassuring somehow, as reassuring as Mrs Sonnentor’s words. And even though she understood none of what was happening, she felt a conviction that this was where she was meant to be, doing…

‘Joaney,’ came Mrs Sonnentor’s voice from the room, and without conscious thought she leaped into action and through the doorway.

Beyond it was a small living room, neatly kept in normal circumstances it seemed, but somewhat upset now. A jug lay broken on the floor by the table, and a teacup had been overturned onto a plate, the brown liquid still dripping onto the floor. The rug had been thrown back carelessly and a large circle drawn in white chalk on the bare floorboards beneath. And within that circle lay a man. His back was to Joaney and she was suddenly very thankful for that, as she suspected she would see something terrible were he to turn to face her. But she could see his hands, horribly blackened and oily-looking, pawing at the air as though attempting to escape from the circle.

A sharp scent suddenly reached her nostrils, a rich smell that reminded her of Christmas – gingerbread and apples, spice and fruit, and Mrs Sonnentor gestured to her from the other side of the circle.

‘Look after him while I work,’ she said, and for one horror-struck moment Joaney thought she meant the man with the blackened hands. But then she saw a little boy, perhaps three or four years old, sitting on the floor by the man’s feet. A little boy with very pale golden hair, dressed in a pale blue sailor suit. He looked at Joaney and grinned in delight, holding his little arms out to her. She took one step towards him, but even before Mrs Sonnentor had stiffened and gone to draw breath she had stopped outside the line of the circle. She somehow knew she mustn’t cross that boundary. But the little boy seemed to feel no such compunction, standing and toddling over to her quite happily.

He took hold of her skirt and looked up with an expression of delight. ‘What’s your name?’ he said. ‘My name is Edward Palmer and I’m four years old.’

The instant the child left the circle unhindered, Mrs Sonnentor seemed to relax. She took a deep breath and raised her arms to the ceiling, then bent and touched her hands to the floor. After spending a few moments in this posture, her breathing deep and slow, she reached for the scarlet bag by Joaney’s feet, pulling it across the floor and placing it to her right. Facing the circle, facing the man, she sank to the floor in a cross-legged position, arranging her skirts. Then she reached into the bag and removed a few items, laying them out in front of herself, between the circle and her knees.

‘Yarrow for protection,’ she said, scattering a bundle of dried stalks apparently at random. ‘Fennel for courage’ – and she sprinkled seeds between the yarrow stalks. ‘Caraway for strength,’ and more seeds were distributed over the floorboards. ‘Marigold to reduce inflammation. Spearmint for sores.’

With each new ingredient, it seemed as though the tension in the room eased a fraction. All the while, the little boy held Joaney’s skirt without moving, as if he had been frozen in time – perhaps he had? – and Joaney felt full of questions but unable to utter a word.

After a few moments’ silence, Mrs Sonnentor looked at Joaney and said ‘Close your eyes’. Mindful of her orders, Joaney did as she was told.

Mrs Sonnentor uttered a few words – though Joaney could not even have said if they were in English – and then she heard the swish of silk that meant Mrs Sonnentor was moving. And then a sudden, pungent scent of all the things Mrs Sonnentor had listed, accompanied by an anger, fierce and hot, such as Joaney had never felt before – not inside her, but rushing past as if it was some vast, dry wind.

And then there came a great sigh from the man on the floor and the grip on her skirt was loosened. And although Mrs Sonnentor had not said she might, Joaney opened her eyes and watched in astonishment as the little boy walked back into the circle and lay down – not close to the man, but on him, in him… And the blue sailor suit and blond hair were swallowed up by the dark jacket and trousers and the brown hair of the man on the floor.

For a moment there was absolute silence, then Mrs Sonnentor leaned into the circle and placed a hand on the man’s forehead.

‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Heated but dry. We will leave him to cool down before moving him. He will not awaken for some time now the shadow has left him.’

Once again Joaney felt unable to formulate questions, but this time because there were so many crammed on her tongue trying to escape. Mrs Sonnentor bounded up from the floor as athletically as she had lowered herself, and began searching once more in the red bag for something.

‘Ah,’ she said triumphantly, extracting a small bundle of grey twigs and waving it at Joaney. ‘Do you know how to purify a room? I see that you do not. First,’ she suited her actions to her words, placing one end of the bundle on a red coal in the fire, ‘we apply heat.’

Thick smoke began to pour from the bundle as she held it between her thumb and forefinger, and the pungent aroma had soon reached Joaney’s nostrils.

‘Sage?’ she said in surprise – though really she should not have been, as the other herbs too had been things readily available in most pantries.

‘Indeed sage. It purifies and prepares a space… Perhaps you could take this while I go and pacify Mrs Palmer? I perceive that her hysterics have now reached the point of action and she is about to enter, no doubt accompanied by half of the street, which will be somewhat inconvenient.’

‘But what do I do?’

Mrs Sonnentor paused in the doorway.

‘Oh, just waft it around. There’s no particular incantation to be done with sage, though you could try thinking nice thoughts.’

‘Will that help?’

‘Almost certainly not, but it’s always good practice to think nice thoughts when dealing with possession.’ And with that she was gone and Joaney heard her clattering down the stairs and sweeping Mrs Palmer before her.

‘Possession?’ said Joaney. She looked nervously at the man – Edward ‘Ned’ Palmer, presumably – sleeping peacefully in his chalk circle, his hands now mercifully back to their normal pale colour.

The smoke from the motionless bundle of sage stung her eyes, so she wafted it experimentally. It left a thick trail of smoke behind it, and once again the tension in the room seemed to subside.

Joaney shrugged. There was little else to be done – she might as well get on with this… purification? So she moved carefully around the small room, making sure the smoke reached into every corner, from ceiling to floor. Then, as the remonstrations in the street seem to be continuing and there was still a lot of the sage left, she opened the door into the next room – a bedroom, as it turned out – and continued there.

Some time later, Mrs Sonnentor and Joaney sat in Mrs Palmer’s parlour, all three of them provided with a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit. The room was tidy once more, the chalk all removed from the floor and Mr Palmer and the children all sleeping peacefully in their beds.

‘I cannot thank you enough Mrs S,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘What would have become of us, I do not know. My Ned so strange and that nasty blackness on his poor hands…’

She continued on in this vein for some time, but Joaney didn’t listen and instead drank her tea and ate her biscuit and contemplated what she had just seen – indeed all that she had experienced through that very strange day.

She had long known that the world was a vast place, with far more things in it than she could possibly ever understand, but she had never suspected… What? What had she even seen today? Magic or witchcraft or something. And possibly devilry too, she thought, remembering the angry punch of that hot wind rushing past her. And who – and what? – did that make Mrs Sonnentor and Quince?

She came back to the present with a start to hear Mrs Sonnentor giving directions to Mrs Palmer.

‘Fresh fir branches at all the windows – and do not neglect the doors. And you may blend a little turmeric, cardamom, vanilla, black pepper and orange peel and place this in bowls throughout your home. Stir it from time to time to refresh the scents. Otherwise your husband will need only rest, but he will be soon recovered and none the worse for his ordeal.’

‘But what of the other men in the crew?’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘The Ruprecht is a large vessel, with one hundred men aboard. And if all of them have this affliction I fear it will go very bad with them.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘I would thank you to send your husband to me when he is quite recovered – in a few days or a week, no need to rush him – as I would like to hear the story of the journey from him. But in the meantime I shall carry out my own researches, starting with the Thistle Line. I fear you are right that, untreated, this could become an ill thing.’

Finally, they left the Palmers’ lodgings, with Mrs Palmer’s thanks ringing in their ears. Night had fallen, and the damp cobblestones spattered moisture on their skirt hems as they retraced their steps along Strand Street. Joaney was still catching her breath at the chill of the evening air when Mrs Sonnentor turned to her and said in an amused tone, ‘Still with me, child?’

Joaney was not offended by the term, for even had she not still been only 19, it was clear that she was very much a novice compared to Mrs Sonnentor.

‘Indeed, ma’am, though I fear that returning to my place of work tomorrow will seem sadly unexciting compared to today’s events, even if I still do not understand them.’

‘Oh, you work, do you? At what, pray?’

‘As a haberdasher’s assistant, at Clark the Draper’s. And I lodge with Mrs Faragher, whose establishment has very strict hours for meals. I fear I may already be in danger of missing my dinner and receiving a severe scolding.’

‘Oh, you lodge with Marjorie, do you? In that case I think you need not fear a scolding, for we are old friends. But perhaps I can offer you dinner in return for your help today? I know of a very good eatery not far from here.’

Joaney agreed that she was indeed extremely hungry, having consumed only a single ginger biscuit since breakfast time, as well as feeling the exertions of the day. Mrs Sonnentor promptly led her into a side street and down a steep flight of steps to a basement from which was issuing a delicious smell – and a great deal of noise.

The space beyond the peeling brown door proved to be low ceilinged, dimly lit, and at Joaney’s first glance, occupied only by a very large number of men. Seaman, at that, she realised, seeing the numerous tattoos visible on necks and wrists.

But Mrs Sonnentor seemed unafraid and Joaney detected no uncouth behaviour or comments from those they passed. In fact, several of the men half rose and bowed to Mrs Sonnentor, and there was more than one who insisted on shaking her hand.

Men from many parts of the world were here – as well as familiar Manx accents she heard Irish and Scottish, English of course, and what she thought must be German and Italian. There were also several men who were clearly Chinese, and one enormous man with gleaming black skin and a beautiful soft voice who picked up Mrs Sonnentor and swung her around before depositing a kiss on her hand and saying a few words that Joaney could not quite catch in the hubbub.

They came at last to an empty table, and even before Mrs Sonnentor had unbuttoned her coat a white-aproned waiter had arrived with a tray, depositing a glass of what must be wine for Mrs Sonnentor and lemonade for Joaney.

‘What is it to be tonight, Mrs S?’ he asked. ‘Swedish meatballs? Italian spaghetti? Austrian schnitzel?’

Mrs Sonnentor pursed her lips, then said ‘Italian,’ with a decisive nod.

‘And for you, Miss?’ he asked, turning to Joaney.

Joaney had no idea what schnitzel or spaghetti were, but she could guess what meatballs might be, so her choice was easy.

‘Meatballs it is,’ he said, making as if to leave, but Mrs Sonnentor raised one hand to stop him.

‘I shall need information I’m afraid, Patrick. Urgent information.’

The waiter’s smiling face grew serious.

‘Urgent, is it? I’ll send Lucia out to you, then.’ And with that, he disappeared back into the heat and noise of the crowded room.

They did not have long to wait before a new figure appeared at their table. Tall, black-haired and golden-skinned, she yet wore a plain homespun dress and spoke with a broad Manx accent.

‘Jim said ye need to know things,’ she said to Mrs Sonnentor.

‘I’m afraid so, Lucia. The ship Ruprecht, arrived in Liverpool these several days – what of her? And most particularly, what of her crew… And her cargo?’

Joaney did not see how a woman working in a Douglas Tavern could possibly know anything of a ship docked in a port on the other side of the Irish Sea, but she had seen and heard many strange things in Mrs Sonnentor’s company that day.

Lucia drew up a chair to the end of their table and sat, her hands flat on the wood. The hubbub around them had not abated and yet Joaney could clearly hear every word she said, despite her voice being little more than a whisper.

‘The Ruprecht… come from a long way. A long way, aye and carrying a cargo from further yet. Tea. The finest tea, all in chests. Cardamom and cinnamon and cassia and caraway…’ Her voice took on a drawl, poetic yet somehow ominous. ‘Turmeric and liquorice and fennel seed and saffron…’ She paused for a moment, her eyes closed, and when she spoke again it was as though a wave of icy water had swept through that cheerful cellar room with its candlelight and good company.

‘Aye, and something else too, somethin’ they didn’t know they was carryin’. The crew didn’t know and the officers didn’t know. But the captain – he knew. He knew what it was, what it could bring, but he took it anyway. And now he’ll take no more, not cargo, not tide, not nothin’. For he’s gone where no light can reach him, not now nor ever. I see him, half-burned, melted like a candle. Aye, melted, burned the fire of his life to darkness and lost to himself.’

She opened her eyes and Joaney looked swiftly away as if she too would suddenly see that terrible vision of a man burned by some infernally hot flame.

Melissa smoothed her apron and smiled at the man as he went out of the front door. Mr… she’d forgotten his name, he’d only arrived at the boarding house the night before so it hadn’t sunk in yet. She only ever remembered the guests who were there for more than a week. The others just came and went like a flock of starlings constantly on the move. It was only when they’d been in the house for a week or more that the endless fluttering seem to slow down and she could relax a little and recognise them as individuals.

But this was a quiet time of the year, when people were home with their families or out socialising, not travelling around selling things. Almost all of the gentleman – and they almost all were male – were commercial travellers of one sort another. Melissa’s mother preferred it that way. ‘Neat and tidy they are for the most part, accustomed to living out of a suitcase and respectful of regular hours,’ was her verdict.

Melissa picked up her duster and the tin of polish – scented with lemon balm it was, her mother’s own making, her favourite scent and how Melissa herself had her name, even. She’d never quite understood where her mother had acquired her knowledge of herbs and spices, but Mrs Martha Postlethwaite certainly possessed it – such an encyclopaedic acknowledge as any eminent botanist would be proud of. Melissa knew only a fraction as much – it just didn’t seem to stick in her brain. But she was a good plain cook, and handy with a needle for all she could never separate her wild carrot from her hemlock. And she certainly had no shortage of elbow grease for polishing all the furniture and brass in their small home until it was sparkling.

And when she’d finished in the hall, she’d to make the beds and then pop down to the corner shop and fetch a ha’p’orth of vinegar, because her mother planned to wash the net curtains and there was nothing like vinegar for getting the lace all nice and bright.

And by then her mother would be back from visiting Miss Ailsa to streets over, and perhaps they’d have a cup of tea and a nice sit down before setting to with the curtains.

Meanwhile, far from peacefully drinking tea in Miss Ailsa’s comfortable parlour, as Melissa had pictured her, Mrs Postlethwaite had her arms wrapped around a shrieking, writhing sailor from behind as Miss Ailsa struggled to make him swallow a thick white gruel. Finally, he had taken enough of the substance and fell insensible to the floor, Mrs Postlethwaite helping to lower him so he did not injure himself.

‘Well,’ she panted, righting her crooked hat. ‘He didn’t take that easily.’

‘Indeed he did not,’ said Miss Ailsa, straightening from her inspection of the man. ‘I fear the condition was more advanced than I had estimated. But we got to him in time.’

Together, they lifted him to the rough cot in the corner of the room, the man not stirring, then regarded him where he lay.

‘We must move more quickly,’ said Miss Ailsa. ‘This outbreak is particularly vicious, and we must reach all of the crew before it begins to spread to others.’

‘You know my opinion,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite.

‘I do, but…’ Ailsa sighed. ‘I did not wish to bring Melissa into this. She is but a girl, and without much talent for the art.’

‘Now, you know the women of my family come to their gifts late,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘I myself was without any power until I was 16.’

‘But Melissa is 22!’ Ailsa sighed again. ‘But I fear you are right. We need help, if only someone to run errands for us. And perhaps surprising Melissa with this will give her the jolt her forces require.’

‘I do think we must at least try,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘We have managed by ourselves for longer than I thought possible, but this incident is beyond the power of Two. We must try the power of Three – even if it should turn out that the third has no power at all.’

‘Magic?’ exclaimed Melissa. ‘You can do magic, both of you – all of my female ancestors can do magic – and you chose not to tell me until now?’

‘I know it’s a shock,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘But we thought it best to keep you away from the art unless it came naturally. There are…’ she exchanged a quick glance with Miss Ailsa ‘… certain disadvantages associated with becoming a practitioner.’

‘And we do not refer to it as magic,’ said Miss Ailsa. ‘We prefer to view it as a craft, and art, a gift, something that…’

‘I don’t care what you call it!’ shrieked Melissa. Then, calming somewhat, she continued, ‘I just care that you’ve kept such a huge thing secret from me, mother – and such a thing. Magic…’ she waved away the interruption. ‘Whatever you call it, it isn’t something I should have been kept ignorant of, no matter my lack of talent.’

‘I know, my dear,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘But we, that is, I thought that as you seemed to show no sign of it, this was the best way. If we had told you and it turned out that you were unable to use the power, you might have been tempted to experiment, to take unwise paths to force the ability to develop.’

‘It has happened before,’ said Miss Ailsa gravely. ‘With catastrophic results.’

Melissa looked slightly taken aback at this, but was not to be distracted. ‘But you’re saying that just ordinary herbs and spices, cinnamon, melissa and I don’t know, lemon peel, can be used to cast spells on people.’

‘We don’t call them…’ Miss Ailsa began.

‘I do not care what you call them,’ said Melissa. ‘I care that you do them at all and apparently thought fit not to enlighten me. Do you have any idea how terrified I’ve been?’

‘I know it’s…’ Mrs Postlethwaite said soothingly, before stopping abruptly. ‘Terrified? Terrified about what?’

‘About the fact that when I do things, ordinary things like sewing, strange events happen.’

‘When you sew…? What sort of strange things?’

‘Well, you know you always say my darning is so neat it looks like little fairies have done it?’

‘Yes, and so quick, I barely turn my head and you can have darned a whole basket of stockings…’ Mrs Postlethwaite’s voice tailed off. ‘Little… fairies?’ she said weakly.

Melissa nodded. ‘Little fairies. I’ve had a terrible time concealing them from you. And the reason I always sing when I’m doing fancy embroidery?’ Her mother nodded, her face showing expectant understanding. ‘Singing flowers,’ said Melissa shortly. ‘Blossoming all over the fabric, harmonising away. The longer I go on, the more there are.’

‘I did think you got a bit strident when you were embroidering that cap for Mrs Barboni’s youngest,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘But you do have a lovely singing voice.’

‘Birds,’ said Melissa with a grimace. ‘Warbling song thrushes and nightingales and I don’t know what, semi-transparent and about the size of my thumb. Honestly, mother, it’s got so that I’m afraid to do anything when someone else is present, eat my breakfast, mop the floor, open the front door, even, because I don’t know what magical creatures are going to pop up from where next. I do wish you’d told me earlier.’

Somewhat later, with Melissa much less stressed and Mrs Postlethwaite calmer at the revelation that her daughter did indeed have a talent – just one very different from her own – they sat down to apple mint and cornflower tea with slices of lavender and orange cake.

‘I still cannot replicate the flavour of this sponge,’ said Miss Ailsa. ‘The orange is quite distinct but does not outweigh the lavender. And even more astonishing, the lavender does not outweigh the orange.’

‘Honestly,’ said Melissa, ‘you two are shredding my nerves. First you come dashing in and say the city is in danger from some deadly disease, then you say you’ll need such small magical powers as I possess to help combat it, and then when I reveal to you that I do in fact have magical powers, you calmly sit there drinking tea and talking about cake.’

‘No matter how bad the situation is, it’s always important to make sure you eat and drink,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite serenely. ‘I learned that to my cost as a young woman, about your age.’ Melissa eyed her mother incredulously as if wondering what improbable story she was about to tell, but Miss Ailsa interrupted.

‘Sadly the situation now is a very bad one,’ she said. ‘A tea clipper, the Ruprecht, returned from India five days ago and since then a number of her crew have been taken ill with a very serious affliction. Your mother and I have been tracing these unfortunate men and driving out the… sickness,’ she concluded rather limply.

‘Driving out the sickness? Surely that is a matter for a doctor, or the Liverpool Royal infirmary? Not for two women, particularly when the patients are seamen – not even officers either, but common crewmen. There must be someone else?’

‘Not with this sickness. It manifests itself as a disease of the body, but in fact it is a disease of the soul.’

‘A religious man, then, a priest or vicar? How can this be any business of yours?’

‘It is our business because there is no one else,’ said her mother severely. ‘The other practitioners who used to be active in Liverpool are now… no longer active. We are all that is left in the city. And this affliction is not one that can be cured by doctors’ medicine, no, nor by prayers and sermons.’

‘But what is it, then?’

‘Some kind of possession, we think,’ said Miss Ailsa. ‘That is what we have been treating it as, and it seems to respond.’

‘Possession? Then surely a priest?’

‘No.’ Her mother spoke firmly. ‘Priests cannot fix this, because they do not have faith.’

‘But is not faith the very thing a priest must have?’

‘Faith in their own beliefs, certainly. Faith in their position in society. But they do not truly believe that evil exists, many forms of evil, or that it can be combated by means other than Christian ritual. The forces we fight are older than Christianity, and those ceremonies have no power over them.’

‘In that case, please tell me what I can do to help,’ said Melissa. ‘I don’t truly understand any of this – and I certainly have little control over my powers, whatever their extent. But what you say about this possession fills me with dread and I know that it must be stopped.’

‘You are indeed your mother’s daughter,’ said Miss Ailsa. ‘She also does not hesitate to step in where she is needed, no matter the peril.’

Again, Melissa was forced to reconsider her mother in a rather new light, particularly when she briskly unrolled a map of the city and began designating strategic points rather in the manner of a general directing his troops.

‘Here is the Albert Dock, where the Ruprecht is berthed. Here is Lionel Street, where the first outbreak was reported. And here is…’

But she was interrupted by a frenzied knocking on the door. The two older women exchanged glances.

‘Another!’ said Miss Ailsa in a tone of despair.

‘Indeed. And far too quickly after the last,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. She hurriedly went to the door and after a brief consultation with the caller, returned to the kitchen looking grim.

‘Come,’ she said to the two others. ‘This time we are too late.’

***

The house had been in a respectable area of the city, close to Princes Park. The street had an aura of comfort and serenity. It was clear that the families living here were prosperous and respectable.

‘The first mate’s house,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite, as they stood and regarded the steaming ruins of what had until recently been another red brick home like the others. But Number Three Hibiscus Terrace was no more.

The houses either side still stood – though Number One looked a little uncertain. But of Number Three, there was nothing left – just a crater and, on the side walls, the torn remains of wallpaper. The living room fireplace still stood, and by some chance a candlestick was still set upon it. But the walls all around were scorched in black, and the few remaining timbers presented the cracked appearance of wood recently exposed to very great heat. The stench of burning was overpowering.

‘Was he married, do you know?’ asked Mrs Postlethwaite of no one in particular.

‘Married and with a lovely young daughter and another on the way,’ said a gleeful voice from behind them. ‘And all four of them gone up in smoke. That’s what you get for visiting forrin’ parts, for all that she had so many airs.’

They turned to see a slatternly woman wearing a grubby shawl and carrying a bucket and mop. She gestured vaguely with the latter.

‘I used to do for her sister, see, Mrs Derbyshire in South Street. And I thought I could perhaps help out here, with Mrs Clayton, what with the baby and all, thought she might need some laundry done or sumthin’. But ever so hoity she was, see, and looked at me as though she’d never seen honest dirt.’ Here the woman gave an enormous sniff and spat something viscous onto the pavement. ‘Said she had all the help she needed, thank I very much. Don’t need any help keeping house now anyway,’ she concluded in satisfaction. ‘Won’t need to be holy stoning the steps here any more, and that’s fer certain.’ And before any of them could react to this tirade, she picked up her bucket, spat again and clanked away.

‘Good morning!’ A cheerful voice woke Joaney from a deep sleep with a jolt. She sat up with a start, rubbing her eyes. Mrs Faragher’s services did not usually include being personally roused from her slumbers, particularly not with – she sniffed – a cup of peppermint tea.

She squinted at the figure outlined against the early morning light.

‘Mrs S?’

‘The very same. I hope your sleep was not disturbed after the events of yesterday?’

‘Thank you, I slept very well,’ said Joaney politely, before realising that this was very far from being a normal situation, and that consequently the normal rules of good manners probably did not apply. ‘But what exactly are you doing in my bedroom? Mrs Faragher doesn’t allow us to have visitors in our rooms.’

‘Oh Marigold and I are old friends,’ said Mrs Sonnentor dismissively. ‘And I’ve agreed it with your work too. Mr Clark owed me a favour so you have a leave of absence for two weeks,’

‘Leave of what?’

‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful? That way you can assist me with our current problem, learn a little more about what we do, and see if you still think it’s for you.’

‘I can what?’ Joaney reflected that she was becoming less and less polite rather quickly. ‘And how am I to take leave of absence and still pay for my food and lodgings? And send money to my parents?’

‘Oh that’s all taken care of,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘Mr Clark really did owe me a rather large favour.’

Joaney absently sipped from her teacup, which contained a clear greenish liquid with little blue petals floating in it, and smelled very enticing. With the very first mouthful she felt the frustration and irritation drain away. She was horribly bored at Clark’s – she’d been thinking that only yesterday, before she’d first spotted Mrs Sonnentor’s shop – and she was highly intrigued by Mrs Sonnentor, Quince and their apparent magic powers. And – she shivered slightly – the apparent dark powers they seemed to be battling.

Yesterday her world had suddenly become a very different place and she didn’t want to go back to how things had been without at least knowing a little bit more of this new one.

Her sleepiness now totally gone, she finished her tea and threw back the bedclothes.

‘Just give me 10 minutes to get dressed and I’ll be with you.’

When they reached Mrs Sonnentor’s shop, even though it would not normally open for another hour, Quince was already there, with a large, red-faced man sitting awkwardly at the table as if fearing the chair would give way beneath him at any moment. When he saw Mrs Sonnentor he leaped up, almost upsetting the table and the inevitable tea things upon it.

‘This is Mr Nettles,’ said Quince.

The large man touched his forelock to Mrs Sonnentor.

‘Sam Nettles at your service,’ he said. ‘Herbmaster aboard the Ruprecht. I saw your notice.’

‘Excellent,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘The shipping agent said there were several Manx crew and I particularly wanted to speak to you, but he had no current address.’

‘No ’m, I’ve been at my sister’s in Laxey, but the chimney sweep brought the news and so I made it my business to come immediately. I was afraid something bad would come of that cargo.’

‘And so it has. Won’t you take your seat?’ They sat and as Mrs Sonnentor removed her hat, she said pleasantly to Mr Nettles, ‘Herbmaster aboard the Ruprecht, then. So the Thistle Line’s owners hold to the old ways?’

‘They do indeed ma’am, but sadly the same cannot be said for Captain Jones, the new master. I’ve been aboard the Ruprecht since she was first launched, smoothing the way and helping the crew as I can, but Captain Jones would as soon have seen me overboard as look at me. One of those Christian gentlemen, it seems.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Sonnentor, putting a great deal of understanding into that simple sound. ‘Perhaps you would tell us of the voyage?’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr Nettles. ‘The outward journey was quite uneventful. The usual cuts and bruises, one or two cases of the pox’ – he shot a glance at Joaney – ‘begging your pardon, miss. But all as usual for a trip to that part of the world. It took us four months to get to Assam, and the cargo only took another week to bring down from the tea plantations and load, so we – the crew – all thought our bonus was well on the way to our pockets. But when the ship was all loaded and we expected to set off with the next tide, it turned out that the captain was nowhere to be found. He’s fond of old ruins, it appears, and he’d gone off with some local guide to visit this ancient temple. I’ve no idea why, for the port had plenty of temples and once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. But anyway, off he’d gone and none of us knew where exactly, or even which temple it was. So all we could do was wait, with tides coming and tides going. Three more days we waited, with Mr Clayton the first mate getting more anxious and Mr Tyrer the Bosun having the very devil (beg pardon) of a job keeping the men from going ashore again. We had to anchor out in the river to prevent the whole crew from disappearing. So finally the captain turns up in a rowing boat with this box, climbs aboard, has the box brought up after him, has a good shout at Mr Clayton for having left our berth and disappears into his cabin.’

‘He did not say where he had been?’

‘No. Not a word. Just shouted “Cast off, Mr Clayton” and went below. And so we cast off and thought no more of it. He hadn’t been the sweetest tempered on the way out and putting to sea takes men different. I’ve seen captains before who are good as gold on land and at sea but like a bear with a sore head as soon we weigh anchor. As I say, we thought nothing of it.’

‘Well, nothing much happened for a few weeks. And then, on the 21st of December, the winter solstice… Well, I’m sure you know, ma’am that the nights are no longer in those mid-latitudes, but the body feels it nonetheless, and young Jack Corlett, the cabin boy, from Onchan he was, a fine young lad – he’d been struggling to rise, more than usual for a young one, him normally so punctual, and so I was treating him in the usual way, with clove and orange oil, and lavender hibiscus tea, and it seemed to be helping, but then… I’m sure you’ve heard. On the eve of the solstice, when it came time to take the captain his evening meal, he was nowhere to be found – the captain having as yet no steward, those duties had fallen to Jack. So Mr Doherty the cook had just taken Captain Jones’s meal himself when there came a terrible racket and a calling from aloft, and the thud of a body hitting the deck – a sound you never forget if you’ve once heard it. And there he was, fallen from the top mast and none of us any idea what he’d been doing aloft. There was certainly nobody anywhere near who could have had a hand in his fall, even had anyone wanted to. But he’d always been a popular lad had Jack, not like some of the young scamps we’ve had in the past.’

Mr Nettles fell silent, and Mrs Sonnentor sighed deeply, then said ‘And Mr Nettles, perhaps you can tell me this? What was the state of the moon when the unlucky boy met his death?’

‘The moon?’ Mr Nettles looked startled. ‘However did you know about that? A full moon, Mrs S, full and bright and so close you could touch it. I did wonder…’

‘If that was what had drawn the boy up the mast?’

‘Well, of course you hear things, particularly in foreign parts, but it’s always someone’s third cousin who knows a man who… if you see my meaning. It’s never a direct account, only a tale from the hinterland.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Sonnentor, with pursed lips. ‘A tale from the hinterland. A tale from the kind of region where one might find an ancient temple.’

Mr Nettles once again looked shocked.

‘But Captain Jones, him being a Christian and all… Surely he’d know better than to meddle with those forces, if he truly found such a place?’

‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘And after the death of the unfortunate cabin boy, what did you notice?’

‘Well, things went from bad to worse. Becalmed we were, and on short rations, and then a terrible storm… And very nearly went afire when the cook had a mishap in the galley. Two men lost fingers in the rigging – good men too, experienced men such as know how to handle ropes. Lost one mast in the storm, and a new one couldn’t be got for many a day, for all that there was timber all over the port that would have suited our purpose. It seemed like whatever Captain Jones said we must do, could not come about.’

‘As for the rest, I think you know more than I. We finally reached Liverpool, more than three weeks late, the Ruprecht discharged her crew and those of us from the island took passage with the Steam Packet to return to our families.’

‘And those of you from the island… That includes Captain Jones?’

Joaney started. She had not expected the captain to be a Manxman.

‘Indeed ma’am. Living at Union Mills with his lady wife. Never blessed with children he says, and I say he was never blessed with anything, and certainly not with a ounce of common sense.’

‘Very true. Lives at Union Mills, you say? And very devout Christians, both of them?’

‘Indeed ma’am.’

‘And do you know…? No, you could not. I need to discover how many servants they have and what manner.’

Mr Nettles looked abashed. ‘I’m afraid you are correct, ma’am. I have no knowledge of his domestic arrangements.’

‘No matter, we can easily chart that particular reef ourselves.’

And so it was that later that day, Joaney found herself, in the guise of an itinerant seller of herbal remedies, at the kitchen door of Captain Jones’s house.

The cook, a lean woman with an acid expression, turned out to have an extremely pleasant temperament – and a nature very given to gossip.

Over two sample cups of Mrs Sonnentor’s best mallow and mint tea, with lavender and cornflower biscuits, Joaney discovered that the household consisted – besides Captain and Mrs Jones – of herself, Mrs Love (‘Love by name and love by nature,’ she roared. ‘I’ve seen off three husbands and I wouldn’t be surprised to get through another yet’), together with a butler, a footman, two maids and a skivvy.

‘Though that Mary and Eliza, I can’t see them staying, not since the Captain came back this trip. His temper’s become something fierce and even Mrs Jones is snapping at everyone. But then it’s the festival of the Leavetaking in two days and Mrs Jones is leading the ladies doing the flowers, and Captain Jones is singing in the choir as he always does if he’s ashore on feast days.’

‘And will the rest of the household be allowed to attend the festival?’ asked Joaney innocently, draining her cup.

‘Indeed we shall,’ said Mrs Love. ‘Though I’d much rather be here in my kitchen. But the master and mistress are dining out that evening at Mr and Mrs Moore’s house and so we will have a late supper of a cold collation in the servants’ hall after the evening service. Perhaps with just one of my raised pies and a few duchesse potatoes to tide us over,’ she remarked reflectively. ‘For we must keep our strength up.’

‘Come along, Joaney,’ hissed Mrs Sonnentor. ‘Time always flies when you’re doing a burglary, wouldn’t you say, Quince?’

‘Indeed it does,’ agreed Quince. ‘Though I’ve heard that the hymns at Saint Brigid’s are plentiful and long.’

‘Nonetheless, we have no time to warm ourselves before the fire or admire Mrs Love’s – admittedly very fine – apple tarts.’

Joaney shook herself. They had come in through the locked backdoor, through some means she had not quite understood but which involved a very strong smell of aniseed and fennel. And on the way through the kitchen she had been captivated by the sight of so much food, all laid out, she assumed, for the servants’ supper. If they ate so well, what could the master’s table be like? One raised pie and three apple tarts, and little dishes of relishes and pickles all with their own spoons and lids that she had been unable to resist lifting.

But they were very much not in that house for refreshments, and indeed her stomach was so clenched she doubted she could eat a thing. She knew they had to be here, to discover the source of this horrible illness and hopefully do away with it – but she was terrified of being discovered and still more of whatever it was they would find.

They proceeded silently into the front of the house, easily finding the Captain’s study from the scent of tobacco drifting from it. And was there something else? That long, heavy spiced something Joaney had detected at Mrs Palmer’s lodgings?

In the study, the curtains were drawn, so Mrs Sonnentor set down her lantern and opened its shutters wider, shedding more light. Not that any of them needed it.

Sitting on the large oak desk, as if crouching like some malevolent beast, was a small wooden box. Whether the timber had been naturally dark or had blackened with age – or with evil – Joaney did not know, but she did know that not for all the tea in China – and India too – would she have touched it. The corners of the room appeared to grow darker as her eyes rested on the box, as if some huge dark guardian angel was raising its wings and preparing to strike her down simply for glancing at it.

Even Mrs Sonnentor and Quince seemed a little cautious in their approach to the casket. They both looked at it for a moment, and then Mrs Sonnentor withdrew a silvery dagger from her sleeve and used it carefully open the lid. Joaney had expected it to be locked, but it opened quite readily.

The heavy scent of spices grew stronger, and Joaney thought of Christmas, with cinnamon and cloves and orange peel – and yet beneath it there was something far less wholesome, something restless and reeling, something that wanted and was both consumed by and consisted merely of that want.

She was terrified, but Mrs Sonnentor had made it clear that only with all three of them present and taking action could the evil be overcome.

‘The power of Three is very strong,’ she had said. ‘And I am sure that you were meant to be with us for this.’

So Joaney did not run and did not cry out as Quince, wearing gloves that seem to be made of metal, removed something from the box and laid it on the silver salver Mrs Sonnentor held out.

A wrinkled thing it was, like a dried black berry on the vine, and Joaney could not imagine what it had once looked like. For it was clearly part of something larger – of some creature.

The instant it touched the metal, it began to smoke as if alight, the acrid flames filling her lungs and the foul stench filling her brain. She thought of throwing open the window, of breathing in the fresh night air, but Mrs Sonnentor called her name and she unwillingly returned her gaze to the… thing. It had shrivelled still further, she saw, and the smoke had abated. She drew from her pocket the small glass jar that had been the first of her charges for the evening’s activities, and approaching on leaden legs removed the close-fitting lid. Quince used his still-gloved hands to sort briefly amongst the decayed remains of the thing and pulled out… a claw. A large claw, which looked to belong to a gigantic hound. Joaney held the jar towards Quince, and he carefully dropped the claw into the liquid, which instantly began to froth. Joaney quickly replaced the lid, set the whole jar on the salver in the ashes of the original object and withdrew from her pocket the stick of wax Mrs Sonnentor had provided her with. It was an unusual colour, a dark orange somewhere between orange peel and cinnamon. And even though it was cold in her hand, when she drew it around the lid of the jar it formed a band of orange wax as firm and solid as if it had been poured molten and long since cooled. Mrs Sonnentor carefully rotated the salver all the while so the wax formed a continuous strip all around the lid of the jar. The frothing stopped, the claw sank to the bottom of the jar… and it was as if the dark wings in the corners of the room had dissolved and been blown away by a great fresh gust of wind.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Sonnentor, with a deep sigh. ‘That’s done with. Now we must simply make it appear that we were ordinary burglars surprised in the act’ – and with these words she snatched up a silver sconce and a delicate porcelain vase and dashed them to the floor, adding a number of small enamelled snuff boxes from a nearby shelf.

Quince carefully arranged the box that had contained the claw so it appeared to have been accidentally tipped on one side, and scattered the remains of the object beneath on the floor.

‘And off we go out the way we arrived, and nobody any the wiser,’ said Mrs Sonnentor. ‘And if it’s Sergeant Callister who sent to investigate, as I suspect it will be…’

‘He owes you a big favour?’ guessed Joaney.

‘Exactly so! Now, let us go home. I very much want to try your latest batch of biscuits, Quince.’