Find a way into the tea shop, Lio.
Find her wards and break them all.
CHAPTERELEVEN
The tea shop proper had wide, arched, north-facing windows which let in the midday sun to nuzzle the table legs and loll, warm and bright, against the floorboards. The light rubbed its back upon the lily-of-the-valley wallpaper, catching the brown picture frames of daguerreotypes and watercolours and newspaper clippings and poetry. If Dot had been alone in the tea shop, she would have dragged her fingertips along the edges of the frames, squinting at the paint splatters, sounding out the similes. Instead, she sat in a comfortable armchair by the window, peeking at the customers, listening to their chatter, bewitched by it all like a child at the aquarium.
Theodora, Dot had learned, had warded the space to repel aspiring apprentices. It made Dot grimace to envision herself peering in, utterly unaware that the customers and staff would have watched her doing so. Now, with the false dereliction gone, and the wrought-iron sign outside reading the true name of the establishment, Dot could properly take in Theodora’s Tea Shop.
It was a narrow space. Toward the far end was the counter, the grand silver till and the blackboard menu wreathed in golden wattle. Covering the walls were several shelves of copper tea pots, porcelain jugs, glass siphons and innumerable jars of spices and herbs.
Upon the wooden floor was a large, circular engraving. Table legs and chairs and the edges of the customers’ shoes partially obscuredit from Dot, but she glimpsed the symbol’s odd angles and flourishes cut in a delicate hand.
Dot wondered how the patrons could simply open their packet spells, wipe lipstick from tea cup rims, place their hats on opposite chairs, and not feel aware that they were participating in a pantomime of everyday enchantment? How the customers varied, too. Elderly couples, young parents, university students with textbooks. The wood floor thudded with the heavy heels of their lace-ups. The radio played soft, crackling jazz. Someone dropped a spoon; someone gasped to his friend.
‘I said to her, Maria – you’ll enjoy this – I said, “Sofia, we would love to be the kind of family who owned a hatstand, but we simply aren’tthereyet.”’
‘Oh, Mrs Liu, give it a minute. Theodora’s spells are far the better than Salamander’s. Hers actually work, after all.’
Only two members of staff were working presently: Lio, who was cursing to himself as he grated bergamot, and Thistlethwaite, a mid-sized spirit with white, soft fur that sparkled in the sunlight. She reminded Dot of an illustration she had once seen of a snow monkey. Thistlethwaite now placed a purple mug in Dot’s hand. No spell packet; just black Eyreish tea.
‘Never worked a day in his life,’ the aged spirit croaked, nodding toward Lio.
A far yelp sounded, and Lio clutched at his hand where the grater had slipped and nicked him. At this, Thistlethwaite glanced down at Dot as if to say,See?
‘Nearly twenty centuries I have lived,’ muttered the spirit, ‘and never have I met a creature so terribly precious.’
Dot merely smiled and sipped her tea and watched Lio dust zest off his apron. His eyes met hers, and she quickly dropped her gaze, her cheeks turning pink.
It was Dot’s hypothesis that magic manifested a little differently for everyone. Lio, who was listless and easily frustrated, had a talent for running away. Belchamber, in all of his bell-like beauty, existed, she felt, to soothe and to charm. Theodora—
The witch popped her head into the café and waved to Dot. ‘Ready, Dorothy?’
Several of the customers glanced Dot’s way.
‘Oh,’ said Dot, ‘I – my tea just arrived.’
‘Bring it with you,’ Theodora called over her shoulder as she disappeared.
How could a woman so bold have a talent forhiding, of all things?
Belchamber helped Dot down to the basement where Theodora made all the packet spells. Dot had grown quickly fond of the tin-coloured spirit. He slept most nights in the armchair beside her and when she absentmindedly reached up to scratch her nose and was assaulted by the grotesque whiteness of the bandage – and was thus thrown into another fit of terror – he would soothe her.
‘Look about the room, Miss Dorothy. Name what you can see.’
‘Handkerchief. Jumper. Lamp. Sock. Orange peel.’
‘What you can smell.’
‘Vinegar. Wood. Blackberry. Laundry. Oranges.’
‘What you can feel.’
And so, he would go on calming her, teaching her to ride the waves of panic that crashed down upon her each time she was reminded of the affliction. On her tenth night in the house, Belchamber had told her it was time to remove the bandage.
‘No,’ she’d sobbed to him. ‘I can’t live with this. I don’t care if Theodora thinks the affliction is incurable. I’ll find a solve. I’ll rid it before I go home.’
And Belchamber had rested a hand on her and said, ‘Perhaps, Miss Dorothy, we should write a letter to your family.’
