Page 31 of The Dark Hiss of Magic
Anyone who’s not worked in the service industry could be forgiven for thinking that delightful mysteries lie behind doors marked ‘staff only’, but I’d been in enough of them when I was working on various assassination contracts to know they hid nothing delightful. The only mystery was why every staff-only space, whether it was a magical premises in Coldstream or a fast-food joint in London, smelled faintly of boiled cabbage. At least this particular area was small so I didn’t think it would take long to find the paperwork I needed.
There was a narrow hallway with two doors leading off it, both wide open, suggesting that either the café staff were too trusting and overly complacent, or that there was a secret security system in place. This might only be a café, but it was a café in Coldstream.
Thane would only be able to keep the café manager occupied for so long so I had to move quickly – but that didn’t mean I would be stupid. Speed and stealth in equal measures would win the day.
In the first room there were some chairs, a kettle and a sad-looking jar of broken cookies. The second room was more promising, with a row of filing cabinets, a desk and a stacked in-tray.Bingo.
The room seemed to be empty; it was a small space and, although the open door meant that I could only see half of it, I was experienced enough at sneaking around to tell if somewhere was occupied. But something felt off; there was a prickling on the back of my neck and I had the sensation that danger lay ahead.
I had to trust my gut. I crouched down and carefully examined the door frame and carpet. Wards or booby traps seemed unlikely: the door was open and café staff probably came in and out far too regularly to make a magical barrier worthwhile. I checked the door frame and the carpet but found nothing untoward.
The door was a fraction too small for its frame with an inch shaved off the bottom perhaps to accommodate the carpet, which was no longer as fluffy as it had been when it was first laid. I lay flat on the floor and squinted underneath it to glimpse the corner of the room that was hidden from my sight. The floor was bare; nothing – and nobody – was there.
I heaved myself up to my feet, wondering if it was my bones creaking or the floor. Raised voices were coming from the café; I needed to stop delaying and get moving. I stepped across the threshold of the office.
Nothing happened: no alarm sounded, no magical shriek rent the air. So much for those trusty gut instincts.
I moved towards the desk, but as soon as I looked at the wall that had been concealed by the door and saw the portrait, my heart sank. Oh.
I looked at the painting and it looked at me – or rathershelooked at me. Judging by her dress, she was from the eighteenth century, which made sense because almost all Cursed Portraits were from that period. She was wearing a ridiculously large wig that could have comfortably housed several small birds and their nesting broods, and her silver dress had been painted insuch a way that it reflected the light. She was holding an open book in one hand and a drooping rose in the other – but I knew better than to assume she was a bookish, simpering miss.
This wasn’t my first rodeo with a Cursed Portrait and I hated the damned things. They were never an accurate portrayal of the sitter because the painter imbued too much of their own personality into the work. It seemed to me that the pictures took on both the worst aspects of the artist and the worst aspects of whoever they were painting. And they were unpredictable.
Cursed Portraits were usually locked away in large houses, part and parcel of complicated inheritance laws, so finding one in the back room of a small, modern café was very unusual.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said formally, hoping that would be more to the portrait’s liking than a cheery ‘hiya’.
She blinked at me, and for one optimistic moment I thought I might have stumbled across a mute portrait. No such luck. After a few seconds her nose wrinkled and she sighed. It wasn’t a delicate melancholy sound, it was bitter, angst-filled and annoyed.
‘You are an intruder,’ the Cursed Portrait said in cut-glass tones. ‘You do not belong here.’
I had little choice but to brazen it out. I moved behind the desk and responded with an imperious toss of my head, ‘Of course I belong here.’ I picked up a sheaf of paper and began to flick through it, searching for a Blue Tattoos’ invoice. Maybe if I ignored the portrait, I’d find what I needed and make my escape before she started screeching an alarm.
‘You are a dirty wretched thief, aren’t you? You’ve come here to steal me away from my home. Well, I can tell you that I will not stand for it.’
I looked up. From the anger in her tone, ignoring herwouldn’t work. ‘You look like you’ve been standing there for the better part of three hundred years,’ I said.
Outraged, the portrait gasped, ‘I’m barely two hundred!’
I raised a sceptical eyebrow. Maybe keeping her busy was a better idea. ‘Hardly,’ I scoffed. ‘In fact you’re closer to four hundred years old. You’re certainly looking rather faded and cracked.’
‘You lying, thieving strumpet!’
‘I am neither lying nor thieving.’ I paused and grinned. ‘But I’ll take strumpet.’
‘Ugh!’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked. ‘Wait, don’t tell me. You’re … Betty.’
‘Betty?Betty?I am not some common trollop!’
‘Oh?’ I dropped my gaze, flicking through the papers in my hand at high speed, wanting to get out as quickly as possible. So far, all I’d seen were bills for food and electricity. There was nothing related to the Blue Tattoos or any other bands.
‘My name is Lady Augusta De Marcy,’ the Cursed Portrait said huffily. ‘You may address me as Your Ladyship.’
‘Hereditary titles are terribly passé, don’t you think? I’ll call you Oggy.’
‘You willnot!’
