“We don’t use the term; they’re what we call Shades, mythic relicts of strongly magical once-living entities—”
“Ghosts,” repeated Susan firmly. “Are they dangerous?”
“Yes,” said Merlin as Vivien said, “No.”
“And no,” continued Merlin. “It depends.”
“Grandmother is only dangerous if she forgets we’re related, or one of the dogs decides they don’t like your smell.”
“Dogs! What dogs?”
“Well, there’s always been a tradition of the elder women of the St. Jacques clan keeping dogs, and so there are Shades of their dogs as well as themselves.”
“What happens if they do forget you’re related or the dogs don’t like how you smell?” asked Susan.
“We run away, of course. The trick is to stay near the gate. And wear sensible shoes. You’re okay on that point.”
“But I’m not related to begin with,” said Susan.
“Yes, but you’ll be with me,” said Merlin. “I’ll hold your hand. Like in the fair.”
“I hope not,” said Susan. “My shoulder still hurts from being dragged all over the place.”
“Actually, you know what?!” exclaimed Vivien. “We can put Grandmother in a good mood straight away. Whichever one she is.”
“How?” asked Merlin. “Do they ever have good moods? I’ve only met her once and she was cranky as anything. Besides, how would you know?”
“I’ve been down three times and, unlike you, I study. She . . . all her incarnations . . . like gifts. You give her your glass rose, Susan,” said Vivien. “Goblin work, from the May Fair. She can probably even touch it. She’ll love you then.”
“I was going to keep it,” said Susan.
“It won’t last past sunset anyway,” said Vivien. “It’s goblin work. Made under the sun, it’ll disappear at dusk.”
“Oh,” replied Susan. She shrugged and got up. “All right. I didn’t realize. Typical. Your grandmother . . . grandmothers . . . might as well have it.”
“If only we had a goblin bone as well,” muttered Merlin. “For the dog. I hope it’s not that horrendous wolfhound, Nebrophonus. Or are they all like that?”
“Shut up, Merlin,” said Vivien. She smiled at Susan. “It’ll be fine. Come on.”
Susan took one last look around before they started down the stairs. She still couldn’t figure out how they were so much higher than the other buildings, but apart from that, everything looked perfectly normal. The steady flow of traffic on Park Lane, people wandering around Hyde Park, the contrails of jets headed to Heathrow in the sky above.
On the way down the narrow stair to the building proper, Merlin went ahead and Vivien behind.
“Is your life always like this?” Susan asked, while Merlin opened the lower door. “I mean, are there constant problems with Sippers and Shucks and goblins and all that?”
“Oh no!” laughed Vivien. “Gods! That would be unbearable. No, the Old World is mostly dormant these days; we’ve been in a very quiet period since the early sixties. Every now and then something happens to stir things up, everyone has to rush about doing stuff, and then it’s quiet again and we can get on with our everyday work. Very peaceable. Like the rest of today will be, I hope.”
“So what do you do when you’re not . . . um . . . involved with the weird shit, as Inspector Greene calls it?”
“Me? I work at the Old Bookshop three days a week,” replied Vivien as they filed out and spread into a line to go down the main stairs together. “And I’m halfway through my second degree, at London Business School.”
“You’re studying business?” asked Susan doubtfully.
“I’m doing a new thing,” replied Vivien. “Called a Master’s in Business Administration, part-time.”
“Plutocrat,” said Merlin, semi-affectionally.
“What about you?” Susan asked Merlin. “You seem to do more ‘rushing about.’”
“It’s my dynamic personality,” said Merlin. “The left-handed do more of our visible work, as it were, since we’re the field agents. And there’s training, too. But like Viv, at least half the time I work in the bookshops. Generally moving things around, I hate to say. No one seems prepared to let me deal with customers, despite the fact that I would undoubtedly double sales.”
“You had a tryout,” said Vivien. “You doubled the amount of time spent talking to attractive customers without selling them anything.”
“I sold that copy of The Ashley Book of Knots no one else could sell,” protested Merlin. “A fifty-quid hardcover!”
“Selling a single fifty-pound book in two weeks is far less use than selling two or three hundred two- or three-pound books in the same period,” replied Vivien. “And I heard you didn’t manage to sell anything when they tried you out front here, and given the bibliophiles who frequent the place, that’s quite a non-achievement.”
“All the customers were old,” said Merlin. “And Eric or Alison always took the good ones.”
“The prosecution rests,” said Vivien.
“Maybe they can put me in special orders,” said Merlin. “That would be better than the stockroom.”
“You would get cross checking Books in Print and destroy the microfiche reader,” said Vivien. “Which is why it’s a right-handed job.”
“Are all your staff, um, special-handed booksellers?” asked Susan. They were back at ground level now, but they kept going. The stair became darker, as there were no lights, only the spill from those higher up.
“Not all, but most,” said Vivien. “Wait a tick.”
They stopped, two levels below the ground, though the stair continued down. Vivien ran her hand along the wall, found an industrial-sized light switch, and rotated it to the on position. A faint light flickered above them, barely bright enough to show the faded letters painted in stark white on a rusting steel door: “Air Raid Shelter, Cap. 39 persons.”
It also lit up a wooden fruit crate on the floor. Vivien knelt and rummaged in the box, removing three candle stubs melted onto chipped china saucers. She handed one each to Merlin and Susan.
“Hold it out,” she instructed Susan, and blew on it, with a faint whistle. A spark left her mouth and the candle flared into life and almost went out again as Susan dropped and caught it in one motion. She held it steady and the flame strengthened.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It’s easy here,” said Vivien.
