Ask the right questions, and the door to the backroom opens. In there, you might just find anything from enchanted threads, to potions, to little oddities useful to those with a flair for magic. See, my mothers were all mages, and even though that made me—the human—kind of an oddball at home, it also meant I should’ve known better when dealing with Lydia.
Sorry, Madame Arsehole Whitmore.
“I need to talk to you,” Gullie said into my ear as I walked beneath the arching, brightly lit and multi-colored sign that opened Carnaby Street. The Magic Box sat tucked away at the end of an alley not far from the entrance. It was a little out of sight, but that was fine. We didn’t make our business on foot traffic.
“Not now,” I hissed.
“No, it’s important.”
“Look, I’m about to walk into a hornet’s nest. Unless what you’ve got to tell me is life-or-death, it can wait. Is it life or death?”
“It could be.”
“Okay, Mother Helen is definitely going to kill me, so this takes priority. Besides, you’ve had this whole trip to talk to me.”
“You don’t like me talking to you while there’s humans around. Are there any humans around now?”
“You make a good point, but still, no.”
The Magic Box itself barely looked like a shop at all. It was a ruddy brown building at the end of a deep alleyway with a single black door and a little window looking onto the cobblestone street outside. I opened the door without knocking and stepped through. A bell jingled, and right away I was hit with the warm, inviting scent of freshly baked pastries.
Yes, that was probably a strange smell to come out of a haberdashery, but strange was our brand.
Stacks upon stacks of rolled up fabrics lined two of the shop’s walls. Walking through it, there were aisles covered in tools, bits, bobs, and even more fabrics to look through. In here, you’d find everything you could possibly need, whether you wanted to make a modern looking summer dress, or a classic, turn of the century, historically accurate, ballgown.
Mother Pepper was stationed behind the desk at the far end of the room. She perked up at the sound of the bell, then smiled when she saw me. She was a jolly woman, fairly ample herself, and getting on in years, but she had a kind, grandmotherly spirit and she loved to cook. I’d barely arrived at the desk, and already she held a small pastry in her hand for me to take a bite out of. The light fell out of her kind eyes when she saw the state of me.
“Oh, darling, you’re soaked,” she said, “What happened?”
I grabbed the pastry, stuffed it into my mouth, and started chewing. It was delicious. I was getting cinnamon, apple, cream; all the ingredients in an apple pie. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, but it turned the taste up to eleven. “Oh, that’s really good,” I said, “Apple pie, right?”
Mother Pepper stared at me from behind her half-moon spectacles. “It’s not apple. It’s something called a Lerac fruit. It’s exceedingly rare, only the Goblins know how to find it. I bought some this morning.”
“Tastes a bit like apple.”
“A bit, yes, if you prepare it the way I have. But unlike an apple, a Lerac fruit will sharpen your senses for a time. She pulled a handkerchief out from under the desk and handed it to me. “Now, care to tell me why you’re drenched?”
I shrugged. “Not really… is Mother Helen around?”
“Yes, she’s in the back.” Mother Pepper paused. “You did hand the dress over to Madame Whitmore, yes?”
“Yes mother, I did.”
Mother Pepper lit up and rapidly clapped her hands, making the bangles on her wrist jingle. “Oh, splendid!” she said, “I take it she liked the dress?”
“Yeah… I should go and talk to Mother Helen.”
“Is everything alright, child?” she lightly touched my face with the back of her hand, “You’re looking a little pale.”
I shook my head. “I’m always pale.”
“Paler than usual, then. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I picked up another pastry and ate it as I walked through the beaded curtain and into the back.
The corridors in our shop were tight and dark, barely wide enough for one person to walk without their shoulders touching the walls. A set of stairs to the right led the way up to our house, which sat on top of the store. Going straight ahead and through the door at the end of the corridor, though, took you to the back; a codename for our little magic shop.
I found the door slightly ajar as I reached it, a shaft of light breaking from the other side. I pushed the door open and moved through, swallowing the last of my apple—Lerac?-—pie as I reached the magic shop. The space in here wasn’t much bigger than the space out front, but it looked it thanks to the lack of fabric stacks all over the place.
In here, there were shelves, and tables, and cupboards all filled with many wonderful, strange, and increasingly random things. From crystals with bits of magic in them, to strange books, to needles of all shapes and sizes, and spindles of thread that shimmered with the light. There were also potions all throughout, whole racks of bottles filled with liquids of all colors, some of which bubbled or faintly glowed.
Mother Helen wasn’t back here, but Mother Evie was. She sprang up from her workstation and squealed, her long, black hair bouncing as she bounded toward me like a speeding train. “You’re back!” she said, throwing her arms around me and scooping me up. Mother Evie was the youngest of the three, she could’ve been my older sister. Her eyes were so wide and bright; childlike, almost, and sparkling with magic. “Your first delivery! How did it go?”
Ah. Yes. This had been the first time my mothers had entrusted me to go and deliver a dress to one of our clients. Because that only made things better.
“Ummmm…” I said, trailing off. “As well as it could’ve gone, given the circumstances?"
She pulled away and bopped me on the nose with her finger. “Well, that doesn’t sound terribly good, does it? Come, you must tell me all about it.”
I didn’t have a choice. Mother Evie dragged me across to her workbench and sat me down on the stool she’d been sitting on. She was a seamstress, too. Her desk was covered in rolls of fabric, scissors, and needles. We didn’t use machines, here. Everything was hand-sewn. Mostly because the kinds of clothes we made had the tendency of making man-made machine we put them through… explode.
I’d learned that the hard way.
“So?” Mother Evie asked, “What happened?”
I shook my head. “It didn’t go great.”
“No?”
“No. It really didn’t. I think I really messed it up.”
She cocked her head to the side. “No, don’t say that. How could you possibly have messed it up?”
“She… said something was missing. I don’t think she liked it.”
One of her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”
“I don’t know why. She kept saying it wasn’t right, but it was. I spent ages working on it. It was perfect.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. That sounds awful.” She scoffed. “That woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m sure she’ll come around.”