The Book Of Shade (Shadeborn 1) (12 page)

The Shade’s Funeral

Lily arrived early one evening to be told that Novel was still in his bedroom. She didn’t relish the thought of going straight up there and disturbing him, but everyone seemed to think it was a good idea. Lawrence showed her up to the room on the third floor, walking so quietly across the boards that Lily mimicked him out of instinct. It wasn’t until he abandoned her two metres from the door, and all but ran away again, that she realised there
was
something very wrong about disturbing Novel in his room. This was an old school trick and she knew how it worked. They wanted to know why he was still shut up in there, but they were too scared to find out. She was the new kid, and they were going to make her do it rather than face his temper themselves.

Lily steeled herself and gave the door a tap. There was no response, but the door wasn’t fully closed, and it started to creak open at her touch. She pushed it slowly until it gave way. Novel’s bedroom was like something from a fancy French hotel, albeit a terribly gothic one. He had a crimson four-poster bed with velvet curtains like those of the theatre, and an armchair and chaise longue in the same deep red colour that sat under his bay window. There was a huge oak armoire with a mirrored door, and the rest of the room was encased in dark bookshelves absolutely stuffed with old books and dusty boxes. The room was lavish, but hardly a space for relaxation. Lily supposed, however, that he might have got sick of relaxing after two hundred years.

Novel was lying on his bed, flat on his back. His black covers were only drawn up to his waist, leaving his bare chest exposed. His eyes were open, though their gaze did not change from a singular, faraway focus. Lily watched him heaving his breath in and out as he stared at the roof of his four-poster. After she checked herself for staring, she cleared her throat a little. Slowly, the black bedsheets came up on their own to cover his bare torso, but Novel himself didn’t move so much as an inch.

“What’s happened?” Lily asked. “You’re always ready for training when I get here.”

Novel beckoned her a little nearer, and she heard the door behind her close by itself. She approached the side of his bed and perched on the nearest end of the chaise longue.

“I’ve had a message,” he said, his voice as soft as the pillow beneath his head. “My oldest friend is dead.”

Lily caught her breath in her throat. “Another shade?” she said.

“Of course,” Novel replied.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked younger than she’d ever seen him when he closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard.

“We shall have to attend the funeral this Saturday,” he began. “I was hoping to introduce you to some other shades soon, but I didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances.”

Lily reached out slowly for the space beneath the covers where Novel’s hand lay. She put hers over his, but the motion must have shocked him, because they both let off a tiny spark of power at the touch. His was a lightning spark, that hurt her palm like one of those trick buzzers. Hers made a tiny brown scorch mark on his sheets. Novel sat up slowly and turned to face Lily, careful to keep his bedcovers over his lap. His face was sad but thoughtful.

“I think there’s a lot you could gain from attending the service, actually,” he sighed. “It’s about time you saw how our people do things when we congregate.”

“Our people,” Lily repeated in a whisper. She liked the sound of it on her lips.

*

She had to cancel an ice-skating date with Michael to go to the funeral, which probably meant he wouldn’t text her all day by way of a sulk. Lily borrowed a formal black dress from Jazzy, not having brought anything to uni that would be fit for a funeral herself, and set off for the theatre by the glow of the streetlights. It was strange to think of a funeral being held in the dark, but everything with Novel seemed to happen on a nocturnal schedule, so Lily had spent her Saturday afternoon fast asleep in preparation for the long night ahead.

When she found Novel in the kitchen, he stood beside a strange little man in khaki overalls that put Lily in mind of a plumber. The man was balding with a bristly red moustache, which he twirled as he and Novel both stared into an empty window frame that was leaning against the wall. Lily joined them quietly, nodding her head to the man as he noticed her. To her surprise, he turned and made a very formal bow at her, even flourishing his hand above his cowed head.

“Your lady-friend is the other passenger, sir?” he asked Novel when he rose again.

Lily wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about being the lady-friend of the festooned gent beside her. Novel was fitted out in his best Victorian mourning gear, complete with a top hat and a long, thick cloak that made him look as gaunt as an undertaker. He nodded at the little man abruptly before turning to appraise Lily. Novel then reached behind him immediately, and produced, by flight, a much thicker coat than the one Lily was wearing. When she put it on, it was so soft and velvety that it felt like hot butter against her skin.

“It’s going to be much colder where we’re going,” he explained.

“Where
are
we going?” Lily asked.

“Moscow,” Novel replied simply.

Lily froze. “You know I don’t even have a passport right? I’ve only ever been out of England once, and that was just to Wales on a school trip.”

“Pardon me miss, but that’s what I’m here for,” the little man said. He produced a business card straight from the palm of his hand.

GIDEON PRATT / WINDOWMAKER

“I also do mirrors,” he added proudly.

On the reverse of the card, there was a funny symbol like an ancient rune. Lily looked up to find Pratt arranging the empty frame on the wall, where it stuck despite any sign of fastenings. He punched one hand straight through the frame, and Lily winced as it hit the brick wall beyond. The little man appeared to feel no pain at all, and he kept on pushing until his hand suddenly broke straight through the brickwork. Though nothing visible had happened to the wall or the window, the sound of shattered glass echoed through the room.

“There you go, Sir and Miss,” Pratt said with another bow to both of them. “Arranged to your exact co-ordinates.”

“I’ll summon you when we need to return,” Novel replied, advancing towards the frame.

The illusionist turned back, watching Lily frozen in reluctance, and held out a hand gloved in black. Lily looked between him and the window, excitement and fear bundled together as she reached out and let herself be led. Novel gripped her fingers firmly as she joined him at the threshold of the window, not letting go as he started to pass his body through the frame. Most of him disappeared, like he was stepping behind a curtain, save for the arm that was sticking out of the wall and still holding Lily’s hand. It gave her a tug and took her hand and forearm through the wall sharply.

It felt cold, impossibly cold, like she was actually touching the sheer brick wall, except that the solid wall was moulding around her to let her through it. Lily let a little more of her body pass in, slipping one leg over and into the frame. If she had stayed there, she could have been part of the wall itself. Novel gave her another pull from somewhere she couldn’t see, and she held her breath as she would have if she was about to plunge down into a pool of cold water, ready to adjust. Her eyes closed instinctively as her head and the rest of her lower body followed Novel through the window.

When she emerged, there was no sign of a frame on the other side. There was, in fact, no sign of anything, as they were standing in a snow-laden field, wrapped up in a frozen starry night. Ahead of them was a brightly lit marquee with turrets. The walls of the marquee were covered in a furry cloth in places, but Lily could see the shadows of many people already moving about inside. She had been seven or eight the last time she attended a funeral, and her limited knowledge of etiquette didn’t seem to apply to a tent in the middle of Russia. Novel held out his arm, crooked at the elbow, and it took Lily a good few moments before she realised she was supposed to hold onto it. He guided her across the dark, thick snow as the sound of voices grew within the marquee. Many conversations were being had within.

“How many shades are there?” Lily asked.

“At this service, or in the world?” Novel replied.

“Both,” Lily said quickly, her breath caught against the frozen air.

“The representatives of all the great shade houses will be here to pay their respects to Edvard,” Novel began, looking straight ahead at their destination, “perhaps a hundred or more. But most of the families themselves are all hundreds-strong. There are thousands of us across the globe.”

The thought of meeting a hundred incredibly powerful and probably dangerous people was not a pleasant one, and Lily had begun to imagine a hundred Mother Novels cackling and judging her as she and Novel reached the entrance to the venue. The doormen were hefty looking gents with caveman brows, who took their cloaks and coats without a word. Novel kept hold of his top hat at the sight of their meaty, callous hands. Beyond the doormen was what looked like a wedding arch, decked out in white lilies, through which there was a sharp corner to turn. Ropes and obstructions on either side meant there was no way to get into the rest of the place without passing through the arch, but Lily thought there was something looming inside it that made her want to hold back.

“Can you feel it?” Novel asked, suddenly at her ear.

“There’s something in the arch,” Lily answered.

“That’s a good instinct,” he said with a little undisguised pride. “Now you just have to learn whether to trust the instinct or not.”

“And how do we do that?” Lily whispered.

Novel stepped up and passed straight through the arch. As he did, his body was showered in a burst of white lily petals and when he emerged from the white cloud, his black mourning suit had transformed into a deep crimson colour. He looked down at himself and at the hat in his hands, which was also sporting the new red hue.

“I might have known,” he remarked. “This has Edvard all over it. He would never have worn black to a funeral.”

Lily didn’t know if it was right to smile at that, but she did it all the same. She stepped up to the arch, feeling it hum and whirr with the enchantment put upon it. In one courageous burst she walked through, and the tickle of petals grabbed her and set to work on her dress. The first thing she saw when they settled was Novel staring at her open-mouthed, a conflicted look in his sharp features. She looked down at the once-black gown to find it shimmering in a silver-white hue.

“This is going to change back later right?” she asked suddenly, “because I borrowed it from Jazzy and I don’t think white’s her colour.”

Novel was still staring at her and the dress. Lily waved a hand in front of his eyes and he broke from whatever thought he’d wandered into. He put his now-crimson hat back on his head and gave her a nod.

“Let’s go in.”

There was a huge gathering space once they had rounded the corridor with the arch. Seats were set in rows at the very back of the place, where a small stage full of instruments were prepared for an orchestra to play. There was no sign of a casket whatsoever, no indication of a burial site either, and the walls of the marquee were lined in bright blue and gold. Amid these, the tent was a wash of colour as people walked to and fro to converse. Lily saw plenty of shades in the same crimson colour as Novel, mixed in with those in three varying shades of blue. Pink, purple and green were also favourites, with the occasional more vivid red passing them by. Lily looked down at her bright white dress and out into the crowd again, frowning.

“Is it this colour because I’m new?” she whispered quickly to Novel.

“No,” he answered simply.

“But there’s a system,” she pressed. “I can see it. There’s eleven colours in here, and then there’s me.”

He gave her a very serious look. “This is funeral Lily. We have much more important things to do than discuss fashion.”

She opened her mouth again to argue, but thought better of it. She followed Novel as he swiftly marched on into the crowd, towards a young woman who looked about the same age as him. She was standing with a group of other girls who were chatting animatedly, and she appeared to be listening, but there was something faraway about her stance that suggested her thoughts had wandered from the conversation long ago. The woman wore a sparkling blue dress, that glittered all the way down to the floor with her every motion and, before Novel had even made it to her side, she turned to face him.

Lily had never seen a face so at peace in all her life. The woman had a patient smile and a serene look in her eyes as they fell upon Novel in his crimson finery. As she watched him, those pea-green eyes suddenly changed to an amber hue. Lily stared, only barely remembering to close her mouth, as the woman’s eyes revealed a spectrum of shifting colours. Her skin glowed faintly golden with some old Hispanic heritage and her two-toned hair fell in perfect ringlets from the knot at the back of her head. The ringlets seemed to float in idyllic peace with one another, not a single hair out of place. There was something so good in the energy around this woman, something that made Lily want to stay beside her and never, ever leave.

“Ugarte,” Novel said, taking off his hat and giving her a bow.