Doubleborn (14 page)

She spoke very fast and was looking for more questions when Jaimar replied.

“We asked him all those things and more,” she said. “Over and over. We even tried to take you away from him, because we said he couldn’t look after you. He wouldn’t tell us any more. He just said he found you on his travels. He kept calling you a foundling, as though that explained everything.”

“It doesn’t explain anything,” said Tamrin, growing distressed again.

“I know. I know it doesn’t. It was all he would say, though. And he wouldn’t give you up.”

Jaimar stopped sewing.

“I offered to look after you,” she said.

Her voice was low and sweet. Tamrin had a sudden picture of a different life that might have been hers. A life where she had been born without magic. Living in this place, in this room, with this woman. A home. A proper business. A sort of family. Not dodging into dark corners, an outsider in a big, impersonal college. She saw herself making food and serving it to the customers, laughing and being busy in an ordinary way.

She tried to answer Jaimar. Tried to thank her for trying, and there were no words in her mouth so she just nodded.

“Nothing would shift Shoddle. He had found you. He would raise you. You would help in the shop when you were old enough.”

“Why did he send her away, then?” asked Solder.

“Because of the magic,” said Tamrin.

“Of course,” said Jaimar.

“What happened?”

“You were such a funny little thing,” said Jaimar, “in the basket. It wasn’t even a proper baby basket, just a shopping one. Big enough for the first few weeks, and nicely dressed and cushioned with good linen, I’ll say that for him. He made you comfortable.

“He had hoped to keep the magic a secret. That’s why he kept you hidden at first. You can’t hide magic, though. Not when it’s strong. Lots of babies have the little magic, when they’re first born. It wears off very quickly. Only a few, like you, have the real magic that never goes. Yours was real from the start.”

“What was it like?” asked Solder.

“Colours at first,” said Jaimar. “She’d lie in the basket and there were colours all around her. Better than rainbows. And she could reach her little hands out and gather them up into ribbons. And scents. Better than any flower.”

Tamrin was trying to remember and there was nothing there. No memory at all.

“It was always beautiful,” said Jaimar. “Some baby magic is cross or frightened or angry. It’s not nice to see. Yours was always so lovely. People wanted you to be around so they could see it. It made us happy.”

Tamrin really had no memory of it. No memory of ever being happy like that.

“When you got older, a toddler, and you learned about the things around you, the magic was more playful. Flowers and leaves, and lights and small animals, the sort you can cuddle.”

“It doesn’t sound like me.”

“It was. It is.”

“What went wrong?”

Jaimar made her lips straight.

“It did,” she said. “Of course it went wrong. I don’t know why. I don’t know what the tailor was doing. I think he was trying to use you to make his business better. Trying to exploit the magic.”

“What happened?” asked Tamrin.

“It was the clothes he was selling. He tried to charge more for them at first, and people wouldn’t pay. Then he charged the same but he said they were special. And they were. He offered to sell a coat that would keep the wearer warm in the coldest weather. He sold a lot and they were very good. Lighter to wear than ordinary winter coats, and you never felt the cold. Then one person found he was so hot that he couldn’t bear it. He tried to take it off and he couldn’t. It was in the high street. He was screaming for help. People tried cutting it off him and the material wouldn’t yield. He died in front of them, writhing and screaming in terrible pain. It was as though he was being boiled alive.”

Tamrin could see it in her mind. She put her hands over her face.

“I did that,” she said.

“No.”

Jaimar sprang up and put her arms round her. “It wasn’t you.”

“It was my magic, wasn’t it?”

“There were other accidents. People were angry and nearly attacked his shop. Soon after that he took you away. We never knew where. He said you were safe and that he’d taken you where you’d be looked after. Some of us thought he’d had you killed but what could we do? You came by night and disappeared by night. Others said he’d sold you to a wizard. There were stories that you’d gone back to your real parents. No one knew.”

“What about my twin?” said Tamrin. “What happened to him? Did Shoddle have him as well?”

Jaimar looked blank.

“What twin?” she asked.

They tidied the shop together. Tamrin started by taking away the ivy from the door. Jaimar gathered up the broken plates and beakers. Solder sat on his barrel and chattered to them, telling them the best order to do jobs in and pointing out things they’d missed.

Jaimar had asked Tamrin what she meant about being a twin. Tamrin called a halt to the story there and refused to say any more. They went back into the shop to get over the awkward silence.

Tamrin began by stroking her hands over the ivy leaves, enjoying their waxy surface, the green bright smoothness shot through with prominent veins. It made her sad to get rid of it. She put her face to the foliage, letting it cool her. Her hands found the thick, rough roundness of the main stem. It felt older than she was. It was strong magic.

She couldn’t just let it wither and die and be gathered up and burned.

The problem of what to do with it brought Vengeabil to her mind. He had been so frugal with his magic, so sparing. She had learned from him to be frugal, too. This overabundance of growth showed her how right he had been. It’s one thing to make something with a spell; much more difficult to unmake it.

She knew Solder was watching her.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Doesn’t it just disappear when you take the magic away? Is it real?”

“Come and try it.”

He hopped off the barrel. His hands were busy in the leaves and tendrils.

“It’s stuck fast to the door,” he said. “As though it’s been growing against it for a hundred years.”

Jaimar left her broom and joined them. She added her hands to the others.

“I’ve seen other magic,” she said. “Wizards pass through sometimes and they always need to eat. Most of their magic feels cheap, like something you buy at a fair, tawdry. It doesn’t last. It was never meant to.” She tugged at the ivy. “This feels more real than real ivy. That’s silly, I know. But you know what I mean.”

“College wizards,” said Tamrin. “Town wizards who sell their charms. Not proper ones. Not wizards who’ve been apprenticed to masters.”

“Can you get rid of it?” asked Solder.

Tamrin crossed to the table. She righted it on its legs, moved her hands over the bent and buckled parts, restoring them to rights. She struggled with her breathing. It was like running uphill. She picked up the chairs and pushed them back into place. She took the broom and swept the shards of pot.

“I’ll do that,” said Jaimar, taking it from her. “Sit down.”

“You could magic them into a pile,” said Solder, going back to his barrel.

Tamrin sat and recovered her breath. Jaimar swept and scooped up the broken fragments.

“No one ever told me,” said Tamrin. “But I always knew. I always knew I had a twin.”

Jaimar listened. Solder interrupted.

“How could you know if no one ever told you?”

“Close your eyes,” said Tamrin. “Now, don’t move. How many hands have you got?”

“Two?”

“How many feet?”

“Two.”

“How many toes?”

“Twelve.”

“What?”

Tamrin stared at Solder’s shoes.

“Just joking,” said Solder.

Tamrin didn’t smile.

“Eight,” said Solder.

Tamrin wanted to ask but decided it wasn’t the time.

“How do you know you’ve got two hands if you can’t see them and you’re not moving them?”

“I just know,” he said.

“There you are. I’ve always just known that there are two of me. I don’t know how I know.”

“Perhaps it’s just an idea,” said Jaimar. “There was never any talk here of you being a twin. And Shoddle never said you were.”

“I’ve met him,” said Tamrin. “He came to the college last year. Just for about a week. He’s called Sam.”

“Did you ask him about where you came from?” asked Solder.

“He doesn’t even know we’re twins.”

“Didn’t you tell him?”

“I couldn’t. Not then. It didn’t seem the right time. And then he went away.”

The room was back to normal, except for the ivy over the door, and the darkened window. Jaimar sat down next to Tamrin and took her hand in hers. Tamrin let it stay.

“There’s no need to take the ivy away,” said Jaimar.

Tamrin laughed.

“And close the shop? And lose your business? The door will never open if I don’t take it away.”

“There’s more to life than selling food,” said Jaimar. “I’m so glad you’re back and you’re safe. We’ll find a way.”

“I’ll find a way,” said Tamrin.

She saw Jaimar’s look of pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you. Thank you for helping me.”

She squeezed the woman’s hand.

“I made it,” she said. “I’ll have to find a way. There is a way. There has to be.”

She moved across to the door and, putting out her arms, she pressed against the ivy. For a moment her face shimmered and seemed to become made up of leaves. Her finger ends sprouted green shoots. She felt herself to be lost in the foliage. A green dream in a green shade.

She stepped back and broke a branch away. She stepped back again, stretched out her hand and ran it over the leaves.

The ivy unfolded itself from the door. The main stem immersed itself into the left side of the door frame. The branches and shoots and leaves followed the line of the wood, up, and across the top of the frame, and down the other side.

Tamrin sang a short, soft chant. The green faded. The movement ceased. The gentle rustling subsided. Where before the simple, straight lines of carpentered oak had framed the door, now it was an intricate design of leaves and tendrils. A visitor would see a carved masterpiece.

“May I take this to the garden?” Tamrin asked, holding out the broken branch.

“Of course.”

Jaimar led her through.

The air was cooler, the evening releasing its scents. Tamrin found a stretch of wall. She pushed the branch into the damp earth. It embraced the brickwork, spread to double its first size and settled in the slanting light of the dying sun.

“Will it grow?” asked Solder.

“It will,” said Tamrin. “Nothing’s lost.”

She trailed her fingers on the shining leaves.

“You’re tired,” said Jaimar. “Come back inside.”

They sat, three now, where two had eaten. Tamrin restored the window and was grateful when Jaimar gave her a glass of fresh cordial.

“From our own fruit in the orchard,” she said.

“I still can’t pay,” said Tamrin.

Jaimar put her hand on Tamrin’s head.

“You’ve never needed to pay here,” she said. “You never will.”

“I’ve still got lots to do,” said Tamrin. “Shoddle. I still need to know.”

“All in good time. Rest first. Restore yourself now.”

Tamrin drank and her hands stopped shaking, her head began to lose its aching beat. Only her thoughts retained the pain of the question that drove her on. ||

that Tamrin couldn’t think why they hadn’t thought of it before. During the day Shoddle could look out of the shop and see them in the sunlight. At night, they were outside in the dark and could look in on him as he worked by lamplight.

So they did.

Jaimar didn’t try to stop them, which surprised Tamrin and gave her a pang of worry that the woman was only pretending to be on their side.

“Adults always try to stop you doing things,” she said to Solder.

“Not in the Deep World.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”