Seventh Son

CHAPTER 28

  Cat drew a deep breath. Now what, Cat? Wait, that’s what. Wait, and watch over the sleeping little girl in the next room. Something inside of her was tuned to Bibby, knew that the baby was still sound asleep on the bed.

  Cat let her eyes travel around the workshop. The shelves with the fired, unglazed pots. The cupboard that held the beautiful green, blue, and pierced pieces, that had held the mysterious broken necklace. The work table, the drying shelves with the half-finished wares. Her gaze slid to the trap door in the floor, the trap door that had concealed the turquoise bowls. Would there ever be more of them? Maybe not ones exactly like it, but others, with different powers, the voice inside of her said. The wheel. Cat thought of how Guy’s strong fingers had shaped the cups, had pulled form from formlessness.

  She sat down on the wheel bench, her hands resting on the surface of the wheel head. It turned, very gently. She stretched out a toe and nudged the flywheel just a bit. It idly spun into slow, lazy motion. She let her fingers trail along the edge of the wheel head as it silently turned around, and around…

  Steps sounded along the outside of the building. Guy’s steps. Cat’s heart leapt into her throat. The latch rattled, and the door creaked open.

  He stepped into the shop, hope and apprehension mingled on his face. His gaze went straight to the table. The bowl was gone, its place empty. His shoulders slumped, and as he turned to leave the room, Cat read on his face a bereft hurt, a disappointed longing.

  Longing for her. Silly man. Why did he not look up?

  “Guy,” she said softly.

  He whirled around, and saw her. His eyes lit up in a blaze of turquoise, incredulous joy suffusing every line of his face. In three steps he crossed the room, stopping himself hard in front of her, where she had slid off the wheel bench.

  “Catriona! Cat—you’re here…”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling up at him, “I’m here.”

  “But—but the bowl…”

  “I gave it to Sepp. He needs it; he has unfinished business back in my world. My old world. And don’t fret,” she added, “he’ll come back. I know.”

  “You know…” he said, softly. “You are—you are Unissima.”

  “Yes, I am Unissima. I belong here, my place is here. The bowls have no effect on me any longer.”

  He took a deep breath, then another to steady himself.

  “I—I went to the village. I was hoping—wishing—” His voice trailed off, then he began again. “When I saw the bowl was gone, I thought I made a fool of myself… You see, I got—this.” He reached into the pocket of his vest and brought out a small pouch, made of soft washleather. He loosened the drawstring and reached into the pouch.

  His slender fingers drew out a silver chain. Cat watched, mesmerised, as the bright links slipped out of the bag, one by one, and finally revealed on their end a silver pendant. A small, beautiful, filigreed cat.

  Guy’s turquoise eyes looked down into Cat’s brown ones.

  “Catriona, Karana,” he said softly, “marry me.”

  And Cat knew what to answer.

  “Yes, Dyniselm Septimissimus, I marry you.”

  With trembling fingers Guy opened the clasp of the chain, and then held it out to Cat. She gathered her hair and held it up; he clasped the chain around her neck and settled the silver cat against the hollow of her throat. Then in one motion, he pulled her to him and wrapped her in a hug that crushed the breath out of her. Cat didn’t mind a bit.

  Suddenly a small body hurled itself against them at the level of their knees.

  “Bibby up!” demanded a small voice.

  Guy laughed. Keeping his left arm firmly wrapped around Cat, he reached down with his right and grasped the little girl under her arm. Cat reached down with her left, and together they pulled the baby up and held her between them.

  Bibby beamed at them.

  “Bubba,” she said, “Gah,” patting her father on the cheek with one hand and Cat with the other.

  Then she pulled back a little, looked from one of them to the other, and came to a conclusion.

  “Bubba Mumma!” she said, and she wrapped her little arms around their necks as far as she could reach.

  NOTE

  All the remedies and technologies in this story, apart from the obviously magical ones, work in Cat’s old world as well. Potters really did make glazes with a mix of ashes and clay; basil powder and garlic are antiseptic; and cider vinegar makes a good hair rinse if you’ve washed your hair with soap.

  For Ouska’s silver polish, use an aluminum dish such as a disposable pie plate or put some aluminum foil in the bottom of another dish, and then simply follow her method. It works.

  However, should you ever find a tree with turquoise blue bark, do let me know if there are special properties in the ashes.

  Read an excerpt from Book 2 in the Septimus Series, CAT AND MOUSE:

  PROLOGUE

  “Are you certain of this?” the deep voice demanded harshly. Thick candles guttered in their massive carved holders, outlining the silhouette of a heavyset man facing into the room. A slight figure appeared from the shadows, bowing deeply.

  “Yes, my lord.” Another bow. “The black traitors have obtained the scroll and cast the portent, and received word of the power of the slave. They seek him. But as yet they know not his name nor dwelling, and...”

  A heavy fist struck the table.

  “He must be removed!”

  “Yes, my lord.” The pale face took on a sly look. “Your humble servant has news to this end, good news, my lord, which your humble servant found at great cost to himself.”

  “Well?” The powerful shoulders shifted under the gold-embroidered cloak.

  “A portal has opened, my lord, a gate that was closed for many hundredyears, to a land we could not enter. My lord might send the slave thence, bound thrice. The seer gives assurance that there are stones left in the treasury, the blue stones which might take a man across...”

  “Ah! Very well. See that it is done.” A coin glittered briefly in the candlelight. “If word of this reaches outside these walls, you will regret it. Go!”

  “Yes, my lord!” The slight figure bowed deeply and withdrew into the shadows.

  A shimmering vortex of blue light forms in the middle of the moonlit quarry, reflecting turquoise off the steep rock walls, whirling, spinning. Two figures appear, staggering, in its centre. The circling light slows and dissipates as the dark outlines resolve themselves into a man gripping the arm of a young boy. The man steadies himself, pushes the boy away, casts a glance around him, then strides out through the entrance of the quarry onto the plains. Silently, the boy clambers to his feet and stumbles after the man toward the sleeping city’s dim lights shining on the horizon.