Paper Queen - Exclusive Preview
Chapter OneMarketplace, Silver Street, Durham City, 1874
The small round stone bounced off the cobbles, coming to a halt only a few inches from the kerb by The Market Tavern in the empty market square at the top of Silver Street.
‘I almost had it,’ shouted Jack.
‘Here,’ said Caira, bending down to pick up a pebble from the ground. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’ She held the stone firmly in her right hand, throwing it underarm towards the other side of the road. It hit the edge of the kerb with a satisfying dink and skittered off into a cluster of ivy bushes.
‘Nice!’ said Jack approvingly.
Caira blushed and looked at the ground, the cobbles harsh and uneven beneath her feet. The lace trim of her dress tightened in her sweaty hand, the stitching threatening to come away at the seams if she wasn’t careful. She glanced over at her friend. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice, what with spending so much time outside the pub waiting for my uncle.’
Jack sat on the edge of the kerb and crossed his legs. ‘What’s your uncle doing in there? I mean, you’re here every Wednesday, whether it’s raining, snowing, or the streets are crawling with paper henchmen.’
‘He has business,’ she replied, nodding towards the pub. ‘He’s an important member of The Allotment Association.’
Jack’s face contorted into a grimace. ‘Why do gardeners need to meet up in the pub every week? Shouldn’t they be digging or planting, or whatever it is they do?’
Caira shook her head. ‘They have important allotment business to discuss. I prefer to wait out here rather than listen to them talking about manure and seeds. It’s boring.’
That wasn’t strictly true, but Caira rarely shared her knowledge of what really went on behind the locked door of the pub. She knew the ins and outs of The Allotment Association all too well, but their business was their business. It wasn’t to be shared with outsiders.
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘If you say so.’
Caira smiled, smoothing out her dress with the palms of her hands. ‘The Allotment Association have a lot more going on than just digging and planting. They meet up to talk about all sorts of other agricultural things.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
It felt like a trick question. She sat on the kerb and picked at a stray weed that was poking through the cobbles. ‘They share ideas and tips for growing veg, that sort of thing. And there’s an annual competition to see who can grow the biggest leek.’
Jack looked around before shuffling closer to Caira. ‘Don’t The Wordsmiths’ Guild meet in The Market Tavern?’
Caira’s face flashed hot. ‘Who? I’ve never heard of them.’ But under the falseness of it all, she knew the truth. Her uncle was no more interested in growing vegetables than he was in mastering the art of ballet or tap-dance. It was a ruse – a cover for much more interesting pursuits. As soon as the doors were locked and the blinds were closed, all talk of leeks and carrots was forgotten, the chatter quickly turning to matters of words and letters, forbidden writings, history, and the tyrannical reign of The Paper Queen.
Jack laughed, his face creasing with amusement. ‘You’re a better stone thrower than you are a liar. They’re in there reading books, aren’t they?’
She crossed her arms and knitted her brow, hoping that her face wouldn’t betray her. ‘You’d better be pretty damn sure of yourself to make accusations like that,’ she hissed.
‘Everyone knows about it,’ said Jack. ‘People will always use words, no matter how much the Queen’s henchmen walk the streets looking for paper and ink. Queen Lilith can’t stop it, no matter how hard she tires.’
Caira hoped he was right. Books were becoming rarer than hen’s teeth, their numbers dwindling by the day. But there was hope. A vibrant underground network of bibliophiles and ex-scholars fought to keep the written word alive as best they dared, operating in secret within the walls of the ancient city. Caira’s uncle Myrin, having been a professor at Durham University in a former life, was one such scholar, and he prided himself on his academic pedigree. Preserving books had become his life’s work, his muse.
Caira hugged her knees into her chest. The sun was setting, and the air grew cool and crisp, a light breeze rippling through the evening air. ‘Sometimes I sneak in through the back door and listen,’ she whispered, letting her guard down. ‘They talk about poetry, great works of fiction, even The Bible.’
Jack’s eyes shone like sea glass on a pebble beach. ‘I’ve never seen a book before. Have you?’
Caira nodded. ‘My favourite book is The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. I don’t have a copy anymore, but I can still remember the story.’
Jack’s eyes widened. ‘You can read?’
‘Yeah. My parents taught me,’ she said. ‘I’m from an academic family.’
Jack looked down at his grubby, mud-streaked hands, rubbing the dirt away from his palms onto the fabric of his trousers. ‘You’re lucky. My dad’s a pitman. We've got nowt.’
Caira took her woollen gloves from her coat pocket and slipped them on to stave off the lingering chill. ‘I’d hardly call it lucky. I was only a baby when the Queen closed the universities. Most of my family were out of a job overnight. I don’t remember any of it, but my dad talked about it all the time.’
‘What’s he do now then, your dad?’
Caira sighed and looked down at the cobbles beneath her feet. ‘My parents died of a sickness a few years ago. I live with my uncle Myrin now. It’s just the two of us, and our housekeeper, Mrs Grayling.’
Jack fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt sleeves. ‘Oh.’ He picked a stone from the ground and flung it across the street, missing the kerb on the other side by a mile!
‘Anyway,’ said Caira. ‘It’s no good being an academic these days. It gets you nowhere except prison and the gallows.’
‘We don’t have a housekeeper,’ said Jack. ‘Your family still has its privileges, even if it doesn’t seem like it anymore.’
‘I suppose you’re right, but my uncle doesn’t see it that way. He holds a grudge, and the closure of the universities still makes him angry. These days he just lives to see the day Lilith’s head ends up on a spike.’
The sun slipped over the edge of the horizon, inviting the shadows to come out and play in the streets of Durham city. A shimmering dusky haze reflected from the long, cobbled streets, casting a warm glow onto the shopfronts and the statues in the market square. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and a fat ginger cat ran across the street, disappearing down an alleyway after a mouse. Nighttime was encroaching upon the day, yet the men in The Market Tavern showed no sign of wrapping things up. It was going to be another long night of waiting, Caira could feel it in her weary bones.
‘I’m freezing,’ said Jack. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and the thin, threadbare fabric of his shirt was flapping in the wind. ‘My Mam’ll have the fire going by now. I might head home and warm up. Anyhow, I need to get some kip before work. I’ve got a ten-hour shift at the pit tomorrow morning.’
Caira had a better idea. She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside. It’ll be warmer in there, and you might even catch a glimpse of a book or two.’
Jack took hold of her hand, a mischievous glint forming in his eyes and a smile finding its way to the very corners of his mouth. Caira pulled him into an upright position before scurrying off into the narrow passageway by the side of the pub. It was deserted this late in the evening, the market stalls all boarded up and locked tight.
‘Where are you going?’ he called after her, half in a whisper.
‘Come on,’ she said, beckoning for him to follow. ‘They never lock the back door. We can sneak in.’
Jack ran to catch up with Caira. ‘Are we meant to be going in there?’
‘No. But it’s freezing out here. Wouldn’t you rather be inside where it’s warm?’
‘I guess so.’ But Jack hesitated.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘They’re reading books in there...it’s dangerous.’
Caira smirked. ‘I thought you wanted to know what they looked like?’
‘I do... It’s just...’
She nudged him in the arm playfully. ‘Just nothing. Stop being a wimp and follow me.’
They crept in through the door and tiptoed into a grubby-looking hallway with stairs leading up to the flat above. It wasn’t warm in the back rooms of the pub, not by any means, but it was warmer than it had been outside, and there was less chance of getting rained on or chased by paper henchmen.
The pub smelled of cigar smoke and rum, an undercurrent of hops and urine tangy in the air. It was a scent Caira had become accustomed to over the years, and a scent that stayed on your clothes for days on end.
She knelt by a large wooden door at the far end of the hallway and slowly pushed it open, just enough so that she could see into the crowded bar. The men were gathered around a large cluster of tables in the middle of the room, a collection of books scattered across the tabletop. The blinds were firmly closed, wall-mounted gas lamps lighting the dingy room in haphazard hues of orange and gold.
Jack poked his head around the door and gasped.
‘Shhh,’ said Caira.
‘Are those books?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, now be quiet or they’ll hear us.’
He nodded slowly, his wide eyes not straying from the piles of books. Caira smirked, but she guessed not everybody was as used to being around books as she was. Perhaps Jack was right, and maybe she was more privileged than she’d realized?
She and Jack settled into place behind the door, listening intently to the conversation around the table. The hot topic of the day was the issue of medicine and medical teaching. An elderly gentleman in a tatty brown suit was leading the debate. Caira knew him to be Mr Trevithick – the chairman of the organization. He was a longstanding peer of her uncle’s, and he’d been a professor of anatomy at Durham University in his younger years. These days he was a practicing doctor.
‘How are we to pass on our knowledge properly without the use of books?’ said Mr Trevithick. ‘It simply isn’t possible.’
A grumble erupted around the table. ‘Perhaps an annual conference would be of benefit?’ said a portly man in a large grey overcoat.
Mr Trevithick shook his head. ‘We’ve tried that. No, we need something men can consult when needed. Besides, we’ve a whole country to educate, and it just isn’t practical to deliver our teaching by word of mouth alone. Our practices would be outdated by the time we’d finished teaching them.’
The rotund man scratched his head. ‘Perhaps a picture book would suffice?’
Mr Trevithick’s face soured. ‘We cannot teach medicine with a children’s picture book,’ he spat.
Caira spotted her uncle Myrin on the far side of the table, a sherry glass pressed to his moustachioed lips and a frown knitted onto his face. He lowered the glass and looked up at his peers. ‘Then what are we to do?’ he asked absently. ‘We never have any real answers to our quandaries. The only way to restore order to our city is to get rid of Queen Lilith, but nobody ever comes up with a definitive plan of action. I fear we are wasting our time here, Gentleman.’
A fat man with a bulging red face spat onto the floor in disgust. ‘Don’t use that woman’s name in my company,’ he growled. ‘She’s nothing but a shameful imposter.’ He grimaced, his face reddening to the point that Caira thought he might explode.
‘What would you prefer I call her?’ asked Myrin, an angry rasp to his voice.
But the man ignored his question. ‘How can a woman made entirely of paper have such a damn hold over us? It isn’t right. It shouldn’t be.’
Caira didn’t think she’d ever seen the man before; she’d certainly have remembered someone so red and angry looking. His accent wasn’t a local one, that was for sure. He sounded posh, as if perhaps he’d come from somewhere in the south of the country. Quite why he’d strayed into the Queen’s domain from the relative safety of the south was a mystery to Caira, but then again, so were a lot of the odd things her uncle and his peers got up to. She’d leaned not to ask questions.
‘I understand your frustration,’ said Myrin, ‘but she makes the laws in this land, and until we find a way to stop her, our hands are tied.’
The fat man brought his fist down onto the table, sending glasses of ale onto the floor where they smashed into jagged shards, foamy puddles gathering on the bare wooden floor. ‘Let her send her paper henchmen here. I’ve had enough. I’ll burn every last one of them and send them back as ashes.’
‘Now now, Mr Smythe,’ said Myrin. ‘It’ll do no good to tie yourself in knots. Besides, she’d only send more of the blighters.’
Simeon Smythe sat back down. ‘We need her gone. Her origami-army will be the death of this country. Mark my words.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Myrin. ‘And that’s exactly why we need to come up with a way of removing her from power.’
‘Then I propose we storm The Paper Palace and burn her,’ replied Simeon. ‘She is a witch after all, and witches burn.’
The men chattered and grumbled, drowning each other out until the room was filled with an undistinguishable drone. They were like a hive of worker bees; angry with their queen and quite without the power to do a damn thing about it.
Myrin stood up and raised his arm high, the men falling silent in anticipation of what he had to say. He cleared his throat. ‘There is a way to eliminate her without risking our lives by fighting at the palace.’
‘What’s that then?’ asked one of the other men, a wry smile on his ageing face.
‘The Book of Life,’ said Myrin.
The men all groaned and looked away. ‘Not now, Myrin,’ said Mr Trevithick. ‘We’ve heard enough about your fantastical theory. Give it a rest.’
‘But if you just listen....’ said Myrin. But it was no use. The men weren’t interested, and no amount of pleading was going to change their minds on the matter.
Jack leaned in and whispered in Caira’s ear. ‘What’s The Book of Life?’
‘It’s the book that brought The Paper Queen to life, and finding it is the only way to kill her. At least, that’s what my uncle says.’
‘Where is it? The book, I mean?’
Caira leaned in close. ‘Lilith keeps it hidden. If anyone got hold of it, they could use it to destroy her.’
Jack scowled. ‘Then why aren’t they listening to him?’
‘Because they’re idiots,’ scalded Caira. ‘They think fighting is the way to free the country from Lilith and her stupid henchmen. But she can send as many paper henchmen out to do her fighting as she likes. All she has to do is write their names, and they appear out of nowhere.’
Jack balled his fists and narrowed his eyes. ‘We don’t stand a chance against her in a war. Please tell me they’re not planning on picking a fight?’
Caira laughed under her breath. ‘They talk about it, but they never do anything. That’s why my uncle wants to find The Book of Life, to put a stop to all of this and bring back Queen Victoria.’
‘I doubt we’ll live to see the day that happens,’ said Jack, a sad edge to his voice. ‘I don’t think Lilith ever gets any older. She’ll be on the throne forever.’
The men in the bar all got to their feet and started gathering up their books, stuffing them into their satchels and inside coat pockets, pulling Caira’s attention away from whispered conversation. ‘Look at them,’ she said. ‘Hiding away in a locked pub, too scared to make their move, but too stubborn to abandon their thoughts of war.’
‘They’re stagnating, like ponds,’ said Jack. He slid a coy glance over towards Caira. ‘I learned that word from my dad.’
‘Before they know it, they’ll be covered in moss and bogged down in misery,’ said Caira. ‘Somebody has to do something.’
‘They already look pretty miserable to me,’ replied Jack.
He was right, of course. The men were mere shadows of their former selves, as was everyone who lived under the rule of Queen Lilith. The men may as well have been made of paper, too. They were empty. Flat. Lifeless.
‘Come on,’ said Caira. ‘We should head back outside. My uncle will be expecting to find me out front.’
Jack hesitated, lingering by the foot of the stairs in the hallway.
Caira turned to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ll hang back a bit, make my own way home. Your uncle isn’t too keen on me being around.’
Caira planted her hands on her hips. ‘What’s he been saying?’
‘Nothing much... He just doesn’t think we should be hanging around together, that’s all. I’m a pitman’s son, and you’re.... well, you’re you.’
Caira huffed. ‘Leave him to me.’
Jack sent her a toothy grin. ‘If you think you’re up to the challenge.’
Caira was always up to the challenge where Myrin Peacock was concerned. ‘Of course.’
Jack smiled. ‘See you soon.'
She headed for the door. ‘See you next week.’
The men piled out of the pub, their chatter spilling out onto the dark cobbled street like smoke from a pit chimney. Myrin looked down at Caira where she sat on the edge of the kerb. ‘Come on girl, you can’t sit there all night.’
She clambered to her feet and brushed down her dress. ‘How did the allotment meeting go?’
Myrin shook his head and started walking in the direction of home. ‘My ideas were dismissed without so much as a hint of thought. I don’t know what I have to do to get them to listen. They’re insufferable, the lot of them.’
Caira was well versed in dealing with her uncle’s unfaltering disappointment when it came to matters of allotment business. It was a weekly occurrence and had been for as long as she cared to remember. ‘You could always go and find the boo...’ her words trailed off, Myrin stopping dead in front of her.
He turned, slowly. ‘How many times must I remind you to be careful with your words out in public,’ he said. ‘Do you want to get locked up and have the key thrown into the river? Do you want to lose your head to the guillotine up at Palace Green?’
Caira considered her words carefully. ‘I just meant to say that, if the allotment association disagrees with your idea to grow exotic fruits, then perhaps we should go ahead ourselves and do it.’
He tipped his hat forward, covering his grey-blue eyes. ‘It’s coming to that,’ he admitted. ‘If only I knew where to find the seeds for such fruits, then nothing would stop me.’
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