10

Effie got off the bus in the usual place by the big triangle of grass that had once been a village green. In the depths of a nearby ditch lay a rotten stump of wood that had once been the village’s maypole. And what had once been a cheerful pub called the Black Pig was now boarded up. Its windows and doors all drooped with the sad knowledge that their time had come and gone, and never again would they bring light, warmth and safety to the travellers and local people that used to come here to smoke their pipes, sup their ale and eat their rabbit pie.

This was now the bad side of town. Effie had promised her father and Cait that she would never take any shortcuts down any alleyways or speak to any strange people. She was to keep to the bright, well-lit paths, not that there were many of those. At least she wasn’t entirely alone; down one alleyway she could see some older teenagers talking, and hear the beep-beep-beep of their pagers going off. Beyond them, some younger boys were practising football, using the lights of old phones to see by.

She was still four blocks from home when she saw something unusual. There, right in the middle of the pavement, was a wooden sandwich board with the words Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop on it and a crudely drawn black arrow pointing left down the next alleyway. It seemed to have come from nowhere. Effie was sure it hadn’t been there this morning. And she’d never heard of the place. Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop? Round here all you got were cheap pizzas and kebabs. As Effie tried to imagine what such a place would be like, her stomach began to rumble. She’d hardly eaten anything today. She pictured herself walking in through the thin front door of the tiny family house and being presented with another of Cait’s shakes. And then she imagined the taste of a bun. Her mouth started to water. Almost immediately she found herself doing the unthinkable and walking down the alley.

It seemed to go on for ever. As she went she could hear sounds coming from the backs of houses: crying babies, mewing cats, the thwacks and ows of little brothers being beaten up by big brothers, sports or news on TVs turned up too loud. It was dark, wet and still cold. But at least there wasn’t a greyout due, with the horrible spooky silence when everything is turned off.

At the end of the alley was another sign, just like the first. Turn left for Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop, it said. Effie turned left. She walked along for two or three minutes until she came to another sign. Turn right for Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop. More signs got her to turn left again, and again, and then right, until Effie was quite worried about how far from home she was. Then she came to a final sign that said, perplexingly and simply, Turn around.

And there it was, nestled in an old parade of boarded-up shops, between a long-defunct dry-cleaner and a derelict hair-dressing salon with shattered glass on the pavement in front of it. In a place like this, Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop was impossibly bright and cosy-looking. The façade was pink brick, like something from a fairytale. The windows had little yellow shutters, which were open, but all the glass was so steamed up it was impossible to see inside. Effie wondered what the remains of her lunch money – about seventy-five pence – would buy her in here. Lunch seemed a long time ago – although she’d hardly been able to eat anything. Then she remembered Leonard Levar’s twenty-pound note. Not that she wanted to spend any of that. She wanted to give it back to him when she reclaimed her books. Oh – and Maximilian still had it anyway.

Perhaps this was a bad idea? But she was so hungry.

Just then the door opened and a woman poked her head out. She looked one way, then the other, then focused on Effie. The woman had blonde dreadlocks and was wearing bright red lipstick and a black apron.

‘Well?’ she said to Effie. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Are you Mrs Bottle?’ said Effie.

‘Ha!’ said the woman. ‘The cheek! I love it. That’ll be Miss Bottle to you. Mrs Bottle was my dear mother, now sadly departed. Well, are you coming in before we put the secrecy back on, or not?’

‘The what?’

‘Oh, do just come in, for the love of spoons,’ said Miss Bottle. ‘Have a bun. You look like you need one.’

‘I haven’t got much money.’

‘Money?’ Miss Bottle said this as if it were a completely alien word in this context, like ‘owls’ or ‘muesli’.

‘Er . . .’

‘Oh lawks, oh bless, you’re a newbie! A Neophyte! Have you recently epiphanised, love? Did it hurt? Was it . . . legal?’

‘A Neophyte?’ Effie said this the way Miss Bottle had. Knee-o-fight. It sounded weird, although not as weird as the other things she’d said. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘You are a Neophyte, aren’t you? Or higher? Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see us and I certainly wouldn’t be able to let you in.’

‘Yes,’ Effie said, nodding. ‘I must be. I mean, I am.’ If it was true that only Neophytes – whatever they were – could see the shop, then Effie must have been one, since she could see it perfectly clearly. So it wasn’t really a lie. Anyway, it seemed the best thing to say, especially as she was now very curious about what was beyond this oddly misty-looking door.

‘Well, if you don’t come in now, we’re going to disappear, because I’m going to put the secrecy back on. Can’t say it more plainly than that. You have three seconds. Three, two . . .’

Effie went in.

Inside, Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop was a café unlike any other Effie had ever seen. There were twelve small round tables, and no two were the same. Some were wooden, some were tiled, some had mirrors for tops. Each one had a silver napkin holder filled with pale blue paper napkins and silver salt and pepper pots that did not match. Each table was lit with a thin white candle stuck in an old green bottle. In one corner was a wood-burning stove in which some fragrant logs smouldered slowly. A black cat was asleep on its metal hood. A transistor radio was playing fast, complicated jazz and there was the faint murmur of conversation coming from the darkest corner.

On the wall to the left of the door were several blackboards on which were chalked the menus. BUNS said one of them, at the top, then: All can be vegan (V), gluten-free (GF), or enchantment-free (EF). Then there was a list. Sausage bun, Currant bun, Chelsea bun, Steamed bun, Honey bun, Cheese bun, Lotus seed bun, Cream bun, Cinnamon bun, Hot cross bun, Fried bun, Soup of the Day (with bun).

Beside this was a list of drinks, which included fourflower water (sparkling or non-sparkling), buttercup milk and four different types of hot chocolate. Then there was a whole other blackboard that had the word REMEDIES at the top. Underneath this was a list of things that Effie had never heard of, including Violet syrup (‘for the easily startled traveller’) and Threeweed tea (‘for the hex’).

In front of Effie was a counter behind which Miss Bottle now stood, drying teacups with a blue and white striped tea-towel. On the counter was an old-fashioned till with big round ivory buttons. The last transaction showing on the display at the top of the till was, rather improbably, 18,954.64. Someone had had rather an expensive afternoon tea. Or perhaps the cat had just walked on the keys.

‘Well, sit down, sit down,’ said Miss Bottle, waving her tea-towel.

Effie went and sat at the table closest to the wood-burner. Miss Bottle came over with a small blue pad and a thin black pencil.

‘So, can I get you a bun?’

Effie’s stomach rumbled so loudly that she was sure Miss Bottle could hear it.

‘How much are they?’ asked Effie. There were no prices on any of the boards.

‘Oh yes, I forgot. A Neophyte.’ Miss Bottle scratched her head. ‘Is this the first time you’ve travelled, dearie? Apparently it can make you feel a bit sick the first time, but a bun will help. I think I’m not really supposed to let Neophytes through without a letter from the Guild, but if you’ve got your mark and your card I’m sure you’ll be OK. Anyway, I haven’t got time for all these questions! Let me scan you.’

Miss Bottle took out a device that looked like one of those old credit card readers they had in shops before the worldquake. She waved it around in front of Effie.

‘Your M-currency stands at 34,578,’ she said. ‘Not bad for a Neophyte. That would buy you around four thousand buns or seven thousand cups of hot chocolate. The remedies are more, but not much more.’

‘So I can afford a bun and a cup of hot chocolate?’

‘You certainly can.’

‘Well, I’ll have a cinnamon bun and a hot chocolate with nutmeg. Thank you.’ Effie had never had nutmeg before, but it sounded interesting, like something from one of her grandfather’s books.

‘And do you want those enchantment-free? If you’re a newbie I would say a definite yes, although of course whatever you do is up to you. Mind you . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘The girl who does the enchantments doesn’t come in until later and I think we might be out of enchanted cinnamons anyway.’

‘Oh. Well, thank you, yes – enchantment-free, please.’

There was a door just off the bar area, which seemed to lead to a kitchen. This door now swung open as a girl of about Effie’s age appeared, with her hair in two plaits and a chef’s hat on her small head. She was walking a bit too fast, carrying a bright white iced cake on a metallic cake stand with a glass dome. She put this on the counter and moved it backwards and forwards until she seemed satisfied it was in the perfect position before going back into the kitchen. She returned with two more cakes – one brown and one red – and arranged them in a similar way before taking a bag of what seemed to be dried daisy heads out of a cupboard and going back, too quickly, towards the kitchen.

‘Oh, do be careful, Lexy,’ said Miss Bottle. ‘Slow down.’

Lexy? Effie looked properly and saw that the girl walking too fast between the kitchen and the shop was indeed her classmate Alexa Bottle. She must have been Miss Bottle’s daughter or niece. Lexy saw Effie too, and couldn’t have looked more taken aback if Effie had been a ghost or a dinosaur. She frowned, then half-smiled, then frowned again. She took off her hat and put it on the counter.

‘Can I go on my break, Aunt Octavia?’

‘Make it a quick one,’ said Miss Bottle, winking at Effie.

Lexy came over. ‘Hi,’ she said, slightly shyly.

‘Hello,’ said Effie. ‘I’m . . .’ For some reason she wanted to say sorry, although she wasn’t sure what for. But she did feel awkward now that she realised that she’d accidentally stumbled into a classmate’s private life. This was an unspoken rule at the Tusitala School for the Gifted, Troubled and Strange (and probably at most other schools, too). Being invited round to your friend’s house for tea was one thing. Going and gawping at them doing their after-school job was something else entirely.

And in any case, Lexy and Effie weren’t friends. They sometimes shared a protractor during maths, but had hardly ever spoken. Effie couldn’t have anyone round for tea for obvious reasons (imagine taking your friend home for a horrible milkshake with no milk in it). She’d been to Raven Wilde’s house in the countryside once, but that was it.

But Lexy seemed not to mind at all. In fact, she seemed pleased to see Effie.

‘Well,’ said Lexy, sitting down. ‘I mean, it’s OK if I join you, right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well,’ said Lexy again. ‘Wow.’

‘What?’

‘I had no idea you were one of us. Well, one of them. Or one of us. When did you epiphanise?’