After everything that’s happened recently, I think I’m due a quiet week. Just me and the shop. I always used to be cautious when I wandered around. I’d still touch things, get dragged to places few people should go, but overall, I did try to be careful. Now that I’ve seen storage, seen what’s hidden there, know that those items are so bad they’re not allowed to be sold, I’ve let my guard down a bit. There’s nothing in the shop that can be that bad.
I’m lethargic as I shuffle down the narrow pathways, past the ancient cameras and newly appeared fishing equipment. I hear a faint noise, like a radio’s on somewhere beneath the clutter. Realising if it was a radio I’d never find it, I began to look for the customer who’d snuck in, listening too loudly to their music through headphones that weren’t as noise-cancelling as they promised. I checked down the pathways, in the nooks, even at the counter, but there was no one there. I was alone.
But that noise was still trickling from somewhere.
I could just leave it. Ignore it for the rest of the day and maybe it would stop as easily as it’d started. Aye, only in a perfect world, which the shop certainly wasn’t. I floated around, further into the chaos, turning my ears this way and that to try and pick which direction the sound was coming from, like when you hold your phone up looking for signal. I pinged from one side of the shop to the next, wondering how finding a noise wasn’t easier in a shop packed full of an antique form of sound proofing.
Eventually, after rifling through some wicker baskets full of old biscuit tins celebrating national holidays and anniversaries, and a box or two of buttons, I managed to find the source. A jewellery box. There’s plenty in the shop, most are made of all kinds of wood, dark, light, inlaid. There are a few lacquered ones from China or Japan, sporting a white pearl crane or shell Mount Fuji. Some are bound in battered leather, whilst others are made entirely of glass.
The one where the sound’s coming from is pretty simple. It’s a rich red, probably painted wood, with gold leaves and flowers printed on the corners of the lid. The rest of the box is plain, and there’s a wee winder on the bottom of one side with a warning not to wind it too tight. As I rotate it in my hands, I can still hear the noise coming from inside, only it seems off. These wee musical jewellery boxes sound similar, high-pitched and delicate, like someone’s playing on the world’s smallest piano. The noise I was hearing wasn’t like that, it was deeper, longer, almost like someone whispering.
Thinking that perhaps the music box inside had broken or become detached, I opened the lid. The sound became louder, more distinct, and it wasn’t the dull notes of a broken music box. It was voices, a conversation. There’s no dancing ballerina inside, twirling around for all eternity, and no necklaces or earrings either. The red felt compartments are empty. On the inside of the lid there’s a larger mirror than you’d expect, the size of an iPhone.
But I don’t see my reflection in its surface. I see a room flooded with amber light from a few dull bulbs covered by dark lampshades. It gives the room a sense that it’s only lit by candles. The darkness is exacerbated by the décor. The carpet is a deep bottle green, whilst the walls are a light absorbing burgundy. There’s not much furniture, a modest table with two chairs facing each other, and one shelf I can barely make out at the edge of the mirror. The angle I view the room from is a bit like CCTV, stuck up near the ceiling in a corner.
I don’t know where this place is, or why I can see it through the mirror in a jewellery box, but it doesn’t take long for things to become a wee bit clearer. The sharp angles of Madam Anora open a door in the room. She’s followed by someone else I thought acted an awful lot like the customers that come into the shop. It’s a woman and she glances around the room with the same awe I’ve seen hundreds of times on our customers. Madam Anora closes the door behind the customer and motions her over to the wee table with the two chairs. The one I seem to be pointing directly at.
The woman gingerly takes the chair opposite the one Anora sits in, leaning back languidly, surveying her guest. No one says anything. I half-expect Anora to ask what she can help with before I remember who and what she is. Eventually, unable to bear the silence, the woman, with her handbag balanced on her lap, begins to tell her tale.
She’s been working for the same company for five years, ever since she got accepted onto their graduate programme. Diligently, over that time, she became a permanent employee and built up her portfolio, hoping that in a few years she could use it to apply for a promotion. She dug her nails into the faux leather of her handbag, leaving crescent moon impressions in the surface, hesitating with her next words, like she wanted to go on but was afraid if she did she’d never stop.
The time came for promotions, hard to come by according to her, and there was only one opportunity in her department. She and two other colleagues applied. One was a lad who’d started at the same time as her, and the other was a lassie who was only a few years into her job but had been the star of her particular graduate programme. This woman was confident she was the best candidate to get a promotion.
You can probably guess where this is going. She didn’t get it. Unable to understand why, she marched to her manager to demand to know the reason. The manager fobbed her off, saying that who they’d chosen, the younger lassie, had performed better even though she’d not been working as long. Smelling shite, the woman dug around, shook the grapevine, and found out that the reason she was overlooked was because of her age, an age where every woman, apparently, goes off on maternity leave to have bairns. It’d be a waste to promote her when she was about to take a few years off. This other lassie didn’t want bairns, so she was the safer option.
A wee bird had told the woman about Madam Anora, about what she did, what she could do. And here she was, sitting in a dark room, asking the anti-Madam for a favour. Madam Anora asked, in her sharp, smoky voice, what exactly the customer wanted.
For the lassie who’d got the promotion to do so badly, to make such a shambles of her new role, that management would be begging for the woman to take over.
Honestly, I thought it was going to be worse. Heartbreak, a mysterious accident, maiming, even death. This was…tame. I wondered, for a moment, if Anora would refuse, too beneath her, but then I realised I wasn’t entirely sure what it was Madam Anora even did. What did being the anti-Madam even entail?
Anora slides from her chair and heads towards the set of shelves just out of my view, draws her fingers over something I can’t see, then returns to the table with a pot in her hand. A succulent to be exact. It was quite short, resembled a flower, as though someone had poorly photoshopped a rose. Did it smell? Was it poisonous?
Madam Anora places the pot in front of the woman and retakes her seat. She begins to explain that in order to make this promoted colleague fail the plant would need watered twice a week for two weeks. Each watering must contain a drop of blood. It could be anyone’s, as long as it was human blood. After the fortnight was over, the promoted colleague would be on the brink of losing her job.
The woman stares at the succulent as though it’s a winning lottery ticket. A mix of awe and disbelief. A blood eating succulent? Why not. I’ve never seen any in the shop, yet.
But this made me realise something. Of all the objects I’ve come across, all the horrible things they do or can do, some of them must come from Madam Anora. She must’ve made them. Whether the succulent was a normal desk plant before she got her hands on it is still a mystery, but now it can destroy people’s careers in a matter of weeks.
The woman happily takes her new desk plant and is escorted from the room by Madam Anora. After the customer is gone, she starts arranging something beneath where I’m positioned before going back to the table with a small notebook that she begins to write in. I’m not at an angle where I can see the writing, but after a few lines of scribbling she stops abruptly. Her body appears to tense, shoulders going rigid and her grip on the pen turning her knuckles white.
There’s a shadow in the corner of the mirror, near the door where the customer had left. They smother what light is in the room, and I can’t see their face. I can’t really see them at all, not their height, their features, if they’re even human. Madam Anora doesn’t keep writing, but she’s tensed, waiting for something. She knows she has a visitor and doesn’t seem happy about it.
The shadow asks if the statue’s been sold yet. They were a Collector? That’s a wee bit disconcerting. I wonder if Flora, or that man looking for the rose, frequent Anora’s place as much as they do Madam Norna’s.
Madam Anora snaps her pen down on the table, but the motion’s restrained, as though she thought better of being rude to this person. She leans back in her chair and stares at the shadow, the usual sharpness and condescension replaced by something more uncertain, wary. She answers that she hadn’t sold the statue yet. I can tell she wants to say something more, something petulant, but whatever is causing her body to tense is also holding her tongue. This version of Anora is far from the one I’ve met. Her confidence had vanished, her careless blunt way of speaking replaced by restraint. Seeing her of all people act this way began to make me inexplicably afraid. Who was this shadow?
I was concentrating so intently on this conversation that when the bell to the shop bounced down the pathway to where I was, I had a heart attack. I don’t think I’ve ever jumped so high. I’d briefly looked away from the mirror to check who’d come in, but when I glanced back Anora was staring straight at me.
I slammed the lid shut and almost threw the box across the shop, before thinking better of it.
It hadn’t been a customer, and as I was standing stupidly still with this jewellery box in my hands, Fionn appeared down the aisle. I didn’t notice anything at the time, I was too unsettled, but I wish I’d taken the time to observe my second familiar, not that it would’ve prepared me much for what came later.
Instead, I told him I needed to go and see the Madam. His eyebrows crease and he says he needs to speak to me about something. I tell him later, after. His eyes cast down to the ground, he changes weight from one foot to the other, looks as though he’s about to open his mouth, to say something, but I take no notice and head upstairs to see my boss.
I rarely go upstairs by myself, I’m usually always with a customer, so it’s strange to only hear one floorboard creak at a time. I round the banister and go into the front room. Madam Norna is sitting in her usual seat, looking at a book she doesn’t seem to be reading. Her eyes are distant. I begin to say something, as soon as the first syllable is released she jumps visibly and whips her head to face me.
Did I just startle the Madam? The Madam, who waits at the top of the stairs for most of the customers? The Madam who practically knows how everything plays out? Maybe she wasn’t feeling well? Maybe even the guardian of Fate caught a cold.
I apologise and start to tell her about the box and what I’d seen. I place it on the coffee table and immediately suggest we put it in storage, just in case it was a two-way system. I didn’t want to think of what havoc Madam Anora could cause if she caught a glimpse into the shop. I assume the Madam will agree or suggest something more secure. I at least expect her to tell me what’s going to happen with it.
But she doesn’t. She looks at the box as though she can’t make up her mind, as though it’s one of the hardest decisions to make. She tells me not to worry, and that I should leave it with her.
Maybe it wasn’t as simple as hiding it away in storage. I nod in understanding and leave my boss alone with the box that’s somehow connected to Madam Anora’s shop. It was only when I got downstairs that I realised how strange it was that the Madam hadn’t told me anything.
Scots-ish language version
After everything that’s happened recently I think I’m due a quiet week. Just me and the shop. I always used tae be cautious when I wandered roond. I’d still touch things, get dragged tae places few people should go, but overall I did try tae be careful. Noo that I’ve seen storage, seen whit’s hidden there, know that those items are so bad they’re no allowed tae be sold, I’ve let ma guard doon a bit. There’s nothin’ in the shop that can be that bad.
I’m lethargic as I shuffle doon the narrow pathways, past the ancient cameras and newly appeared fishing equipment. I hear a faint noise, like a radio’s on somewhere beneath the clutter. Realisin if it was a radio I’d never find it, I began tae look fae the customer who’d snuck in, listening too loudly tae their music through headphones that werenae as noise-cancellin as they promised. I checked doon the pathways, in the nooks, even at the counter, but there was no one there. I was alone.
But that noise was still tricklin’ fae somewhere.
I could just leave it. ignore it fae the rest ae the day and maybe it would stop as easily as it’d started. Aye, only in a perfect world, which the shop certainly wasnae. I floated roond, further intae the chaos, turnin’ ma ears this way and that tae try and pick which direction the sound was comin’ fae, like when ye hold your phone up lookin’ fae signal. I pinged fae one side ae the shop tae the next, wonderin’ how findin’ a noise wasnae easier in a shop packed full ae an antique form ae sound proofin’.
Eventually, after riflin’ through some wicker baskets full ae old biscuit tins celebratin’ national holidays and anniversaries, and a box or two ae buttons, I managed tae find the source. A jewellery box. There’s plenty in the shop, most are made ae all kinds ae wood, dark, light, inlaid. There are a few lacquered ones fae China or Japan, sporting a white pearl crane or shell mount Fuji. Some are bound in battered leather, whilst others are made entirely ae glass.
The one where the sound’s comin’ fae is pretty simple. It’s a rich red, probably painted wood, wi’ gold leaves and flowers printed on the corners ae the lid. The rest ae the box is plain, and there’s a wee winder on the bottom ae one side wi’ a warnin’ no’ tae wind it too tight. As I rotate it in ma hands I can still hear the noise comin’ fae inside, only it seems aff. These wee musical jewellery boxes sound similar, high-pitched and delicate, like someone’s playin’ on the world’s smallest piano. The noise I was hearin’ wasnae like that, it was deeper, longer, almost like someone whisperin’.
Thinkin’ that perhaps the music box inside had broken or become detached, I opened the lid. The sound became louder, more distinct, and it wasnae the dull notes ae a broken music box. It was voices, a conversation. There’s no dancin’ ballerina inside, twirlin’ roond fae all eternity, and no necklaces or earrings either. The red felt compartments are empty. On the inside ae the lid there’s a larger mirror than you’d expect, the size ae an iPhone.
But I dinnae see ma reflection in its surface. I see a room flooded wi’ amber light fae a few dull bulbs covered by dark lampshades. It gives the room a sense that it’s only lit by candles. The darkness is exacerbated by the décor. The carpet is a deep bottle green, whilst the walls are a light absorbing burgundy. There’s no much furniture, a modest table wi’ two chairs facing each other, and one shelf I can barely make oot at the edge ae the mirror. The angle I view the room fae is a bit like CCTV, stuck up near the ceiling in a corner.
I dinnae know where this place is, or why I can see it through the mirror in a jewellery box, but it doesnae take long fae things tae become a wee bit clearer. The sharp angles ae Madam Anora open a door in the room. She’s followed by someone else I thought acted an awful lot like the customers that come intae the shop. It’s a woman and she glances roond the room wi’ the same awe I’ve seen hundreds ae times on our customers. Madam Anora closes the door behind the customer and motions her over tae the wee table wi’ the two chairs. The one I seem to be pointin’ directly at.
The woman gingerly takes the chair opposite the one Anora sits in, leanin’ back languidly, surveying her guest. No one says anythin’. I half-expect Anora tae ask whit she can help wi’ before I remember who and what she is. Eventually, unable tae bear the silence, the woman, wi’ her handbag balanced on her lap, begins tae tell her tale.
She’s been workin’ fae the same company fae five years, ever since she got accepted ontae their graduate programme. Diligently, over that time, she became a permanent employee and built up her portfolio, hopin’ that in a few years she could use it tae apply fae a promotion. She dug her nails intae the faux leather ae her handbag, leavin’ crescent moon impressions in the surface, hesitatin’ wi’ her next words, like she wanted tae go on but was afraid if she did she’d never stop.
The time came fae promotions, hard tae come by accordin’ tae her, and there was only one opportunity in her department. She and two other colleagues applied. One was a lad who’d started at the same time as her, and the other was a lassie who was only a few years intae her job but had been the star ae her particular graduate programme. This woman was confident she was the best candidate tae get a promotion.
Ye can probably guess where this is goin’. She didnae get it. No able tae understand why, she marched tae her manager tae demand tae know the reasons. The manager fobbed her aff, sayin’ that who they’d chosen, the younger lassie, had performed better even though she’d no been workin’ as long. Smellin’ shite, the woman dug aroond, shook the grapevine, and found oot that the reason she was overlooked was because ae her age, an age where every woman, apparently, goes off on maternity leave tae have bairns. It’d be a waste tae promote her when she was aboot tae take a few years aff. This other lassie didnae want bairns, so she was the safer option.
A wee bird had told the woman aboot Madam Anora, aboot whit she did, whit she could do. And here she was, sittin’ in a dark room, askin’ the anti-Madam fae a favour. Madam Anora asked, in her sharp, smoky voice, whit exactly the customer wanted.
Fae the lassie who’d got the promotion tae do so badly, tae make such a shambles ae her new role, that management would be beggin’ fae the woman tae take over.
Honestly, I thought it was gonnae be worse. Heartbreak, a mysterious accident, maiming, even death. This was…tame. I wondered, fae a moment, if Anora would refuse, too beneath her, but then I realised I wasnae entirely sure whit it was Madam Anora even did. Whit did bein’ the anti-Madam even entail?
Anora slides fae her chair and heads towards the set ae shelves just oot ae ma view, draws her fingers over somethin’ I cannae see, then returns tae the table wi’ a pot in her hand. A succulent tae be exact. It was quite short, resembled a flower, as though someone had poorly photoshopped a rose. Did it smell? Was it poisonous?
Madam Anora places the pot in front ae the woman and retakes her seat. She begins tae explain that in order tae make this promoted colleague fail the plant would need watered twice a week fae two weeks. Each watering must contain a drop ae blood. It could be anyone’s, as long as it was human blood. After the fortnight was over, the promoted colleague would be on the brink ae losin’ her job.
The woman stares at the succulent as though it’s a winning lottery ticket. A mix ae awe and disbelief. A blood eating succulent? Why not. I’ve never seen any in the shop, yet.
But this made me realise somethin’. Ae all the objects I’ve come across, all ae the horrible ‘hings they do or can do, some ae them must come fae Madam Anora. She mustae made them. Whether the succulent was a normal desk plant before she got her hands on it is still a mystery, but noo it can destroy people’s careers in a matter ae weeks.
The woman happily takes her new desk plant and is escorted fae the room by Madam Anora. After the customer is gone she starts arranging something beneath where I’m positioned before goin’ back tae the table wi a small notebook that she begins tae write in. I’m no at an angle where I can see the writin’, but after a few lines ae scribblin she stops abruptly. Her body appears tae tense, shoulders goin rigid and her grip on the pen turnin’ her knuckles white.
There’s a shadow in the corner ae the mirror, near the door where the customer had left. They smother whit light is in the room, and I cannae see their face. I cannae really see them at all, no their height, their features, if they’re even human. Madam Anora doesnae keep writin, but she’s tensed, waitin’ fae something. She knows she has a visitor, and doesnae seem happy aboot it.
The shadow asks if the statue’s been sold yet. They were a collector? That’s a wee bit disconcerting. I wonder if Flora, or that man lookin’ fae the rose, frequent Anora’s place as much as they do Madam Norna’s.
Madam Anora snaps her pen doon on the table, but the motion’s restrained, as though she thought better ae bein’ rude tae this person. She leans back in her chair and stares at the shadow, the usual sharpness and condescension replaced by something more uncertain, wary. She answers that she hadnae sold the statue yet. I can tell she wants tae say somethin’ more, somethin’ petulant, but whitever is causin’ her body tae tense is also holdin’ her tongue. This version ae Anora is far fae the one I’ve met. Her confidence had vanished, her careless blunt way ae speakin’ replaced by restraint. Seein’ her ae all people act this way began tae make me inexplicably afraid. Who was this shadow?
I was concentrain’ so intently on this conversation that when the bell tae the shop bounced doon the pathway tae where I was, I had a heart attack. I dinnae think I’ve ever jumped so high. I’d briefly looked away fae the mirror tae check who’d come in, but when I glanced back Anora was starin’ straight at me.
I slammed the lid shut and almost threw the box across the shop, before thinkin’ better ae it.
It hadnae been a customer, and as I was standin’ stupidly still wi’ this jewellery box in ma hands, Fionn appeared doon the aisle. I didnae notice anythin’ at the time, I was too unsettled, but I wish I’d taken the time tae observe ma second familiar, no that it wouldae prepared me much fae whit came later.
Instead, I told him I needed tae go and see the Madam. His eyebrows crease and he says he needs tae speak tae me aboot somethin’. I tell him later, after. His eyes cast doon tae the ground, he changes weight fae one foot tae the other, looks as though he’s aboot tae open his mouth, tae say something, but I take no notice and head upstairs tae see ma boss.
I rarely go upstairs by maself, I’m usually always wi’ a customer, so it’s strange tae only hear one floorboard creak at a time. I round the banister and go intae the front room. Madam Norna is sittin’ in her usual seat, lookin’ at a book she doesnae seem tae be readin’. Her eyes are distant. I begin tae say somethin’, as soon as the first syllable is released she jumps visibly and whips her heid tae face me.
Did I just startle the Madam? The Madam, who waits at the top ae the stairs fae most ae the customers? The Madam who practically knows how everythin’ plays oot? Maybe she wasnse feelin’ well? Maybe even the guardian ae fate caught a cold.
I apologise and start tae tell her aboot the box and whit I’d seen. I place it on the coffee table and immediately suggest we put it in storage, just in case it was a two way system. I didnae want tae think ae whit havoc Madam Anora could cause if she caught a glimpse intae the shop. I assume the Madam will agree, or suggest somethin’ more secure. I at least expect her tae tell me whit’s gonnae happen wi it.
But she doesnae. She looks at the box as though she cannae make up her mind, as though it’s one ae the hardest decisions tae make. She tells me no tae worry, and that I should leave it wi’ her.
Maybe it wasnae as simple as hidin’ it away in storage. I nod in understandin’ and leave ma boss alone wi’ the box that’s somehow connected tae Madam Anora’s shop. It was only when I got doonstairs that I realised how strange it was that the Madam hadnae told me anythin’.