But it also made her scared. What if, at the stroke of midnight, the corpse came back? What if it called her a thief and dragged her to the bottom of the river? Meg would be left frightened and alone with nobody to care for her. The thought was nearly enough to make her run for home.
Soft and quiet, old girl, she thought as she led her daughter through the narrow warehouse alleys crowded with pack mules and porters. Most likely the corpse had never slunk back to the water in the first place. She’d probably imagined it.
Lolly had seen impossible things before. Once, when she’d drunk dregs from a nutmeg barrel, the river had caught fire, kicking up sparks that wove patterns in the sky and set ships aflame. She ran thr ough the dockyards and wharves, terrified, not stopping until she’d tumbled down the saltworks steps. Working mouth tricks had been a torment until her ribs healed.
If she’d imagined the corpse rolling itself back into the water, then it might have lain naked on the wharf all morning. George and Robbie would finger Lolly and call her a thief. The Wharfinger would strip her raw, take the smock, and have her hanged. What would happen to little Meg then?
If the Wharfinger knew his duty, he’d protect Lolly. She paid him a shilling sixpence every Sunday, which bought her the right to walk back and forth along the timber wharf through wind, rain, and snow. She put coins in his pocket, but he never lifted a finger to aid her or any of the girls. If he did, people would call him a whoremaster.
Best sell the smock, and fast. Put on an innocent face and do her night’s work. But no, the smock was her own comfort and joy. She wasn’t taking it off. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“All my treasures are here with me.” Lolly hoisted her sleepy daughter in her arms and kissed the delicate curl of her ear.
She leaned against the grimy weatherboards of the coal shack at the corner of Brunswick Street, watching the traffic grind along the busy dockside parade. She sipped from her flask and gathered her thoughts.
Where to go, if not homeward? The taverns on the quay and the alleys all around were defended territory. Navy crews landed there, starved for soft company and ready to spend their pay. If Lolly walked those streets looking hopeful, she’d have a knife in her guts before midnight.
“Take me to the churchyard, Mammy,” Meg said.
Lolly took a deep gulp of acrid rum. St. Nicholas’s churchyard was as good a place as any. Nobody’s stroll—or everybody’s. Not much custom, but if she stood high up on the hill she might catch the eyes of men coming up from the bridewell. She could give herself till midnight, then if chances looked bad, she’d settle Meg down to sleep against the church wall and skip up Bath Street all the way to the fort. Try her luck with the soldiers. She might even creep down Lancelot’s Hey in the deep of night and take a squat on the Wharfinger’s steps—see how he liked that sauce.
Belligerent thoughts gave her the energy to get moving. When she passed into St. Nicholas’s churchyard, Meg squealed and struggled out of her arms. It was her favorite place to play—grass and flowers, bugs and worms. Meg might trip on someone’s shinbone sticking up from the turf, and if she fell wrong, she could smash her brains out on a gravestone. But a mother can’t keep her child in an apron pocket, no matter how much she might want to.
Lolly strolled uphill, weaving through the higgledy-piggledy canted gravestones until she found her favorite seat. Meg scampered about, chasing moths and pulling up harebells by the roots.
When the bells tolled midnight, Lolly was still sitting in the churchyard, and that’s where the Devil found her.
The first thing Lolly noticed was the insects. Large ones, the size of her thumb, pitching through the air on glittering, thumbnail-sized wings. At first she thought they were bats—she saw plenty of bats skittering over the river in late summer, when the tide was out and flies swarmed over the mud. These weren’t bats. Not cleggs either—too big—and cockchafers didn’t fly in summer. Eight or more of the insects hovered overhead, just past arm’s reach. Watching her. They ignored little Meg, though, so that was all right.
Then a stranger entered the churchyard—a woman in dark clothes and a hooded cloak. The insects extended their tiny wings and flew to meet her.
“Ssssst sssst,” Lolly hissed.
Meg dove under her mother’s skirt and wrapped both her arms around her mother’s thigh, little fingers digging in deep. Lolly patted her head through the fabric.
The child whispered, What is it, Mammy?
“Looks like a chapel-hen,” Lolly told her daughter. “This one’s out all by herself. That’s rare. Usually they walk in twos and threes.”
She’d seen them before, good women from Liverpool’s dissenting congregations. Every so often they’d try to talk Lolly into saving her soul. Sometimes, if Lolly played along, a chapel-hen could be talked out of a few coins.
Lolly knew a prayer. She shuffled toward a gravestone and bent her head in an exaggerated pantomime of piety. When the chapel-hen was close enough to hear, Lolly began praying aloud.
“All fathers dwell in heaven, where a hollow be in tha name.”
The woman flipped down her hood, exposing a face white as a skull, with a round forehead and flat cheeks scarred as the moon.
“You took something from us,” the woman croaked. Her voice sounded more like a cartwheel on gravel than any human sound.
“Get off, Meg. Run,” Lolly whispered.
Meg squeezed her mother’s leg. Nay, I’m scared.
Lolly tried to flee, hobbling along with little Meg under her skirt, perching on her foot. The woman leapt over a row of close-set stones and cut Lolly off.
Nothing to do but brazen it out.
“Who said I took anything?” Lolly shook her fist while backing up slowly. “Nobody, that’s who. Don’t you tell a lie.”
“An argument is unnecessary,” the woman squawked. “The garment must be recovered. However, you may continue wearing it for the moment. No doubt it gives you comfort.”
Lolly gulped at her flask. For certain the stranger was the very same drowned woman who had crawled naked into the river. Her voice was otherworldly—inhuman—devilish. A chill shivered over Lolly’s flesh, raising goose bumps from her scalp to her toes.
“If I have something of yourn, it’s because tha were dead when I found it,” Lolly said. “That’s salvage, not theft. Like with a shipwreck.”
“A compelling argument, well worth taking into consideration.” The woman smiled, exposing the straight teeth Lolly had plucked at that morning. “We agree. By the local custom of salvage, you may keep the garment.”
“Thart kindly.” Lolly grinned. “I get many gifts, but this is my favorite.”
“It is not a gift. Neither is it bribery, nor a commercial transaction,” the stranger croaked. “The garment was lost. You found it and claim ownership by the customs of your community. Please acknowledge those facts.”
Lolly nodded. “It were salvage, like I say.”
“Very good. You may address us as Mary Overholt.” The woman dipped her head, like one lady might to another. “We welcome your company.”
“Goodnight, miss.” Lolly shuffled away, taking care to keep Meg concealed under her skirt.
“Wait a moment,” Mary squawked. “Would you stay and talk with me, of your own free will?”
Make her pay for it, Mammy.
Lolly heard some men wanted to pay for chat, though she’d never met one. If a man could do it, so could a woman.
“I might stay for a good thick coin.”
“Bribery would invalidate the results of our conversation.” The woman spread her hands. Men used that same gesture meant to show they had no money, which was almost always a lie. “Intoxication might invalidate it as well. I’m awaiting the determination.”
The stranger’s gaze rose to a point above Lolly’s head, where the insects circulated. She pursed her lips, then seemed to reach a decision.
“We’ve determined intoxication is not a barrier to any agreements reached or decisi
ons made. Nearly everyone on this planet carries a disease or condition that impairs their perceptions, and your habits have made you somewhat inured to the effects of intoxicants.”
The words might have been in a foreign language for all Lolly could understand. But she wasn’t about to admit ignorance.
“That’s right, I’m immured. The lord mayor himself gave me a medal for it.”
“Excuse me. I will attempt to limit my vocabulary to terms you understand.”
“I understand plenty.” Lolly bristled. “Like I know tha has a voice like a Bootle organ and a smile to match.”
The stranger’s pockmarked face contorted in confusion. Lolly’s courage soared.
“A Bootle organ is a frog and that were an insult. Will tha take offence now and leave me in peace?”
“Our invitation was sincere. We would like to talk with you.”
“I don’t work my mouth for free. Give me a coin or something to eat or I’ll be gone.”
The woman looked thoughtful again. “Commensality is an important human value and doesn’t constitute a bribe. Very well.”
Mary pulled a paper bundle from her cloak pocket and placed it in Lolly’s outstretched hand.
“That’s nice.” She raised the packet to her nose and inhaled the heady aroma of treacle toffee. “My one sweet tooth likes a bit of toffee.”
Lolly shuffled backward and couched her haunches on a canted gravestone. She stuffed the greasy packet into her pocket and took a deep swig from her flask.
Ask her who she is and what she wants. And why she speaks so strange, Mammy.
“Did tha get a smack in the throat, miss? A woman doesn’t croak like that from nothing.”
“This voice is an indication of our dual nature.” The woman placed her hand on her chest. “This individual is my host. Making my own voice seem human would be deceptive. Our intent is to communicate clearly and truthfully.”
Lolly snorted. “Tha best stop talking nonsense, then.”
“I will ask my host to help us communicate.”
Lolly eyed the silky sheen of the woman’s cloak and the slash pockets along the front seams. If she could get her hands on the cloak and move stealthily, she might find out what else the woman carried, aside from toffee. Lolly scuffed her palms up and down her arms.
“Can I borrow that cloak? It’s a bit chill.”
With no hesitation, Mary shrugged off the cloak and held it out. The silk lining glowed in the moonlight. Lolly half expected to see claws on the ends of Mary’s pale fingers, or webs between the knuckles, but her hands were human, with pearly, neat-cut fingernails showing no hint of grime, as if she’d just come soaped and scrubbed from the bath.
But she had taken a bath, just that morning. And in a very large bathtub indeed.
“How’d tha end in the river?” Lolly asked as she settled the cloak around her shoulders. “Some man object to hearing your nonsense?”
Don’t anger her, Mammy. Not while you’re getting away with something.
“Don’t mean to be uncivil,” Lolly added quickly. “If tha has a tale to tell, I’ll listen. Won’t surprise nor shock me, neither. I heard it all. When women sit together, sad stories start spilling out our holes.”
The woman winced and pressed her lips together into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice had changed.
“You make an apt observation,” she said. Her voice had turned soft and musical, like a lady who put sugar on her words to tempt others to listen.
“There now,” said Lolly. “Did tha cough the frog out?”
“No,” croaked the Bootle organ. “As I tried to explain, we are two separate individuals, autonomous but working in cooperation.”
“I am an Englishwoman,” the lady interjected. “The daughter of a Manchester gentleman. The voice you find unpleasant is not of this world.”
“That’s true enough,” said Lolly.
“To answer your other question,” the ladylike voice continued, “early yesterday morning we attempted conversation with another of your profession. We ran afoul of her procurator. A . . . a . . . what do you call a man like that?”
“A pimp?”
“Yes, her pimp. He was in drink, and violent. Murderous.” Mary’s homely face crumpled like furled sail. “He thought I was attempting to lure the young woman off the streets.”
“Was tha?”
Mary raised her hands to cover her eyes for a moment. Lolly took the opportunity to snake her fingers into the cloak’s pockets and scoop out the contents. When Mary looked up, Lolly had her hands spread on her thighs, innocent as anything.
“No, we only wanted to talk to her, as I’m talking to you now.” Her voice was thick with grief. “I misjudged, and it nearly cost me my life.”
“That’ll happen if tha crosses the wrong pimp.”
No time to finger the treasure, but there was a handkerchief for certain. Probably silk and if so would fetch half a crown. A few other pieces—likely a penknife and a pouch of matches, maybe a little packet of needles and thread. No coins, more’s the pity. What else a lady like Mary might carry in her cloak pockets at night, Lolly couldn’t imagine. But if Lolly could get away with it, her landlady would be happy about the rent, and little Meg would have a cake.
Lolly swigged from her flask and then offered it to Mary. She didn’t accept—Lolly would have been surprised and regretful if she had—but it was only polite to offer a drink to a mark.
Mary wiped her nose on her sleeve, cleared her throat, and squawked, “This planet—”
“—this world,” the lady’s sweet voice interrupted.
“This world,” the Bootle organ continued, “has a long history of violent intraspecies competition and colonization. Entire populations are conquered and their lands and resources stolen. We observe this pattern in approximately five-point-five-eight percent of sentient species surveyed. Other species—the vast majority—are parasitic, like my own. Among species like yours, most individuals consider violent conflict as an inevitable mode for intra- and inter-community interaction. Would you agree?”
“Wha?” Lolly hadn’t understood one word.
“Do you believe,” Mary’s sweet voice asked, “that it’s natural for people to take the property of others with violence? To steal their homes, land, forests, farms, mines, villages, and towns?”
“Sure,” Lolly answered. “If I knew nothing else, I know that. Seen it enough.”
“So you agree,” the Bootle organ said. “Colonization backed by violence is the norm?”
“If thart asking if those stronger and meaner take what they want from the weaker and meeker, that’s a simpleminded question. They do. Here, there, and everywhere.”
Under Lolly’s skirt, Meg yawned. Her warm breath puffed across her mother’s knee.
“If we suggested that the breeding population is also considered a rightful spoil of colonialism, would you agree?”
More nonsense. Lolly gulped at her flask, ignoring the question.
“We are attempting to establish whether you agree that colonialism traditionally includes co-opting the females of the colonized population for propagation.”
The lady interjected again. “If you don’t keep it simple, she’ll never understand.” Mary sat beside Lolly on the wide gravestone. “You’ve heard of the Sabine women, have you not?”
Lolly hadn’t, but she nodded anyway.
“In old Rome,” Mary continued, “when the men didn’t have women, they stole them from their neighbors. What my friend wants to know is whether or not you think that’s natural.”
“Sure is,” Lolly said without hesitation. “Where would they put their pricks otherwise? A man sees something he likes, he’s going to skewer it. Otherwise another man will skewer them. That’s men, whether babe or bishop. Women are a little different.”
“How are women different?” asked the Bootle organ.
“Let me think.” Lolly drew the toffee packet out of her pocket and unfolded it. “A woman will k
ill for a loaf of bread if her children are starving. Some might kill to keep her man. A tart might kill the man who cheats her, or the woman who poaches her stroll. But women don’t kill for sport. They don’t roam in gangs looking for women to fuck dead. No woman ever set upon a neighbor’s young husband and left him bleeding in the woodpile.”
Lolly picked off a shard of toffee and slipped it between her gums. The sugar made her head spin. Its flavor was strong as the darkest rum, and just as heady. She tongued it into the pouch of her cheek.
“No woman ever chased a boy around the house, half strangled him to death, then sent him home to the farm with a necklace of bruises and belly full of bastard. A woman will look the other way if her man does it, though, and that’s contusion.”
“Collusion.” Mary nodded.
“Some say that’s the same as if she did the deed herself,” Lolly continued. “A woman can be mean and nasty. Some have heavier hands than others, and sharper tongues. but we ent like men.”
“Why the inequity?” asked the Bootle organ.
Lolly frowned.
“Why do you think men are more violent than women?” the sweet voice explained.
The toffee dissolved, coating Lolly’s mouth in sweet syrup. She savored the flavor for a moment before answering.
“Why we chewing this over? That’s what I want to know. Spoils my appetite. If tha wants an opinion, Miss Mary, talk back and forth with tha own self.”
“Your opinion is the one we are interested in.”
“I don’t care why. Nobody does. It’s the way of the world.”
“What if it weren’t the way of the world?” The Bootle organ’s voice harshened with urgency. “What if it didn’t have to be?”
Take me home, Mammy. I’m tired.
The child ought to be wrapped tight in her blanket and snugged into a timber-yard alcove, not cowering under her mother’s skirt listening to a stranger talk nonsense. No sense in drawing this out. Lolly wouldn’t get anything more out of Mary.
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