They do not eat at home now that Father has returned. Nor do they spend any of their evenings in their new home on any of the nights that Father is not away talking to his friend from Mexico, or conducting business about the town. (“Who does business of a nighttime?” Papa demanded to know.) And then, on a night they were meant to attend the ballet, Father did not come home for them. Mama waited, then fidgeted. Papa put the kettle on and that made her angry. (“We don’t have time. The performance begins in less than an hour.”) And then an hour passed, and Father did not come home, and Mama did her best to smile and shrug and told them there would be other ballets, other performances, and went upstairs and closed her door.
A little while later Millicent puts on her nightgown and Papa comes and they say their prayers together. Then Millicent is tucked into her new bed, which is twice as long and twice as wide as her old one, stuffed to bursting with goose feathers and down. Papa reads to her from The Beauty in the Sleeping Forest, which she always liked, and then she goes to sleep.
Millicent Athelstane, aged eight, will see her father one more time. That very night she wakes to find him crouched by her bedside, smiling as someone who is just learning to make friends. “I’m sorry you missed the ballet,” he says. “A rather inconvenient thing has transpired.”
“Trouble, Father?” Millicent says, sitting up and rubbing one eye.
Father smiles again and looks at the floor. “You know how it is.”
It is very dark, and very cold.
“I have to go away,” Father says. “But before I do there is something I would like very much to give you. Something grander than clothes or a bed or any of that tedious rubbish. I know you weren’t very much taken with them.”
“Don’t go,” Millicent says.
Father falls silent, like someone hearing very bad news. “New…new furnishings can’t be of very great interest to a young lady with her whole life before her,” he says, continuing as though she had never spoken. “And I want to leave…leave you with something that will make you happy.”
“Mama will be so sad if you go. We don’t work at the milliner’s anymore. She has no one to look after her.”
Father stands and extends his hand to her. “Won’t you come and see?”
Millicent feels like she wants to cry, her mouth all hard and wobbly, but she nods yes. She pushes the blankets off herself and slides her feet into her checkered little slippers. She puts her hand in Father’s—soft and smooth—and follows him out of her room and down the stairs. From the top of the stairs she sees that someone has lit the sitting room with a great many candles.
“Now,” Father whispers. “We must be very quiet. What I have made is for your eyes, and my eyes, and the eyes of angels alone.” They are at the bottom of the stairs and all Millicent can see through the sitting room arch is all the new furniture lit by that rich, warm glow. Her father squeezes her hand. “Now then, come with me.”
They walk into the sitting room.
Her father squeezes her hand again. “Surprise.”
Kneeling there, upon the Persian rug, between the two leather settees is…
Millicent is unsure if she wants to take a step closer.
The ballerina is mostly mechanical. Her arms, legs, and chest are hollow, ornate, wrought. Millicent can see right through them, through the fancy and filigree, to the fireplace that lies behind her. Only her head is real, and that is down—facing the open hatch in the cage of her chest, and the corrugated ruffle that divides her upper from her lower. Her body and limbs are constructed entirely of bronze; the candlelight makes her glow.
“She’s waiting for you,” Father says. “Come.” Father leads her across the room and crouches down so that he is head height to Millicent and the ballerina. “Look,” he says. “Her heart is still.” He points to the ornate, filigreed box resting in the center of the ballerina’s chest, contained within a sphere made of three silver hoops. It rests there, in the space of the ballerina’s chest. “She is waiting for your touch to bring her to life.”
The ballerina’s hair is dark as dark can be, slick and close to her fine white head, tied back with a scarlet ribbon. Millicent cannot see her face, doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you not like her,” Father asks anxiously. “I made her for you. To abide by you. To be with you for as long as you may want her. A secret for you and I alone.”
Millicent says, “Thank you, Father,” all the time wondering how Father made this thing before her.
“Remember I told you I knew something was missing from the world that I had to find?”
Millicent nods.
“Well, we found it, myself and my friends from Mexico. Do you see now why I must leave, to discover what other things I might achieve?”
All Millicent can think of is how the sitting room smells so very different now, of fresh varnish and new leather and snipped flowers.
“Reach out,” Father urges. “Touch her heart. Say hello.”
So this is how it is to be.
She reaches out and—hesitantly, tremblingly—places a fingertip upon the box at the center of the clockwork ballerina. The polished wood is warm, the metal cold. The tide of her blood is a whisper in her ears.
Something clicks, inside the dancer. Father gently draws Millicent’s hand away. The three-ring sphere in which the ballerina’s beautiful box-heart is housed begins to slowly and comprehensively spin, building speed, faster and faster, until light begins to creep from the box. It is now a silver spheroid blur, growing brighter by degrees, and as that first scintilla of light makes itself known, so do other soft sounds come from elsewhere inside the ballerina: her joints, her fingers, the ball of her neck. As the light becomes a soft and constant glow—all of the quiet, tiny parts within her coming to life—her face slowly rises.
Skin white as milk, lips red as love. The ballerina opens her eyes. They are deep and dark.
She looks upon Millicent as if there were nothing in the world but Millicent.
“H…hello,” Millicent says.
The lips smile a smile and, from between them, her first breath. The ballerina’s eyes shine.
“Hello.” Her voice is warm.
“My name is Millicent,” says Millicent. “What is yours?”
The ballerina tilts her head. “My name is Nimble.”
“Nimble…,” Millicent repeats, getting used to the name.
And she hears the front door close.
This is life from knee height. You are either with Millicent, or you aren’t; you are either in her world or—for the time in which Millicent is in the company of others—you wait in the Drop for Millicent to be alone once more. It is always a bit of a rude shock, talking with her or playing or clapping hands, and then suddenly finding yourself somewhere else completely.
Nimble sits herself on a waist-high, man-long slab of dirt—like a sarcophagus, almost—and waits for Millicent to be alone once more. She lowers her chin and feels the heart-box spinning within her chest-cage, listens to its faint and constant song.
The hollow latticeworks of her arms and legs are filled with a scarlet mass of red silk roses. Millicent made them, one by one, and decorated her friend with them. When Millicent’s mother leaves, Nimble will return and they will continue playing and singing.
Once in a very great while Dorian comes through the Drop on his way to one place or another, or to fetch the instruments that he keeps in a chamber of their own. It was the instruments that Dorian had used to create this place, and to create Nimble, and others. More often than not, though, he sends his curious little manservant, Tub, to fetch what he needs or to go somewhere on his behalf. At first Nimble thought perhaps maintaining contact between father and daughter was one of the reasons for which she had been created, but in the months since Nimble first awoke she has decided that this is not the case. Rather than existing in order to ensure Millicent’s father is never forgotten, Nimble has decided she was created in order to ensure that Millicent’s father is n
ever missed. It is to that end that Nimble strives, and takes joy from each laugh or smile she receives.
Tub is a nice enough fellow, if hopelessly naïve. Takes the world at face value, he does. In a way he and Millicent would be a good pair.
In another universe Millicent says Nimble’s name. Her mother has left, she is alone now, and Nimble goes to her.
Millicent’s room has bookcases from which Nimble has memorized many stories. There is a wide bed, soft and full. A few dolls look on from corners and chairs. It is a beautiful room, but may not remain beautiful for much longer. In the time Millicent and Nimble have been together a veil has descended over the house. The spirit of the place is becoming sour, and a bit wretched.
“Here I am,” says Nimble.
Millicent sighs and says, “We must take the roses back.”
“Oh? Whatever for?”
“Mama doesn’t believe that we were dressing you with these roses. She thinks I have lost all the silk she gave me.”
“Oh.”
“Oh Nimble, I get so tired of not being able to tell anyone about you, show you to anyone…”
Millicent is becoming sad again, and Nimble plumbs anxiously for something to lighten her mood. “Come,” Nimble says. “Let’s cover the bed with them. That’ll give her a surprise.”
Millicent laughs. “Yes!”
And so they do, taking every last rose from within Nimble’s arms and legs till they can see through her again like a lovely walking window.
“There we are,” says Nimble, surveying the fine crimson blanket they have made. “Princesses wake upon beds like this.”
Millicent surveys their beautiful work, but the smile slips from her face. “I wish Mama would smile again,” she says. “It’s been so long.”
Nimble’s heart-box speeds up just a little. Millicent deserves to be happy. “I know,” Nimble says. “Let’s play cat’s cradle.”
Millicent seems twice as forlorn now, her mouth turned glumly to the side, and she shakes her head. “No. But thank you. Mama will want me in bed soon.”
“Oh.”
“Good night, Nimble.”
Nimble waits for Millicent to call her back, but she doesn’t. That’s all right. Millicent wants time to herself nowadays, and so Nimble doesn’t intrude. Instead she sits upon an earthen slab in one of the larger caves and ponders. She runs a cool brass finger down one white cheek, and wonders where she came from.
“Hello,” says a voice, deep and thoughtful.
Nimble returns from her reverie. “Oh hello, Mr. Tub.” The little thing actually blushes. She begins again, inclining her head. “I mean, hello, Tub.”
“Hello,” Tub says again.
Nimble notices Tub has something in his broad hand: it is brightly silver and sings faintly—one of her creator’s instruments. “And how is Mr. Athelstane,” she asks.
“His friend died,” Tub says, low and thoughtful. “Fell under a streetcar, he did. And now he’s scared.”
“Mr. Athelstane is frightened?”
Tub nods, eyes wider than usual. “He says something talks to him. He wants it to stop talking to him, but it won’t.”
“How very, very odd. What is it, this thing that speaks to him?”
Tub shakes his head. “He won’t say. He says if I know about it, it’ll talk to me, too.”
“Oh dear. I see you here more and more often these days.”
Tub nods again. “Dorian doesn’t like me around as much anymore. He says when I speak it makes words from what I say. He hears words all the time, and I just make it worse by talking too much.”
“Then I suppose we shall be spending more time in each other’s company.” Again, Tub nods. Nimble shifts over, her legs hissing and clicking lightly and precisely, and with an elegant unfolding of wrist-hand-fingers tap-taps the seat beside her.
Tub doesn’t know where to look, and clutches the instrument to his chest with both hands. He makes his way over, uncertainly, and puts the instrument onto the slab before hoisting himself up. His thick arms make easy work of it. He shifts himself around, plops down, and clutches the instrument to himself once more. It sings high and faint. He is such a curious thing.
“Tell me, Tub,” she says. “Why were you made?”
Tub’s fingers drum slowly over each other, as if this were some critical test he might fail. “Um…,” he says. “Well…”
“You see,” Nimble says, “I was wondering why I was made, and I think I might have it. I was wondering if you knew why you were made, because that might help me decide if I have worked it out.”
“Um…,” Tub says again. “I think I just get things for Dorian. And make him laugh. Though I don’t do that so much anymore.” Tub braves looking up at her. “I know what you do. You look after his little girl.”
Nimble nodded, her heart-box spinning a little faster. “That I do.”
“What is she like?”
“Has Mr. Athelstane never spoken of her?”
Tub shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Ah,” says Nimble. “Then I was right.”
Tub just drums his fingers upon his soft chest and blushes. “Well,” he says, eventually. “I…suppose I should take this to Dorian.”
“Where is Mr. Athelstane at the moment?”
“Sam Framcisco,” Tub says, sliding heavily off the slab, keeping his eyes on the ground. Such a strange little thing. “I…like your dress,” he says, and then he is gone.
She smiles to herself. She is not wearing a dress. It is a tutu, a corrugated disk slotted through her.
Nowadays Nimble only sees Millicent at night. Her mother was taken back on at the milliner’s, finally, and Millicent spends her days either at school or making roses. Of late Millicent has seemed very far away.
Nimble walks through one cave after another. Many are empty but a few are not. One is decorated as a most comfortable style of drawing room, though the hearth is always cold in Mr. Athelstane’s absence and the books are getting dusty. Still another is quite a lavish kitchen, though this, too, is dark and cloth-covered. And another is still of a more impressive size, and here are kept the instruments. This cave has a floor that is hollowed and sunken, making the chamber like the interior of some kind of sphere or ball, though the ceiling is hung with stalactites, and the rim of the room is studded with upward-thrusting stalagmites. Rude stairs have been carved from the entrance, leading down into the bowl, upon the floor of which a wide circular area has been curtained off with a shimmering drop of thick, blood-colored velvet. There are torches fitted around the periphery, but these are as cold as the hearths and stoves of the other rooms. However, this room in particular is not dim, for from behind the velvet curtain an ambience like strong moonlight emanates upward, illuminating the roof and revealing the entire chamber in a soft pearlescence. There is music here, something that might sound like a very distant choir, or it might not. It may instead be a library of notes rung from crystal and sustained, perfectly, forever. Or perhaps it is no sound at all. Perhaps it is a language once known to all, and now forgotten. These are the things Nimble thinks as she stands at the top of those rude stairs, and listens.
The curtain moves and someone steps out, drawing it closed behind himself.
“Tub,” says Nimble, just loud enough to be heard.
They leave the Drop and spend some time in a place somewhat more interesting.
“I fear I’m not as good a companion as I might be,” Nimble says, with the lights of Paris spread out before them.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” says Tub, his short legs dangling in space.
Nimble shakes her head. “No. Quite often Millicent will call to me, and I will suggest some new game that we might play to lighten her mood. But it does not work as it did when she was younger and I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t you talk with her?”
“Oh, we talk constantly,” Nimble says, brightening. “When I am there, that is, which is not so often nowadays. We talk abo
ut things she enjoys doing, and how we might dress me next, and what games we might play, and stories…”
“She sounds lonely,” Tub says.
“But I was made so that she might never be lonely. At least, that’s what Mr. Athelstane said.”
“When I’m sad I don’t feel like playing games.”
“Sad,” Nimble says, tasting the word. “Yes.” She stops and thinks about it. “I do not know that I have ever been sad. Until now.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Millicent is lonely. I have failed.”
“Why is she sad?”
Nimble is unsure what Tub means, and then she realizes: if failing Millicent makes her sad, then something must likewise be causing Millicent to be sad. So…so if Nimble were to fix her failure…then…then she will not feel sad. And if Millicent is sad, then…then…
“This is so confusing,” Nimble says, the light within her heart-box dimming just a little. “Mr. Athelstane told me nothing of this.”
And she is surprised, then, to find that Tub has carefully reached over and is gently patting her hand.
“Millicent…”
Nimble reaches down to the darkened bed. A faint whisper-and-click unfurls a cold, brass finger, and she trails a knuckle down her friend’s soft white cheek. Dark hair drapes across one closed eye.
“Millicent…,” she says again.
The child stirs, then opens her black eyes. “Nimble.” She mumphs a little, then says, heavy-lidded, “I didn’t call to you.”
The Music of Razors Page 8