He fell silent, gazing up at the lone bat again.
Within the house, the pianist had returned to the first movement of the Mondscheinsonate. In contrast to its earlier frenzy, the music now held a graceful melancholy, and for the first time ever, Harry heard the yearning in it – the genuine, soul-deep heart that cheap music-hall renditions had hidden until now. Even under these circumstances, it gave him pause.
‘Say,’ he whispered. ‘That’s beautiful.’
‘It’s the girl is playing, is it?’ Luke asked this the way one would ask after a fever patient – in the same tone one would ask, Has she much time left?
Harry shook his head, alarmed by the man’s expression. ‘It … it may be Miss Lyndon, the old woman. She’s the entertainer. As far as I know, Tina doesn’t play.’
The man eyed Harry from head to toe. ‘What are you, boy?’
‘I’m a magician. Lord Wolcroft hired—’
The man tutted. ‘Not what do you do! What are you? Where are you from? Your accent is mighty strange.’
Harry drew himself up. ‘I’m from New York.’
‘A colonial.’ Luke seemed amused by this. ‘So, a Spanish settler? British convict? Some poor Dutch Puritan running from the church?’
‘I’m an American,’ insisted Harry.
‘Ach, there’s no such thing. What are you really? Where were you born?’
Harry huffed. ‘Just because I wasn’t born in America doesn’t mean—’
‘Ah, sure you don’t know what you are,’ the man said dismissively.
‘I know damn well what I am. I—’
Luke waved his anger aside like a gnat. ‘Hold your whisht, it nary matters. I used to think it did, and it’s habit that makes me cling to the question – but after a time, you come to realise we’re all just mongrels. It’s the man himself that matters, not his seed and breed. The Captain taught me that.’
The Captain – the carriage driver. Harry looked over his shoulder, as if naming him could conjure him. ‘Why do you call him the Captain?’ he whispered.
The man’s expression hardened. ‘Why else would I call him Captain? Isn’t that what he is?’
‘Of a ship?’
‘Aye, of a ship. Of his ship. Best cove to work for in the West Indies, that man. Had the same crew his whole time at sea, give or take. That’s a rare thing, boy, to hold the loyalty of a shifty gang of scoundrels such as to be found in the islands. And him the colour he is, and them so used to seeing the dark fellas subject, and them loving it, because what else do you want when you’re bottom of the ladder but some poor cove lower than you so as you can spit on him?’
Luke looked up again at the bat fluttering aimlessly over his head. ‘Captain earned his title. As far as I’m concerned, he’ll keep it. God knows, the disease stole everything else from him.’
Harry descended a few steps, the better to hear the man’s quiet voice. It was sultry down there, the moist heat heavy with scent. The subtle burr of bat wings agitated the air. ‘Why did they bring Tina here? And that man – the Captain – he took our friend Joe. Why?’
‘You said it yourself, boy. You’re here for the show. Because Himself chose you for the show.’
‘Himself? You mean Lord Wolcroft? No, he—’
‘Wolcroft?’ Luke sneered. ‘Wolcroft is long ago dulled and grey and gone to the oubliette. And you should thank your stars for it. That old bastard was wicked beyond repair – you would not want to find yourself in his grip.’
The man grinned at Harry’s obvious confusion. ‘My family and I had the gall to think we owned this place once, the nerve of us. Wolcroft – the real Wolcroft – was the fist the English sent to beat us down. Planter bastard. New Model Army spalpeen. He settled himself over this land like a toad, he did, and I fled his rule like a beaten whelp. Fled halfway round the world. But I didn’t stay gone – not me.
‘The villagers bless the day I brought Himself and the Captain here. Didn’t take long for those two to change things, like I knew they would. The Captain was always one for the underdog. And even Himself, with his high blood, he knows what it is to baulk against the yoke.
‘Himself is a great man, boy – no matter his quare ways. It’s him brought us through it all, in the end. Through Williamites and rebels, through famines, plague and war, with his fine words and his pretty manners, playing one side off against the other. No one here’s ashamed to say they love him for it. He’s held this place out of the mud of history for the past two hundred year.’
‘What are you talking about?’ cried Harry, losing his patience at last. ‘What are any of you people talking about? Two hundred years? Do you expect me to believe that? That black man, the carriage driver, your Captain, he stole my friend Joe! And Himself? If Himself has laid a hand on Tina, if he’s so much as laid a finger on her, I’ll—’
‘If he laid a finger on her? Himself?’ At that, the man began to laugh.
‘Say!’ cried Harry. ‘Say, that’s nothing to laugh about! You’d better watch it. You—’
Luke hooted. ‘Oh, be quiet, you yapping pup. You know nothing, y’understand? Nothing! You will spend your short life knowing nothing, and when you die, you’ll be nothing. Gone and forgot in the blink of an eye.’
He sat back, regarding Harry with deep amusement.
‘Although you are an entertainment,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps Himself will take you in. Make you part of his collection – like the missus and Matthew, and his two little gallows-apples. You’d be a lucky boy if so.’
The man allowed his attention to drift towards the bat again.
‘Ah,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘It’s happening. I knew it would.’
All the time they’d been speaking, the solitary bat had been sinking lower and lower. Now, the long careless loops of its flight had fallen well below the manicured heads of the roses. Luke watched as the little creature fluttered one more dazed circuit up and down the dappled central path before dropping, stone-like and sudden, to the ground. He went to it, waited patiently through its last feeble stirrings, and then, almost gentle, picked its motionless body from the gravel.
‘It happens sometimes,’ he said, spreading the membranous wings out against his hand, straightening the tiny bowed legs and feet. He pressed a fingertip to the sharp-toothed mouth. ‘Things just stop.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
The man looked up at him. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
Harry pressed his hand to his hollow belly. As if on cue, it growled.
The man nodded. ‘That’ll fade,’ he said, ‘if you stay here long enough. When it does, you need to keep yourself hungry. It don’t matter for what. It could be for that.’ He gestured to the music coming from the house. ‘For this.’ He swept a hand around the gardens. ‘For wrath, or pain, or whatever it is the childer are hungry for. It don’t matter. You just need to stay hungry for something. You need to stay interested. Because if you don’t …’
He lifted the little bat, as if to demonstrate his point. Then he folded the wings and put the small limp body into his jacket pocket.
He grinned at the disgust in Harry’s expression. ‘I’m not going to eat it, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m bringing it inside for Himself. For his taxiderms – not that he’s been bothered with them for a while. Still, maybe things’ll change now. Company brings life, so they say.’
Grimacing, the man turned and ascended the steps. ‘Enough of this chinwaggery. Hours are a-wasting, and I’ve to go trim the back hedges before I do anything else.’
‘But it’s the middle of the night,’ whispered Harry.
Luke chuckled and glanced back over his shoulder. Harry was not surprised to see his eyes glow like fireflies in the shadows. ‘The night fades, too,’ he said. ‘The longer you’re here, the more it fades. You’ll get used to it.’
‘No, I won’t!’ cried Harry. ‘I’m not staying!’
Luke shrugged. He gestured to the stables. ‘The childer are that way,�
�� he said. ‘The dogs are out front. The village is a few miles, back yonder. They’d like you in the village, boy – they’d eat you up with your magic tricks and your mummery.’ He waved his arm vaguely towards the horizon. ‘Out yonder? There’s snow. Plenty of it. Waist-high and deepening. They’re your options, boy. Feel free to take your pick. I’ve better things afoot than babysitting you.’
With that, he grouched off, leaving Harry belittled and anchorless, and angered beyond fear by the casual dismissal in his words.
Wonder
LIGHT SHIMMERED AND flowed around the girl as she rose from her chair, and Cornelius followed her movements with sleepy contentment. Only very recently he had been angry with her – he had been raging – but now he was heavy-limbed and sated, and she was but a spectacle to him. The velvet sofa cushion caressed his cheek as he shifted his head to watch her. She was a pillar of light as she picked her way through the flickering maze of candles, a column of radiance: Tatiana, Helen, Ariadne, entrancing in her magnificent dress.
Cornelius felt the almost painful tug as the Angel responded to his renewed enchantment. It was feeding on him. No – feeding through him, drawing on the girl via his enjoyment of her, drinking of her through him in long, aching draughts. Raquel had described this sensation as akin to that of feeding a child from the breast: a soul-deep connection, an emotional and physical sensation unlike any other. It left Cornelius languid and blissful. It left him awed.
The girl faltered and swayed as she felt the Angel’s feeding; then she staggered on.
She had almost ruined this for him, stubborn child. Cornelius could not believe her wilfulness. It had gone so well at first. She had spun in place, just as he had instructed, and the room had filled with shivering light just as he had wished. Even he, knowing beforehand what was to happen, had been struck by the wonder of it. The Angel had responded immediately, of course, like a parched man filling himself with water. Its great agonised surge of need had been shocking in its intensity. Cornelius had staggered, and had had to grip the piano to stop from falling. He had heard Vincent gasp, and had turned to witness him and Raquel sink back into the cushions, their faces slack with awe.
Propped against the piano, Cornelius had watched the light on Vincent’s face, the wonder on his face; his parted lips, his great dark eyes. With a twinge of alarm, he had felt the Angel respond to this, too: had felt it begin to draw on the pleasure he got from Vincent’s joy. Vincent had frowned in discomfort, his face greying, and Cornelius had forced himself to look away, turning back to the glittering spectacle of the girl, trying to lose himself in her.
Then the girl had broken the spell. Still turning, still casting light, she had cried out: ‘My name is Martina Kelly.’ She had stumbled to a halt, the sequins spangling her desperate face as she seemed to try to focus. ‘I … I am Martina Kelly,’ she gasped.
Cornelius had pushed himself from the piano, appalled. No, you’re not! Stop that. You are a spectacle. You are a glory.
‘I … I made this dress. It took two weeks to sew.’ She lifted her arms, and the room sang with a renewed agitation of light. ‘There are ten yards of material. There are … there are two-and-a-half-thousand sequins.’
Stop it! thought Cornelius. You’re ruining it.
‘The girl who sewed the sequins was called … she was called Madge. I … I paid her a shilling. I pay a lot of women. Sometimes I pay even if they’re no good. I … I pay them when they need money.’ She had placed her fingers to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut as if to corral her thoughts. ‘I made this dress,’ she whispered, ‘but I don’t like it. It’s heavy. I can’t breathe.’
Cornelius had felt the atmosphere change. The Angel still fed: he could feel it, a faint insistent draw in the background. But the sensation was dulled. It was mundane. It was like replacing a bonfire with a candle.
There had been a dead silence. Raquel sat forward into it.
‘Why now, minha flor,’ she admonished the girl. ‘After all of Cornelius’ careful work, you’ve gone and lifted the veil.’ She wagged her finger. ‘Don’t you know better than to expose the woman when the audience is admiring the dress?’
Vincent smiled, delighted at her animation. He closed his arms around her and beamed across at Cornelius. ‘Do not be angry, cully,’ he said. ‘It was entertaining while it lasted.’
Cornelius let his fingers bite deep into the girl’s arm and dragged her from her position by the piano.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ he hissed.
‘I’m not food for your angel. I won’t let you eat me as if I mean nothing.’
Cornelius released her, astounded. ‘What did you say?’
‘I used to make dresses,’ called Raquel, interrupting their hushed conversation. She gestured at the glittering artifice of the girl’s costume. ‘This is quite the piece. An exhibition of rare talent. But I do not like how pent you are in it, flor. In my day, we did not tailor the woman to fit the dress. We made the dress to fit the woman.’ She glanced at Vincent. ‘Though the world insists we tailor ourselves in other ways,’ she confided. ‘Remain quiet, and not proud. Do as we are told. Often one can go quite a time without hurt, out there, if one follows those rules.’
Vincent winced. ‘My dear, you are not in Lisbon now. Those troubles are long over.’
Raquel pressed his hand, as if gently instructing him in some oft-repeated lesson. ‘Those troubles will never be over, Vicente. The world is only ever waiting to hurt us. We must hide. We must always hide … no matter what.’
‘There is nothing to fear here, though, meu amor. You are safe here.’
At Cornelius’ side, the girl gasped, pressing her hands to her pinched waist.
‘Oh, I can’t breathe. It hurts.’
Raquel turned to Cornelius in hectic inspiration. ‘Cornelius,’ she cried. ‘Rescue her.’
The girl groaned. ‘Jesus, missus … it’s him put me in this dress.’
Raquel dismissed this with a wave. ‘From your life, minha flor. Cornelius can rescue you from your life. All you need do is trust him.’
The girl frowned. ‘My life,’ she whispered. ‘I … I liked my life. I didn’t need rescuing.’ She turned as if seeking something. ‘Joe, though. Joe might have—’
‘Of course you need rescuing,’ urged Raquel. ‘Of course you do! Do you think that pretty face will protect you forever? No, better Cornelius keeps you. Wouldn’t you like that, Cornelius? Wouldn’t you like to keep her?’ She turned to Vincent. ‘Wouldn’t she make a lovely mate for him?’
This was such a shock to Cornelius, a betrayal so familiar yet so out of the blue, that he stepped back from it. He was instantly back in his father’s house, at one of those awful parties, his mother springing yet another young girl upon him as the neighbours nodded and smirked. As if flung back in time, he even ground out the same dusty old reply.
‘Well … let us see what happens, shall we? These things can’t be rushed.’
Raquel clapped her hands in delight.
Vincent gave her a pained look. ‘Meu amor, we cannot simply foist a girl upon him. He—’
‘Nonsense! Cornelius had the same intention when he brought me and Matthew here. It worked beautifully for you and me, did it not?’
Tentatively, as if unwilling to disturb her fragile optimism, Vincent smoothed Raquel’s hair. ‘But we knew each other beforehand, my dear. There was already an affection.’
Raquel had frowned. ‘She would be lucky to have Cornelius. He is wonderful! Would you give her my history? Have her endure the protection of a brute because there is nowhere better to hide?’
‘Of course not,’ Vincent had murmured, and Cornelius had turned from them, his carefully planned evening shattered.
Then the old woman had begun to play.
She must have approached the piano as they were discussing the girl and stood there unnoticed and ignored until she slammed her hands down onto the keys. The piece she chose was new to Cornelius, and the piano itse
lf still such a novelty – its sound so resonant, so deep and penetrating and emotional when compared to the harpsichord. And the anger – oh, heaven help him, the anger of the playing. It grabbed Cornelius by the pit of his belly. It hooked the chambers of his heart.
The old woman had hunched over the keys as she played. Her long white hair, shaken loose, had tumbled pale onto her shoulders. Her fine-boned face was carved in fury, her long fingers commanded the keyboard, and she was captivating. Captivating.
Cornelius had felt the Angel surge up, had felt it latch on. He had lurched to the sofa, unable to keep his feet under the onslaught of its need.
And it had fed: through him, in him, with him, it had fed.
And the old woman had played. Out of control, beyond anyone’s help or intervention, lost to the Angel’s merciless hunger, she had played to the very end.
HOW LONG AF TERWARDS had Cornelius lain there, dazed and replete? Who knew. It was only the girl’s movement that had roused him.
As she made her way to the piano, the blaze of candles spangled around her, the trail of her passage scintillating like comet tails in his fuddled vision. She bent awkwardly to peer into the shadows beneath the piano and, as if from far off, Cornelius heard her cry out.
He lifted his hand with the intention of comforting her. Don’t look, he meant to say. There’s no reason to look. But his words remained unspoken, and his hand shifted only fractionally. He became distracted by the softness of the cushions, and for a moment lost himself in spiralling his fingertips against the velvet. When he next looked, the girl had crawled beneath the piano, fighting her skirts and the constriction of her bodice in an attempt to reach the thing that lay there.
Ah now, he thought. Leave it. There’s no need to fret.
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