Mel gasped. “You are a nob.”
Turk glanced at Waterberry House with a twinge of regret. He loved the place and it felt like his own even though it wasn’t. But he was as far from nobility as it was possible to get. “A good spy knows that looks can be deceiving.”
He set off again and thought Mel would wake his neighbors with his clodhopper boots on the palace roofs, but no one stirred to raise the alarm.
When they reached Waterberry House, he opened the small gate into his roof garden and led Mel along the winding path between the plants. The boy stared around open-mouthed. “I ain’t never seen a place like this before.” He ran his fingers along the thin brass pipes of the irrigation system and sniffed the flowers in a way that reminded Turk of himself when the monks of the Shining Brotherhood first took him in and he discovered the garden at the Seminary. “’Tis so beautiful, it looks like you summoned an Earth Jinn.”
Turk examined Mel’s face, wondering if he could sense the presence of the Jinn that tended the plants, but the boy had obviously just used the term as an expression of praise.
“Here,” Turk cupped a pink rose in his hand and angled the bloom toward the boy. “My favorite fragrance.” The spirits of the roses could be turned into mischievous little Flower Jinns that held a special place in Turk’s heart. The first Jinn the Brothers had taught him to summon had come from a pink rose.
Mel sniffed and his bright blue eyes widened. “That smells lovely.”
“Get out your knife. We’ll cut a few stems for my housekeeper, Gwinnie.” Flowers might put her in a good mood.
He took Mel’s blade, grimacing at the dirty handle, and demonstrated how to cut a rose and trim away the thorns. Then he watched while Mel cut and prepared four more stems.
Mel tucked his knife back in his boot and held the roses out before him reverentially. Turk led him through the small tower door and they descended the narrow winding steps. When they reached the third floor, they took the hall to the main staircase and made their way down to ground level. The mouth-watering smell of baking dinner rolls flavored the air as they approached the kitchen.
Gwinnie turned from the polished brass range when they entered and her brows snapped down. “What’s this ragamuffin doing in me kitchen? Send him to the bunkhouse.”
Turk nudged Mel in the back and he shuffled forward and presented the roses. Gwinnie scowled down at Mel before taking the gift. “He smells like a sack o’ dung.”
“I’m training this one myself.”
Gwinnie huffed and puffed as she clattered around finding a vase and then filling it with water. “Don’t want no filthy tykes in me kitchen.”
Turk walked across to the bathhouse door and pushed it open. The white china tub sat in the center of the room, cold and empty. “Fill the tub with warm water and find the lad some clean togs. His name’s Mel.”
Gwinnie scowled at the boy again. Mel stood sucking his lip and staring at his feet. He’d removed his cap and held it clasped before him. In this light, the boy’s hair was unusually pale, even coated with a layer of grime. His head looked small, his features delicate. Luckily, the lad was a lot tougher than he appeared.
“I ain’t scrubbing the filth off him,” Gwinnie snapped.
Mel looked up, his blue eyes sharp and defensive. “I can bathe meself.”
Mel and Gwinnie glared at each other. Turk grabbed a fresh bread roll from the baking sheet and decided not to bother with butter. Retreat seemed the best course of action. Mel and Gwinnie would reach an understanding far sooner if he didn’t interfere.
***
The old woman narrowed her pale brown eyes and pinned Melba with a fierce look. Melba knew nothing about housekeepers. The only women she had dealings with were the whorehouse madams she ran messages to and the skivvies who trudged around the markets first thing in the morning. The old woman’s face was as wrinkled as her droopy stockings, and one of her cheeks was pitted with scars from the Scab. Her gray hair was pinned up beneath a lace cap with ribbons dangling down her cheeks like a proper lady. At Melba’s scrutiny, Gwinnie jammed her hands on her wide hips and puckered her lips.
“What you looking at, boy?”
“Nothing.” Melba dropped her gaze to the woman’s faded layers of gauzy lace skirts.
“Get yourself over here then and help me shift this water.”
Melba rounded the table, but got distracted by the silky pink petals of the roses arranged in a blue jug on the table. She’d never guessed that such beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers existed. They seemed to tickle the edges of her mind as though they called to her. While Gwinnie poured hot water into a bucket, Melba leaned forward and breathed in the fragrance of the flowers. If she was a lady, she’d keep roses in every room so she could sniff them whenever she wanted.
“Oy, lad, you leave them roses be. They ain’t for the likes of you,” Gwinnie said.
Melba couldn’t resist inhaling a last deep breath of fragrance before she stepped back.
“Take this through to the bathhouse.” Gwinnie tapped her shoe against the tin bucket she’d filled.
Melba heaved it up, careful not to slosh water down her clothes. After carrying six more buckets, Melba’s arms were aching fit to drop off and the bath was half-full. Gwinnie appeared at the bathhouse doorway and put her hands on her hips. “Get them clothes off, then, and get in the tub. Looking at it ain’t going to wash that grime off you.”
A flash of panic tore through Melba. “I ain’t taking off me togs with you watching.”
Gwinnie flapped her hand dismissively. “Great Earth Jinn, I ain’t interested in seeing your skinny hide.” She turned away, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Melba slipped off her boots and waited a few seconds before tiptoeing to the door. She peered out and saw Gwinnie busy at the range, humming to herself. Melba pushed the door closed the last inch, then returned to the bath. She needed to be quick so Gwinnie didn’t return and catch her unclothed.
As she unfastened her jacket, she touched the space left by the toggle she’d pledged to Master Turk. Gwinnie wasn’t very friendly, but Melba had put up with worse than a carping old hag. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and Melba was determined to be the best spy trainee Master Turk had ever had.
She slipped off her jacket, pulled her shirt over her head, and yanked down her breeches. Dipping one foot in the bath, then the other, she gradually got used to the temperature. She sat down and slid beneath the water, wallowing in the blissful heat. In the summer, she and the other three lads pledged to Maddox played with cold water at the pump, but bathing in hot water was a whole new experience.
Brown dirt swirled in the water when she rubbed her legs and she couldn’t believe how white her skin was underneath. At the sound of footsteps, she hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the door.
Gwinnie came in and glanced at her. “You’ll be needing this.” She tossed a small black block and a scrap of cloth into the bathwater. Then she picked up Melba’s clothes between two fingers as though they were dead rats and headed for the door.
“Oy, me clothes.” Melba started to rise, then remembered her nakedness and plopped back down with a splash. “You can’t take me clothes.”
Gwinnie paused in the doorway and pursed her lips. “You’ll not be wearing this filthy tat in Turk’s house. I’ll bring you something more fitting.”
“No!” Melba’s cry echoed off the blank walls of the bathhouse as Gwinnie pulled the door closed. Panic welled inside her. She had nothing to cover herself. Then she remembered that the pledge stone Turk had given her was in the secret pocket in her breeches. “Bring back me pants,” she yelled.
Silence greeted her call. Gwinnie would have to bring her something to dry herself with and some clean clothes. She would ask about the pledge stone then. She took a calming breath. Get yourself clean, then you can get out and cover up.
Melba scrabbled in the bottom of the bath and found the cloth and a black slab that she recognized as a cake of
seaweed soap. She lathered the cloth and rubbed it over her body and head before dunking herself again. A brown, scummy crust covered the water. She wrinkled her nose. Had all that dirt really come off her? Maybe Master Turk was right and she had needed a bath.
She scrubbed her feet until the skin was red, but she couldn’t clean all the dirt from the creases around her toes. Gwinnie came in so quietly Melba didn’t hear her arrive. “Scrub that mug of yours too, boy. Want me to do it?”
Melba hugged her knees and shrank away from the old woman. “Leave me be.”
Gwinnie laughed and dropped a large white cloth on the wooden chair in the far corner of the room. “Dry yourself with this. I’m going to find you some clean clothes.”
Three times Melba soaped the cloth and scrubbed her face and head to make sure she would be clean enough to please Master Turk. Then she sat still and listened. When she was sure it was quiet outside, she climbed from the tub and darted across the room. Her wet feet skidded on the shiny tiles and she barreled into the chair, landing in a tangled heap with the towel over her head. Cursing, she scrambled up from the cold floor. As she pulled the towel off her head, an earsplitting cry came from the doorway.
“You miserable little dollymop.” Gwinnie charged at her.
Melba just had time to throw up an arm before Gwinnie started slapping at her face.
“If you think you can entice Turk to take you into his bed, you’re wrong. He don’t want the likes of you.”
Ducking, Melba escaped and dashed around to the opposite side of the bath. “I ain’t a dollymop. I want to be a spy.”
“You miserable, conniving, scabby tart.”
Melba pulled the towel around herself as best she could, but it wasn’t quite big enough to cover top and bottom. Gwinnie lunged around the bath and Melba ran to the other end, keeping the obstacle between them. “Bring me some clothes.”
“I ain’t taking orders from a tart who’s after lying her way into me master’s bed.”
“I do not want to get into Master Turk’s bed,” Melba shouted in desperation.
“What’s this about my bed?” Master Turk appeared at the bathhouse door, his tall dark figure in stark contrast to the white walls.
“This dollymop is after you,” Gwinnie spluttered.
Master Turk frowned, his brown eyes focusing on Melba. She struggled to pull the towel up and down at the same time, which proved a wasted effort as Gwinnie darted forward and yanked the fabric out of her hands. Melba froze beneath Master Turk’s uncomprehending dark gaze. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Rather belatedly, he turned his back.
“Give the girl her towel, Gwinnie, and fetch her some clothes,” he commanded in a clipped tone.
A dark pall of desperation closed over Melba. He’d throw her out now for sure.
Gwinnie smiled slyly, threw the towel at Melba, and bustled away. Melba covered herself, and hurried to the door. Master Turk had moved into the kitchen, his back to her, his fist clenched at his side.
“I can still be a spy,” Melba pleaded. “I’m still pledged. I’m good. I’ll show you.”
He shook his head. “No, Mel, if that’s your real name. I cannot train a girl to spy. It’s not done.”
“Nobody needs to know I’m a girl. You didn’t guess.” At her words, his breath hissed in sharply and she winced, knowing she’d angered him even more.
“You’ll have to leave,” he said tightly.
“Master Turk.” The whining note in her voice sent heat racing up her neck into her face. No master liked a whiner. She cleared her throat and tried for a calm voice. “Pretend I’m a boy. Please.”
“I cannot pretend you’re a boy when I know you’re a girl. This changes everything.”
Her heart thundered as she stared at his stiff back, the width of his shoulders in his fine wool jacket, his gleaming black hair trimmed neatly over his collar. She couldn’t appeal to his back. She stepped past him and looked up into his face. He kept his gaze fixed on the far wall, his lips tight, his nostrils slightly flared.
“Look at me, Master Turk. I don’t really look like a girl, do I?”
Slowly, he lowered his eyes. His gaze flicked across her features, up to her hair, down to her lips. “You do.”
“I don’t!” She stamped her foot with frustration.
“You most certainly do. I cannot imagine how I didn’t notice before.”
Gwinnie chose that moment to reappear with a faded brown dress draped over her arm.
“I ain’t wearing that,” Melba shouted.
Gwinnie threw the dress on the floor at Melba’s feet. In all the commotion, Melba had forgotten about her toes. After years of covering them up, how could they have slipped her mind? Master Maddox had told her that if anyone saw she had twelve toes they would tie her down and cut the extra ones off. Now Master Turk would see her deformity and have even more reason to throw her out.
She looked up at Master Turk, frightened of what she’d see on his face. His forehead was furrowed, his silky black eyebrows drawn together. Her last hope of being a spy trickled away. Slowly, he raised his narrowed eyes and scrutinized her features. “What’s your proper name?”
“Melba.”
“How old are you? The truth, please.”
“Seventeen.”
He dropped his gaze to her feet again. Melba curled her twelve toes against the cold flagstones. Surely Master Turk wouldn’t cut off her stupid extra little toes.
Abruptly, he turned away and headed for the door to the hall. “Supply her with clothes she’s happy to wear, Gwinnie. I don’t care what she wears—just cover her up. Then feed her and find her somewhere to sleep. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
Melba stared at the doorway long after Master Turk had gone. Finally, she blinked and turned to Gwinnie. “What does that mean?”
The old woman glared at her. “You’re in for it is what that means. One thing Turk don’t like is having his boys lie to him.” She looked Melba up and down meaningfully. “You’ve done so much lying, I reckon he’ll truss you up and toss you down The Well.”
Chapter Two
We each have our shining moments and our shadow moments.
—Master Turk
Images of Melba raced through Turk’s mind. Even though she was painfully skinny and she still had dirt on her face, she was clearly feminine and pretty. He prided himself on being observant and perceptive. How the blazes had she fooled him into believing she was a boy?
With a sigh, he headed for his library to research his suspicions about Melba’s identity. Luckily, the nobleman who had bequeathed Waterberry House to the Shining Brotherhood had been a scholar with an extensive collection of Malverne Isle historical records.
Turk closed the door behind him, bypassed the neat rows of books, and headed for the large leather folios stored in deep shelves at the far end of the room. In the last three years, when he wasn’t walking the skyways, he’d spent every evening studying the contents of the library. One of his most useful discoveries was a collection of royal dictates and proclamations going back decades.
He walked his fingers down the folio spines until he found the folder dated fourteen years ago, pulled it out, and placed it on the reading lectern under the gaslight. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t slept for nigh on twenty-four hours, but his mind wouldn’t settle until he’d checked the records.
The clock on the mantel ticked into the stillness of the early hours. As the sun rose, streaking gold across the page, Turk finally found the announcement for which he’d been searching. The whole sheet was devoted to one topic—probably the most notable royal event to happen in his lifetime. He’d been five at the time, his every waking hour consumed with finding food enough to survive, yet even he’d heard this news.
He carefully detached the page from the metal clips and brought it to his favorite chair beside the tall window overlooking the canal.
His gaze settled on the picture of Queen Juliana with he
r three-year-old daughter Melbaline in her arms. The heading filled a quarter of the page: PRINCESS MELBALINE STOLEN FROM ROYAL PALACE. The tiny girl in the picture had blue eyes and blond hair like Mel; and Mel’s delicate features, now indelibly etched on his mind, bore a striking similarity to those of Queen Juliana.
And then there was the matter of her feet.
Few people knew that the royal Ferilli family had six toes on each foot, although Turk wasn’t sure if the abnormality was unique to the royal family and could verify Mel’s identity.
Even though the princess was presumed dead, the reward for her return had risen each year until it now represented a fortune. If Melba were the lost princess and Turk returned her for the reward, he could use the coin to build a refuge for the children who scavenged a living on the city’s trash, as he had before the Shining Brotherhood rescued him.
The possibility burned away his tiredness. First, he needed to speak with Melba; then he had some important questions for old Master Maddox.
***
Melba woke sitting at a table with her head rested on her folded arms. For a moment, the sight of the grand kitchen confused her. Then she remembered she was in Master Turk’s house. A flash of determination woke her fully. Today she must persuade him she would be a good spy even though she was a girl.
Silence filled the house and there was no sign of Gwinnie, which gave Melba an opportunity to look for her old clothes and her pledge stone. She’d be in for it if Master Turk asked to see the starlight stone and she didn’t have it. Master Maddox had thrashed her when she lost his pledge.
Melba crept across the huge cold flagstones past the bathhouse to the back door. She opened the bottom bolt, then dragged an empty wooden crate to the door and stood on it to reach the top bolt.
A service lane ran along the back of the palaces. A few deliverymen trudged past, pushing handcarts loaded with vegetables, coal, and wood. She found Master Turk’s waste barrel tucked behind a wall, waiting for the trash man to empty it. If Gwinnie had thrown out her old clothes, they’d be here.
A Clockwork Fairytale Page 2