A Clockwork Fairytale

by Helen Scott Taylor

  He trained his gaze on her and pressed his lips together tightly before he said, “He’s getting the best care possible, Melba. And his pledges are being taken care of.”

  “I want to go and see him.”

  “He’s in the infirmary attached to the chapel of the Great Earth Jinn. Only men are allowed to visit as it’s inside the Monastery grounds.”

  “Stupid Shining Brotherhood,” she muttered. “Monks are unnatural. Do they think all girls have got scab or something?”

  “If you’re worried about him, I’ll check on him,” he said briskly. “Now let’s get on with raising this Flower Jinn or we’ll be up here all day and I’ve got work to do.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him, wondering why he’d suddenly got cross.

  “Cup your hand beneath one of the flowers,” Turk told her. She chose a huge floppy bloom with pearly pink petals and tiny black and gold bits in the middle, and curled her hand underneath it. Turk cupped his hand around hers so they held the flower together. Her eyes opened wider with surprise. The chatter of the roses faded from her mind and every scrap of her attention focused on the firm warmth of Turk’s palm cradling the back of her hand.

  “Are you concentrating?” he asked.

  “Aye.” But not on the rose… She inhaled the rose fragrance and managed to hear the flower twittering inside her head like a tiny bird.

  “While we draw the Jinn from the flower, we must keep the butterfly shape in mind. The easiest way for me to show you is if you watch me inside your head. I won’t be looking at your thoughts or memories, Melba. All you need to do is let me join with you so you can watch the mental process.”

  She didn’t like the idea of any mental joining, but she really wanted to learn how to raise a Flower Jinn. “I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

  “Just close your eyes, relax, and concentrate on the rose,” Turk instructed.

  She did as he bid and a pleasant hazy sensation crept into her mind like warm mist rolling through her. “Focus, Melba,” Turk said inside her head and her breath jabbed with surprise. Gradually the tension eased from her body and the shining Star inside the rose glowed clearly in her mind’s eye. She sensed Turk pull on the Star and it stretched, sliding through her awareness like the silk scarf stroking her fingers. The Star flexed and folded itself into a flutterby’s shape, taking on a deep pink tinge. She smiled and imagined silver gliss sprinkled across the pink wings.

  “Open your eyes, Melba,” Turk whispered. A transparent pink butterfly emerged from the rose in her hand and fluttered into the air, silver glitter trailing in its wake.

  Melba gave a delighted squeak. How had she lived for seventeen years without knowing she could make magical creatures from flowers?

  “Great Earth Jinn,” Turk whispered. “You certainly have an affinity for Flower Jinns. I’ve never seen one scatter sparkling dust before.” He removed his hand from hers. “Let go of the rose and hold your palm flat.”

  When she did, the Flower Jinn circled and landed on her hand. Its bright friendly energy tingled up her arm to ring in her mind like the sound of tiny bells. “It likes being free,” she whispered, wary of scaring it.

  “Some Jinns do, some don’t.”

  She could hardly drag her eyes away from the magical creation, but she glanced at Turk to see his reaction to the Flower Jinn they’d raised. Her gaze collided with the intense dark depths of his eyes and a strange tension hummed between them. “I shall miss you when you leave, my little Star,” he whispered.

  “Can’t I stay here with you and just go out to spy during the day?”

  He blinked and turned away, breaking the spell. “Ahh, Melba, if only it were that simple.” He passed a hand over his face. When he raised his eyes again, he looked tired. “Practice summoning Flower Jinns. It’s only a simple procedure, but if you ever need to protect yourself, remember lots of tiny Jinns can work together against a more powerful Jinn. Try a few other types of flower to experience the different personalities of their Jinns.”

  “What do I do with them once I’ve raised them?”

  “Look after them, of course.” He lifted a hand and brushed her hair back from her forehead. Melba’s heart nearly stopped beating as his fingers brushed her skin. “They’ll follow you around for a week,” he said. “Then they’ll fade.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, her whole mind focused on the tingly patch of skin he’d touched.

  He rose slowly and looked up at the sky as if searching for inspiration. “There’s something I need to do this afternoon, but I’ll be back later to discuss your future.”

  “You promise you’ll come back?” she asked, remembering how last time he’d gone out he’d stayed away for two weeks.

  “I promise,” he said. “You’re nearly ready to leave me to start your new life. I don’t want to miss your last few days here.”

  He gave a small smile and walked away between the bushes, leaving Melba staring after him with so many conflicting emotions chasing around inside her she didn’t know what to think.

  ***

  Turk sat at his desk, pen in hand, and stared at a blank sheet of best quality vellum. When he had taken on the task of transforming Melba, he’d imagined it would give him satisfaction to return her safely to the king. Now the time had come, he could hardly bring himself to compose the note requesting a royal audience. He knew Melba belonged in the Royal Palace with her father. She would enjoy everything a young lady could dream of and more, and Gregorio would be happy to see the rightful heir restored to foil Vittorio.

  But the gossipy backbiting nobles at Court would laugh at Melba and hurt her feelings. She would be alone in the unfamiliar society without a friend to turn to. The thought seared through him, roused his anger, made him want to protect her. Turk closed his eyes and faced the bitter truth that it had been he who trimmed the sails to the wind on this journey and he could not alter the destination now. Whether he liked it or not, the princess must be returned to the Palace.

  With a sigh, he wrote the brief missive requesting an audience with HRH King Santo Ferilli on a matter of great importance, placed the letter in an envelope, and sealed it with the mark of the noble who used to own Waterberry House.

  He tapped the letter against the blotter. The situation with Melba had stirred up unfamiliar emotions that had disrupted his work, caused a breach with his master, and distracted him from his mission to build a refuge for the trash tykes. He needed a reminder of normal life to get his feet back on the ground. He also needed to keep on good terms with Dante, the Trash King. He hadn’t helped Steptoe deliver food to the trash barges since Melba arrived, and it was about time he resumed the habit.

  Turk grabbed the letter and went to the kitchen. “Where’s the lad Steptoe sent across to run my message?” he asked Gwinnie.

  She had her sleeves rolled up, exposing meaty arms coated in flour. “This ain’t a doss house for ragamuffins. He’s out back on the steps.”

  Turk found the lad gobbling down a bowl of ice cream and he smiled. Gwinnie kept her soft side well hidden, but occasionally she slipped up and did something nice. Turk passed over the letter and gave strict instructions that it must only be delivered to the king’s personal secretary and not given to the bluejackets who provided security at the Royal Palace. He didn’t want it falling into Vittorio’s hands.

  He resisted the temptation to go back to the roof garden to see how Melba was getting on. Just like the Flower Jinns, he had found her Star and transformed her into something beautiful. Now it was time to let her spread her wings and experiment with her magic alone.

  Chapter Ten

  There is a Star that lives in your heart.

  —Master Turk

  Turk donned a scruffy bluejacket’s uniform. It was the perfect disguise because sailors of the Royal Fleet moved freely through all four circles and could wear a sword openly. It added an extra dash of irony that they were hunting him. He ruffled his neat hair and pulled the cap o
n crookedly before going down to the kitchen.

  Leaving by the back door, he followed the service track at the rear of the palaces. He cut down a cobbled street into the posh part of the second circle where the men of law, men of letters, accountants, doctors, and clockmakers who served the nobs kept smart offices with tiny diamond-leaded windows, timbered walls, and brass door knockers.

  He whistled as he trod the familiar route into the high-class shopping area and wove between the gentlefolk and their servants carrying baskets of baked goods, produce, and flowers. Taking a shortcut, he squeezed between some trash barrels and vaulted over a wall into the third circle. Most of the roads here were unpaved and rutted. He went straight across the circle between the seamstresses’ shops, bakers, and key makers, soon reaching the outer circle.

  Increasing his pace, Turk stopped whistling and kept a sharp eye on the shadows as he threaded his way along the maze of rat runs between tumbledown taverns, brothels, and the seedy boarding houses where the poor people who worked on the docks lived. Seeing his uniform, the dollymops lounging in the brothel doorways shouted lewd suggestions to him as he passed, but he kept his gaze on his boots. He’d learned quickly that if he so much as looked at them they would try to pull him inside.

  When he reached the southern end of the docks, he took the coast path toward South Spit Marshes. The steely gray waters of the Malverne Channel that separated the island from the mainland stretched into the distance, the dark streak of the mainland just visible on the horizon.

  Three merchant brigs up from the south swayed at anchor. Above each floated one of the small tethered airships that the Malverne Isle nobs coveted so much. Two of the brightly colored silk envelopes bore the design of the Silver Serpent while the third was decorated with a Golden Dragon. The shouts of the foreign sailors echoed across the water. He paused and watched a man clamber down a rope ladder from one of the airships, his silk neck cloth and sash bright spots of color against the brown wood and pale canvas of the sailing vessels.

  Turk had no clear recollection of where he came from, but his tawny complexion and black hair marked him out as a southerner. He remembered floating in the sky, staring down at a ship on the sea below; then plunging down and floundering terrified in the cold water. Only luck had seen him washed up on the mudflats near the trash barges.

  He continued along the coast. When the rows of trash barges came into view he checked his pocket watch and cut back across the marshy spit to the trashman’s track to intercept Steptoe. He’d timed it well and waited only a few minutes before he saw Steptoe and two lads pushing the handcart full of fruit and veg out from the city.

  “Hey!” He raised a hand.

  “What’re you doing here, mate?” Steptoe asked, with a laugh. “I thought you’d forgotten our little excursions to Dante’s kingdom.” He bumped knuckles with Steptoe in greeting and grabbed one of the cart handles to help push so the two lads could take a break. The boys charged around in the reeds, chucking lumps of wet sand at each other and shrieking.

  “I’ve been working on something for Gregorio, but I want to keep in with Dante.”

  Turk and Steptoe pushed the wooden handcart in companionable silence. Living in the city with fine clothes and fancy food, it was easy to forget the simple pleasures of the sun on his face and the company of a friend. Turk breathed deeply and the sour tang of trash on the air filled him with mixed emotions. His life had been tough but simple on the trash barge, and only a tad more challenging when he became a monk. It had become complicated only when Gregorio sent him into the community to spy. Perhaps he should have asked to be excused from the job and stayed in the monastery. But then he would never have met Melba. A strange flutter of feeling swept through him as he remembered her glowing face while she watched the pink Flower Jinn rise from the rose. He was glad he’d been the one to find her and help her bloom into a young lady.

  They pushed on to the farthest barge where Trash King Dante had his throne. As they passed the barges, tykes appeared out of their caves in the trash and swarmed along beside them. The children did not attempt to take the food in the cart and Turk did not offer it to them. All gifts must be given to the Trash King to distribute.

  As they approached the final barge, Dante’s gang of six youths roused from where they were playing cards. Dante himself was enthroned on a magnificent carved chair upholstered in red velvet underneath a patchwork canopy of fabric scraps in front of his workshop. He stood, stretched hugely, and ambled to the side of the barge.

  Turk had brought food to the trash barges ever since he joined the Shining Brotherhood. Just before he became a spy, Dante had turned up, dressed like a nob, routed Gwinnie from her position as Trash Queen and claimed the trash barges as his territory. Now he looked like a parody of a nob with his stained frock coat and dented top hat. His lapels glittered with an assortment of doodads and jewelry, while his long dark hair was braided with lengths of ribbon and silk.

  Dante was an enigma. He was reputed to be one of the most skilled gadgeteers on Malverne Isle and could have earned a fortune supplying doodads and gadgets to the nobs. Yet he chose to live on the trash barges and tinker with mechanical trash. Turk had no idea what to make of him.

  Dante propped a dirty boot on the side of the barge and rested his hand on his knee. “Well Master Turk, sir, you’ve thrown your lot in with the bluejackets, I see.”

  Turk ignored the mocking lilt to Dante’s voice and strode forward, knuckles raised. Dante kept him waiting just a few seconds before he bumped his fist against Turk’s in greeting. “Sorry I haven’t been for a while,” Turk said. “Work has kept me away.”

  “Running your little band of spies and thieves a full time job is it, mate?” Dante quipped.

  “Without a doubt.” Turk stood back and gestured to the cart as the hungry rabble gathered on the shore, waiting for the Trash King’s signal to tuck in.

  Folding his lean body, Dante leaped down to the shingle, and strolled over to the handcart. He tossed up an apple, caught it, and then backhanded it to Turk. “Thank you,” Turk said and bit into the fruit, trying to forget the fact it had been in Dante’s filthy hand. They’d been through this ritual before. Dante liked to assert his authority, so he gifted Turk an apple, even though Turk had brought him the whole cartload.

  With a gesture of his hand, Dante invited the tykes to eat. They swarmed forward all elbows and teeth, some more animal than human after years of scavenging to survive.

  Dante wandered around the outside of the rabble and sat on a wooden mooring post. “So why the bluejacket guise, Turk?”

  “It’s a free pass throughout the city.”

  Laughing, Dante nodded knowingly. “The Royal Victualler rules supreme, hey.”

  For someone who spent his time on a sandspit a mile outside the city, Turk had noticed many times that Dante had a very good grasp of island politics.

  It bothered Turk that Dante knew what he looked like and also knew he had been a monk before he became a spymaster. The Trash King was quick-witted enough to have guessed that Turk worked undercover for the Shining Brotherhood. Turk hoped Vittorio never questioned Dante about him. The Trash King would probably not think twice about turning him in for a handful of coin.

  Turk narrowed his eyes on the young Trash King, who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Dante tried to evince a common demeanor but behind the grime he had a noble appearance. His bright blue eyes were a similar color to Melba’s. What secrets was he hiding? Turk needed leverage to win Dante over so he would cooperate in rehousing the trash tykes in a refuge. The time had come to find out who the Trash King really was.

  ***

  Melba ran downstairs from the roof garden with her three flutterby Flower Jinns dancing around her head. The first one she’d made left a trail of silver glitter everywhere it went. Gwinnie would do her nut when she saw the mess. Melba had raised her other two Jinns from a yellow rose and a red rose. The pink one she’d called Dusty had a mischievous nature
and was still her favorite.

  When she reached the level her bedroom was on, she headed right, but Dusty darted off along the hall in the opposite direction, leaving silver speckles on the carpet. “Hey, rascal!” Melba trotted after it, holding up her skirts so she didn’t trip. Dusty disappeared inside a room. Finding the door ajar, Melba cautiously followed. She found herself in a bedroom the same size as her own, with the same view out of the window over the second circle. But everything else about it was different.

  Although she saw nothing to tell her this was Turk’s bedroom, the smell of lemon spice gave it away. The room was plain and sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a dark wood chest of drawers bearing a small mirror, and a chair beneath the window. Plain gold paper covered the walls, while the curtains, chair, and bedspread were dark blue silk. The only decorations were a gold Earth Blessing hung on the wall over the bed and a small set of sacred clay tubular bells dangling from the curtain rail to catch the breeze from the window.

  A deep silence filled the room. She breathed in the lemony scent and let the peace wrap around her. This room made her feel anchored and safe just like Turk did. In front of the mirror lay a simple oval wooden brush and comb set, not a fancy silver-backed affair like the one in her own room. She stared in the mirror and brushed her curls, imagining Turk standing in the same place brushing his black hair flat and neat.

  She walked around the room, running her hand over his furniture. She set the tiny clay tubes ringing and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sweet chimes. Inside the built-in wardrobe, she discovered a neat row of jackets, trousers, frock coats, and tailed evening jackets with silk lapels. On a shelf above sat a selection of hats and below a row of polished shoes and boots. Neatly folded in the bottom corner were her three jacket and trouser sets he’d taken back. The brown ones still fitted her, but she preferred to wear her dress now because it was pretty and it pleased Turk.