The Count had barely left his rooms for years, according to the doctor. As always, after waking she had read the note left for her the previous night on the bronze door at the top of the tower and obeyed the clipped instructions to the letter. Summoned by the bell, she loaded a tray with the Count’s breakfast of bacon and carried it carefully up to the bronze door. Seeing that, as most mornings, it was closed, Lily slid open the wooden hatch beside the door and placed the breakfast tray on the platform within. Then she closed the hatch with a click and rang the bell, listening for the rumble as the food was winched up the shaft to the Observatory. Only once had she tried to enter uninvited and sometimes she thought that her ears still rang with the roar that had told her she was not welcome.
She had never dared do that again. She knew what happened if a servant angered their master. She had seen it at the bookbinder’s, how the other girl had cried and clung to the legs of her master in vain. It was a rare master indeed who would take someone in who had been thrown away or publicly shamed. ‘Damaged goods’ they were called – the disgraced. Unable to work, or trade, or live. On the streets, with plague and thieves, she would be lucky to last a week. Lily’s master, the Count, held her fate in his hands and he was known for his temper. She never asked about the person who had worn her working dresses before her and tried not to notice that, although Lily was not large for her age, they were just the right size. One apron had been halfway through being patched, the needle and thread hanging loose, as if just put down for a moment.
When she returned to Mark’s room, the door was ajar. Cautiously, she opened it further.
He was sitting on the simple bed, facing away. His hair had been shaved during his treatment, to check for signs of infection the doctor said, but it was starting to grow back now, a dirty blond colour. He was already looking less thin than he had when he first arrived; he would be sturdily built when fully returned to health. As if he felt her gaze upon him, Mark turned, his face blotchy and pale, his mouth set in determination. He stared up at her defiantly.
Lily looked at him, tilting her head to one side. His grey eyes were dull still, but there was something new there, something she recognized. Curiosity.
‘Want to see the tower now?’ she asked.
He nodded.
After that, the next couple of days were easier. The tower had so many rooms to show, often all Lily had to do was to throw open the door. Mark’s eyes grew wide at the simplest thing – when she showed him the old, musty dining room he gaped for minutes before stepping gingerly in. One eyebrow raised, Lily followed him.
‘It’s only a table, Mark,’ she said, tapping it with her knuckles. ‘It doesn’t come to life.’
‘But… it’s real wood…’ Mark said, stroking it with his fingers. ‘Why would anyone make a table out of something this valuable? If my dad had this much wood, he’d have the best fishing boat on the Ora. He’d take me out with him and catch enough to feed all of us ten times over –’
‘If you think that’s impressive, you should see the silverware!’ Lily interrupted hastily and stooped to open the sideboard.
It felt stupid to be parading the Count’s possessions like this, but she had to distract him. Anything was better than thinking about his family. Especially since the doctor had told her that by the time he took Mark away, his father was the only one left.
Lily lifted a vast silver platter on to the table and pushed it towards Mark.
‘Care for a canapé, sir?’ she said playfully, gesturing to the empty platter.
Mark stared at her and Lily felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She was making a fool of herself.
‘Sorry, sometimes I mess about with this stuff,’ she offered in explanation. ‘Passes the time when I’m on my own, after I finish my duties. Otherwise I think too much.’ Lily drew up a dining chair and sat down. ‘That isn’t always a good idea.’
‘I… suppose so,’ Mark said, looking at his reflection in the polished silver. ‘A place like this… it must make you think. It’s like a legend,’ he carried on, gesturing around him in the silent dining room. ‘An enchanted tower, full of old, forgotten rooms… huge staircases… magical windows into other worlds…’
‘If they were magical, they’d manage to dust themselves,’ Lily muttered.
Mark’s mouth twitched and inwardly Lily grinned. The beginnings of a laugh.
‘It’s just a tower,’ she continued quietly. ‘The Count needs it for his business.’
‘The Count?’ Mark asked.
‘Count Stelli. My master.’
‘I thought the doctor…’
‘Dr Theophilus is your master,’ Lily said, and instantly regretted it.
Mark cast down his eyes; she could see him lose his colour again. She knew how he must be feeling. She had been the same when the orphanage had sold her to the bookbinders when she was half Mark’s age. Suddenly no choice but to work, because they had the right to stop feeding you. No one listened to a tool that talked. You lived on borrowed time, waiting for the day when you were declared useless and thrown away.
Mark sat down on another of the chairs, his lips pushed together, bloodless. Lily reached out for him across the table, letting her hand rest near his.
‘He’s the Count’s grandson, but the Count lets him run his practice from the cellars of the tower. The doctor’s a good man,’ Lily said, as gently as she could manage, and stopped. What else could she say? I’m sure he gave a good price for you even though you were ill? It probably saved your life to be taken away? All true, of course, but would it help? Lily did not waste her words, especially when they could cause more harm. At least she had only been sold by the matron of her orphanage. She had never had a family to lose. Mark’s life had been signed over by his own father.
‘Lily…’
Lily steadied herself for a question she didn’t want to answer.
‘Is… is his name really Theophilus?’
Lily laughed, the knots in her stomach loosening.
‘It’s an old family name, apparently. It means “loved by God”.’
‘Mum used to tell me stories about gods,’ Mark said quietly.
Lily cursed herself. Just for a moment she’d managed to make him think about something else. Fleetingly, they had been almost cheerful.
‘Anyway…’ Lily continued, trying to sound as if she hadn’t noticed his change of mood, ‘how long is it until your title day?’
‘My what?’
‘Your title day.’
Mark still looked blank.
‘Twelve years since your birth,’ she prompted, ‘one grand cycle of the stars.’
Mark frowned. ‘Two weeks,’ he said. ‘I was born on the last day of the month of Scorpio. Is that important? Mum said that your twelfth birthday was special, but wouldn’t tell me why…’
Lily smiled.
‘Then he only owns you until then. That’s the day you own yourself.’ Lily shook her head in bemusement. ‘You can’t mean that no one has ever told you about –’
‘I’m free?’ Mark interrupted, his eyes shining. ‘I can go home?’
Lily’s smile faltered. Looking at his sudden excitement, she couldn’t bring herself to explain, to point out that she had not said that. Not quite.
‘That’s the day you can make a choice,’ she said.
In his eagerness, Mark didn’t notice the difference.
As the next two weeks passed, Lily saw less and less of Mark in the daylight hours. The doctor was instructing him in his duties, mostly cleaning a wicked-looking set of scalpels and brewing up foul-smelling drugs, and Lily had to get on with her tasks. As usual, she dusted the ancient, empty rooms, as usual she tried to get Dr Theophilus to eat something at least once a day and as usual she took the Count’s meals up and lingered by the Observatory door, willing it to open.
The Observatory. Lily had only been allowed up there once, to polish the huge brass telescope. Then it had been daytime, but the Count had drawn the thick velve
t drapes across the tall windows that filled every wall. The only sky she had been able to see had been the painted ceiling, frozen into an eternal night. Lily could hear a rumbling snore from his bed on the far side of the room as she scrubbed away. She had seen the shafts of sunlight slipping through holes in the ancient fabric, sparkling off the metal before her. She had felt the back of her neck pricking, willing her to turn round, to fling aside the curtains and look down on the city. It was mad; the Count spent his days in a room full of windows, yet only ever looked up into the night sky.
It was Lily’s secret passion, to find windows. The tower was gloomy and most of the shutters were locked tight to keep in the warmth. But every time she had a moment she slipped away to the old bedroom, the room where she had first met Mark. There was a window there, though it was barely more than a slit in the wall, just enough to let a little breeze in. Peering out, there was almost nothing to be seen in the dense shadow of the tower other than a tangle of roofs and brickwork. But at sunset, when the sun angled itself just right, the light shone through, warming her face. At that instant, she could see the city, transformed from a threatening shadow to a glowing whirl of colour and spectacle. Then she could see other people hurrying past, see the distant sparkle of the River Ora and the far-off towers of the Directory of Receipts. There, in that moment, all Agora was laid out before her.
This wondrous sight was the only thing that thrilled her out of the daily routine. Apart from those rare occasions when the doctor had the time to talk to her, she had learned to keep herself quiet, to wrap herself up in practical detail, to choose her words, and even her outward emotions, with the greatest care. No one at the orphanage wondered about the city beyond the boundary wall. To them, the orphanage had been their home, but for Lily ‘home’ encompassed so much more. It was strange to think of Mark surrounded by a family but still so ignorant of the city, so sheltered. While she, who had never known any adult she could talk to without fear of punishment, had scrabbled for any piece of knowledge she could find. He still had no idea how important his title day would be, while she had spent as long as she could remember waiting for hers. For her chance to get out into the city and live.
Wearily, she contemplated the pile of dirty plates before her. Of course, that had been before her title day had arrived and she had learned that owning herself was not the same as being free.
On Mark’s title day, Lily slept late. She had been mending clothes all night and for once the Count’s irritable ringing did not rouse her. As she awoke, however, she could understand why – even in her windowless room she could hear the lashing of the rain outside. Last night would not have been a night for stargazing, so he was probably still asleep.
The doctor had taken Mark out with him on his rounds for the first time and Lily knew better than to disturb the Count if he had not summoned her. So she settled herself down in the kitchen, lit one of the thick wax candles and, squinting at her needle, began to stitch. The Count had a new formal cloak – perhaps he was expecting visitors – and his symbol, six golden stars in a circle, had to be sewn on. It would not do for the greatest astrologer in Agora to receive guests in an old robe. Lily frowned. All this for looking into the sky and predicting the future.
About lunchtime, the sound of knocking echoed through the tower. Lily rushed to the front door, the rain from outside spitting through the keyhole, but by the time she eased it open, only wind and water were visible. On the ground, wrapped in brown paper, a small box sat forlornly. Lily bent to pick it up, scanning the narrow streets for the deliverer. But, as her hand closed round it, she saw the name ‘Mark’ inked on its surface, already running in the onslaught of water, and she caught her breath. She knew what this was. This was an official delivery from the Directory of Receipts itself.
Wringing out her hair, Lily returned to the kitchen and put the box next to the fire to dry out. Then, going back to her work, she waited.
The candle had burned low before they returned, but Lily did not get up. She listened to the sound of their footsteps. She heard the doctor mutter something about being busy all evening, then his steps faded away, down the stairs into his workrooms, the deepest cellars.
Lily looked up as Mark came in and sat heavily on the wooden chair before the fire. Dr Theophilus had given him a long black coat like his own and he held it round him. His face, always wan, seemed paler than ever. He stared for a while into the fire and shivered. He did not speak.
‘It will get better,’ Lily murmured. She didn’t need to ask if it had been bad; that was etched into every fresh line on his face. Mark made a noise. It was too weak to be a scornful snort, but it carried the same idea.
‘So many of them, Lily… so many people…’ he said at last, his voice barely rising above the crackling fire. ‘Pressing against you, pushing past. Seas of people, and they all… all end up…’ Mark closed his eyes. ‘So many of them. Stacked in rows… I thought, if I looked hard enough, I’d find my sister… my mum…’
Lily cast down her eyes. So he had taken Mark to a plague hospital. That was where his work was, at the moment. Had the doctor even thought? Had he considered how fresh the memories were for his new assistant? From what Mark had told her, it had been less than two months since his family had first caught the same disease. When the doctor became wrapped up in his work, he never noticed the effect on the healthy.
‘And the worst part…’ Mark stood up suddenly, his eyes darting about. ‘They all had it. I could see it on the workers. They all had spots of grey on their hands. Dr Theophilus told them that if they touch others they will pass it on but they didn’t care! Like fish swimming for the hook… going out into the city, pushing through the crowds…’
Mark sat down again, suddenly exhausted. ‘If they knew what it was like, they’d never go out. Like you, Lily. Like us.’
Quietly, Lily put her stitching to one side. She felt as though she should do something – comfort him, hug him, tell him everything was going to be all right. She had read about it. But Lily had never known that kind of affection, so she didn’t have the words. Instead, she rose and reached up to the shelf where she kept the bowls. She filled one from the pot of stew she’d prepared and pushed it into his hands.
‘Have some food,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Lily watched him eat without speaking. For a long while, even after he had finished, they sat in silence. The only sound was the crackle of the fire, and every now and then an alarming rumble from beneath them as the doctor worked on his latest medicine. Eventually, still not quite sure of what she was doing, Lily drew her stool near to Mark and tentatively placed a hand on his arm.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
‘It…’ Mark began falteringly. ‘The medicine that cured me, it doesn’t work for everyone. It poisons some. He gave it to one man and he started screaming…’ Mark gripped the arm of the chair, his knuckles white. ‘After that, there were other things to do. Boils to lance, bandages… He cut off a man’s leg as well.’ Mark relaxed a little. ‘I didn’t mind that so much, the man couldn’t feel it, and we went into a little room. Not many people there. I got to clean the knife.’
Lily raised an eyebrow, involuntarily drawing back her hand.
‘You enjoyed that?’ she said.
‘More than the disease. You can’t catch someone else’s leg.’ Mark gave a tiny smile and stretched out his own legs, looking about the room. His eyes came to rest on the damp parcel sitting on the table. He picked it up thoughtfully. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked.
‘It’s for you,’ Lily replied, puzzled.
Mark squinted closer. ‘How can you tell?’
‘It has your name on it. See.’
Mark looked up sharply.
‘You can read?’ he said with a wary air. ‘Only receivers read where I come from.’
‘I taught myself when I worked at the bookbinder’s, before I came here,’ Lily said gently.
Mark gave her a look of bewilderment
. Lily shook her head and reached down to one side of her chair. She lifted up a leather-bound volume.
‘Have you ever seen a book before?’
‘Only the ones the receivers had…’ Mark shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. ‘My father said that they used them to keep track of debtors.’
‘This one isn’t for business,’ Lily said, holding it out to him.
Tentatively, Mark touched the cover, his curiosity plain.
‘So… what is it for?’ he asked.
Lily looked down at the tome in her hands. How could she answer a question like that? This book had been her escape for over three years, ever since it was nearly sent to the furnaces for being badly bound. It had been the first one she had learned to read, the first book that had been more than another job to her. She knew every tale by heart.
She smiled wistfully. ‘It tells you stories,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Mark reached out, but Lily pulled it back.
‘Open your parcel first.’
Mark turned back to the box, his hands nervously reaching out. Slowly, he slit open the damp paper with a fingernail. The wooden box inside was soaked through.
‘So that’s how you write my name?’ he said, tracing the outline of ‘Mark’ carved into its lid.
‘Yes,’ Lily said quietly, remembering how she had felt, only a couple of months earlier, when a similar box had arrived for her.
Mark lifted the lid and gasped.
‘Is it… gold?’ he said, breathing reverently.
Lily laughed. ‘Some kind of brass, I think. You can get them in gold, but you need to be a little richer than we are.’ She got up, and looked over his shoulder. ‘Happy title day, Mark. You own yourself now.’
Mark reached into the box and plucked out its contents. Sitting there in his hand it was less impressive: a flat, round disc mounted on a cheap brass ring. But carved on that disc, solemnly floating, was something Mark later said he had seen only once, when his dad had brought it proudly home from a rare catch, saying that it was a good omen. It was stylized, but there was no mistaking the five points of a starfish. Mark sat and stared. A signet ring.
The Midnight Charter Page 2