‘Sir… I…’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve offered Miss Devine a cut of any profits we make in exchange for damaging her machine, in addition to the rent. I also got this.’
He put his hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. When he took his hand away again, a phial of black liquid lay in her palm. On the side, etched in rough strokes, the word Disgust looked back at her.
‘You can conquer it without selling yourself, Lily,’ the doctor said softly. ‘If you take it back into you before a day has passed it will be as if you never sold it, otherwise it will be gone forever.’ He turned his face away. ‘I am sorry for my anger. You weren’t to know.’
Lily opened her mouth to speak, to tell him it was all right, but stopped when she realized he hadn’t finished. He looked out into the dark night and continued.
‘In the end, after my father died, my mother tried everything to keep up our rent. Everything except going back to her father, the Count. She started selling off her emotions, just little ones she could do without. Then one day she sent me off to Grandfather’s, with no word of explanation, along with enough jewellery to put me through medical training at the University. I wondered for a long time what she could have sold that was precious enough to pay for all that.’
The doctor turned away and fitted a new key into the little door in the wall.
‘Her love for me was particularly fine, apparently.’
He opened the door and went through. Lily followed, the little bottle of her own emotion pulsing faintly in her hand.
Inside, it was so dark that Lily could barely see anything at all. But there was a new smell, an odd one, like dust and fruits. Silently, the doctor reached up to light an old brass lamp.
As the amber glow rose, carved wooden pews became visible. Two statues looked down with benevolent gaze at the far end of the room, and high on the walls, almost invisible with the night sky behind them, strange windows covered in black lines appeared.
‘This was called a temple in its day,’ the doctor whispered. ‘At one time, they were fashionable. My father was the priest here. My mother came for an hour each week, just to sit and think about something other than what she owned. Then it was twice a week, then every day. Eventually, she did something my grandfather called foolish.’ He bowed his head. ‘She married a man who valued things you couldn’t touch, and hold, and have. It was her ruin, but she didn’t regret it for a day.’ He sighed. ‘Poor woman.’
As Lily looked, her eyes opening wider and wider, the sun began to rise and the dawn light streamed down through the windows of coloured glass.
‘It was always meant to be a place of healing.’ Dr Theophilus looked up, his wistful brown eyes sparkling in the multicoloured light. ‘Now it can be. Welcome to our new practice, Lily.’
‘Our practice,’ Lily repeated, under her breath. Yes, she liked the sound of our. No one had ever said that to her before.
And the sunlight felt so warm.
Interlude One
This room groans under the weight of history.
Its ceiling is tall, but lost in shadows. Somewhere up in the rafters there are lamps, but their light barely illuminates the vast gilt-edged portraits that line the wall, frowning down on the polished floor as if it had gleamed brighter in their day. But this room has never been light, not since the Directory of Receipts was built.
It is quiet. Even the sharp tap of a pair of high-heeled shoes, crossing its marble floor with steady step, vanishes up into the ceiling, to fade away to nothing.
The shoes reach a desk of mahogany. There is a falter in the step. Nothing that anyone would notice. No one except the figure behind the desk, whose quill stops moving.
‘Something troubling you, Miss Rita?’
A dry voice, a patient voice, but a voice that causes the woman before his desk to breathe in sharply. He notices that too.
‘No, Director. Except…’
A pause, the echoes of the woman’s last words linger. Her foot taps nervously. The Director, his face hidden behind the light of a thick candle, puts down his quill.
‘Your project. How does it progress?’
‘Nearly a year has passed since the girl’s title day, sir. But…’
‘Go on.’
The shoes take a step backwards. The temperature in the room seems to drop.
‘Are you sure that these two need our attention, Director?’
‘Patience, Miss Rita,’ the Director says, his quill once again scratching on the parchment. ‘All debts will come in, given time.’
The shoes shuffle and Miss Rita raises her head.
‘But are they who we think they are?’
The room holds its breath.
‘It is impossible to be certain. They are young, but soon they will show their natures. Then all we need to do is watch.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The Director’s secretary turns and walks away. And the Director of Receipts, surrounded by the cavernous space of his ornate, empty office, turns back to the papers on his desk.
Chapter Seven
THE DUMBWAITER
18th Virgo
Dear Lily
Sorry it’s been so long since I last wrote. It’s been so busy here at the tower and the Count keeps me working all night long. I’ve been copying out his patterns, transcribing (bet you don’t know what that word means!) old texts – I don’t have time to sleep or to eat or…
The ink ran out. Hurriedly, Mark jabbed his quill into the inkpot with a clink, flicking droplets over the page. He sighed, looking at his fingers, which were nowadays permanently stained blue-black from his con-stant work. Months of learning, and the ink still found its way to everywhere except where he wanted it. He began a new line.
I think my writing’s got better. Of course, I spend most of my time drawing diagrams, but the Count’s always teaching me new words.
Not always. Not any more. Those first spring months had been fabulous – for all of his thundering, the Count had taught him well. Now Mark could recognize a planetary conjunction in an instant, and at night he dreamed of the zodiac, which turned into fabulous beasts and figures before his eyes. The Count had even organized for their meals to be brought in from a local restaurant, so Mark never needed to brave the kitchen again, much to his relief.
But as the weather grew warmer and summer progressed, the Count retreated into his personal winter, demanding that Mark remember more and more, stuffing him with arcane facts until his hands ached from copying and his eyes streamed in the dim light.
Prognostication. That’s a good one. It means telling the future. That’s what I’m going to do at last! I’ve been counting off the days to Agora Day…
Mark paused, laying down the quill. He’d been thinking about what would happen on Agora Day ever since he had started his apprenticeship, of course, but writing it down made it sound so immediate – so real.
I’ve been practising, writing down the signs I saw. Last night there was a shooting star in Libra. That means something important and sudden next month, maybe even the first day.
The first day of the month of Libra and of a new year. Agora Day. The day of the Grand Festival. The most important day of the year. The day he was set to make his first public prophecy and be formally accepted into the Astrologers’ Guild.
I hope it means success. It was in conjunction with Jupiter – I think that’s a good sign. The Count said he’d guide me, but all astrologers make a prediction on Agora Day. It’s part of the celebration. Everyone expects it. So much for you saying that I never do anything with all this stuff! Which one of us will be up on the podium for everyone to see?
Mark stopped to think, hoping that Lily would take that last line as he intended – as a joke. It had been so much better when she had been able to visit, even if it was only once or twice a month. It could get lonely in the tower, particularly as the Count never allowed him to leave. But Mark had only dared to invite Lily to visit when he had been given a
day off and he was sure his master would not see her. The Count even frowned on Mark writing to her, knowing that she was still the doctor’s apprentice.
Not that Mark would have had the time to see her now. As Agora Day approached, the Count worked him harder than ever.
He held the pen up to the candle flame, the only light in this windowless room. He’d tried so hard, but everything seemed to have so many different interpretations, so many possible futures. He had wanted to tell the Count that he wasn’t ready, but his master’s glare froze the words on his lips. The Count made no secret of the fact that Mark had only one chance to be accepted by the rest of the guild, or it was back to the kitchens for the rest of his life.
‘The time is near, Mark,’ the Count had told him one morning, after a long night of stargazing. ‘Soon you will be ready. On Agora Day you will make your predictions and my rivals will be silenced.’
‘Your rivals, sir?’ Mark had ventured.
The Count had looked at him then, his sunken eyes gleaming in the morning light.
‘There are some who doubt the worth of astrology, Mark, some who see it as little more than trickery, and not the highest science of the gifted mind. They seek to undermine us, to destroy a family name as old as Agora itself. But you will prove them wrong, Mark.’ The Count had come towards him, grasped him by the shoulders, and spoken in a whisper: ‘You will prove the true nature of the stars.’
And Mark had felt very proud at that moment. Whatever the Count needed him to prove, he would do his best. This great man had put his faith in him. He was worth something in the Count’s eyes. Mark would not disappoint him.
He dipped his quill in the inkwell again.
The Count has visitors again today, the same ones I told you about before. Mr Prendergast, the lawyer, is all right, I suppose, but he always talks to me as if I was a little kid, and he smells of rotting flowers. Snutworth told me he agreed to be paid in this awful perfume once, and no one would trade it for anything, so he wears it all the time now, out of spite. Snutworth’s got hundreds of stories like that. If it wasn’t for him I’d never have anything but work to think about. You’ve got to meet him, Lily. He’s like you – he notices things.
Mark cast his eyes up to the ceiling, suddenly feeling lonely here in the anteroom beneath the Observatory, waiting until the Count needed him. He wished he had Snutworth to talk to now, but Mr Prendergast had sent him off to fetch news of the festival preparations. Only two weeks to go.
And then there’s Mr Laudate. Mr Prendergast calls him Laud for short. I don’t think he likes me at all. Won’t even look at me when he visits. Then again, Snutworth says he doesn’t much like anyone. Comes of spending his whole life praising people for a living. Mr Laudate seems pretty important to them, but I don’t think he’s much older than us, maybe a few years.
Mark stopped again. He was nearly at the end of the sheet. His quill hovered above the page. Should he ask about Dr Theophilus? Lily might like it, but the one time he had asked about him the Count had found the letter and thrown it into the fire before he could send it. The doctor’s rooms had been locked up and his picture had been taken down. Mark was fairly sure that he was wearing some of Dr Theophilus’s old clothes, since they were better than anything else he’d ever had but were made for someone taller and thinner than him. However, he didn’t dare ask. The Count grew more mellow with familiarity, but the old temper could still rise in a second.
I hope everything’s fine with you. And thank…
From above, he could hear fragments of the conver-sation drifting down through the floor. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded as though the Count had raised his voice, while a younger voice, Mr Laudate’s, grew louder to meet it. This was not the time to try the Count’s patience.
Thank your master for the medicine he sent. It helped me to sleep, and it keeps my father out of my dreams.
A pity it had not helped him to forget. After a few nights of heavy, dull sleep, the nightmares only came back stronger than ever, the ring on his father’s finger gleaming like a star as he signed his son’s life away to a stranger. He never saw his father’s face any more; even in dreams he couldn’t bear to look at it.
The sound of the trapdoor opening brought Mark out of his reverie. He looked up hastily at a clatter of footsteps on the wrought-iron stairs, as Mr Laudate hurried into the room. His face was flushed, his eyes sparking with something that looked like fury. From above him, the voice of the Count rumbled.
‘You’re a fool, Laud! Why did you enter on the business if you don’t have the stomach for it?’
The voice seemed more mocking than angry, but Mr Laudate spun round to shout back up to the Observatory.
‘A question I ask myself every day, Stelli. Perhaps out of a youthful desire to believe that you had some good intentions behind it all. I shall be careful not to make that mistake again. Mark! Where is my coat?’
Startled to realize he was being addressed, Mark jumped up to retrieve Mr Laudate’s hat and coat from pegs nearby at the side of the room. He held them out, but Mr Laudate did not take them. He just stared at Mark, the same strange, intense look that he had given him the first time they had met. Just as he seemed about to speak, another voice floated down from the top of the steps.
‘I must say, Laud, I fear you are turning down an excellent opportunity.’
Mr Prendergast descended the steps, leaning heavily on his cane, its silver handle glinting in the candlelight. Instantly, Mr Laudate’s expression hardened. He turned and gave a stiff bow.
‘Nevertheless, Mr Prendergast, I feel that the time for my involvement has ended. I have already publicized your event and ensured that everyone is prepared. That is the sum of my personal expertise.’
‘Quite so.’ Mr Prendergast eased himself forward, placing a flabby hand on Mr Laudate’s shoulder. ‘But it hardly seems fair that you should not reap the rewards of your effort.’
Deliberately, the younger man shrugged off the older one’s hand, his gaze never wavering from Mr Prendergast’s eyes.
‘My mind is quite made up. I wish to have nothing more to do with this. I have other business to attend to.’
For a second, Mr Prendergast’s smile faltered, then it returned, twice as broad as ever.
‘And I wish you the greatest of success.’
‘You are too kind, sir,’ Mr Laudate said icily, taking his coat from Mark’s arms and wrapping it round his shoulders. As he did so, he peered down at Mark’s desk.
‘If you intend to write letters, boy, then try to get a basic grasp of spelling and grammar,’ he said, his tone as sarcastic as ever.
Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Mr Laudate silenced him with a fierce look. Almost casually, he reached over and picked up the quill and a piece of fresh paper. ‘Let me show you.’
‘Ever the perfectionist, Laud,’ said Mr Prendergast from the bottom of the iron staircase. ‘A virtue that is difficult to maintain. Old men such as myself have learned the value of compromise.’
‘Perfection is a noble goal, sir. Even if not achieved,’ Mr Laudate replied.
Irritated, Mark glanced down to see what the young man was writing.
Get out of here.
He looked up, surprised, but Mr Laudate avoided his gaze, instead addressing himself to Mr Prendergast, even as he continued to write.
‘I have always prided myself on knowing when I am no longer required.’
You are in danger. They are deceiving you.
‘Indeed.’ Mr Prendergast polished the handle of his cane with a handkerchief. ‘And, I believe, we can count on your discretion. So important in a man whose livelihood depends upon the goodwill of the powerful.’
You’ll be damaged goods forever if you follow them. Break your contract if you have to. Stelli has enemies, a powerful society. They might take you in. They have the power to cancel debts. Even if they don’t, it’s better than staying here.
Mark stared, dumbfounded, as Mr Laudate continued, not a wa
ver in his voice betraying what he was writing.
‘I trust I understand what is important thoroughly, Mr Prendergast.’
I never thought they would take it this far.
‘Sensible man.’ Mr Prendergast began to come towards them. ‘Is the boy really so incompetent? I believed his writing had come on immensely.’
Mark didn’t dare to look up, suddenly terrified that he would see what had been written. Clearly Mr Laudate recognized the danger too. Faster, he scribbled his final words:
I’m sorry.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he straightened up, sweeping his hat on to his head. As he did so, he knocked over the inkwell with a flick of his wrist. Mark snatched up his letter to Lily, but in a second Laudate’s note was soaked, its message blotted out. Mr Laudate made an impatient sniff.
‘The boy only succeeds in making a mess, Prendergast. Would you walk with me to the front door? I have a few final matters of business to discuss.’
For a moment, Mr Prendergast’s eyes flicked between Mr Laudate and Mark, something hard glinting in them. Then he nodded and opened the bronze door to the stairs. Mr Laudate followed him, but as he turned to close the door, his eyes met Mark’s once again with another look of sudden intensity. Mark gave a quick nod, to show that he understood, and then the door was closed and they were gone.
Mark sat down heavily, staring at the piece of ink-sodden paper that lay on his writing desk. It was ridiculous. Why would his master try to trick him? Why bother, when he was bound to follow his every command? And what was this deception anyway? The Count taught him out of books that every astrologer had to study. Was every apprentice being deceived? Mark looked upwards, trying to hear his master moving in the room above.
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