“Wait,” Miss Bloom said. “If you want to teach someone to read, you’ll need better tools than this tripe.” She tossed Bright Verses for Bright Minds over her shoulder—right onto the floor! “The best way to inspire a love of reading is to read something you love . . . even if it is difficult.” Nan followed her as she walked along the shelves and removed a slender volume with a gilded spine. “Take this.” She offered it to Nan. “I think your pupil will find it much more diverting.”
Nan turned the book over in her hand. “Songs of Innocence,” she read. “What does that even mean?”
Miss Bloom smiled. “Once you’ve read it, maybe you can tell me.” Somewhere outside, a church bell struck the hour. “It is late. I’m afraid we shall have to talk of golems another time.”
Nan understood that she was being asked to leave. She nodded her thanks and turned toward the hearth. “Just tell me this,” she said. “The golems—can some of them be . . . messengers?” She was thinking of the words Charlie had told her on Bonfire Night, that he was meant to tell her something about the Sweep.
“I suppose they can be made for whatever need arises.”
“I read something about them in a bestiary. It said golems are made for something called obsolescence.”
Miss Bloom nodded. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose . . .” She looked down at the prayer book, still in her hand. “ ‘Obsolescence’ is a form of the word ‘obsolete’.”
Nan swallowed. “What does that mean?”
Her gaze met Nan’s. “It means that once a golem has fulfilled its purpose, it must die.”
WONDER
The girl owned very few things. She had her tuggery and her brush and her pail and her sootbag. Someday, when she was old enough, she would have the Sweep’s hat. And she had the doll.
The doll had brilliant green eyes—green as emeralds. The girl had seen it in a curiosity shop. The doll’s hair was missing in patches. It had a delicate crack along its porcelain cheek. The doll was perfect.
The girl would stand at the window and talk to the doll for hours. She believed that the doll could hear her. The girl was very young. She had never had a friend before.
The Sweep had very little money. He swept half the shire to afford her that doll. And when the girl took the doll into her arms, she felt her heart grow larger. She named the doll Charlotte. She promised Charlotte that she would black her dress and teach her how to be a proper sweep and that they would be together always.
The girl carried Charlotte on her shoulders, as the Sweep had once carried the girl on his. She told Charlotte stories, and they played games.
“Why is that filthy boy playing with a doll?”
The question came from a young lady, who was standing in a row of other young ladies. They were all wearing matching dresses and matching bows, and they held matching books in their arms. The girl would later learn that this meant they were from a thing called a “school.”
The Sweep was busy finishing work, and the girl was alone. The girl told the young lady that that she was a girl like them and that this was her doll Charlotte.
The young ladies in matching dresses began to tease the girl. They danced in a circle around her and called her mean words. One of the young ladies snatched Charlotte and waved her in the air.
The girl pleaded for her to return the doll. She was afraid that Charlotte would be frightened to be so high above the ground. “Give her back!” she begged. “Give her back!”
The young lady said, “Here she is!” and threw the doll—
up
up
up
into the air.
The doll circled and spun and then struck the ground with a sickening CRACK!
The young ladies retreated with their books, and the girl was left with her doll—whose porcelain face had shattered into a hundred pieces.
The girl wept bitterly. She tried to fit the pieces together, but they would not go. The girl was very young. She had never lost a friend before.
“Girl, why are you crying?”
It was the Sweep. He had returned from his work.
The girl held up the pieces of her shattered friend. “I have lost my doll. Some mean children tried to steal her, and now she is dead.”
The Sweep knelt beside the girl. “Those fools. They left the best part.” He reached into the pile of shattered Charlotte and removed a single doll’s eye. Green as an emerald. “You see this eye—it’s a magic eye, and it can see wonders hidden to the rest of the world.”
The Sweep held the eye up to his own, as though peering through it. He gasped. “You see that woman with the large bustle?” He pointed to a spinster hailing a cab. “She’s wearing the bustle to hide her tail.”
“She is not,” the girl said, sniffing. “That’s just the fashion.”
The Sweep seemed not to hear her. “Look! I saw it just now when she stepped into her carriage! A long, bushy thing with spines on the end—probably poisonous. See for yourself.”
He handed the eye to the girl, who squinted as though looking through it. “I think I see it!” she exclaimed. “A big, ugly tail. And if you chop it off, I bet a hundred more will grow in its place. And if you chop those off, a hundred more, and a hundred more after that, and on and on forever!”
The Sweep helped the girl to her feet. “Let’s get out of here before she comes after us!” He pointed down the way. “Look in that alley, and see if you can’t find a fairy door we can escape through.”
The girl and her Sweep spent the rest of the afternoon looking through the doll’s eye—beholding wonders all around them.
FIRST SNOW
It was the first week of December and the city was still. Nan and Charlie walked along the frosty rooftops. Dark streets beneath them, darker sky above. The last leaves had fallen from the trees. Cold air wrapped around everything like a shroud. Nan was thinking about Miss Bloom, whose parting words had haunted her ever since—
Once a golem has fulfilled its purpose, it must die.
Nan glanced at Charlie, walking beside her. Steam rose off his shoulders, drifting behind him like a white shadow. Nan had wondered a hundred times what Charlie’s purpose might be—why the Sweep had given him to her. But now that wondering came with a fear.
“Thank you for letting us visit the outside,” Charlie said.
“Thank Toby,” Nan said. It was because of him that she had started letting Charlie explore the neighborhood after dark. Windows glowed golden and warm along the road—illuminating little scenes of people preparing for bed. Somewhere below, Nan could hear the hiss and snap of the lamplighter, setting spark to the gaslights along the street.
Nan recalled a dream she had recently had about the Sweep—it was something that had happened when she was very small. In a moment of terrible heartbreak, he had taught her to see wonder. Charlie had stopped walking and was peering up. “Look,” he said, pointing. “A falling star.”
Nan stood next to him and looked where he pointed. The sky before her was starless and black.
Except for one speck of white.
“There it is,” Charlie said. “It’s coming to visit.”
The speck swirled
and spun
and drifted
closer to them.
Charlie opened his hands and the little speck landed softly in his black palms. The moment it touched his palm, it fizzled and shrank into a little drop of water.
“Oh, no,” Charlie said. “I melted the star.”
“That wasn’t a star,” Nan said. “It was snow.”
“What is snow?” Charlie asked.
“Snow is . . .” Nan stared up at the pregnant sky. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”
Nan woke to the sound of Charlie bumping into her side table. “Is it morning yet?” he whispered, feeling his way through the predawn darkness. “I heard bells.”
Nan sat up and listened for chimes—they sounded different than usual, softer. “Meet me on
the roof.” She threw off her covers. “And cover your eyes!”
She pulled on her trousers and coat as quickly as she could. She didn’t have a proper hat but didn’t think it would matter.
The sun was rising by the time she reached the turret window. Snow was still falling—fat, lazy flakes drifting slowly down from the sky in a way that made her dizzy. Charlie was waiting for her on the back roof. “The snows are tickling me,” he said. “Can I open my eyes yet?” Steam billowed off him like a furnace.
“Not yet,” Nan said, shivering. She faced him out toward the sun. “Now.”
Charlie opened his eyes.
Spread out before them was London—only it was a London transformed. The endless rooftops were now glittering and white against the sun. The streets were coated so thick you couldn’t make out gutters or potholes. Not even boot prints marred the expanse of whiteness.
Nan watched Charlie watching the world. “Where . . . where did everything go?” he said at last.
She leaned close, tucking her arm under his. His warmth spread over her. “It’s still right there,” she said. She knelt down and picked up a handful of fresh snow. It was so light it spilled from her fingers as she raised it. “Only now it’s covered in snow.”
Charlie stared at the handful of snow, his face carved in wonder.
He reached out to touch it, but it stained black and melted instantly. “I broke the snow!”
“You didn’t break it,” Nan said. “You turned it into water. Snow is frozen rain, and if it touches something warm, it will melt back into water.”
Consider the fact that Charlie had never seen or even heard of ice, and you can imagine how confused this left him. “So I can’t touch the snow?” he said. Already a pool of black slush had formed around his feet and was dripping off the edge of the roof.
Nan shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” Charlie said. He lunged ahead and stamped across the roof, steam hissing from his footsteps, kicking up slush in every direction.
Nan watched him playing with such perfect abandon. She thought again of Miss Bloom’s words and felt a flicker of worry cloud her mind. What if Charlie’s first snow was also his last?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the rainspout. “Hullo, Smudge!”
Toby’s hand appeared over the gable and he pulled himself up onto the roof. His cheeks were pink from the cold. “River’s froze up, so there’s no treasure to be found.” He worked one end of the pulley, bringing up his emporium after him. “I thought I’d pay a visit to my best girl and my best golem.”
“And you are my best Toby,” Charlie said.
“That goes without saying.” Toby removed his bag and tossed it onto the roof. It hit the snow with a satisfying crunch. “I brought a gift for you.”
Nan folded her arms. “I don’t want any gifts from you.”
Toby gave an amused smile. “I meant for Charlie.”
“I am a gift from the Sweep,” Charlie said. “Did you bring me a golem?”
“Nothing so grand.” He opened his bag and rummaged inside. “I was thinking about how warm you are and how that might make it tricky to play in the snow.” He emerged holding two enormous leather gloves that might have once been used by a smithy. “Just the thing for a soot golem, I’d wager.”
Toby slipped the two gloves onto Charlie’s steaming hands. They didn’t fit exactly right, on account of Charlie having the wrong number of fingers, but they fit well enough.
“Go on,” Toby said. “Give it a try.”
Charlie crouched down and timidly poked a pile of snow with his gloved hands. He scooped up the snow. “It’s not breaking!” he said. He was slushing back and forth with giddy little steps. He threw the snow up into the air and let it fall onto his head.
“What did I tell you?” Toby said. “Just the thing.”
Nan had to admit that it was a pretty thoughtful idea. She showed her approval by throwing a snowball at Toby’s head.
The three of them spent the next hour in a glorious snowball fight, traveling from roof to roof along the block. After that, they made snowmen together on the flat roof of the Foundling Hospital. Nan and Toby rolled the snowballs, and then Charlie stacked them up. “Look,” Charlie said proudly after several failed attempts. “I made a snow Nan and a snow Charlie.”
“A perfect likeness if I’ve ever seen it,” Toby said. “I can hardly tell it from the genuine article!”
The play was broken by cries from the street below.
Sweep!
Sweep O!
Sweep for your soot!
Nan looked up. She recognized the voices. “It’s the boys,” she said.
Charlie dropped his snowball. “Really?” Nan had told him all about her life with Crudd, and he had expressed many times that he wished he could meet them. “Can we do a snow fight with them?”
“Best not,” Toby said. “Wherever the boys are, Roger is close to follow.”
Nan and Charlie and Toby crept to the edge of the roof and looked down into the street. Whittles, Shilling-Tom, and Newt were rounding the corner, trudging through the black slush.
The boys looked even more miserable than Nan remembered. Their bodies were deathly thin, their faces red and chapped. They were shivering, even as they walked.
Newt looked worst of all.
He was carrying his own brush and bag now. Gone was the innocent child fearful of his first climb. His feet looked frostbitten. His eyes had the furtive, twitching look of an animal expecting to be struck down.
Nan heard a small whimper as he slipped and collapsed in a snowbank, spilling his sootbag.
Toby nudged Nan, and she looked to the end of the line, to another climber who had just rounded the corner—Roger.
“Get up, you lazy maggot!” he shouted. “That’s my soot you’re spilling!” He stomped up to Newt and struck him hard with the butt end of his broom.
Newt cried out in pain and scrambled to retrieve the spilled soot, already soaking into the blackening snow.
Nan couldn’t take her eyes off Roger. Apparently he had been promoted in Nan’s absence. He was wearing the blacks of a proper apprentice now—full trousers and a long coat with tails. New boots, polished to a shine. And perched atop his head was a black top hat.
“That’s . . . my hat,” Nan whispered.
Toby shrugged. “You weren’t around, so Crudd made Roger apprentice.”
“No,” Nan said. “That hat is mine.”
She looked hard at Toby, and he seemed to understand. “He must have swiped it after the nudge,” he said.
Charlie smiled. “I remember that hat,” he said. “That was my first pocket.”
Roger had Newt up by the arm now and was dragging him back to the others.
“I’m going to murder him,” Nan muttered. Before she knew what she was doing, she had packed a ball of snow in her cold fingers—packed it hard as a stone.
“Nan,” Toby whispered. “Don’t be rash—”
Nan leaped up from her perch. “You’re a stinking thief!” She hurled the snowball with all her might.
Perhaps it was her form, or perhaps it was her ire, but the snowball hit Roger with such force that the boy was knocked right off his feet and landed—splat—in the slushy gutter.
Whittles and Shilling-Tom, who had turned to behold the commotion, set to clapping. “Bravo!” Whittles called. “A spectacular performance.”
Shilling-Tom whistled with two fingers. “Encore!”
Roger meanwhile was sputtering curses and struggling to right himself. “Who threw that?” he shouted, spinning around.
“Get back!” Nan felt Toby snatch her collar and pull her away from the eave. “Get to the house, before he sees you!”
Nan, Charlie, and Toby raced along the rooftops, careful to avoid being seen from the streets below.
“That was incredibly stupid,” Toby said when they were safely inside. He threw his cap down and pushed a hand through his wet h
air. “I told you, Crudd’s still looking for you.” He was breathing hard.
“They didn’t see me,” Nan said, pulling off her coat.
“You don’t know what they saw!” Toby was staring at her, his face flushed. “Don’t think Roger won’t look on that roof. Let’s just hope there’s enough snowfall to cover our tracks.”
Nan had never seen him like this before. She didn’t like it. “Let him,” she muttered. “Then I can get my hat back.”
“Hang your hat!” he shouted. “If Roger figures out you’re alive, you can be sure Crudd will hear about it. And if Crudd finds you, then all of this”—he gestured to the house, to himself, to Charlie—“will be destroyed.”
Nan folded her arms. How had such a wonderful morning turned into all this yelling? “Why do you even care?”
Toby glared at her, his jaw tense. “Sometimes I ask myself the same question.” He grabbed his bag and marched back out into the cold.
THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER
After her encounter with Roger, Nan decided to heed Toby’s advice and stay inside for the next few days. The thought of Crudd intruding on her new life filled her with dread beyond words. And if he did find her, what would become of Charlie?
She tried her best to put these things out of her mind by throwing herself into Charlie’s education. She was relieved to learn that Songs of Innocence contained no songs. It was a collection of poems with pretty decorations around the edges. The pictures were strange and dreamy—they looked as if they were made from painted water and might disappear if you touched them. Nothing like the hard black lines in most books.
The poems were not printed in regular type but had been hand-drawn to match the pictures. The writer was someone named William Blake, but Nan liked to think that Miss Bloom was the actual writer. And that she had made the book just for Nan.
She took Miss Bloom’s advice and decided to focus on reading. Charlie had trouble sitting still, even for a poem, and so Nan let him draw on scraps of paper while she read to him. She sat by the crackling fire, reading him poems about shepherds and lambs and blossoms and other nice-to-think-about things. Charlie always asked to see the pictures in the book so he could draw them right, but Nan wouldn’t let him.
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