by Arthur Slade
He couldn’t tell them about Miss Featherstone. Chances were that she knew little, if anything, about the true nature of this society and he was certain they would do her harm.
Modo ran his sandpaper tongue around the inside of his mouth. His forehead was sweating. “An uncle,” he said, “of one of your members. Of …” He struggled to remember the names on the list. Mr. Socrates had made him work hard on his memorization skills, but he was failing nonetheless. “Sax-Romburg,” he said.
“Saxe-Coburg,” the woman corrected. She tilted her head inquisitively, a flattering angle that made her more beautiful. Except for her eyes; they were reptilian. She rarely blinked, which Modo found most disconcerting. “But you originally enquired about Mr. Featherstone. Are you lying to me?”
Modo shook his head quickly, twitching in anticipation of another blow. “No. No. I was simply trying to throw you off the track of my employer, that was all.”
“How did you know Mr. Featherstone was a member of our society?”
“Mr. Saxe-Coburg is a friend of his, or so I assumed.”
Her eyes burned into his. “So the Royals hired you?”
“Yes, an uncle. Renald. He’s overprotective, by his own admission.”
“Renald. The name isn’t familiar to me. And I know all of them.”
“He lives in Bonne.”
She tapped her temple with her finger. Modo shook his head and looked again. Could it be? Her hand was made of metal, each digit cut in such a way that her fingers curled and moved in the same manner as flesh and bone. She looked at her finger. With a schlickt, a razor-sharp nail suddenly appeared. It looked long enough to cut his throat. “You are not telling the truth.”
She stepped closer and Modo tried to edge away, straining so hard to break the manacles that he felt a vein pop out on his forehead. The claw marks on his cheek burned.
Her metal hand gently brushed his cheek, spiderlike. The tips of her fingernails were cold. Fine piano wires extended from her wrist up into the flesh of her arm.
“It is unwise to lie to me,” she said softly. She pointed her index finger at his left eye. Modo pressed himself against the back of the chair. “I must know why you are interested in Saxe-Coburg. Who sent you?”
“I—I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I only accept investigations through the post. I—I never meet my clients in person.”
Her finger was less than an inch away and he couldn’t tell if the nail was still extended. Now she pressed her finger against his eyeball. Modo let out an anguished grunt. “Stop! Don’t! No!” He spat the words. Would his eye break open? He thought of an egg leaking yolk. “Please! Please! I’ll tell you anything.”
“How do you communicate with these clients of yours?”
“As I said, by letter.”
“When do you next expect them to contact you?” With each word she increased the pressure on his eye.
“Ahhh! Tomorrow. Tomorrow! A letter will be waiting for me.”
“Where?”
“The—the Red Horn. Room—ahhh—three.” He was surprised how well he could lie, even with pain clouding his mind. “Please, don’t. My eye. My eye!”
“It is a beautiful eye,” she said. “It would be a shame to have to blind it.”
She withdrew her finger. Modo pulled in a breath like a bellows, filling his lungs as though he hadn’t breathed in weeks. His vision blurred; he couldn’t stop the tears. He wanted to weep, to lash out at his tormentor.
“What have you learned?” she asked. He blinked and blinked until he could see more clearly.
“That I should go back to my country cottage and give up detective work.”
She laughed. “Humor. Even at such a dire time. How courageous. What I meant was, what have you learned about us?”
“Only that you are a scientific organization. That’s all. I was just beginning my investigation. My employer asked me to follow and take notes about the group’s activities.”
He blinked away a few more tears, then closed his left eye. The woman looked concerned and, curiously, a little frightened.
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
He wanted to shout, Of course, you witch! You nearly poked my eye out! Instead he said, “I don’t understand.”
“You have blotches on your skin and your face seems to be swelling.”
Modo felt his bones beginning to shift slowly, his muscles starting to sag. He couldn’t control them any longer. It had always worked this way. After a few hours his muscles refused to hold their shape. This time the torment and exhaustion had sped up the process.
He coughed up phlegm. Seeing her alarmed reaction, he did it again, only louder. Then, for effect, he gagged on his saliva, letting his tongue loll out.
“You are ill,” she said, taking a step back. She pulled a handkerchief from her vest pocket and wiped off her hand. “What have you got?”
“It’s nothing,” Modo whispered. “Just a cough. I’ve been under the weather for the past few days. It’s not consumption, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Her once serene face looked very uncomfortable. Modo spat out a mouthful of slime and she jumped back. He nearly grinned; he had an advantage now. That was how Mr. Socrates had trained him: Find your opponent’s weakness and exploit it. Modo coughed again.
Hakkandottir backed up all the way to the door and knocked on it with her metal hand.
The door opened and in walked Fuhr, his joints hissing. The foxhound padded behind him. Intelligence and anger glared from its eyes and its skull reflected light. Modo blinked three times before he could see clearly that it had been molded from metal.
Fuhr’s cold eyes cut across Modo, then settled on Hakkandottir. “He’s alive.”
“Yes, so far. His knowledge of our operation appears limited.”
“I could interrogate him, if you like.”
Modo’s stomach churned.
Hakkandottir shook her head. “No. He is a small cog. His interest in Featherstone and, especially, Saxe-Coburg is distressing. Peterkin may not know much, but I suspect his masters do. We must move faster. Is the transportation complete?”
“Yes. The subjects have had the laudanum and have been moved to the lower station.”
“Then we are finished here. They will soon receive their final dose.”
Fuhr’s arm hissed as he pointed at Modo. “What about him?”
Hakkandottir shrugged. “He is of no value now and neither is this house.” With a flick of her metal hand, she knocked the oil lamp off the desk. Fire exploded across the floor. Fuhr, the hound, and Hakkandottir walked through the door and closed it without a backward glance.
Modo was dumbfounded as tongues of flame danced around him, the polished hardwood the perfect kindling. He struggled and kicked, trying to break free of the wooden chair.
Tharpa hadn’t taught him what to do in this situation.
11
Wolf Sick
That same evening a letter arrived at the Langham Hotel and was slid under the door of Room 443. Octavia Milkweed frowned, set her ragged copy of Frankenstein on the reading table, and retrieved the missive. She read it, committed its contents to memory, then lit it with the candle and let it burn in the brass sink. She turned on the taps and washed the ashes down the drain.
She scrubbed the rouge from her cheeks, changed into shabby gray clothes, and put her hair in a plain bonnet. If she were to be seen in the hotel dressed in this fashion, a porter would toss her into the gutter. She pushed aside the thick curtains, opened the window, looked around, and stepped out onto the small faux balcony. Her fourth-floor room wasn’t a wise choice for this part of her employment, but at least it faced Bond Street, which wasn’t half as busy as Regent, especially now that most of the clerks had gone home. She climbed down easily and dropped to the ground.
As she walked along Bond Street she examined the letter in her mind’s eye. It was all quite straightforward. She imagined similar letters being sent to agents throughout the ci
ty, throughout England, in fact, and other parts of the world, each cog assigned its task. It was boggling to think of the size of the organization. Or perhaps she was the only agent out on this particular night.
No, that at least wasn’t true. She guessed that Mr. Wellington, unwittingly, was doing their bidding as well. Her thoughts had turned to him several times during the course of the day. His voice had sounded youthful, which meant he could be her age. She had only ever met two other agents, and they had been pudgy old spiders.
Mr. Wellington had spoken in lower tones and there was a softness in his voice that had touched her. And he didn’t sound bitter.
She wondered what he looked like. She pictured him with muttonchops and laughed. No, that’s what sailors and old men wore. But maybe well-trimmed hair with a bit of a curl and a straight, narrow nose.
When Octavia had been a child in the orphange, she had often dreamed a man would come to rescue her. He would say, “I’m your father and my ship was wrecked. That is why you are here in the orphange. Now I can take you home.” Or he would be a rich uncle. As she grew older, she hoped it would be a young prince, and she pictured him so frequently that she could actually see his face. In the end no one came, so one day she left on her own and began her life as a pickpocket.
She couldn’t help imagining Mr. W as the young prince she’d dreamed about as a child. You’re being a bufflehead, Octavia. She laughed. Mr. Wellington might well be as ugly as Old Taff, who had taught her how to survive on the streets. Besides, there had been one prince in her life already, Garret, Taff’s “adopted” son. He’d been the closest she’d had to a big brother. But thinking of him saddened her, so she let the image of his dark hair and eyes go.
She approached the Breckham Moral and Industrial School, an old jailhouse that had been converted into an orphanage and training school. The sight of it reminded her of Lady Cotterel’s Orphanage, where they had attempted to shape her, one smack of the rod at a time. She’d hated them, they’d hated her.
But never mind. She was now dressed as a charwoman, in the employ of an imaginary lady. And this was not Lady Cotterel’s; this school was doing good work, training young abandoned girls and sending them to Canada or Australia to work.
She banged the knocker, and the clang echoed in the night. Soft footsteps approached on the other side of the door. It opened and a young girl in a black dress squinted at her. “What ye be ’ere for?” she muttered. Before Octavia could answer, a broom appeared from behind the door and swatted the girl across the head. From the shadows of the hall, a ragged, tired voice admonished, “You say ‘Good evening’ when you open the door after six o’clock in the evening. That is the proper greeting. How many times must I repeat it?” A hand pinched the ear of the cowering girl and yanked her away from the door. “Get to your bed!” The orphan ran off down the hall, holding her ear and sobbing.
An old woman in a brown dress stepped out of the shadows. “Good evening. How may I be of assistance?” The stink of boiled cabbage emanated from the house—or from the woman—a smell Octavia hated. Cabbage was all they had served for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Lady Cotterel’s.
“Are you the governess?”
“Yes. It is half past nine bells. Most of the house is in bed.”
“I am here to enquire about a prospect for Lady Mordray. I did not question my lady’s orders.”
“Ah, well, you are a good, obedient sort, then,” she said, turning her head so her voice carried down the hall. “Unlike some in this house.”
The woman reminded Octavia a little of Lady Cotterel. A few short years ago Octavia had been very much like the girl who had answered the door. For a moment her heart ached.
“So which prospect are you enquiring about?”
“My lady says she wants to know about Ester McGravin.”
The woman lifted one eyebrow, then licked her lips, exposing a set of false wooden teeth.
“Ester has taken ill.”
“Ill? My lady will not be pleased to hear that. She needs a replacement immediately.”
“I have other prospects, much further along in their training.”
“My lady insisted on Ester McGravin. What illness does the child have?”
“A fever. She will no doubt be healthy in a few days. Next time you enquire, please come during the day; it would be more convenient.”
Octavia nodded. “I will report to Lady Mordray and return when she sends me.”
The old governess closed the door with a thud and Octavia walked back to the street, mulling over her orders. The letter had clearly stated that she must immediately see this Ester McGravin face to face and note her condition, including, of all things, the appearance of her shoulders. The only details about Ester that Octavia had been given were that her hair was red and she was ten years old.
Octavia walked to the end of the block, then looked around to be sure no one was watching. She turned a corner and found an alley that led to the back of the school.
She hid near a bush. Normally, Octavia would observe a house for days before breaking into it, getting to know the patterns of the people who lived there. Old Taff had taught her that. But she didn’t have two days.
Only one light burned in the building, near the front, so she chose a main-floor window at the back. She crept to it and pulled hard on its frame. It opened to one side with a squeak. She poked her head inside and listened. Snoring, a few deep breaths, more snoring. The dull moonlight glinted off a metal bed. Octavia climbed quietly onto the sill, then slowly lowered her feet to the floor and waited for her eyes to adjust. Soon she could make out three beds containing three girls each, packed in together like sausages. No need to buy another bed if you can fit them all in one. She remembered those days far too well. One girl snored loudly. Octavia was thankful for that. It would help cover up any noise she made. She crept across the complaining hardwood floor to the door and opened it, peering into the hall.
“What’s you want ’ere?” a tiny voice asked from inside the room.
Octavia froze.
“Miss. Miss. What’s you want ’ere?”
The girl who had opened the door to Octavia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m doing an inspection,” Octavia whispered, crossing the floor back to the girl’s bedside. “Go to sleep.”
“Can’t sleep. Ear ’urts. What you inspectin’ for?”
“I’ve come to see Ester McGravin.”
The girl frowned. “Ester? Why?”
“She’s me mate.” Octavia slipped easily into her former dialect.
The girl blinked. “Your mate? And you want ’er out of ’ere before she’s shipped to ’stralia or worse.”
“Rather! Do you know where they’ve stowed ’er?”
“Ester is wolf sick.” The girl said this as though it completely answered the question.
“Wolf sick?”
“Yes. She howls ’n’ barks. She went out to get eggs, was gone a fortnight. When she comes back, she’s all hairy. She’s wolf sick.”
“I’d still like to know where me mate is. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“In the cellar, where the bad girls go.”
“How do I get there?”
“I’ll show you.”
The girl brushed past Octavia and tiptoed down the hallway. Octavia checked both ways, then followed. They took one turn, then another, and finally the girl stopped at a wood slat door that came to a point at the top. “I ent going down there with you.”
Octavia leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Wot’s that for?”
“Thank you. You should go get your forty winks now.” But the girl stayed and watched as Octavia heaved open the large door and felt her way down the stairs. The room was dank and clouded with a smell so sour it forced her to pinch her nose. Perhaps it had been a cesspool before the sewers were built under London.
In a corner on the far side of the room, a blue, ghostly light shone from beh
ind a black curtain. Between Octavia and the curtain, she could make out broken chairs, old clothing, a pile of coal, and pots and pans. The floor of the cellar was earthy and damp. She would slip if she wasn’t careful. She picked her way gingerly over a pile of bricks and through other rubbish until she reached the curtain. She pulled it back and gasped.
There, on a thick oak table, chained by her legs and arms, was a young girl with red hair. Ester. The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling threw so many shadows that at first glance she looked like a normal child. But as Octavia’s eyes focused in the dimness, she realized that Ester’s face was unnaturally elongated, her nose flat and wide, and clumps of her hair had fallen out and lay around her on the table. Her muscular arms and legs were covered with reddish fuzz. She wore leggings that were in tatters, as though she’d crawled over sharp stones, and her dirty feet were malformed.
Wolf sick. Now she understood what the little girl meant! Octavia committed every detail to memory, just as the letter had instructed, including a careful inspection of Ester’s shoulders. Sure enough, there was something odd about them. She inched closer. One large, shiny iron bolt stuck out of the top of each shoulder, piercing the girl’s clothing and reaching almost to her ears. Octavia pulled at the slits in Ester’s dress fabric to reveal fresh stitches etched on either side of the bolts.
Octavia’s stomach began to heave. She’d seen many gruesome sights in her short life, but this set her back on her heels.
Who would do this to a little girl? The governess? Was she conducting some sort of horrible experiment? If she was, then she had important friends, for this required a surgeon. Octavia had heard rumors of street urchins disappearing. Perhaps the governess was somehow involved. Or perhaps she had found Ester in this wolf-sick state and didn’t want to lose her investment, so she chained her down here hoping the sickness would run its course and Ester could return to her normal life in the orphanage. But what on earth were the shoulder bolts for?
Ester lay still as death. Octavia slowly reached out and touched a bolt. The metal was cold. Ester moaned, a low ululation. Octavia noticed marks on her legs and arms from the shackles, scabs and weeping sores. She must have been lying here a few days.