by Arthur Slade
Octavia considered trying to wake the girl, but all the letter had asked for was her observations. Just as she took a step to leave, the girl’s eyes popped open. She glanced frantically around until she saw Octavia. “Huh-huh-oo ur you?” she rasped.
“I’m a … a mate.”
“Arms hurt. Free me.”
The orders had said to observe her. Nothing else. Well, I can observe her as she goes to the doctor, Octavia thought. The hospital for children wasn’t that far away and she had enough money for a cab. That wouldn’t really be disobeying orders.
“Me hurt. Me do,” Ester whispered. “Must go back to Orlando.”
“Orlando? Where is that?”
“Home. Safe. Drink.”
She was mad as a hatter! The doctors would figure it out. On a hunch, Octavia searched several cluttered tables, pushing aside nails, a broken doll, and clay pieces until she found a key. She plunged it into the lock on the left ankle manacle and it turned. Ester moved her leg ever so slightly. It took a minute to release the remaining manacles. Ester rolled over and moaned. It would be near impossible to carry her out, given her weakened state. She’d be dead weight.
“I’ll help you,” Octavia said, feeling she had no choice but to try. “There’s a hospital nearby. Put your arm over my shoulder.”
With surprising strength and speed, the girl planted both feet on the ground and shoved Octavia.
“No touch me! So says the voice.”
Octavia rubbed her head as she climbed to her feet, surprised to find herself halfway across the room. She moved to grab hold of Ester, but before she could do so, Ester head-butted her in the rib cage, and Octavia fell to the floor again.
Footsteps pounded upstairs, followed by a yell. The governess was awake!
Ester shook her head, squeezing her temples. “The voices! Must go back to Orlando.” Then she was charging up the stairs.
A child screamed and Octavia remembered the little girl she’d left on the landing. She took the stairs three at a time and found the girl in a trembling heap on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. The window above her was broken, curtains flapping in the breeze.
“Don’t move!” Octavia insisted. “You’ll cut your feet.”
“What’s going on?” The silhouette of the governess appeared at the far end of the hall. Octavia patted the girl’s head, then followed Ester out of the broken window.
12
Fire!
Modo coughed and tried to gulp air, but all he inhaled was smoke. His heart thudded. His body was slipping into its natural shape. As he changed his wrists grew meatier, pressing against the manacles. He yanked his arm away from the chair, hoping to snap the metal or break the armrest, but he’d grown too weak.
He thought of Mrs. Finchley. If only she’d come and save him! He wished Tharpa were here too. Now. Tharpa would break the manacles and carry Modo to freedom.
I’m going to die! he thought. They would never know what had happened to him. Once he’d allowed the thought to enter his head it kept repeating I’lldieI’lldiediedie.
He sucked in more smoke, coughing deeply. He would die if he kept thinking like that. He knew better! Tharpa had taught him how to wriggle out of ropes and how to pick locks, but both his hands were bound by manacles. His wrists had now mushroomed, so the restraints cut into his skin. Another thick cough shook his chest. The dark hair he’d grown was falling out in clumps, sizzling on the floor. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He was failing Mr. Socrates’ test.
I’m sorry, Mr. Socrates! I’m sorry!
“You naughty brat.”
Modo’s heart leapt. “Mrs. Finchley?” he moaned into the smoke. “Mrs. Finchley!” No, she wasn’t there. His brain was addled, but he remembered one of the times she’d called him a brat. She had left a jar of sweet biscuits on the highest bookshelf in his room, believing he couldn’t reach it. But he climbed the doorframe, grabbed the jar, and landed softly on the floor. Triumphant, he lifted the lid, only to discover he couldn’t fit his hand into the jar. In a moment of inspiration he’d transformed his hand into a smaller one, pushed it inside, and grabbed a biscuit. Overjoyed, he lost control of his transformation and his hand snapped back to its bulbous shape, becoming stuck in the jar. That was how Mrs. Finchley found him. “Oh, Modo, you naughty brat,” she had said, chuckling in her soft, sweet way. “You’ve got to get your own self out of this—I’m not breaking my best jar.” Then she said, “You know, Modo, you could have turned it over and poured the biscuits out.”
Another bout of coughing and gagging interrupted his remembrance. No air. He fell forward, expecting to faint, and then he remembered. Smoke rises! He lowered his head between his knees, taking a few desperate breaths.
That was when it occurred to him: the biscuit jar! That was the answer. He was able to do it then; he could do it now. The transformation began in his imagination, just by picturing his hand smaller, thinner.
He coughed so hard he thought he would spit blood. He forced himself to hold his breath, just to stop the coughing for a few moments. Again he concentrated on the transformation of his right hand.
His wrist grew smaller. His bones were pressing tightly against one another. There was nowhere for his flesh to go. He needed air badly, but if he let himself breathe he would cough and then he would be done for.
He pulled his hand back from the manacle as hard as he could. “I won’t die here!” He wanted to see Mrs. Finchley again, Mr. Socrates, Tharpa. And Miss Featherstone.
That her face should come to him at this moment surprised him, but it gave him an extra surge of strength and, by allowing the manacle to tear away part of his skin, he was able to free his hand. In his pain he sucked in a lungful of smoke. Hacking and coughing, he grabbed at his throat, the flames so close they licked at his feet.
“No,” he shouted. “You can’t have me!”
He slammed his fist against the opposite arm of the chair until it cracked and the chain fell loose, dangling from his other hand.
He could only see clearly through his slightly larger eye, the other still ached too much from being poked by Hakkandottir. Standing up, he lifted the chair so that the chains slipped off its legs. His feet were manacled together, but he could still take small awkward steps. The heat was singeing his hair, he had to slap out the sparks on his clothing.
With his last reserve of strength he staggered through the flames. Using his shoulder he smashed through the door and stumbled into the library, tripped over a stool, and slid across the floor. Before him the bookshelves danced with flames. He saw a dim rectangular light to his left. The window! He picked up an ottoman and threw it through the window, then leapt over the frame, glass slicing open his smoldering clothes and leathery skin. Diving into the grass, he rolled and shook himself until he was certain the flames were out.
Air. Pure, fresh air. Modo gasped and spluttered, spat ashes, took in another breath and another. Beside him, the house was alive with fire.
He lay there heaving for a full minute, then wiped his face with his sleeve, noting that it was alight. He swatted it out on the dewy grass.
“Fire! Fire!” a man yelled. “The Munsen house is burning. Alert the fire brigade!”
Modo heard a chorus of voices and pounding footsteps.
“There’s someone lying over there.”
Modo could not find the strength to get up, could only lay gasping as Londoners came rushing to see the spectacle. Soon a small crowd had gathered, including a few children, many in their nightclothes.
“He’s hurt!” said a gentleman in a robe, his nightcap pulled down to his ears. “Can we help you, sir?”
Modo rolled away from them, keeping his face hidden behind his arms. “Yesss …” But the act of speaking made him cough and he accidentally moved his arms.
A young woman pointed at him. “Look at his face! It’s … it’s melted.”
The horror of her expression was more than he could stand. He looked away.
“O
h, how terrible,” someone said.
He had to flee from them. Groaning, Modo sat up, his chains rattling madly. His features were clearly lit by the flames. Everyone backed away from him. The children hid behind their parents.
“Don’t come any closer!” he shouted as a woman fainted. He covered his face with his hands. “Get away! Please go away!” He shook his arms, clanging the chains.
“He’s an escaped convict,” a man shouted. “He must have started the fire.”
Modo stood, shakily, then scrambled to the street, lurching into the dark.
The journey home, climbing from rooftop to rooftop, dragging the chains, nearly broke him. Even crawling was more than his body could bear. He finally gave up and lowered himself to the street. When a wagon carrying straw and manure in the direction of Seven Dials stopped for a moment, he slipped into the back of it and crouched down, trying not to cough.
He struggled to climb the wall of the Red Boar, then pushed open the window to his room and tumbled to the floor. He stank of smoke and his throat was painfully dry. He grabbed the flask next to the bed and poured the last of its contents over his lips and across his face, wincing when the liquid hit his open wounds. His right hand, where the skin had been torn, was still bleeding. And his knuckles hadn’t changed back to their original shape.
Modo stared at the ceiling. He needed rest but his face was on fire from the scratches, his eyes still stung. He coughed up a mucus ball the size of a bat and spat it out on the floor.
“Mrs. Finchley … help,” he whimpered. He longed for her soothing hands, her kind words. She had calmed him following the nightmares he’d had after the first time he saw himself in the mirror. He wished with all his heart that she would walk through his door and comfort him now. Maybe she would take him to Venice. She’d told him how many people wore masks in that city. He’d fit right in. No one would try to kill him there.
He rubbed at his face, reached for his dirty sheets to wipe his eyes and nose. He looked at his arm in the moonlight. None of the wounds was deep enough for stitches. But they could go septic.
He pushed himself out of bed, lurched over to the dresser, and made a poultice from his few bottles of liniments and flour. Pressed against the cuts, it dulled the soreness slightly. He glanced in the mirror to find that the cuts on his face weren’t as deep as he had feared.
He picked the locks on the manacles using a pin and two nails, all the while cursing himself. He’d left behind his haversack and had ruined his only set of fancy clothes. They’d be expensive to replace.
Before opening his door he looked out the peephole to be sure no one was around. Waiting on the floor in the hall was a plate of pork buttons that looked as though they had been picked over by a cat. A glass of warm ale sat beside it, most likely the death trap of flies. He silently thanked little Oppie. These days the boy was the most dependable person in his life. Maybe, one day, he would invite him in and teach him to read a bit; that’d give the lad a leg up.
Modo took his dinner back to his bed and devoured the pork and drank the ale. One idea flared red in his mind: I could have burned alive! I was nearly murdered! He shuddered. At least Hakkandottir would think he was dead and would not be pursuing him.
He had enough money to spend a day or two recovering, rather than working, but he wondered if he should warn Audrette Featherstone that her brother was part of a dangerous underground group. Then Modo remembered how Fuhr had insisted that Featherstone had no siblings. If he was to be believed, who, then, was Audrette?
In his pocket he found the piece of paper on which she’d written the Featherstone address and examined it as though he might learn something from the handwriting. Had she known all along that this little assignment might result in his being killed?
He stumbled to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and pensively examined his collection of masks. He picked up a black one, a night mask, his fingers tracing the nose and eyeholes, lost in thought. There was, after all, a mystery to be solved now. He put the mask on.
13
The Hunter and the Hunted
Octavia ran down the streets, cursing her skirts and corset with every step. She’d always hated being restrained by women’s clothing. Meanwhile, Ester loped with feral speed and slyness. She darted here and there, leaping over fences and, finally, scrambling down the gas-lit pathways in Regent’s Park. Octavia followed, and once she reached the open grass, she kicked off her shoes, snatched them up with one hand, and lifted the hem of her dress with the other so she could run full tilt.
The gaslights were soon of little use, because Ester had slipped into the bushes off the path. Octavia chased her through a grove of trees and more bushes, past a statue. She was only five yards away. I’ve got you now!
She’d have to tie this girl up, but with what? The stays from her corset would be too difficult to get at. Her sash had her secret pouch, she couldn’t lose that. Her hair ribbons! They would be long enough to tie several tight knots. She pulled off her bonnet, letting it drop to the ground, then felt around for the ribbons and yanked them out. Her long hair fell behind her.
But in that moment she’d lost sight of Ester. Octavia kept running straight, until she saw a few branches move and heard a thunk. She burst through a line of bushes to discover a knoll, a fountain, and another Greek statue, but no wolf girl. She looked behind the statue. No sign of her, but there was a manhole lid set in the cobblestones. She’d heard stories of men who worked below London clearing the clogged sewers. Not a place she’d like to have tea, but it would be the perfect hidey-hole.
Octavia leaned over and grabbed hold of the cover’s edge. She dug her feet into the ground, but was only able to lift the lid an inch before dropping it with a clang. There was no way in heaven that Ester could have lifted it. Octavia found a thick branch, but it snapped the moment she tried to pry the lid off.
Ester couldn’t have hidden down there. But then Octavia remembered the way Ester had thrown her—thrown her!—across the room. How her ribs still ached! This girl was unnaturally strong.
At last, perspiring, Octavia gave up on trying to lift the lid, and on capturing Ester. In any case, she had more than accomplished her assigned task. Ester was free of the orphanage, at least, though Octavia wasn’t certain that was a good thing anymore. However, if Ester was in the sewers she certainly seemed tough enough to face any danger she might find down there.
Octavia slipped her shoes on, took one last look around, and walked out of the park. It was a few minutes before a cab passed down Hadford Street. She hailed it, and as the cabbie drove to the address she’d been given, she wrote her observations of Ester’s condition using a pencil and a piece of paper she’d tucked into her sash earlier. She bit her lip, concentrating. Each bump made her hand jerk. It was hard to tell in the dark if the note would be readable.
Octavia had the driver wait while she walked up the front path of the three-story mansion, passing through a large iron gate. One corner of the house was a tall turret, its slit windows lit. The letter box at the front door was also in the shape of a turret. She dropped her letter into the drawbridge of the letter box. When the hinge closed, a soft bell sounded. She hurried to the carriage.
Back at the Langham, she walked to the far side of the hotel and waited until Bond Street was clear. She checked to be sure no one was looking out the hotel windows, then hiked up her skirts and tucked them in her sash. She scaled the faux balconies to her room and swung herself, legs first, into the open window. It wasn’t exactly a graceful entrance; her dress caught on the iron latticework and she felt half undressed by the time she’d squeezed in, kicking her way past the long, heavy curtains. As she fought to tidy her skirts, she envied men and their trousers. Her perfect life would be a place where she could wear trousers all the time. On an island, perhaps. With a prince.
“Out for a stroll, were you?” a gruff voice snapped.
Octavia swallowed her panic and answered as calmly as she could. “I needed a bit of
fresh air.”
“Mmm. Is there no fresh air outside the front door?” The voice came from the far corner of the room.
“Sometimes a lady desires a little privacy.” It was too dark to see anything. She had sewn a small opening in her dress so she could speedily slip her stiletto from a sheath worn around her left thigh. She grasped the handle. I have one chance, she told herself. Strike hard.
“Reaching for your weapon?” he asked. She heard shuffling, a squeak of the floor.
She caught her breath. “No, no. Only smoothing out my dress.”
“Then remove your hand. Slowly.”
She did, leaving the stiletto in its sheath. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t know your name.”
“And I do not know yours, apparently. And therein lies the problem.” He chuckled. “Lies. The. Problem. Yes, that is a very apt description of the situation. Lies. Lies. Lies.”
She had no idea what he was going on about. He sounded as though he had a slate loose. Her eyes had adjusted and she could make out the lines of her bed, the dresser beside it, and in the corner, on a chair, a lumpy shape.
She considered the distance: three or four yards at most. She could leap over and strike in a heartbeat. However, it was likely that he had a pistol.
“Why are you mumbling on about lies?” she asked.
“Because lies are what you are cloaked in.”
“And how would you know that?” She took tiny, imperceptible steps toward him, only to discover, to her horror, that there wasn’t a man in the chair, just a coat dropped onto it. Her heart thudded.
“I only want the truth from you. What is your name?”
She was certain the voice was behind her now. She smelled smoke. “My name is none of your concern.”
“Well, None of Your Concern, it is a pleasure to meet you. Again.”
Again? His voice was indeed familiar, but it was so guttural and strained she couldn’t recognize it.