A wooden scaffold had been erected over the mouth of the well in the center of the clearing, where people had presumably once drawn their water. The man was now using a rope and pulley to hoist the fabric—like a sail—into the air above it. Once this was done, he returned to the shed for the wicker basket, which he hauled outside and tipped at an angle so that the prominent T-shaped pole was placed directly over the top of the well and beneath the mass of fabric. He then proceeded to attach a series of cords from the base of the sail to the edges of the basket, taking care to knot them tightly. Finally, wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned back to the shed and said, “Are ye coming, then? Or do ye expect me to get this contraption off the ground without ye?”
Cirrus froze, terrified that he had been seen, but then realized that the man was speaking to whoever—or whatever—was still hidden in the shed.
A ball of flame shot out of the building and circled round the clearing before settling on the iron perch above the basket. Cirrus staggered back and sucked in his breath in amazement. It was a bird made of fire! But that was impossible, surely?
He rubbed his eyes and then stared even harder at the fierce, flaming creature. The bird was flickering all over with gold and crimson feathers. It burned so brightly it was painful to look at, but was so dazzling in its beauty it was difficult to look away. Even the crows had gathered overhead, silently watching.
The man had donned a pair of thick leather gloves and was stroking the bird’s gleaming breast with his fingers. “Aye, that’s my girl,” he said. “How about we give them wings of yours a stretch, eh? No one’ll notice us in this weather.”
The bird screeched in reply—a loud, piercing shriek that made Cirrus want to cover his ears—and then began to fan its wings, sending huge gusts of flame into the air. The crows broke into applause.
To Cirrus’s amazement, the fabric above the basket started to bulge and flutter, as though someone were trapped inside it. And then very slowly the basket lifted a few inches off the ground.
Cirrus gripped the wall of the shed, disbelieving his eyes. What sort of magic was this? Could he be dreaming? He pressed his forehead against the stone, trying to control his racing thoughts, but then became aware of an awful silence.
The bird had stopped fanning its wings, and the crows, too, had grown abruptly quiet. The man was staring in his direction.
For a terrible moment their eyes met and then, before Cirrus could get away, the man took several lunging steps toward him.
“It’s you!” he shouted. “Come to disturb my bird again, have ye?”
Cirrus stumbled backward and tripped over a bit of rubble behind him.
“No, sir,” he said, as the man bore down upon him. “I was only looking, honest.”
“Well, I’ll teach you to mind your business,” said the man, grabbing Cirrus by the collar and lifting him off his feet.
Cirrus could see now that the man’s face was covered in yet more inky markings, just like the tattoos on his arms. Cirrus was shaking in terror.
“Poking your nose in where it don’t belong!” hollered the man. “I’ll show you what—”
Suddenly, he stopped and a different expression came over his face. His brow furrowed and he squinted at the tag that Cirrus wore round his neck. His foundling’s medallion, a little brass disk embossed with the image of a lamb. Unlike the other boys in the hospital, however, Cirrus had never been issued a number.
“Well, I’ll be …,” said the man softly, loosening his hold a little. “You’re him, ain’t ye?”
Cirrus managed to wriggle free, aware of the eagle-like bird watching him from the clearing and the crows perched ominously overhead.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said, glancing behind him at the dry rutted path that led to the bridge. He wondered if he could reach the fields before the birds had a chance to attack him.
The man took a couple more steps toward him. “Now, don’t be afraid,” he said, moving slowly. “I ain’t going to harm ye. All I want is—”
But Cirrus had already spun round and was hurtling down the path as fast as his legs could carry him. He was aware of the man’s footsteps thundering behind him, but they soon fell back, and even the crows that had exploded noisily into the air did not pursue him.
Heart pounding, he galloped across the bridge and over the field toward the Gallows Tree, the long grass whipping at his legs and the foul air streaming past his cheeks.
He looked back just once, as he neared the old dirt road, but there was no sign that the man from Black Mary’s Hole was following him. Still, he did not let up until he had reached the back of the hospital and scurried up the rope to the top of the wall. Then he quickly dived over the side and joined the other boys, who had finished their cold baths and were heading to the chapel.
Across London
Pandora twined her fingers round the bars of the iron railing, waiting. She had fooled Mr. Sorrel by pretending to return to her room earlier that evening, but had quickly doubled back and crept outside. Following the mews round to the front of the house, she had ducked into hiding next to the park in the middle of the square.
Beside her, in the garden, roses exhaled, filling the air with a sweet dusky scent. There was no breeze. Even so, she found herself shivering. After the grueling heat of the day, the night had turned cold and mist hung in veils between the lanterns that shone outside some of the houses.
At last she heard the jingle of a harness and saw the lumbering form of the horse and carriage drawing near. The horse snuffled and snorted, tossing its head from side to side, as though it could sense her hiding nearby, but the coachman took no notice and grabbed a gilded lantern from the front of the carriage as soon as it came to a stop. He advanced toward the door.
Madame Orrery appeared in a patch of golden candlelight and glided down the path. Her hair had been generously powdered and a fur stole draped across her shoulders like a layer of freshly fallen snow.
Pandora watched as the coachman opened the carriage door for the woman and saw her comfortably inside. Then he worked his way to the front of the carriage, replaced his lantern and picked up the reins. He clicked his tongue and the horse quickstepped into motion, slipping on the cobblestones.
Immediately, Pandora propelled herself into action. She rushed out of the shadows and grabbed onto the back of the carriage, just as it threatened to pull away. It was harder than she had imagined. The carriage gave a rough, unexpected jolt that nearly threw her to the ground, but she managed to cling onto a projecting metal rail and carefully brought her feet up off the road. A small platform lay between the wheels and she dug her heels onto it, gradually sinking into a safe, squatting position—exactly as she had seen the street urchins do on her first trip across the city.
The carriage swiftly gathered pace, barreling toward St. Giles’s. Several times she almost fell off, grimacing as the wheels thundered over the paving stones, but she gritted her teeth and held on. Unlike the body of the carriage, which was finely sprung, the platform rocked and juddered. Her bones shook, her fingers throbbed and vibrations traveled up and down her arms and legs. Her dress was soon splattered with filth from the refuse that littered the roads.
Deeper and deeper into the city they drove until she began to lose all sense of direction. Small fires glimmered in the lanes between buildings and she could see ragged figures hunched in doorways or else crammed under stalls. Night watchmen prowled the streets, poking their lanterns into shadows, telling troublemakers to move on. She made herself as small as possible, hoping to remain out of sight, and if anyone noticed her they didn’t call out.
Finally, the road widened and Pandora found herself on an avenue she knew quite well: the broad thoroughfare leading up to the hospital. She could see the dark buildings huddled behind their protective stone walls and was surprised by the feeling inside her. She had missed the hospital far more than she had realized and longed once more to be within its halls.
She jump
ed off the carriage as soon as it slowed to a crawl and stole across the street to a smelly yard in which to hide. Large mounds of ash had been piled around the enclosure and clouds of dust swirled before her eyes.
From the safety of her vantage point, she watched as the carriage drew to a halt outside the hospital gates and a white-haired figure, carrying a lantern, appeared. The Governor. She recognized him from the way he limped as he escorted Madame Orrery up the drive.
Pandora tripped over a sudden difficulty. How was she to get inside? The porter had just taken up a position beside the gates and was chatting amiably with the coachman, who had pulled up the collar of his long brown riding cape, as if to wait out the night. Light drizzled from a lantern in between them.
Pandora clenched the fistful of keys in her pocket, wondering what to do. She was dressed in the foundling’s uniform—the perfect disguise—but, unlike Madame Orrery, she could hardly walk up to the porter and demand her way inside. Foundlings were rarely, if ever, allowed outside the hospital gates and she would almost certainly arouse suspicion if she tried.
Desperately, she looked around for an alternative. Then, remembering the two boys she had seen sneaking away from the back of the hospital a few weeks before, she scuttled away from the yard, toward the fields.
A large moon hovered overhead, but it was shrouded in mist and cast an eerie glow. Still, it was enough to see by and she could just make out the trail leading ahead of her. She followed it, her laced boots tripping over the uneven ground. Soft mousy rustlings stirred in the dark and she stopped several times to make sure that no one was around. The fields, however, were deserted.
Then, just as she reached the back of the hospital, where the wall turned away, she heard a harsh animal cry. It was unlike any creature she had heard before: a cross between a screech and a howl.
She ducked against the wall and looked to either side. There was nothing but the hushed grass all around her. Far to the east a dull reddish glow flickered against the sky.
Uneasily, she carried on. It must have been a fox, she thought, trying to calm down. Or a rabbit, caught by something predatory and wild.
At last she reached the back of the orchard, where the boys had climbed over the wall. She could see the tufts of treetops above it. She reached into her pocket and dug out the small brass tinderbox she had been clever enough to bring with her. She struck a light using the flint and steel, and watched the tiny spark flare in the darkness.
There! A thin trail of rope hung like a vine from a nearby branch and she latched onto it before the light had a chance to fade. As quickly as she could, she tucked the tinderbox into her pocket and lifted herself off the ground.
The rope had been knotted into sections, a foot or more apart, and she used them like rungs to help her climb. The wall grazed her knuckles, but she fought off the stings of pain and soon was lying on the flat stone ledge at the top, looking up at the moon.
Anxiously, she turned her head to scan the grounds.
The hospital was wrapped in shadow, but slats of light shone from the westernmost windows, where Mr. Chalfont would presumably be entertaining his guest. Checking the dense thicket below, she reached out for the nearest branch and carefully let herself down, landing ankle-deep in soil.
Wasting no time, she darted across the orchard to the edge of the lawn. The clatter and clash of pans soon led her to the kitchen, and from there it was a simple dash to the drive.
The entrance was lit by a lantern, its glass long obscured by grime, and keeping close to the wall, out of sight of the porter who was still at the gate, she crept forward and tried the door.
It was unlocked.
She pushed it open and went in.
A lone candle illuminated the hall and she snatched it, using its meager light to peer round in the gloom. A large wooden staircase climbed into the dark. Treading carefully, she started up the steps. The children, she knew, would already be in bed; the hospital was still and quiet.
She paused on the next landing. Wooden benches lined the corridor to her left and a clock ticked solemnly in the corner. Listening hard, she could just make out the murmur of voices from a doorway further down the hall.
She stepped closer.
The gallery was dark and cold. The fancy canvases along the walls were as black as night and most of the curtains had been drawn; firelight, however, flickered in the adjoining room.
Shielding the light from her candle, she tiptoed toward the connecting door and looked in.
Madame Orrery was seated next to Mr. Chalfont before the fire. She was stroking the air with her fingers and urging him to go “back in time, back in time.…” Their chairs were almost touching. On a little table beside them lay the silver timepiece.
Pandora could hear its soft, infectious ticking. There was something about its rhythm that perplexed her, something that niggled at her mind: a skip in the mechanism—a momentary lull—that gave her the impression it was ticking backward … or was it slowing down?
Pandora tightened her grip on the candlestick, fighting off a sudden drowsiness that was sweeping over her. Her eyes were growing heavy; her thoughts were confused and dull.
It was too late to warn the Governor. Madame Orrery had already risen from her chair and was inspecting the Governor’s face. He did not stir, did not blink. His eyes were open, but he appeared to be asleep. Then, with a cold smile, she put the timepiece away and stepped over to the cabinets against the wall—the same cabinets that had attracted her attention before. She began picking through the children’s tokens, one by one.
Pandora watched, mystified. What was Madame Orrery looking for? What was so important that she had to return to the hospital? Judging from the scowl on her face, whatever it was eluded her.
Finally, with a hint of annoyance, Madame Orrery grabbed an oil lamp from a nearby table and turned to survey the room. She seemed to ponder the image of the ship above the mantel and then moved toward the Governor’s desk.
Pandora quickly ducked back as Madame Orrery started opening the drawers. She removed a locket, a comb and the small tin of ginger. It rattled in her hand.
Pandora’s brow furrowed. Something was missing, something she had seen before. What was it?
And then she remembered.
“The sphere,” said Madame Orrery, seeming to sniff the same suspicion from the air. “Where is it? It must be here!”
She put down the tin of ginger and peered into the Governor’s eyes.
“What have you done with it, you sentimental fool? Have you given it to the boy?”
The idea seemed to play in her mind. Her fingers twitched the sides of her dress. Then, spying a loop of keys, she reached over and snatched them. “Shall I go upstairs and find him?”
The Governor blinked and Pandora, unable to contain herself, gave a little squeak of fear. Immediately Madame Orrery spun round—
—but Pandora had already fled from the room. She could think of only one thing to do: find the boy and warn him that Madame Orrery was after his sphere.
In a heartbeat she was on the landing, rushing toward the stairs. The boys’ dormitory, like the girls’, would be on the top floor; she knew the layout of the hospital well.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Had she been seen? She quickened her pace and dashed up the next flight of stairs. Her candle flame flickered, showing her the door just ahead.
She raced toward it.
Desperately, she searched through her keys, eliminating all those she had used before, and finally settled on one that was unfamiliar: a large black key with prominent teeth. She inserted it in the lock, gave a little twist and felt the bolt give way. With a sigh of relief, she opened the door and crept in.
The Dark Room
Cirrus had just drifted off to sleep when the voice found him.
“Cirrus? Cirrus Flux?”
The words slipped into his ear, sneaking into his slumber, but he went on hugging the safe, fleecy edges of a dream. He was climbing the Gallow
s Tree with Bottle Top. They were high above the fields.
The voice grew louder, more insistent.
“Cirrus Flux?”
It was a girl’s voice.
A girl! What was she doing here? Everyone knew the rules: boys and girls were to be kept in separate parts of the hospital, only ever glimpsing each other at chapel. His eyes opened in alarm and he sat up in bed, his dream collapsing all around him. He craned his neck to check the rest of the ward, but the other boys were fast asleep, their snores rising and falling in waves. A light, however, was moving through the darkness toward him.
He blinked, trying to make it out more clearly. At first he thought it was an angel. All he could see was a tangle of copper-colored hair, illuminated by a candle; but then he noticed the plain brown dress the girl was wearing and the familiar twist of red ribbon woven into the fabric, and he realized that she was another foundling like himself. But how had she found her way inside the boys’ dormitory? And what was she doing here?
“Cirrus Flux?” she asked again, a flicker of anxiety in her voice.
This time he grunted and the girl rushed toward him. “Thank goodness I found you!” she gasped. “We must talk!”
Her voice was like a locket opening, giving him a glimpse of the girl inside. She was barely older than himself, he realized, and scared. The light from the candle she carried guttered and she glanced toward the door.
Suddenly she clasped him by the elbow and dragged him to the floor.
“Shhh!” she said. “She’s coming!”
For an instant her eyes burned into his, fierce points of light expressing something he could not comprehend. Like amber, they seemed to trap remnants of her past: hard, hidden tears.
“Who’s coming?” he said, but she turned her head to listen and extinguished all of his questions like the flame, which sent the room gushing into darkness.
Cirrus listened, too. Apart from the relentless thud, thud, thud of blood in his ears, he was aware of the tread of footsteps rising up the stairs. They were too soft to be the Governor’s. They crossed the landing and stopped outside the dormitory.
The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 7