I now knew how little I've ever really understood.
I was right on one point, though, in my years of silly, idyllic babbling. Words have power. I was sure of that more than ever as I lay beneath the bleak and cracking ceiling of my rented room, the night silent apart from the gruff breathing of Gren as he slept in the corner, slouched in a patched and stained armchair.
It had been a hard three days. After spending an evening reading and rereading the pages of the Doll's diary, I had become ill with a terrible soreness that fiercely held onto my bones and muscles. Gren said it was natural.
“You're tired, Pocket. And you've been running mad around London in lousy weather,” he had commented. “Of course you're sore.”
I never argued with that logic. Gren, for all of his exhausting bluntness and simplification, said what anyone would have said. But secretly I suspected more. The story of the Doll's beginnings and the fantastic notion that this girl somehow possessed both the ability to dream and the awareness off it—no, not just that—the awareness of the outside world’s movements around her as she slept…it was too much for me to absorb. My body was bending under the weight of these revelations, and it hurt.
I took a deep breath in bed. Three days, and the aches only worsened. This girl, this impossibly unusual girl that I'd felt that I so thoroughly understood, now seemed to me more foreign than ever. I had so many questions for the Watchmaker's Doll, so many assumptions and misconceptions to clear up. And here I was, once again lying in the dark with only my own stupid thoughts for company as I tried to find sleep.
Sleep. As admittedly put off I was at such an idea, it did occur to me that if I could close my eyes and fall into just the right dream, I might be able to reunite with her again, if for only a short while. That is, assuming I believed beyond what she had written, if I followed a sneaking suspicion that the constant presence of the Doll in my visions was more than just my dream’s invention. “Gutsplitter Foxley,” she had told me in a dream, and following those words, I had found these pages. Could it be possible that if this girl could find such clarity in her own dreams, that she could somehow…invoke mine as well? Could I believe that? I wanted like mad to, but I couldn't shake skepticism away from the thought. Still, I tried, tried so desperately, to find her in my sleep. Unfortunately, sleep scarcely came to me over those three days. I was ill, sure, but I was also restless, frustrated, and distraught. The more I doted on dreaming, the harder it became to do so. I spent the majority of those nights angry and awake, cursing my inability to drift off. And when I did at last fall asleep on the first and second night, it was disgustingly short, unsatisfying, and dreamless. The Doll was so far away from me.
After a few merciless hours went by on the third night, I sat up and jealously stared at Gren in his slumber. I wanted to kick him. But then I felt incredibly ungrateful for even considering such an act. Gren had been a great help. On the morning of the second day, he had risked capture to visit a grocer and buy enough food to sustain us for a week in hiding. I appreciated that. But then, the thought crossed my mind that he might be at the present moment sharing a dream with the Watchmaker's Doll himself, and I wanted to kick him again.
Instead, I got up and tore a sizable hunk of bread from a loaf amongst our provisions. Chewing on it, I walked the room, played with shadows, and took in the surroundings. I sat at a half table and fiddled with my belongings, flicking my fingers against my bottle of faerie juice and blowing the dirtied calling card that held my name. THE ABSYNT BARD OF NEW LONDON, it deemed me. I laughed. What a silly and pretentious title. But as I stared at those words, a grim and pathetic idea struck. And since at that moment I was a grim and pathetic man, I acted on it.
I got dressed.
If I am truly a bard, I thought to myself as I bundled up for the cold night, then it's only natural that I wander. Careful not to wake Gren, I slipped out of the room and started walking. But not aimlessly.
There was something I was needing.
“Hey, Pocket?”
“Yes, Alan?”
“I've been wondering for a time now, what exactly do you mean by 'absynt bard?' The moniker doesn't seem to make much sense.”
“Oh. Well, the title was given to me awhile back. Sounds flaunty, I know, but there's sort of a story attached.”
“Is there? Because, no offense meant, but I just assumed that it was one of those things you come up with to appear more dramatic.”
“That's fair. I'm...sigh...I'm pretty laughable, aren't I?”
“Hey, don't start with that. Go on, tell me about the title.”
“You remember the story I told you of the druggist's assistant?”
“The one you worked for as a kid? Took over the business and then worried himself into an early death?”
“Right. You remember how I ran away when I was asked to write for him?”
“Sure. So?”
“Well, gossip traveled pretty fast back then.”
“Still does.”
“It wasn't long before the story of the poor man's public collapse reached me. I was young and stupid and the guilt began to eat me alive.”
“You felt responsible?”
“Of course, Alan. If I had kept my word—”
“He would've still gone out and shouted himself silly in the rain.”
“I know. But...I still felt at fault somehow. Like I said, young and stupid.”
“So what happened?”
“I asked around, found out where he lived. Walked right up to his home and knocked on the door. Figured the least I could do was make a little peace between us. Apologize or something. A doctor was visiting and answered the door. He told me the man was very weary, but I insisted. So...I was let in and brought to the bedroom, and there he was. Just sprawled in bed, white as a sheet. I remember that the doctor smiled and told my former employer that he had a visitor. 'Is this your son?' he asked. And then, the druggist's eyes rolled over to me and became wide. A bitter, poisonous sneer spread across his pale cheeks, and he spoke. 'Well, look who's come to visit!' he roared at me. 'If it isn't the Absent Bard of New London, making his appearance at long last.' I was so afraid in that moment that I just stood around and stared at the man. And then…what can I say? Anger got the best of the druggist, and he began throwing everything within reach at me. I got knocked in the head with a hand mirror.”
“Scary business.”
“Yeah. The doctor tried to restrain him, but I just ran out of there, not even looking back. Never saw him again. Heard around town about his eventual hospitalization and death. But his madness stuck with me. Especially that label. I guess I've been the Absynt Bard of New London ever since.”
“Absynt with a 'Y.'”
“Heh. Yes. Even in print I seem to exist as an anomaly.”
“There are worse things to be. But anyhow, the third night.”
“The third night.”
“You snuck out of your room with a terrible ache.”
“That I did.”
I walked the streets with my normally open and flapping coat tightly buttoned close. With each step I took, I stomped hard, fearing my feet would go numb in the cold. It was windy, and each draft amplified the soreness in my body until I was stinging with exhaustion.
I turned down a brick-bottomed road that was in considerable need of repair, a fact made evident to me as I nearly tripped over a dislodged brick. I caught myself before falling on my face and thought suddenly of that damned, old Frenchman. I remembered his childish clapping and cackling as I stepped into a mud puddle under the British rain so long ago.
No rain this night. I looked up. No moon, either. I didn’t care. It was the right kind of setting for my mood. I kept walking, staying quiet under that dead sky, until I found what I was looking for.
Until I found her.
The woman standing at the flower cart noticed me as soon as I turned down the street. She put on a knowing smile and nodded at me to approach. The woman appeared to be in her late fift
ies but was still strikingly beautiful. She wore her hair up, brushes of silver blending into a fading but still vibrant blonde. Despite the cold air, she wore her long frock coat open, and beneath it clung an elegant dress more suitable for an evening's opera. The garment's neckline dipped boldly down in a more Parisian fashion.
“See anything you like?” she said to me.
I lifted my eyes and saw her gesturing to her selection of flowers. I shrugged.
“Not exactly what I came looking fo—“
“I know why you're here.”
The look she gave me vouched for her words. But I wasn't following her game.
“How does this work, then?”
“You choose one of my flowers, each one beautiful, properly bred, and surprisingly affordable.”
“I see.”
“So why don't you tell me what you'd like?”
I should've told her that it didn't matter, that I didn't care.
“What do you have?” I asked.
“A real collection of beauties, I assure you. Come, now. What's your preference? Youthful? Sophisticated? Matured?”
“Youthful.”
“Mmm...a common taste. Then how youthful, exactly? Some of my flowers are just barely of proper—”
“Nothing too young.”
“I see,” she nodded. “Do you have a petal preference?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Color. I have some elegantly yellow-topped, or perhaps you'd like something a bit darker?”
“Red,” I said. “You have any red flowers?”
She smiled wide. “Ah. Maybe you're tastes are after something rarer.”
“Do you have any?”
“Young redheads are hard to come by in my trade.”
“I can pay,” I said, producing a clenched handful of bills. “Right now.”
The flower lady surprised me by gently taking my hand. “I think we can work something out,” she said.
For those following this exchange but are unsure of the true nature of the conversation, allow me to be blunt. Yes, I was paying for a woman. A street woman.
A whore.
For those put off by this revelation, those who may condemn my character for handing money over to a flower cart abbess after claiming to be miserably in love with the Doll, well, I offer no apology. But I would encourage those to continue to follow my telling, as my true motivations will soon present themselves.
The brothel I was brought to was warm, but I declined the madame's offer to take my coat, instead keeping it closed and buttoned tight. I was taken to the room of the girl chosen for me and was instructed to wait for her to return from a date with another customer. The room reeked of strong perfume, mainly because I knocked a bottle of it over as I searched through shelves and drawers. Why was I doing this? Because I was sore, and I like I said, there was something that I needed.
“Damn it,” I whispered to myself. “Come on. Please.”
I soon heard an approaching giggle, stopped my rummaging, and quickly restored the room to its former order. In walked a young lady no older than, um, I'd say, nineteen. Her hair was, as promised, a deep red, worn straight down and framing her squarish face. She looked nothing like the Doll, but her presence brought an unexpected calm about me. I still ached like hell, but my mind gained a renewed lucidity that clung to me.
“Oh!” the girl said, clearly surprised to find me in her chamber. “I'm sorry. I didn't expect there to be—“
“I was told to wait here,” I cut in, hardly in the mood to play coy. “Are you the one I paid for?”
She looked me over. “I...I don't know,” she sheepishly admitted. “My madame told me I was nearly through working for the night.”
“I guess she changed her mind.” I took more money from my coat. “Would this convince you to stay?”
She thought it over and smiled. Good, I told myself. I didn't have much money left from my cut of the investors’ ball heist, and I was glad to see that I hadn't thrown it around here for nothing. The girl's demeanor quickly changed. She softly shut the door with her heel, adjusted her earrings, and sauntered over to me in her most “professional” manner.
“Well,” she purred, reaching for the bills in my hand, “where do we begin?”
I pulled away, making it clear that she wouldn't touch my promised bonus until I became fully satisfied.
“Fine,” she said, trying to keep a slight irritation from showing. “How about a little music to set the mood? I can send for a harp. Surely my madame must've told you that my musical ability is—”
“It's late,” I said to her. “I'd rather just skip all of that.”
She pressed her fingers against my coat. “All right. You are the customer, after all. Just wanted to make sure you get your money's worth.”
“I intend to.”
She giggled and started working buttons. “Well, in that case, I suppose we should begin right away. Let me help you out of this.”
“No,” I said, clutching her hand before she could open up my coat. “Leave it a moment more. I'm still cold from the night's air.”
“Dear sir,” she cooed, “I promise to keep you warmer than that beaten old rag. I'll keep you warmer than a thousand candles, sir.”
“No,” I insisted. “Leave it for now.”
She snorted and somehow did so in a girlish manner. Rolling her eyes, she pushed her argument once more.
“Sir, you'll enjoy yourself far more if you'll just relax and let me—”
“I thought you said that I was the customer.”
She bit her lip and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Across her noticeably boney shoulders she wore a shawl that was nearly as weathered as my “old rag” of an overcoat. She let the garment drop, and, shoulders bare, sat down at a small vanity. “I know this is terribly improper,” she said, fiddling with various tubes and tins of makeup, “but since you are warming yourself anyhow, would you permit me a moment to prepare myself? I wasn't expecting, as I said, to find a client in my chamber.”
“By all means,” I replied.
“Thank you.”
I smirked and nodded. But the truth of the matter is that I should have been the one to give thanks. This girl was, unbeknownst to her, unfolding seamlessly into my unspoken plan. She had it, I was convinced.
She had what I was needing, what I had come to collect. I had nothing but a rumor and my own blind instinct to bet upon, but somehow, I knew she did.
I watched attentively as she glamorized herself, and with each additional coat of thick, white face powder, she seemed to slowly transform into the more traditional appearance of prostitute. It disappointed me slightly, to be honest, though I cannot tell you why.
And then she went for it, the small key that she wore at the end of a chain around her neck. I held my breath and watched as she brought out a small lockbox that was tucked somewhere. From it she produced a brown bottle. It was simple, dull in the light, and a little smudged-up. That made me smile. No faerie juice tonight, Mister Pocket. Oh, no. No bottleful of soul.
“Cheers,” I wryly said as the girl put her lips on it and swallowed.
She winced as she drank, shivering a little.
“Strong stuff?” I asked.
“Bitter,” she replied. “You'd think I'd be used to it.”
“You know, I'd kill for a sip of that right now.”
“Sorry,” she smiled. “This isn't normal booze.”
“Is that so?” I said, slowly unbuttoning my coat. Lustfully, I set my eyes on the bottle. “Laudanum?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she said, taking another cringing gulp.
I freed the last button on my coat and slipped my hand inside. Laudanum. Opium mixed into liquor, in this case what smelled like whiskey. Rumor held that the local ladies of the evening often abused the drug to put themselves into a numbing fog, presumably to get through their night's work in a slightly more amiable humor. It was a lousy rumor to hear, but I was glad to find it true.
Becaus
e what I craved more than anything on that night was to be without feeling, to glide away, and to at last find sleep. The girl kept nursing the bottle, and I watched, getting frustrated and impatient.
“I'm sure I can handle it,” I said. “How about it? I've got a terrible ache.”
“Mister, you let me tend to that,” she flirted. “I've got something much better than a bottle to make you feel good.”
“I want to feel nothing, you stupid tart,” I grumbled to myself.
“What?”
“Just one sip. That's all I'm—”
“Look, it's not going to happen,” she spat, clearly tired of playing cute. “You want some? Go find a druggist.”
My eyes fell to the dirty floor. It lacked atmosphere. The whole, bloody scene did. So I decided to pass on theatrics and get my point across.
“No,” I said. “I'll be taking yours.”
“Excuse me!” the girl proclaimed. “I don’t care how much you’re paying me. I’m not about to—”
And then she stopped. She buckled her knees slightly and started to quiver.
“Hand me the bottle,” I quietly said.
She did as instructed without protest, without speaking at all. Why she decided to comply with my request is anybody’s guess, though I’d like to think it was because at just that moment, I had revealed the weapon I was wearing on a strap beneath my overcoat. Yes, the same firearm Gren had stolen from the overtaken Magnate was now resting in my weary, but steadied hands, its dirty muzzle pointed at the whore’s pale bosom.
“Are you…are you going to kill me?” she meekly questioned me.
“No,” I said, “I’m not.”
“Then why…the gun?”
“I just need a drink.”
“Why?” The question kept rolling from her lips in a maddening repetition. My eyes felt literally cold, as if the blood behind them was beginning to thin.
“Because I am tired,” I said. “Because I am broken and sore far beyond your capacity to heal. Because I don’t have the luxury of simply walking into a druggist’s, and even if I did, I’d rather fall dead than spend one more desperate night waiting for its doors to open.”
The girl was naturally confused and, despite my assurance that no harm would befall her, still fairly frightened. She clutched a small pillow and held it like a shield before her.
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 51