Tall and striking with jet-black hair, skin the colour of wheat, and eyes like brown stones. She dragged behind her three small daughters, their features enough like hers and distinct enough from each others’ to say they had different fathers. No one knew whether she bought the property or simply set up shop there—a lawyer did descend a few weeks after her presence was noticed, but by then her business was well-established (it took only a week).
The solicitor rapped the knocker, peremptorily, a look of displeasure on his face and entered when the door was whisked open. He came out some time later, features quite changed and set in what seemed an unfamiliar arrangement of happiness. He walked somewhat stiffly, now, but this did not seem to bother him at all. He became a regular visitor and was content to leave Dalita to her affairs (and her offspring, who continued to increase in number), and if his wallet was a little heavier and his balls a little lighter each time he left, then so much the better.
For all its decorative glory, the house does not have a delightful marine aspect. Perhaps that is unfair. By peeking out one window, inching one’s body sharply to the left and pressing one’s face hard against the glass, one might see, through the tight arch of the Weeping Gate, a sliver of water. It is, it must be said, a strip of the peculiarly unclean, slightly greasy liquid that lines the port, infected by humanity and its waste. But then, no one who ventures this far comes for the sea view.
The house has no wrought iron fence, nor tiny enclosed garden; it simply sits cheek by jowl with its street, which is muddy in times of rain, dusty in times without. The cries of the gulls are not faint here, nor is the smell of fresh, drying or dying fish.
Once inside, however, incense and perfume, a heady opiate mix, negates any piscine odours (and others more personal, leisure-related), and anyone setting foot in the spectacular red entrance hall will immediately lose hold of their fears or concerns. The richness of the decor and the beauty of the girls, their charm, their smiles, their voices (coached to pitch low and light), combine to wash away all imperatives but one. After a single visit, even the most nervous of trader, wheelwright, tailor, sailor, princeling, or clergyman—in short, anyone who can scrape up Dalita’s hefty fee—will be content to wander the requisite dark alleyways to the house by the Weeping Gate.
And in truth, with time the locale became strangely safer—mariners keen to earn extra coin were easily recruited to run interference in the streets. Thieves and ruffians learned quickly not to trouble those walking in a certain direction with a particular gait, lest they find themselves faced with consequences they did not wish to bear. The longshoremen were known on occasion to shift some of the more inconvenient street-side debris further away from the house. No need to scare the punters.
Gradually, Dalita’s clientele increased, and soon enough she took fewer habitués herself, becoming fussier, more miserly, with her favours. But as each daughter came of reasonable age, so too did the number of employees of the house; firstly Silva, then the twins Yara and Nane, then Carin, next Iskha, then Tallinn, and finally Kizzy.
Asha was kept aside, held back for finer things.
And Nel, too, was kept aside, banished to the kitchens.
Iskha, taking her fate in her own hands, ran away and should not have been seen again.
Nel has never feared the streets. They always felt more welcoming than the woman’s house—she does not think of Dalita as her mother, possibly because she has never been encouraged to do so.
Nel is plain, astonishingly so—perhaps Dalita might have forgiven her if she had been ugly, for that would have been one thing or the other, but as plain as she is, Nel seems almost . . . nothing. A blank upon which looks did not imprint. Perhaps this causes the most offence—the other daughters all have some version of their mother’s allure, enhanced cunningly with pastes and powders, dresses and corsets, all to make the best impression in the eye of the beholder.
But Nel . . . on the occasions her sisters tried to make her up, make her over, it seemed as if the colours they layered upon her face had no effect at all, merely sat on her skin effecting no more of an impression than the merest hint of a breeze. The lacy pink tea gown dangled listlessly on her as if it, too, could find nothing on which to take. Her hair, similarly, would neither kink nor wave even after a full night wrapped tight in rag curlers. When let loose, it simply hung to her shoulders in thick straight lengths, neither brown nor black nor blond, but an unremarkable mix of all three. Of middling height, with middling grey eyes, she was a middling sort of girl and blended into her surroundings as well as a chameleon might.
She’d found in the avenues, the alleys, the seldom-used thoroughfares, the hidden ways through, a kind of home and a kinship with those who inhabited those places. Similarly invisible they recognised a fellow shadow. Some took the trouble to help. Not attracting the eye meant not attracting attention and there was safety in this. Mother Magnus, the cunning woman, showed her smidges of magic to help dampen the sound of her footsteps, to make darker shades cling to her as camouflage. Lil’bit, the cleverest thief, taught her how difficult locks might be encouraged to open, even though she did not indulge this new-found talent for nefarious purposes. Every little bit of knowledge was stored away, if not used immediately.
But the streets had become less welcoming in the past few months, the gloom seemed darker and deeper, the night silences heavier, and she was never sure now what she might find when she went abroad, either on ways of packed earth or cobbles.
Nel had found the first girl.
She’d gone to buy the week’s coal, dragging the newly cleaned little red tin wagon behind (Dalita always insisted it be pristine no matter that the coal filthed it up within moments). Nel was always there earlier than Bilson’s Coal Yard opened, but she knew how to subvert the lock on the rickety wooden gates, and Mr Bilson was happy for her to leave the small bag of brass bits and quarter-golds in a tiny niche beside the back door of the building.
Nel let herself in, every bump of the wagon on the ground making a loud protest against the quiet of the dawn, but it kept her company. She made her way over to the huge scuttle (the height of one man, the length of two and the width of three) with its metal lid and rolled the thing open to find a face staring back at her. As she looked harder into the dim space she could see a body carelessly laid across a bed of black, bare but for its dusting of coal, an expression of eternal bewilderment on the dead girl’s face.
The Constable, fat and red-faced, was terribly cross with Nel because she couldn’t tell him who had done this thing—which was going to make his job difficult. He normally dealt with nothing more than theft, and drunk and disorderlies, He studiously ignored runaways, vowing that they would return whenever hungry enough. He quietly took his bribes from those who ran the underbelly of the city—they were terribly good at self-regulation, which he appreciated. Any bodies that were the result of the criminal machinations tended to disappear. He did not have to deal with them. This . . . this was something new.
“I didn’t see anyone,” she said for the third time. “I just found her.”
“And what are you doing out so early?” he demanded.
She rolled her eyes. “Buying the coal for the house; and Madame Dalita will be looking for me by now.”
At the mention of her mother’s name, the Constable had realised that he didn’t need to detain her any longer.
Everyone hoped this murder was simply an aberration, but no. There had been five others since—or, at least, five who had been found. Nel had seen two of them, but only from a distance as they were hastily taken away to avoid public panic. One from the fountain in the city square (which was round), one from the garden at the bottom of the old Fenton House (deserted for many years), another in the orchard belonging to the widow Hendry on the outskirts of the city, yet another on the steps of the city hall and the final one tied to the prow of the largest ship in port, a caravel belonging to the Antiphon Trading Company. The young woman was wrapped around the figurehead as if holding on f
or dear life.
The girls were all poor, mostly without family, but very, very lovely, once upon a time. It didn’t matter, however, when they were lifeless and lying on the marble slabs of the Breakwater Mortuary, wrapped in black cloth so their souls couldn’t see to get out. All waiting for the coffins paid for by the city council—penniless girls, yes, but nothing puts more of a fright into folk than the idea of the restless dead. Those who in life had been destitute and dispossessed, when improperly buried, seemed to be more disagreeable, disgruntled, and disturbing as revenants. So the council of ten, made up of four members of the finest families, three of the richest traders, two of the most vociferous clergymen, and the Viceroy, reached into their deep pockets and stumped up for properly-made coffins and decent burials.
The Viceroy began to make noises, after girl number two, found in the fountain—people drank that water!—and so the Constable was given two helpers to aid in his investigations. Unfortunately, the need to spend time in taverns asking questions also meant the under-constables found themselves unable to resist the temptation of drinking whilst working and managed, by sheer effort, to not help very much at all. The Constable traipsed daily to the Viceroy’s office, a hang-dog expression on his face, head sinking lower and lower into the setting of his shoulders, so much so that people wondered if it might simply disappear and he would cut peepholes in his chest so he could see out. He stood quietly while the Viceroy yelled.
Nel had watched with interest some of the Viceroy’s performances.
He was in his seeming mid-forties, a handsome blond man with a poet’s soft blue eyes. Tall and well-made, he dressed with care and splendour, which set him apart from the previous Viceroy. He raged at the Constable. He ranted at the council members. He looked splendid doing it. He spoke gently to those who had lost daughters and paid out a blood-price to those who asked, even though, as people commented approvingly, it was not his place to do so. And he attended at the funerals of the murdered girls, eulogising each and every one, warmly praising the power of their youth and beauty, and lamenting their loss.
When Nel had first appeared at the door to the council chamber bearing her mother’s initial missive, he had paused in his tirade at the Constable and given a vague smile. Now he did not bother, as if her plainness made his eyes slide away and he could no longer notice her. She wondered if he thought the notes floated to him all by themselves. Indeed, her approach excited so little attention that she often watched him unheeded, caught his unguarded expressions and was surprised by those times when it seemed his face was not his own, but a mask set loosely atop another. Nel would shake her head, knowing her eyes deceived her.
She would clear her throat and he would stop what he was doing—whether it be reading, writing, making decrees or fiddling with the large yellow crystal he sometimes wore as a pin in his cravat—stretch forth his very fine hand with its manicured nails for her to place the letter onto his pale, lineless palm. That fascinated her, the blank slate of flesh, as if he had neither past nor future. As if he had simply appeared in the world as he had appeared in Breakwater, six months prior, bearing all the right letters with all the right seals. Accompanied only by two potato-faced men, who spoke seldom and then in monosyllabic grunts, he tidily ousted the incumbent Viceroy—a man known for his indolence, drinking, fondness for young flesh and payments made under the table—in a coup that had delighted and surprised the citizens.
He was terribly good at organising things and wonderfully talented at shouting down opposition, so the city began to run smoothly for the first time in many a year. Grumbles about his dictatorial style gave way to admiring nods as the mail began to arrive in a timely manner, providores were obliged to clean up their kitchens, and slack or shoddy workmanship incurred painfully large fines.
When Dalita initially sent her on this errand (having waited in vain for the new Viceroy to attend her establishment), Nel wondered at the woman touting for business. She thought perhaps Dalita feared the man’s next target would be to root out moral corruption and the like—he seemed the type. How else could one explain his absence from the house by the Weeping Gate? Dalita’s product spoke for itself, attracted buyers and created its own momentum, and would have done so even without the little bewitching touches such as enchanted whispers blown across a crowded marketplace, and tiny ensorcelled chains of love-daisies slipped into pockets and baskets.
Eventually, though, Nel realised that this was something more than a simple marketing ploy; this was higher stakes. Dalita was offering something for a more permanent purchase, not merely a short-term rental.
Dalita was planning to move up in society.
At the outset, Nel simply waited for the Viceroy to sniff and snort, and send her out of the chamber with laughter echoing in her ears; but he did no such thing. He read the note, opened the locket which had weighted down the billet-doux and stared at the miniature portrait of Asha for a while, then gave a nod, and the words ‘I will consider this proposition.’
She duly reported to her mother, who sat back on a padded recamier, with a well-satisfied look and a gleam in her eye. The speed with which this business-like courtship has proceeded surprises no one.
Now Nel visits the Viceroy every second morning or so with some wedding-related query. He does not give her a direct answer, but sends one of his men with a written reply in the afternoon.
What he does give Nel are his traditional sennight gifts for the bride-to-be (whom he has never met), one for each day of the week before the wedding.
These are strange, gaudy things that seem to have begun life as something else. A rusty iron coin, set in a fine filigree and hung on a thick gold chain. A rag doll dressed in a robe of impossible finery and carefully crafted miniature shoes, but the doll itself smells . . . wrong, musty, a little dead. A bracelet of old, discoloured beads, restrung on a length of rope of wrought silver. A brass ring with a piece of pink coral atop it. A shard of green, green glass set in a gilt frame as if it is a painting. A mourning broach dented and tarnished, the hair inside ancient, dry, and dusty, but a new stout pin has been affixed to the thing so it won’t fall away. And finally, today, the earrings.
They are large, uncut dirty-looking diamonds, stones only an expert would recognise (and Dalita is such a one).
They hang from simple silver hooks.
They are ugly and the Viceroy insists his bride wear them for their upcoming wedding.
The attic stretches the length of the house. It is populated by six beds, narrow wooden things, but with fat soft mattresses and thick eiderdown duvets, satin coverlets and as many pillows as might be accommodated. To one side of each bed is a free-standing wardrobe, plain yellow pine lightly lacquered, barely able to be closed for the wealth of attire stuffed within: day frocks, evening gowns, costumes for clients with more particular needs, wisps of peignoirs for those who prefer fewer hindrances to their endeavours. To the other, bedside tables overflowing with jewellery, hair decorations, stockings, knickers, protective amulets, random votives, powders, paints, and perfumes. Nel’s thin pallet is in the kitchen, piled high with her sisters’ cast-off quilts.
There is a space, too, where bed, wardrobe, and table no longer reside, but the marks of their feet are still visible. A gentle reminder of Iskha who always talked of running away and one day did. A space haunted by the glances the other girls give it, and by the presence of one of whom they now speak rarely and then only in whispers for fear their mother might hear. A space filled with yearning.
The wooden floors are covered with rugs of thickly woven silk—only naked feet may tread on these, so all the footwear for the ladies of Dalita’s establishment is kept in the room, which takes up half the tiny entry hall to the attic (the other half is a curtained-off bathroom), and is lined with shelves stashed with rows and rows of all manner of shoes: slippers, boots, heeled creations, sandals of gold and silver leather, complex constructions of ribbons and bows that must applied to the foot using an equally complex equatio
n of order and folds to ensure the wearer can walk.
Against the back wall of the long room is the shrine: one large bed with four posts, big enough to accommodate three fully-grown adults, and hung with thickly embroidered tapestries to cut out the light when beauty sleep is a must. On either side of the bed rests a wardrobe, mahogany these, also tightly packed. To the left of this suite is a dressing table, complete with a stool, cushioned lest the buttocks of the chosen one be bruised. On the tabletop, rows and reams and streams of necklaces, bracelets; droplets of earrings, and finger rings, all a’sparkle like a tiny universe of stars carelessly strewn. And amongst this are pots and bottles (carved of crystal in various shades), palettes and brushes to apply all the colours required to highlight eyes, emphasise cheekbones, give lips more pout than Nature intended, and an oil (expensive, rare) to make black hair shine like wet obsidian.
This is the space laid out for Dalita’s special darling, her most beautiful child, the loveliest of them all; the one, Dalita believes, who most resembles her.
Asha’s mane falls below her waist, its ends tickling the tops of her thighs when she stands; Nel, when she is not in the kitchen, spends many hours washing it, rubbing oil into it, washing it once more, then brushing it, brushing it again until it glistens.
Asha’s eyes are just a little too large (like a doll’s), and hazel, and in the company of men, frequently cast down as Dalita has taught her. Her skin is the colour of butter with a marked sheen—again, Nel spends many hours rubbing this skin with creams that contain tiny flecks of gold and silver. Asha’s face is the shape of a heart, her nose pert and straight and her mouth an inviting purple blossom, lips always moist. She is secure in her position, in the knowledge that she’s destined for something more. It does not make her unkind.
She is Dalita’s gem, her pearl, her sole unspoiled child, for Dalita has greater plans for this daughter. Asha remains untouched and unbroken, a prize to go to the highest of highs. And at the moment, she is not in the room, which is awash with the noise of young women waking and dressing, bickering and bonding.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 8