by E. J. Swift
Millie’s mother died on a Wednesday. Her father said that Sunday was too soon for the burial, and they must wait another week. For the next ten days Millie’s mother remained in the house in her wooden coffin. The sides did not quite join, and some fundamental essence of Alyce was seeping through the house; with them at their breakfast and supper, with them while Millie lay in bed at night, with them when she crept downstairs and put a hand to the wood and felt the warm heat of decomposition. Perhaps this was also part of God’s plan. If so, it didn’t seem as if kindness was much in His nature.
After Alyce died, there was not enough money, so Millie was dispatched to a matchmaking factory to supplement the family income. Millie had always been a talker, but after Alyce’s death she became ever more voluble. The more you talked, the less you thought, including about the bad things. This made her popular with other children but not with her employer, and her tenure at the matchmaking factory was regrettably short. Other placements followed, with the same outcome. Millie’s father pronounced her lazy, feckless, a good-for-nothing wharf rat. He began frequenting the company of Mrs Clagg, despite or perhaps because of the gin, and Millie, now twelve and with an infallible eye for trouble, saw Newgate looming. She decided not to wait for it. The time had come for her exit strategy.
A travelling company were performing at the Victoria Theatre; she had seen the posters. Millie had always had an eye for glamour, however manufactured. Night by night she waited outside the stage door, accosting every performer who passed through until one of them succumbed to her pleas and gave her employment mending costumes. For three years she traipsed around England. She worked with suede and leather and lace and muslin. She grew taller, prettier, improved her letters and numbers, discovered other talents more profitable than sewing.
Yet still the stink of the Thames clung to her. Still the estuary sang through her voice. Even the rest of England was not far enough away from London. Even Scotland.
When a young patron about to embark upon the Grand Tour fell in love with her, Millie heard the golden call of Paris. And she answered.
“AND YOU’D NEVER go back?” I ask.
“Are you pulling my leg? Not in a hundred bloody years.”
Chapter Twenty-One
MILLIE IS EAGER to introduce me to her city. When we inevitably end up in Montmartre, I steer us towards the tavern where the anomaly—I hope, I assume—is biding its time down in the cellar. In my new clothes, it’s possible the vengeful Anne-Marie won’t recognize me, but barely have we set foot inside when the broom appears.
“I know your face!” shrieks Anne-Marie. “I won’t have hussies in my tavern!”
She chases us half-way down the boulevard.
“What did you do to her?” asks Millie. She is gazing at me with new found respect.
“It was a misunderstanding,” I say. “She thinks I’m a thief.”
“You are a thief.” Millie pokes me. “Gabriel. Oh, will you look at those hats.”
She hurries over to a shop front, and I follow at a more sedate pace. I haven’t gotten used to my borrowed petticoats. Millie stands with one hand pressed to her heart, gazing wistfully at the contents of the glass display. In the window, I see a small sparrow alight on my reflection’s shoulder. It ruffles its feathers.
“Good to see you—alive and well. My dear.”
I jump.
“Fucking hell!”
Millie turns.
“Gabriela?”
“It’s nothing—”
“Oh, a little bird, how sweet!”
The sparrow cheeps.
“Millie, I need to... I need food. Some bread. I’m so hungry. I’ll meet you back here in just a second—”
I stride away, the sparrow’s tiny claws digging into my shoulder through the woollen dress.
“I am not doing this, I am not talking to you like this—”
“But, my dear, you already are—”
I ignore her. Keep walking. The sparrow extends its wings and flits away. A moment later I see a woman in a green cape walking purposefully towards me. A silk-lined bonnet encases her head.
“Better?” she asks.
“No! I can’t talk to you right now. I’m with someone.”
This chronometrist has an older face. Brown eyes, broad cheekbones, the complexion ruddy and porous. Her hands are covered with silk gloves. Her cape is fastened at the neck with a green brooch, masking her throat. She follows my gaze slyly to where Millie is standing, oblivious to the rest of the world.
“Oh, what a pretty skin…”
“Don’t you dare. And don’t pull that bird shit again.”
“But I can’t resist the feathers. So light! Delicious! Now why don’t I go and get us a table and you can join me for coffee?”
It turns out I needn’t have worried about Millie. When I return, she is still fully occupied by hats.
“Honey! Are you all right?” She grabs my elbow. “You’ve gone all perspiring. Do you need to sit down?”
“Millie.” I clutch at her. “Do you see that woman sitting outside the brasserie over there?”
“In the green cape? Yes, I see her. What funny clothes she’s wearing. Nobody’s into green this season.”
“Yes. Yes, her. Her. You can see her?”
“Of course I can see her. Why, do you know her? What is it, do you owe her money? Do we need to run? I know a back route.”
“No, it’s not that. I have to talk to her. Alone. I can’t explain but it’s important.”
“I’ll keep a watch, like the King’s guard.” Millie is excited. “I’ll be right here. If you need me, you just holler.”
“Thank you.”
“But nice and loud,” says Millie. “In case I’m distracted by the ribbons.”
My feet are icy as I cross the road and join the chronometrist on the other side of the table.
“Any progress?” she asks.
“I’m working on it.”
I pick up a menu, pretending to peruse its contents, but mainly because I cannot bear to look at her; I cannot bear to believe she is real. She isn’t real, not in the way people are real. Human. She is something else.
“Time is ticking,” she says. “Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
“What exactly are you?”
“I used to be like you,” she says. “Constrained to physical matter. Now I am free.”
“Doesn’t look like freedom to me.”
“You’re a gosling,” she says affectionately. “You don’t yet understand the power of the anomaly. What it can give you.”
“You said each anomaly had an... an incumbent. So are there others? Like me?”
“There have been,” she says. “There will be. I don’t believe—there’s anyone else in your early lifetime. Not active. Most are not so lucky as we two. They never meet their anomaly.”
“Why do you want me to do this?”
Her gloved fingers tap idly against the table.
“I told you. Aesthetics are—integral, to me. Bad aesthetics—they pain me so.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m not sure I should be doing this. What if it affects something? What if I accidentally change history?”
The numbness is expanding. It’s hard to keep my focus. But I’ve watched enough science fiction in my time to know that meddling does not end well. You end up killing your grandparents, or enabling tyrants through some diabolical side effect. It never works out how you intend.
“Well, my dear, if you don’t—I assure you there will be other consequences.” The chronometrist turns her head, looking once again in Millie’s direction. There’s a covetous expression on her face.
I stand and push back my chair.
“What are you doing?” She hurries after me.
“You said you had a range. I’m testing it.”
“Don’t be rash. We need to talk!”
She reaches for my arm but I brush her off and keep walking.
“Hallie—Hallie, my dear, wait—”
I keep walking.
After a while the calls cease. I stop and turn around. A woman in a green cape is standing on the pavement, looking about her in a very confused manner.
“That’ll be it,” I say to myself.
I make a mental note of the distance between here and the tavern—about five hundred metres. Now I know where to avoid.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IN THE EVENINGS, we go to work: regular citizens of the Third Republic. Millie goes to the Folies, or some other hall of entertainment, or to the secret apartments where her lovers stash their mistresses. I go to l’Éléphant, where I serve absinthe and perform fire-breathing for the after-hours crowd, while Millie’s admirers draw up their seats. Back in Millie’s garret, the two of us sleep back to back or curled up for warmth. The patterns of her breathing grow familiar, anticipated. I avoid the region surrounding the tavern and the chronometrist does not appear again.
Fabian gives me a set of training balls, traditional stuffed leather bags, because he is uncertain about the newfangled rubber variety. As my tuition progresses, I introduce other tricks to my act. I learn to use my face when I drop a ball. Accident, or intent? It’s all a part of the show. Juggling is a constant series of readjustments to create an illusion of serenity: as long as you focus on what’s going on above, you can’t see the chaotic manoeuvrings underneath.
In a place where there are no smartphones, no digital clocks or ubiquitous references to the date, the days slip by faster than I think. I’ve been here for a month when something happens to shake me up.
MILLIE HEARS ABOUT it first. She comes into the tavern after a night at the Folies and I greet her with surprise, knowing she has an appointment with Valleroy. Then I look closer and see the distress in her face. Her admirers crowd around.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
It is a while before she can compose herself to speak.
“There’s been a murder.”
“Another one?”
“A woman,” she says. “Stabbed, like the others. They found her outside the hat shop on boulevard de Clichy. I’d gone to get a bonnet. I saw... I saw her there. There was so much blood. On her arms, and her clothes. She had a green cape.”
Her eyes meet mine across the crowd. Around me, the tavern seems to shrink, and the voices grow distant and jumbled. There’s a rushing in my ears. Something is in motion. The anomaly, I think. I’m being pulled back in. My name’s being called, from a long way away—Gabriela!—and then the scene steadies itself, the rushing subsides, and I’m stood behind the counter in l’Éléphant, a dishcloth in one hand, a tankard in the other.
A customer is calling for me. I ignore him and focus on Millie. She doesn’t need to say anything else. She knows I have understood.
AFTER CLOSING TIME we sit in a corner of the tavern, a bottle of absinthe and two glasses between us.
“You knew her,” says Millie. “You spoke to her.”
“I didn’t want to know her,” I say, which is the truth, but does not answer the underlying question.
“Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You knew her. And now she’s dead.”
“Do you think I was involved?”
“No! I think you might be in danger. I might be in danger. What if it was the Ratter? What if we’re next?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Then why can’t you explain? I tell you things. There’s nothing you don’t know about me. But you’ve got secrets, Gabriela.”
“Listen.” I choose my words carefully. “I knew her from... back home. I didn’t know her well. We had acquaintances in common. She was trouble. I hoped I’d never have to see her again.”
“You won’t now, will you?”
There’s a sickness in my stomach when I think about what the chronometrist has done; the scene that Millie described, the lingering horror of it in her eyes. She’ll carry that with her for the rest of her life. I don’t know how the so-called murder was perpetuated, but I do know this: the chronometrist is not playing clean. This is a warning. Did she know Millie would be passing by that way? Did she engineer her finding the corpse?
“Millie,” I say. “You know how in Bastille, you think you can hear the prisoners that were there? Like, their spirits?”
She shudders. “Don’t.”
“That woman. She was... haunted. As if she carried more than one life.”
Millie looks at me. I can tell she isn’t satisfied with my explanation. I think she is going to ask more questions, but instead she gives a hard little laugh, and raises her glass.
“To the dead,” she says.
I clink. “To the dead.”
UP ON THE hill, another four stones have joined the original boulder in the mud. The architect surveys his site with despairing eyes.
“Doesn’t seem to be going too well,” I comment.
“What’s that? Oh, it’s you. This project has been a ludicrous proposition from the start. One day we’re building it, the next we’re not. Now the money is there—now, there isn’t enough money. Archbishop says go ahead, people say we don’t want it. This is a city of madmen. It’s no place for an architect.”
“You really do need a change of direction,” I say. “Think about it. These delays are a chance for you to reimagine the entire project. Come up with something truly magnificent.”
The architect lowers his voice.
“As it happens, I have been plagued of late with visions for something a little... alternative.”
“You have? What kind of visions?”
“It is of little consequence. The Archbishop will not brook any further delays.”
“Don’t give up so soon. He might be open-minded about it.”
The architect frowns. One of the beautiful white stones, manoeuvring into position amidst grunts and swearing, has become caked in mud.
“You believe this is worth pursuing?”
“Everything is worth pursuing in the name of art,” I say firmly.
“Perhaps I shall request a meeting.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.”
The architect peers at me. “Weren’t you a boy before?”
“These days I’m Gabriela.”
I almost believe it. Try someone on for long enough, can you not become them? Occasionally I feel a flicker of guilt, remembering the real Gabriela back in the twenty-first century, but most days I am absorbed in the fascination of discovering another era. There are things I miss, things like hygiene and proper sanitation. Tooth paste. Hot showers. But these inconveniences are eclipsed by the novelty of my situation. However I have come to be here, I cannot deny there is something wondrous about finding myself in another century. I cannot pretend I am not glad for having come.
The next time I see the architect, he tells me a new design has been approved by the Archbishop.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask.
“Oh my dear young—woman,” he says. “Would you have me spoil the surprise? I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got time.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A STREAM OF flames about me, the fall of the batons—one, two, three, four—into my waiting hands, regular, rhythmical, immersed in the hypnotic state of it. A soft sigh at my back. I turn slowly, my focus still with the tumbling batons, the subtle adjustments required for their safe return. Fabian is gone. A new presence fills the street, cold and watchful and malevolent. A man stands facing the tavern. Dress coat and hat, gloved hands curled around a cane, thin little greyhound at his feet. Lord Valleroy, Millie’s patron. The man and the racing dog, as silent as one another, their eyes fixed on the door to the tavern.
Which has just closed upon another figure: this one stocky and heavyset, holding a club. Inside the tavern are Millie, the acrobats of the Folies, and the barmaids and regulars. I douse my batons in the nearby water barrel and follow the club bearer t
hrough the door.
I see him approach Millie, who is perched in the lap of a boy she was fluttering her lashes at earlier tonight. I see the club bearer lift his weapon and swing it. I hear a crack, a scream, see the boy’s head snap back, the force of the blow tumbling him and Millie to the floor. I can’t see anything else, I can’t see how badly the boy is hurt, or if he will ever get up again, because just then the place erupts.
In the moments that follow the attack it is as if I am still juggling, a step removed from the events unfolding in front of me. I see it in detail. A retaliatory fist glances off the head of the club bearer and lands on an adjacent shoulder. The victim yells and swipes at her assailant, and her friend joins in, and the club bearer is staggering, trying to sight the one who struck him in the first place, mistakes his quarry and swings again. A man lifts a chair and hefts it in the club bearer’s direction. The chair crashes down upon a table, smashing a dozen glasses.
A sharp, eerie ringing. The smell of aniseed soaks the room.
The fight resumes.
A tankard flies toward me, breaking the spell. I duck. The missile skims my hair and slams into the counter behind my head, denting it. I crawl under the nearest table, frantically scouting for Millie. I have to get her out. Millie is the target. This is Valleroy’s doing. I have to get her out.
I crawl out from under the table and plunge into the melee. Blows catch me as I shoulder my way across the room. I see Millie whirling a candlestick holder above her head. Her dress is spattered with blood. I don’t know if it’s hers.
“Millie!”
“Gabriela!”
We fight our way towards one another. A hand lifts me by the neck, fully clear of the floor. I reach overhead and jab my thumbs into my attacker’s face and he drops me at once. I scramble up, grab a tankard and bash the man over the head. It is the club bearer—the henchman. He reels back, temporarily dazed. I have seconds. I squeeze between two wrestling men, dart around a woman clinging limpet-like to a man’s back whilst beating him with an ornamental bust, and find Millie’s hand. Her palm is wet, sticky.