The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  The sun was already high in the sky when Blaise awoke. Someone had covered him with a moth-eaten blanket. It gave off a cloud of dust when he shrugged it aside, revealing Sunni stirring awake by his feet.

  Blaise pulled his hat over his face, so no one would talk to him quite yet. The next thing he knew, two hard things bounced off his hat and onto his chest. Jenny was tossing bread rolls into the Nook and cackling at the snoring men in the back.

  “No use going out in the day, eh, gents?” The landlady laughed. “You is all far handsomer in the dark.”

  Sunni was already sitting up, gnawing on a roll. “So do we think this is an improvement on the Academy?”

  “At least they let us sleep here.” Blaise let out a yawn.

  Jenny called to them, “Gentlemen waiting for you downstairs, boys.”

  The tavern on the ground floor was already heaving with customers and seemed no different from the night before, since the grimy windows let in so little sunlight.

  Fleet and Sleek were in discussion with two other men.

  “Good day, boys.” Fleet pulled two stools up to their table. “Straight to business. Here are Mr. Simpkins and Mr. Jute.”

  Mr. Simpkins, a sallow man with tufts of hair sprouting from his ears, counted out a selection of coins from a pouch. “Ten shillings for the pocket watch. ’Tis only worth nine, but I gave you an extra shilling as it comes from Old Slipper, which amuses me greatly.”

  Sleek smiled and moved one silver coin away and into his pocket. “Commission.”

  “Merely half a crown,” Fleet assured Sunni and Blaise. “For our guidance in these matters.” He siphoned off some copper coins and made them into a small pile. “This goes to Jenny, for your grub, bed, and clothes.”

  “Mr. Jute and I,” said Simpkins, “will be happy to dispose of your unwanted goods in future, lads.”

  Blaise brushed the rest of the money off the table and dumped it into a tattered pouch he had discovered in his coat pocket. “Thank you, sir.”

  The two men left the table after handshakes all around.

  “What can we get with this money?’ asked Blaise. It didn’t look like much.

  Fleet smiled. “One shilling buys four suppers, and you has seven shillings left.”

  “So we won’t starve anyway,” said Blaise. “But I hope we won’t be here long enough to need twenty-eight more suppers.”

  “Aye, but grub ain’t your only expense. You pays for your sleeping places. And other special costs perchance.”

  “Magicians,” said Sunni.

  “Good point,” said Blaise. “When do we start magician hunting?”

  Sleek knocked his pipe against the bench. “After dark.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have to wear these things again,” Blaise told Sunni back in the Nook that evening as he threw the filthy white stockings into a corner for someone else to find and use. After a slow afternoon of eating and dozing, he was anxious to get going.

  Sunni’s face fell, and he knew she was thinking of the boy who’d owned the stockings. “Do you think Throgmorton will punish the boys because we got away?”

  “I hope not. Better not to dwell on it,” he said, packing his belongings into a worn leather satchel he’d gotten from Jenny. It blended in better than his twenty-first-century messenger bag. “You okay?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Stealing Old Slipper’s watch really got to me.”

  “Look, I’ll do the lifting from now on, so you don’t have to. And I know it doesn’t make stealing right, but if it looks like we’re getting out of this place, we can give all the money to people here that really need it.”

  Sunni tied her hair back. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Blaise leaned over to push a stray lock from her face. At that moment, he felt his old feelings for her come rushing back, but two things kept him from acting on them: the worry that Sunni might push him away — and the fact that everyone around them thought she was a boy.

  He pulled back quickly just as Sleek appeared, beckoning for them to come downstairs.

  “Who are these magicians you talked about?” Sunni asked when they were seated in the tavern.

  “Don’t know them to speak to,” Fleet said, tearing apart the carcass of a roast chicken. “They works their wonders in demonstrations to the public.”

  “What are they called?”

  “Various names. They comes and goes,” said Fleet. “Mysterious gents with unusual ways, often learned in foreign places. Perhaps one will have the knowledge you needs.”

  Sunni asked a question that had been nagging at her. “How long have you known Throgmorton?”

  “More than a year. ’Twas in spring, eh, Sleekie?” Fleet said. “That’s when he appeared and the Academy began.”

  Sleek shrugged and nodded.

  “The boys started in spring last year?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you’ve been working for Throgmorton all that time?”

  “Aye.”

  Blaise gnawed on his chicken drumstick and said, “What’s he going to do without you two?”

  Fleet thought for a moment. “I suppose he shall find others to ‘borrow’ the paintings. Sleekie and I has been discussing this of late. Before Throggie informed upon us, we was already feeling a shift in the wind.”

  Sleek narrowed his eyes. “A chill.”

  “It was a chill wind, Sleekie. As if Throggie’s Academy business is winding down. For the last few weeks, we has felt uncertain of the future.”

  “Did he say anything to make you think that?” Blaise asked.

  The nightsneaks snorted and Fleet said, “Nay, why should he? We was but hired hands.”

  “You know the real reason the boys copy the artworks, don’t you?” Sunni asked.

  “Nothing to do with us. We borrows ’em and, after a time, we returns ’em to the owners’ houses as if they never left.”

  She sniffed. “I think Throgmorton is selling the copies.”

  “By heaven,” said Sleek, winking at Fleet.

  “Imagine,” said his companion.

  “The boys draw on old paper smoked to make it look older,” said Sunni, thinking back to the fire in the courtyard.

  The pair offered no further information.

  “Where do Throgmorton and Livia come from?” asked Blaise.

  “That is a mystery,” said Fleet, sipping at his tankard of ale.

  Sunni remembered overhearing the nightsneaks’ conversation in the kitchen. “They just appeared at Jeremiah’s, didn’t they?”

  “Aye,” said Fleet. “Out of thin air, Mistress Biggins said.”

  Out of thin air, Sunni thought. Did they arrive through the painted door, too?

  Blaise let out a frustrated laugh. “And they act like they own Jeremiah’s house.”

  “Perhaps they does,” said Sleek, loading up his pipe.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Blaise. “Jeremiah said his father built that house and no one would ever force him out.”

  No one would force him out, Sunni repeated to herself. But they knew something had forced Jeremiah out. Otherwise he would not have had to build another house to replace it, the one he later filled with his murals.

  She remembered the blue plaque on the front of Starling House. It had said something about the house being rebuilt. There might have been a date but, to her annoyance, she couldn’t remember it.

  Sleek’s hand waved in front of her face.

  “Are you with us, Sunniver?” Fleet asked. “I was saying, let us hope Starling ain’t forced out. He has always been a gentleman to us.”

  Sunni shook herself back into the present. “Yes, I hope he’ll be all right.”

  “Sleekie, I think we must show them the way to the magicians now,” said Fleet, dusting crumbs off his coat.

  Blaise grinned and pushed his empty plate away.

  “We’re ready,” Sunni said, hugging her leather satchel. All the clothes and possessions belonging to her twenty-first-century l
ife were hidden in it.

  “Sleekie and I will disappear after we leaves you,” answered Fleet. “If we is taken, you will be, too.”

  “And vicey-versey,” added Sleek, patting his hat onto his head.

  “Wait. We’ll have to get back into Jeremiah’s workshop to go through the painted door,” said Blaise. “You came and went from his house as if it had no locks at all. How do we get in?”

  “Aye, well. Sneak inside when Mary is taking in clean laundry or sending the dirty away with the washerwoman, just before sunrise,” said Fleet. “The girl is half-asleep and leaves the door hanging open. Or when Biggins arrives or goes, if you diverts her attention and slips in before she locks up. You is clever enough and shall think of a way.”

  “What if there isn’t a way?” asked Sunni. “They’re bound to be on the lookout for us.”

  Fleet put one hand on her shoulder. “You has had a bit of nightsneak learning. You will find one.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sleek, puffing blue smoke rings toward the Green Dragon’s ceiling.

  Sunni looked doubtful.

  Fleet sighed and began fishing around in his waistcoat. “’Twill cost me dear to get another,” he said as he laid a key on the table. “Made by a crooked locksmith known only as Lucifer.” He pushed it toward Sunni. “This skeleton key will spring any door in Starling’s house.”

  “Thank you.” Blaise put two shillings on the table. “It’s probably not enough, but it’s all we can spare.”

  “Special costs,” Sunni quoted with a melancholy smile.

  “Aye, well . . .” Fleet stared at the coins, then shoved them back at Blaise. “Keeps your money. You shall need every farthing of it.”

  Rain pelted down upon Bandy Lane, turning it into a sea of rubbish floating along the gutters. A few feeble candles blinked from the upper floors of the houses, but except for the Green Dragon’s glow, the lane was dark. None of the residents had bothered to light the lamps above their doors.

  Fleet led the way, loping across streaming puddles and kicking dead rats out of their path.

  Sunni scanned doors and windows as they went along, unable to shake the feeling that hidden eyes were following them. She kept looking over her shoulder but saw nothing. When they crossed the junction, she looked back one last time, assuming the street would still be deserted. It was not.

  The dark shape of a man stood in the gloom. He was still, like an animal sensing prey nearby. Sunni couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was watching them.

  “Someone’s behind us,” she hissed to the others.

  “Do not run!” said Fleet. “Go swift, but calm. And follow close.”

  He quickened his pace and made a sharp turn into a back lane. Once they were out of the man’s view, he whispered, “Good eyes, Sunniver. It may be something, or it may be nothing. Make haste now, boys.”

  They moved stealthily from alleys to streets, aiming to outrun the man tailing them. Sunni glanced at every face they passed, looking for inquisitive eyes intent upon tracking them. But the people hurrying past took no interest in anything or anyone except escape from the lashing rain.

  The nightsneaks finally pulled Sunni and Blaise into a quiet corner.

  “This is as far as we goes. ’Tis no use being seen together,” said Fleet. “You carry on through the back streets: next right, second left, and first right again until you comes into Piccadilly. Find the theater at number 24, where magicians conjure wonders for ladies and gentlemen at three pence a ticket.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Sunni said, panting, still watching for the dark figure who had followed them.

  “Maybe we’ll see you again at the Green Dragon,” said Blaise.

  “Not if oglers is nearby watching for us — and for you. Best not to return there. Sleekie and I will disappear now.”

  They shook hands all around and Blaise checked that neither of the nightsneaks had picked his pocket at the same time.

  With a grin, Fleet turned away. “To the top of the dung heap, Sleekie.”

  Sleek raised one black-gloved finger to the brim of his hat before the pair slipped away into the night.

  Sunni and Blaise stood for a few moments, saying nothing.

  Then Sunni shivered, her jacket sodden with rainwater. “I know they’re thieves and everything, but they did look after us. Now there’s no one.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel like they’ve dumped us.” Sunni wiped a drip from the end of her nose. “Though I know they didn’t.”

  “But that was the deal. No use crying over it now.”

  “I’m not crying. It’s the stupid rain!” She kicked at a stone, and her wet shoe flew off into a deep puddle.

  Blaise turned away, his mouth hidden behind his hand, which made things even worse.

  “Stop laughing,” Sunni said, outraged.

  “Your shoe . . . The way it flew off . . .”

  She limped to the puddle and fished out the shoe. Water drained from the inside, and she shoved it back on her foot with a squelching sound.

  “Hilarious.”

  “Sorry.” Blaise snorted into his fist. “I can’t help it.”

  “Give me a break. You look as ridiculous as I do.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m glad no one at home can see us.”

  “You’re glad they can’t see your stick-insect legs in tights,” said Sunni. “I’m glad they can’t smell us.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Yeah, I stink. And so does everyone else.”

  “I’d kill for some toothpaste.” Blaise stuck out his tongue and then his serious face returned. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  They threaded through the back streets Fleet had directed them to, keeping their hats lowered and satchels safe. Every time someone bumped into them, they hastened away. Just before reaching the dark expanse of Saint James’s Park, they turned into Piccadilly and found number 24, which housed a shabby theater.

  Blaise looked around. “Is the coast clear?”

  “I think so.”

  A few well-dressed people struggled out of carriages and sedan chairs, adjusting their wigs before entering the theater, but most people were on foot. Sunni and Blaise joined the queue and paid their coins to a man who looked unimpressed with their streaming wet clothes leaking onto the floor. When they stepped into the small theater, another man pointed them toward the cheapest benches.

  The room was heady with the smell of humanity, tobacco, and candle wax. No one seemed in a hurry to sit down. Ladies wandered about to speak with one another, and men smoked together in clusters.

  “‘Monsieur Farlowe’s Spectacle, presented by Monsieur Farlowe himself, Celebrated Magician, including Neptune’s Grotto, Mister Jollity’s High-Wire Walkers, and Madame Morency’s Menagerie,’” Sunni read aloud from the playbill. “It says here that Neptune’s Grotto presents a tableau of living mermaids, centaurs, and other monsters thought previously to be mythical. This ought to be interesting.”

  “Sounds like a freak show,” Blaise said.

  He bought them two small pies, and they jammed them into their mouths, then wiped their fingers on their breeches like the men around them.

  There was still a dull chatter of voices as lamps were extinguished and the theater went dim. Torches danced beside a bloodred curtain. At last the audience grew quiet, until there was only a hush of whispers. A small orchestra fired up its violins and horns, sending a strange lullaby soaring into the smoky air.

  “Look,” whispered Blaise. “There are empty spaces in front. Let’s go.”

  “What if they chuck us out?”

  “Nobody’s paying attention. Come on!”

  They hurried forward, hunched over, and slipped into a block of empty seats. Almost immediately, a young, well-dressed couple slid into the seats in front of them. The man looked right and left and announced to the woman, “I might have known they would be late. We came from farthest away and arrived first.”

  “
Wait, Henry,” said the woman. “I see them coming now.”

  Half a dozen men, chatting and guffawing, descended upon the seats around Sunni and Blaise, crowding them as they leaned backward and forward to talk to each other. They were a motley assortment, from a young man who had the upright look of a soldier to a ruddy-faced one who talked continuously to another who was hawk-nosed and solemn.

  “How do you do, Miss Featherstone? A good evening to you, Featherstone.” The newcomers’ confident voices rang out as they bowed their heads to the lady and then leaned over each other to shake hands with the man she called Henry.

  “Monsieur Farlowe promises quite a spectacle,” Henry said loudly. “Will this be the night we see real wonders and not the usual trickery? What do you think, Wheatley?”

  The gaunt, solemn man next to Sunni said, “Judging by the ludicrousness of his program, I rather doubt this Monsieur Farlowe is the sorcerer he claims to be. I have met enough genuine magicians to know within five minutes whether he is one or not.”

  Sunni sat up straight and nudged Blaise.

  “If he is not,” said the ruddy-faced man, “I shall heckle him abominably.”

  “Oh, Mr. Trevelyan!” Miss Featherstone laughed and shook her head. “You will have us ejected.”

  A sweating, chubby man appeared in the aisle next to them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” He bowed to Miss Featherstone. “Madam.”

  “Mr. Smythe, isn’t it?” asked Henry. “How do you do?”

  “Very well, sir,” he said, glancing at the pit, where the orchestra was still wheezing through its prelude to the spectacle. “The program begins in a moment. I hope very much that you gentlemen will refrain from shouting insults at my performers this evening. I ask this every time you attend, but you never oblige me.”

  “Why, Smythe,” said Trevelyan, “if you gave us a quality program, we would be as quiet as church mice. But as you never do, and as we continue to buy tickets anyway, we shall express our opinions as we see fit.”

  Smythe puffed out his chest. “If you do not enjoy the program, gentlemen, why do you come?”

  “We hope a diamond shall one day appear from amongst your lumps of coal,” said Henry, smirking. The others laughed, and an animated argument followed between Trevelyan and Smythe.