by Augusta Li
“Lost, is he?” Querry heard a woman say. “I’ll give the poor dear a place to spend the night!” Her companions roared with laughter, and Querry grinned.
“Reginald Whitney!” Frolic shouted, springing to his feet and waving his arms as if a large field, instead of a few feet, separated Reg from their table.
Scowling at the attention the doll drew, Reg quickly took his seat. Soon the other patrons forgot about him and turned their backs. Querry slid a mug of ale that had been waiting to his friend. Reg sipped it and frowned. “How do you drink this piss, Querry?”
“Next time bring a bottle of wine,” Querry said with a wink. “How was the party?”
Reg sighed heavily and set his case on the wobbly table. From within, he took a small journal, like an appointment book. “I had no trouble getting into His Lordship’s study. With all of the influential people at the ball, nobody paid much attention to me. He had an inordinate number of foreign dignitaries as guests. I can’t imagine what for, but they made for a fine distraction.”
“Great!” Frolic exclaimed.
“Not really,” Reg said. “His desk was strewn with notes and papers. Mostly things from the Archives: news articles about the tower, books written after it had been built, artist’s depictions of the clockwork creatures at the top. There’s an angel at each corner, which I didn’t know. Really, why place all of that so high up that nobody can see it?”
“So, nothing?” Frolic said, his shoulders slumping.
“There was one thing. I didn’t even know it existed, and I have no idea how Thimbleroy acquired it, but apparently the physician who’d attended Mad King Leopold had kept a journal.”
“What’s that to do with anything?” Querry asked.
Shrugging, Reg said, “Well, he was the one who commissioned the clock tower. Almost cleaned out the treasury. But I agree. The journal did little more than record the king’s tendencies to wander around naked and hold court with pots and pans that he’d set up in his room. Thimbleroy clearly hadn’t finished it, so I tore out the last page.” He handed it to Querry.
“A royal archivist mutilating a rare book?” the thief teased, wagging his finger and earning a smile from Reg. He read aloud. “The king has been in a rage for days now. He will neither dress nor sleep, but storms about quarreling with paintings and chairs. The ladies of the court have been sent away for the sake of decency, and I fear His Majesty will need to be restrained. Oft times he has shouted at the sky, demanding the appearance of a Prince of Angels. Other times he calls for a key that he believes is being deliberately denied him. He seems to think these things will grant him immortality and sovereignty over the world, and threatens death and the most grisly torture upon whoever he believes withholds them. I am at my wits end as to how to help this poor man, and I fear for our fair kingdom. Still, my skills have failed me, and I can make no sense of His Majesty’s condition.”
They sat digesting the words, Frolic circling the rim of Querry’s glass with his pinky. Finally he said, “It’s all very sad, but, so what?”
“I agree,” Querry said. “It’s common knowledge now that the king was mad.”
“Some say he was assassinated,” Reg mused. “Before he could completely bankrupt the kingdom with his ludicrous projects.”
“But what has this to do with anything?” Querry asked, frustrated. Something occurred to him then and he asked, “Reg, when is the first mention of faeries in a book?”
“Ancient times. They’re a staple of our mythology. But the first actual account of a subject having discourse with a faerie was twenty-eight years ago. It’s a queer little tale in a letter a visiting foreigner meant for his mother. Apparently he’d had too much to drink at a dinner party and decided a walk and some fresh air might make a cure. He made his way along streets he knew well enough, after having been in the city almost half a year. After a bit he came to a bridge he’d never seen before. He disliked it and the thick mist below it. He was of a mind to turn back when he saw a moth. He described it as big as a dinner plate, and more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. Colored dust sprinkled down as it flapped its wings.
“And so this foreigner felt a strong compulsion to follow the moth. He went to the far end of the bridge, where there stood a single, square tower. He describes it in his letter as looking like a tombstone. A woman stood before the gate, wearing the most lavish gown, with a long train behind. As the man watched, the moth came to rest on her skirts, and he realized that her entire garment consisted of these insects, lying on their sides and forming layer after layer of what had first appeared as fine lace. The gentleman recounts dancing with this woman amidst a cloud of moths and the dust of their wings, which he said made him feel better and more confused than drink. And though the foreigner felt sure he’d indulged in only a single dance, he finally reached the home of his friends and found out he’d been away a week.”
“What happened to him?” Frolic asked.
“He spent every night wandering the city in search of that bridge. Not long after he went mad and killed himself.”
“Oh, how horrible! Poor man!”
Querry drummed his fingers. “They’ve been here twenty-eight years, yet nobody remembers them not being here. What a powerful enchantment. And Thimbleroy thinks he can get rid of them.”
“But back to the point,” Reg said, pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipping it open. “We’re no further ahead than we were. We still have no idea why Frolic was made or what Thimbleroy wants with him.”
“Don’t forget, Reg, Thimbleroy doesn’t know Frolic is what he’s after. He doesn’t know what he should’ve found in that cellar, does he?”
“No, I don’t believe he does. Still, you must be careful. Could you, I don’t know, do something about his hair? Tuck it up or flatten it out?”
Querry just laughed, and then he remembered something. “I say, Reg, would you happen to have some spare ink and a few sheets of writing paper?”
Reg produced them from his case, along with an expensive pen and blotter, and Querry put them in his coat pocket.
“What will we do now?” Frolic asked. “Could we go for a walk down by the water?”
“Join us?” Querry asked Reg.
“You know I can’t.”
“Why?” Frolic asked.
“It’s very complex,” he said, not unkindly, to Frolic. “I don’t think you’d be able to understand it all yet.” He stood, pushed his chair in, and lifted his hat to put it on.
Getting to his feet, Querry said, “Let’s do what we said, Reg. Let’s get a boat and leave this place. I’ll be safe. Frolic will be safe. We won’t have to worry over all this strange business ever again. We’ll be able to live the way we want.” He came closer, and said in a low voice, “You’d be able to kiss me whenever you felt like it and scream my name at the top of your voice when I made love to you.”
“Querry!”
“Well, we have only to go.”
Regaining his composure and taking an embroidered tissue from his pocket to dab at his sparkling forehead, Reg said, “Boats don’t grow on trees, Querry. And none of us knows how to sail.”
“I’ll steal a boat. I’ll learn to sail. How hard can it be?”
Frolic gave a little hop. “Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? Can’t we go right away?” He reached out and took Reggie’s hand, looking at him expectantly. Much to Querry’s surprise, Reg didn’t recoil. Holding Reg’s fingers, Frolic bounced on the balls of his feet while he awaited Reg’s reply.
But instead, the archivist addressed the thief. “It’s not right to fill his head with this nonsense, Querry.”
“Oh, come on, Reg! You can’t still be considering marriage!”
“Of course. I have every intention of fulfilling my duties.”
“They’ll be expecting an heir. What will you do then?”
“I’ll produce one.”
Querry made an exasperated noise, lost for words. Beside him, Frolic’s expres
sion changed: his brows and mouth set into hard, straight lines. He dropped Reg’s hand and set his own on his hip, chin lifted. “I, too, will find my duty and fulfill it, Reginald Whitney.”
“Frolic!” Querry said. “I thought we’d cleared this matter.”
The three of them stood in a triangle, each man’s presence suddenly awkward to every other. Querry looked down at his boot, while Reg fidgeted with the clasps on his case. Frolic’s eyes darted rapidly from the archivist to the thief. He seemed to sense the shift in mood, but didn’t seem able to comprehend its cause nor correct it. Clearing his throat, Reg set his bowler on his head, mumbling that he needed to be off.
“You’ll contact me if you learn anything more?” Querry asked.
When Reg didn’t reply, but stood looking at Querry with a mixture of longing, exasperation, and possibly pity, Frolic once again took his hand, saying, “Please help me find out my purpose.”
With a deep sigh, Reg said, “If I come across any pertinent information, I’ll find a way to convey it to the two of you. Until then, I beg you, Querry, to be careful. Don’t do anything foolish or flashy. Just keep your head down. Both of you.”
“Reg—”
“I really need to be off. Mother will be asking questions.”
Dissatisfied, Querry followed Reg and Frolic to the door. He looked over his shoulder and found the strawberry-blond man watching them intently. He smiled at Querry and raised his glass a fraction of an inch. Querry was just about to cross the room and speak with the man when some exiting patrons cursed him and his companions for blocking the door. Reg took Querry’s wrist to hurry him along. Once outside, the three of them parted ways. Reg buttoned his high collar against the chill that had engraved the first frosty patterns on the Badger’s dirty, little windows and headed up hill, toward the wealthy neighborhood that served as his home and prison. When he’d gone, Querry crammed his hands into his pockets, jabbed his thumb on the metal tip of the pen, and swore. His armored boot sent an empty bottle to shatter against the wall of the pub.
“Don’t be sad, Querry,” Frolic said. “Let’s go for that stroll.”
“I don’t feel like going anymore. And it’s cold.”
“Let’s kiss,” Frolic suggested as he positioned himself in front of Querry. “That will raise your spirits, I daresay.”
“We can’t. Not here.”
“Why? I saw plenty of people kissing inside.”
“Men and women. Two men can’t kiss where anyone might see.”
“I don’t understand the difference.”
“You’ll just have to take my word,” Querry said. He thrust his shoulders up so more of his coat covered the back of his neck. Beneath his feet, the cobblestones looked sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar. What had he expected, that the three of them would sail off that very night, and spend the rest of their days engaged in orgiastic bliss? Reg would never agree. Throughout the conversation, Querry had feared Frolic might say or do something and reveal to Reg that they’d been intimate. He found he didn’t want Reg, or anyone else, to know. But, watching Frolic smile at the clouds of frozen air he exhaled, Querry couldn’t deny his growing affection for the doll, either. But how would others judge a man who made love to a doll? The answer was simple: as a pervert, a deviant of the worst kind, on the same level as a man who took liberties with pigs and cattle, if not worse.
“I’ve never given a damn what anyone thinks, and I won’t start now,” Querry said aloud. “Come, Frolic. Let’s go home. The cats will be hungry.”
With a wide smile, Frolic skipped over and wound both of his arms around Querry’s bicep. He nestled his cheek against Querry’s shoulder as they began to walk, and Querry couldn’t chastise him. The thief smiled in spite of himself. Before him, the frost had covered the grimy, dilapidated buildings. Everything sparkled: hedges, benches, trees, and even the blankets that covered the shoulders of beggars huddled in the alleys. Flurries fell in lazy spirals, even muffling the cacophony of drunkards and whores. Querry stole a kiss from Frolic before anyone could notice, and they made their way leisurely through fat, white flakes. Just as they entered their building, Querry caught sight of his strawberry-blond stalker, watching from underneath an awning across the street.
Chapter Five
OVER the next few weeks, both Querry and Frolic gradually forgot about their problem. No one troubled them, and they had no more news from Reg, even though Querry made a point of inquiring every few days. Frolic proved almost as adept a cat burglar as Querry himself, and they lived rather well, with plenty to eat and some spare money for clothes and entertainment. Querry almost forgot Frolic’s origins, as he felt so comfortable with him. Frolic proved the perfect partner in every way. With the money he’d stashed away, Querry even considered upgrading their lodgings. Before long, he’d probably be able to afford a small house in the merchants’ district. Maybe one day, they might even move to the country.
But the presence of Frolic’s leather book, and the work of translating it, always snapped Querry back to reality. Very slowly, he transcribed the weird code onto the paper Reg gave him. After he had a few pages, he read them before placing them in the back of the book. Soon he understood how Frolic had been constructed. His creator had put down, in meticulous detail, how his skeleton had been formed, and the complex clockwork at his joints that awarded him such natural movement. Querry discovered that Frolic drew in air so that it could fill sacks in his chest, where the vapor could condense and collect. His heart heated this water, and the small amount of steam produced traveled through a series of channels, turning gears that triggered other gears and powered tiny engines in the most intricate circuit Querry had ever seen. Thus, as long as he had access to air, Frolic had an endless supply of power.
His heart was made of magic. Though it was at times trying, Querry could comprehend the complex mechanics described by the doll maker. Some of the clockwork’s gears were no larger or thicker than a fly’s wing, but Querry understood the function of each, at least in theory. He couldn’t, however, follow the arcane proceedings, and Frolic seemed made at least as much of enchantment as metal and gears. His skin, for example, consisted of fine silk, the clouds of a rosy sunrise, and the soft sighs of children during pleasant dreams, all woven together by an ensorcelled spider on May Eve. The book, at least, claimed so. Possibly it was another code. As for Frolic’s heart, complex alchemy and rare enchantment kept it perpetually warm and able to turn water to vapor. The book explained how, inside a sphere of spell-protected glass, a mixture of dragon’s breath, fire-flower petals, oaths spoken during love, and captive fever-dreams swirled together to produce mystic heat. The huge tome described Frolic’s eyes, his perceptions, and his voice. Though fascinated, before long Querry set it aside. It no longer mattered to him how Frolic worked any more than it mattered exactly how Reg’s stomach processed his dinner.
On the night of the first real snow, Querry and Frolic returned to find even Rushport white and pure as a maiden’s chemise. Few boots had yet carved dirty furrows, and even fewer steam-carriages chugged through, leaving the snow mostly free from the grimy coating they left. The sky above them shone soft gray, similar to Frolic’s curls. During their work, they’d found a fine bottle of port in a gentleman’s library. It now waited within Querry’s coat pocket, but he’d sampled enough to feel warm and giddy. His cheeks glowed with both drink and wind. Frolic looked happy, too, trying to focus on the snowflakes lodged in his long lashes.
“What shall we do?” Querry asked, squeezing his elbow. Though Frolic didn’t need it, Querry had found him a scarlet soldier’s greatcoat. It hadn’t been easy to match his small size, but Querry didn’t want to draw unnecessary questions. The color suited him, making his hair and skin look even more startlingly light.
Looking up at the sky, Frolic said, “Why don’t we just walk? The night is so beautiful. I like it in the open air.”
“Right then.” In his high spirits, any proposal would have pleased the thief. He
had to admit the chill air felt invigorating, and the white blanket muffled the din of the neighborhood and hid the grime beneath. He hooked his arm with Frolic’s, and they set off in the direction of the water. If anyone commented, Querry could pretend to be drunk enough to require assistance. Just in case, he took another nip from the bottle.
Not a soul bothered the pair as they walked to the docks and back, feet wet and anticipating the warmth of the quilt and each other. They turned a corner, and Querry heard a familiar voice.
“Well, well, lads,” said the thug in the patched top hat. “Ain’t tonight our lucky night?”
His greasy cohorts laughed, and Querry stopped, his muscles wound tightly and his hand on his sword. The gang wouldn’t get the advantage of surrounding him a second time. In the open they’d never match his speed. He heard the subtle creak of feet packing snow and spun on the ball of his foot, blade held out in front of him. Frolic also turned and drew, and his weight shifted to his back leg. He’d learned well.
“We’ve been looking fer ye,” the leader said menacingly, though he kept a respectable distance. Behind him, the low light glinted off the knives and swords his men produced. Querry counted at least four or five more than last time, but he still didn’t worry.
“It’s a new month, pretty boy. Time to pay them dues. An’ I regret to inform, the rates have gone up a bit. Fifty pounds.”
Querry laughed out loud. This was a factory worker’s yearly income and then some.
“Fifty pounds or an ear,” said the man in the top hat, daring a step and holding the tip of his large knife just below his lip. “Or a nose. Or an eye. I ain’t picky.” Chortling, his gang began to close in. Querry and Frolic pressed their shoulders together, standing almost back to back, sword-arms parallel, their eyes never deviating from the large men.