by Ian Garbutt
‘I don’t know what you mean. You hurt my head with all these words.’
‘Take off those gloves. Your fingers will resemble bloodless worms if you do not permit the sun to colour your flesh.’
‘The sun is a painter?’
‘Indeed. Every man with a brown face will testify to that. She is the world’s greatest artist, colouring the land with greens and yellows, the gold of autumn, the crisp whites of winter. Flowers follow her movement across the sky like eager children, folding up their pretty faces in petulance when the day ends and she takes her brush to the other side of the world.’
He beckoned Beth over and grasped her shoulder. ‘Be still. The brush will not bite.’
It circled then touched. Bristles kissed her knuckle. A hairy tongue slid down to her fingertip, leaving a trail of wet scarlet. The paint dried quickly on her warm skin.
He smiled. A whisper of air as the brush returned to the palette to feed. Returning, it gave Beth a blue thumb. Yellow, green and white coloured her other fingers. Ochre whirls spiralled up the back of her hand, chained her wrist and dipped back into her palm.
She giggled like a child. ‘It tickles, like being licked by a friendly cat.’
‘The brush is my friend. It takes what is in my heart and mind, and gives those visions substance. Now, move your hand. Waggle the fingers. See how the colours blend, become a single entity the way a painting is the sum of its many parts.’
‘It’s like watching a flower dancing in the air.’
‘Now you must try.’
‘I can’t paint. I have the hands of a milkmaid.’
‘If you can hate, if you can love, if you have ever felt angry or sad, or brimmed with joy so that you wanted to burst. If you have watched a beautiful sunset and cried, or felt melancholy because the sky was choked with rain clouds. If you have felt some or all of these things then of course you can paint. You do not work these miracles with this,’ he touched her hand, ‘but with this.’ His fingers alighted between her breasts, lingered, then fluttered away. Beth fancied she could feel her skin tingling.
He passed her the brush, which felt awkward in her many-coloured hand. His fingers curled around Beth’s and led them to the palette. The brush dived and wrapped itself in a bright shawl of purple then was guided to her other hand, where it made a shiny grape of each fingernail.
‘See how easy it is.’ His voice was a tickle in her right ear. ‘I’m no painter. Your hands are guiding mine.’
‘Parents help their infants to walk. Finally they take their own steps, unsteadily at first, but growing in confidence. Once you have a feel for things you won’t need help.’
He reclaimed the brush, wiped the end with a rag and dropped it into a pot beside the others. Stooping, he dipped a finger into the palette, turning moist pink into vivid green. He knelt in front of Beth and hooked his thumb over the lip of her gown. A sharp tug and the stitching parted. Air breathed over her exposed breasts. Before she could react his painted fingertip circled the left nipple. Beth was betrothed with a ring of green. Shivers cut like glass along her spine. She was ice, freezing and melting and freezing all over again.
He leaned forward, mouth filling with her body, but his eyes spoke directly to her soul.
I’ll paint the sky across your heart. A forest will sprout from your belly and, rooted in your feet, red roses shall stretch thorny necks up your calves. Gold for the centre, only gold. What other colour for so priceless a treasure?
An Odd Sort of Prank
The Fixer looks up when Beth enters the mirror chamber and nudges a chair with his boot. ‘Sit down. First I’ll attend to your upper limbs, and then we’ll look at the rest of you.’
‘It’s warm,’ Beth says. ‘I don’t see a fire.’
‘A furnace sends hot air under the floor. The architect borrowed the idea from the Romans.’
A vague smell of cinnamon wafts into Beth’s nostrils as he bends over her. His touch is gentle as arms, hands and fingertips are examined. ‘The nails are filthy,’ he says. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I was given a dirty job. I tried to wash away the worst.’
He checks arms and legs, the soles of both feet. ‘You are healing well enough, but try to keep the dirt off.’
He applies ointment to a few stubborn rough patches of skin then inspects her scalp. Seemingly satisfied, he bids her open her mouth and peers inside.
‘Stay like that for a moment.’
He reaches into his bag. Beth strains to see what’s inside. A rough object presses against her gums and she recoils.
‘Watch out,’ he says, ‘you nearly had my fingers off.’
‘What did you just do?’
‘It’s a strip of bark. Work it around your mouth and it will help clean your teeth and gums. Don’t forget to spit.’
‘My tongue will be scratched into a raw lump.’
‘A few minutes each morning and night should do it. Now I’ll bathe your eyes. Tilt your head back and fix your gaze on the lantern.’
He wipes each eyelid with lumps of wadding treated with a sweet-smelling oil, then everything blurs as something drips onto each eye. ‘A soothing concoction of my own,’ he explains. ‘Bear it a mite longer. Such dusty work has served you poorly. There, you can sit up now.’
Light floods her vision. The Fixer wipes his hands and returns the items to his bag. ‘I am finished for today. Can you find your way back to your room?’
‘I’ll manage.’
He snaps the bag closed. ‘Don’t wander where you shouldn’t, Kitten. For your own good.’
Hummingbird is out on Assignment when Beth returns to their bedchamber. A sickly sweet odour taints the air. Not perfume but something more earthy. The supper tray has been cleared away and a candle burns on the bedside table. She checks the window fastenings. The night seems innocent.
Beth drops her day gown onto the rug, yawns and pulls back the coverlet.
A dark stain spreads across the mattress. A yellow-and-black blemish that undulates as she watches. Hundreds of tiny bodies swarm over one another, silvery wings glinting in the candlelight. And now a sound: a low, ominous buzz as the mass shivers in the sticky warmth of the bedchamber.
She backs away from the bed, biting her tongue in a panic-stab effort not to scream. Her hip catches the edge of the dresser. Basin and ewer clatter to the floor.
Her grasping hand finds the doorknob. Fingers slip on the brass. She scrabbles and it turns. The door whispers outwards. Cool air. Blessed silence. Beth concentrates on placing one foot behind the other. At any second her mouth, ears and nostrils could fill with that buzzing, furious horde. Each nerve seems to draw tight then break.
She stumbles into the corridor and slams the bedroom door behind her. The world turns upside down and sanctuary arrives in darkness.
Bethany awakes to find a blanket wrapped around her and a foul-smelling vial held under her nose. She pushes it away and tries to sit up.
‘Are you all right?’ a voice asks. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ Beth waves towards the bedroom door. ‘In there.’
‘Eloise is clearing it up now. You must have spilled some jam on the bed. Wasps flew through the open window, attracted to the scent. You should be more careful in future.’
Beth’s belly cramps and she leans over, retching. Nothing comes up, but the effort leaves her trembling. ‘The window was closed,’ she whispers. ‘An entire nest was hidden under the coverlet. Someone put it there.’
‘And who would want to play such a trick? Come, Kitten, you are in shock. Let me help you to your feet. You will recover in a moment.’
A sliver of anger cuts through Beth, but she accepts the offer of help. Her benefactor is tall and well-bosomed, with an oval face and auburn hair that hangs loose over her ears. A plant picture is etched onto her right cheek.
‘I am Nightshade,’ she says, answering the unspoken question. ‘My room is further down the corridor.’
Eloise app
ears clutching a damp bundle. ‘Got them all, I think. An easy task. I threw on a towel and poured water over the little devils.’
Nightshade squeezes Beth’s arm. ‘Can you face going back inside? If not I’m sure we can find you another place to sleep, though Hummingbird will return soon, I think.’
‘I shan’t be driven out of my own bed.’
‘I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding. ’
‘Then you won’t mind checking the room with me?’
‘I don’t know what further horrors you expect to find, but very well.’
Beth follows Nightshade inside. The coverlet has been drawn back and a dry, fresh sheet spread over the mattress. A hint of sweet scent still hangs above the bed.
‘Look,’ Nightshade says. ‘All gone.’
‘No,’ Beth whispers. ‘She missed one.’
On the floor a solitary wasp, wings broken, transcribes an agonised circle. Its striped, tapered tail arches again and again, plunging the sting into the rug. Nightshade stamps it into a viscous smear.
‘There, Kitten,’ she touches Beth’s elbow. ‘It’s dead.’
Fingers of hot, salty perspiration trickle down Beth’s forehead. ‘I hate those things.’ Her voice is a hiss. ‘I hate them.’
Nightshade sits Beth on the bed and wipes her brow with a strip of cloth. When Beth has calmed enough to hold a cup without dropping it, Nightshade pours a measure of cool water. ‘Drink,’ she instructs. ‘You’re acting as though a mad dog has attacked you. It was only a stupid insect.’
‘I hate them.’ It’s all Beth can think of to say. She winces when her fingers encounter an egg-sized lump on her forehead.
‘You struck the wall when you fell,’ Nightshade explains. ‘I shall fetch something for it.’
She finds fresh linen in a drawer and moistens it with the last few drops from the ewer. Beth presses the material against the lump until the coolness dissolves the pain. ‘This is a madhouse,’ she says. ‘I shall be dead before the week is out.’
Nightshade gives a thin smile. ‘You are not badly hurt, but I can have the Fixer look at you if you wish. He’ll not be abed yet.’
Beth shook her head.
‘Would you like me to sit with you awhile?’
‘That’s kind, but I’ve caused enough fuss. I need to sleep.’
‘Do you know where the maids’ parlour is?’
‘Yes, Eloise showed me.’
‘If you are uncomfortable go and knock on the door. Someone is always there, no matter the hour. Promise me you will do that and I shall leave you in peace.’
Beth promises. The girl squeezes her hand and leaves, closing the door. Beth checks under the bed. Nothing. She pads over to the window and opens the curtains. Nothing there either.
Climbing onto the bed, Beth props her back against the bedstead, draws up her legs and wraps both arms around her knees. She is sitting like that when, an inch of burned candle later, the door gusts in. Hummingbird wears fresh linen but her skin carries the scent of smoke and dark gin-sodden corners. Her hair is tied back, her face creased with grime.
‘I know you’re fond of me but you didn’t have to stay up,’ she says.
Beth doesn’t answer or move from her place on the bed. Hummingbird kicks off her slippers. She picks up the ewer, tips it and frowns when nothing comes out. Returning it to the basin, she plucks a towel from the back of the chair and begins rubbing her face and neck.
‘A nightmare,’ she exclaims as the towel breezes over her skin. ‘An absolute nightmare. There I was, looking like Queen Charlotte, all ready for a fine dinner and a concert afterwards and do you know where I ended up? Do you?’
She throws the towel across the room. It flops over the top of the looking-glass. ‘A cockpit, that’s where. No opera house for me. Instead, a foul, smoky room filled with fat men piddling their breeches over two scrawny birds scratching each other to death in a circle of sand. And that wasn’t the worst part. Women weren’t allowed inside, so my beau for the evening made me dress in jacket and breeches. Can you believe it? Three hours to get dressed and I had to pull the whole lot off. My hair went under a cap, my breasts into a tight shirt and soot went over my face to hide my Emblem. I looked like a gutter urchin. My client kept telling everyone that I was his manservant but I don’t think they believed it for a minute. They all kept winking and sniggering at one another. I believe my client was more interested in my boy’s clothes and watching my reaction to the fight than wagering anything on the birds. Next time I’ll cast a sharper eye over my Assignment.’
‘Someone tried to hurt me tonight.’
Hummingbird pulls off her house gown and drops it onto the chair. ‘I daresay a cockpit is no worse than any other place. I’ve watched bear-baiting before and don’t mind a bit of blood and fluster, but if a client’s going to put me on show I wish he’d leave me dressed for the occasion. Not that there’s anything I can do about it, mind. He didn’t fumble me, didn’t break any of the rules. As soon as I gave him the Touch he was off. The Abbess will get a fat fee and I’ll be left to die of embarrassment, to Eloise’s delight no doubt.’
‘Someone smeared bramble jam on our bed and dropped a wasps’ nest over it.’
Hummingbird frowns. ‘Odd sort of prank, but I’ve seen the like. Some of the older girls feel Kittens should undergo an initiation. You’ll get sharp to these games. Now, are you going to settle? I’m eager to go to sleep and forget this night existed.’
‘This was more than a prank. I could’ve been hurt. As it was I fainted and nearly cracked my head open. One of the other girls, Nightshade, found me sprawled over the corridor floor. I hate wasps. You don’t know how much I hate them. I thought I was going to die of fright. That girl’s an angel.’
Hummingbird sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Actually she’s a poisoner. Killed her entire family. She was an ace away from getting hanged before Kingfisher stole her from the noose. As for this so-called prank, perhaps Eloise tipped the jam over when she fetched the tray and was too tired to notice. We tease each other ragged, her and I, but I’ll be first to admit that she works herself too hard. The jam was spilled and wasps caught the scent, that’s all. Every summer we have to smoke their nests out of the roof. This big old house is home to every bird and bug in God’s creation.’
‘The coverlet was pulled up.’
‘Then I daresay a clumsy ghost has come to haunt our bedchamber. Perhaps his spectral tongue had the taste for a fine spread of bramble jam.’
‘Don’t make fun of me.’
‘I’m not, leastwise not in a cruel way. It’s easy to wallow in misery and start thinking the whole world is against you. Sisters have better things to do than scare one another.’
‘Why am I here? What have I done to warrant it?’
‘Those the House chooses have no other future. We are all dead people, Kitten.’
‘Are you a criminal? A murderess? What manner of creatures are kept penned in this place?’
‘It’s not a gaol.’
‘Isn’t it? Then am I free to walk out the front door? Can I leave now, without a word to anyone?’
Hummingbird cocks her head, rises from the bed and hurries to the window. She parts the curtains and presses her face against the glass. After a moment she teases the window open.
‘Don’t—’
Hummingbird presses a finger against her lips. Beth hears noises in the alley below. The rustle of velvet. Soft voices. A man’s grunt followed by a guttural, throaty sound. A woman’s moans, hurriedly stifled.
‘Someone is enjoying themselves,’ Hummingbird whispers.
Beth feels her cheeks redden. From where she sits there’s little to see beyond the open curtains. No moon. No shadows. A distant flickering from a linkboy’s torch bobs and weaves before being snuffed out. ‘I thought Masques didn’t . . . You told me this wasn’t a whorehouse.’
‘Oh, don’t stir yourself, Kitten. ’Tis only a street girl and her tup.’ Hummingbird makes a face. ‘If the
y don’t rein in they’ll likely find a chamber pot tipped over their heads. Once a week, sometimes more, I am serenaded from the alley. Being so close to the House seems to give these creatures a thrill.’ She giggles. ‘He’ll knock her through the brickwork, methinks. Don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about. That blushing face doesn’t fool me.’
‘Does the Abbess know?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. She’s had her own share of admirers. Rumour has conjured up a string of lovers, but relationships are a dangerous pastime. Not so long ago a client grew too fixed on one of our girls. He was bundled out of the back of his gambling club, thrashed and dumped in a trough. When a few days later he plucked up the courage to return he found his credit withdrawn and his debts called in. He works as a menial in the church now, I believe.’
‘That’s an appalling thing to do.’
‘He was given fair warning.’
‘What about the girl? Did something bad happen to her?’
‘No. It was agreed she’d done nothing to encourage him. A lesson nonetheless.’
‘Is love so frowned upon here? Have you never dreamed of marrying?’
‘And spend the rest of my days in a draughty parlour with a dish of tea in my hand and a tiny dog panting at my feet? Marriage can bleed a woman of power the way a quack might open a vein in her arm.’
Hummingbird turns back to the window. ‘Renowned painters, fashionable poets and leaders of men have all haunted the square. A peek from behind drawn curtains is enough to drive anyone into a frenzy. Some of the younger rakes, desperate for a stolen glimpse, have been known to scale the drainpipes. Every so often Kingfisher goes out and shoos them away.’
‘You tease men to distraction yet live as nuns? How can you bear it? Surely you have desires?’
‘Good training and a strong will can turn you from the most handsome of faces. Grow too hot between the legs, however, and the Fixer will give you something to cool your passion.’
‘Surely some things are beyond even the Fixer’s bag of tricks.’
Hummingbird laughs. ‘He’s a fine caster of spells. Should he wish, he’ll have you believing you can fly, but don’t be careless.’