Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  A whisper of oiled hinges. Feet take measured steps across the floorboards. The Abbess’s voice: ‘That Emblem is for life, Wasp, never to come off unless I decide otherwise. It binds you to me and to your Sisters. Once you feel recovered come to the Scarlet Parlour. The other Masques are waiting to embrace you.’

  With the Abbess at her side Wasp stumbles back up the long passage and into the hallway. The door to the Scarlet Parlour lies open and candles set on tall iron stands flicker beyond. Stepping through, a rush of warmth envelops her. She resists the urge to touch the dressing over the still raw tattoo. Her Emblem. A wasp.

  A twitch of a curtain. Figures drift like white, wingless angels around the furniture. The Abbess’s voice punctures the silence. ‘Masques, this is Wasp. Welcome your new Sister.’

  Each girl steps up, embraces Wasp and places a soft kiss below her Emblem. Each press of those lips is devoid of either warmth or malevolence. Simply a gesture, an elementary initiation into the fold.

  The Masque at the end of the line, a tall woman in a gold-trimmed gown, locks her in cold arms and places a kiss as bitter as winter on her face. Through those chilled lips, teeth nip Wasp’s skin. She pulls away in surprise. Eyes, brittle as icicles, stab her from beneath corn-gold hair. Two Emblems puncture her cheeks. One a pattern of red and white diamonds, the other a bird.

  A nightingale.

  In the general hustle of House life Wasp has mostly forgotten about the Harlequin. She seldom attends breakfast and it has been some time since she last haunted the corridors. Wasp watches as she rejoins the line.

  You don’t frighten me, she thinks. I shan’t let you.

  And then she is once more alone with the Abbess. The older woman curls her arm around Wasp’s waist and draws her into her bony arms. ‘Welcome, daughter,’ she whispers.

  A hot bath awaits Wasp in her bedchamber. She flings her clothes onto the bed and slips into the water, appreciating the soothing warmth. Afterwards, she rubs herself briskly with a towel, lights the bedside candle with a taper from the hearth and climbs between the sheets. She’s still awake when Hummingbird arrives.

  ‘Hello, Sister.’

  ‘Sister?’

  ‘Kitten is gone. You have a new life. You’ve grown up.’

  The world buzzes around Wasp’s head in shades of yellow and black. ‘Why weren’t you at my initiation?’

  ‘I couldn’t get back from my Assignment in time.’

  ‘Someone snitched on me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Abbess had a wasp. A wasp in a jar. I had to put my hand inside. Someone must have told her how much I hate them. My fingers are all swollen.’

  ‘I doubt it was much of a secret, Sister. We’ve all noticed how you flinch at the mention of one. Sometimes our fears are written all over our faces.’

  ‘Nightingale bit me.’ Wasp prods the tender flesh.

  Hummingbird bends to take a closer look. ‘I thought she might pull a trick like that. Nightingale is still the Abbess’s best Masque, but this doesn’t stop her intimidating the other girls. I’ve heard she even bleeds herself to keep a pale complexion like the ladies of the Royal Court a century ago. Her tactics are well known. Don’t let her bully you.’

  ‘She seems to hold a particular grudge against me.’

  ‘Nightingale will hook her nails into anyone who neglects to pay her the attention she believes she deserves. Take it as a compliment. A newcomer rarely finds herself so favoured.’

  A sombre morning sky breaks up into patches of blue. Facing the mirror, Wasp peels off the dressing the Fixer applied the night before and feels the scab with the tip of her finger. Thanks to the laudanum she slept reasonably well and now there’s no pain to speak of.

  ‘Doesn’t look very fetching,’ she remarks.

  Hummingbird splashes water from the basin onto her face and pats both cheeks with a towel. ‘The dead skin will be gone within a week. You’ll get a paper one to cover it in the meantime. Not one of those monstrosities you’ve had to wear up ’til now but a proper one, nicely cut and drawn. We’ve a Sister who’s good at that sort of thing. She painted in watercolours before poisoning her local magistrate.’

  Wasp turns away from the mirror. ‘Why would she do such a thing?’

  ‘Do what? Paint, or poison the magistrate?’

  ‘Don’t play games, Sister.’

  ‘Oh Wasp, if only you could see your face. ’Tis absolutely priceless. I’m sorry, but you are so easy to tease. Now if you’re finished preening I want to go and breakfast. A busy morning lies ahead.’

  ‘Cleaning hearths, I suppose?’

  ‘Your days of sticking your head into sooty fireplaces are over. Eloise will get someone else to help bag up her ashes. For you the real work is about to start. Not today though. Today you’ll join me in the dressing room sampling as many gowns and bonnets as you like, and afterwards we’ll take a coach ride around the park. We need to see what suits. Each of us is different. A girl can look a sow in a gown that turns another into a princess. The joy is in finding out.’

  ‘What about the dress I wore to the coffee shop?’

  She grins. ‘That was merely skimming the top of the water. I’m sure we can do better. Have you seen yourself lately, Wasp? I mean really looked, not just peeked into a mirror? You’ve become quite the rosy apple and I unashamedly hate you for it. Now will you come to breakfast and allow that lovely waist to gain even more curves?’

  Wasp nods. ‘I have appetite enough to eat my shoes.’

  ‘Good. No Kittens’ table for you. No more oak trenchers and wooden knives. Now it’s silver cutlery and a proper chair. Only the best. The Abbess always insists on it. Those wasp stings bought more than you bargained for.’

  Dining at the top tables proves a whole new experience. Conversation ripples around the room. Wasp watches the busy hands of her new Sisters. A few wear gloves: white, pink, kid leather or satin. What secrets did they hide? Nightingale’s hands are encased in embroidered velvet that stretches to her elbows. She concentrates on her food, her forehead pinched.

  If she glances up and catches me staring at her I shan’t look away, Wasp promises herself.

  Despite her training, the metal cutlery feels oddly heavy in her hands, and the crockery is so delicate she fears it might crack if she breathes on it. Everything is perfect. The napkin rings, the condiment holders, even the tiny cherubs decorating the rim of her tea dish. The steamed fish is manna on her tongue, the bread soft as a pillow. Wasp eats everything.

  Seated at the Kittens’ table Moth looks small, like a child. Her hair has grown to her ears and gives her a sweet, girlish look that belies her increasingly miserable countenance. Her wooden knife works up and down, slicing her slab of fish into rough strips then cutting the strips into squares. She’s so thin. Like a wisp of smoke in a linen gown. Every so often she catches Wasp’s eye and turns her head quickly away. Pink tinges her gaunt cheeks.

  Wasp notices the bandage is gone from Moth’s hand. Just below the knuckle of the middle finger is a livid red circle.

  Conversation fades as the plates are cleared away. Kingfisher lifts the casket onto the table. The Abbess unlocks the lid and removes the scrolls containing the day’s Assignments. Masques rise to accept their commissions. Nightingale receives one, Hummingbird too. Wasp holds her breath, lets it out again.

  Nothing.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open that?’ Wasp nods at the parchment.

  ‘Later. We have a carriage waiting. Remember, I promised you a ride around the park.’

  Wasp thinks for a moment. ‘Hummingbird, why is Moth here? I mean, why did Kingfisher bring someone like her to the House? I can’t guess at her age but in her head she’s a child. If the Abbess sent her into the city she’d scarce last a night.’

  Hummingbird settles back on the bed and laces her fingers behind her head. ‘I’ve heard all manner of stories concerning Moth and I can’t begin to tell which are true and which are just gossip. Kingfi
sher, for all his skill, sometimes makes mistakes. Perhaps Moth is one of those, perhaps she’s here for a reason I can’t fathom. The clock is ticking though. Moth is expected to get her Emblem by the end of the month. If not, I’d hate to think what might happen. Remember what I told you — the House doesn’t carry dead weight. Ever.’

  The Rise and Fall of Anna Torrance

  ‘Keep your money, Torrance. I shall not marry any son of mine to that petalhead. No decent-minded family will have her. She’s cursed, and any child of hers will prove likewise.’

  Any child can stray It’s easy to be a sinner casting stones.’

  ‘Stray, aye, not fall into an abyss. Neither man nor gospel will bring that one back.’

  ‘I could call you out over this, Hammond.’

  ‘If you believe I’m wrong, do so.’

  ‘Dear Lord, it’s a fat enough dowry I’m willing to settle on her. I know you need the money. This could be a way out for both of us.’

  ‘Pay a farmer to take her. You’ll get your way out and the rest of us will be spared a catastrophe.’

  ‘This is my daughter you’re talking about.’

  ‘Aye, a daughter you’re so desperate to be rid of you’ve gone through the entire society list in a bid to find some halfwit of a husband. And now you’ve come to me, after poking your business into mine and finding the bank howling at my door. Well, damn you and your kind, I shan’t do it. Even if she wasn’t sporting a swollen belly I’d suffer penury before letting her under my roof. Get a quack to rid her of the baby then send the girl to a convent and have done with it. Good day to you.’

  Hammond crammed his tricorne on his pinched skull and left, muddied boots scuffing the tiles. Papa watched him go, kept looking even after view of his visitor had been cut off by the stable wall. A minute later, Hammond’s gelding took the drive at a gallop, sending gravel showering across the lawn.

  Sometimes, when the dream makers worked a certain way, they added clarity to Anna’s senses and silence to her feet. The world shrank around her so that she could pick out tiny details. Everything could be heard, smelled, touched. She was aware of her own heart beating too quickly, even though she felt as calm as a breeze-blown meadow.

  She stood in the alcove beside the stairs, as still as the porcelain pot perched on the stand next to her. At that moment she had little concept of time, or that her days in this household had now become mere hours. Her father’s raised voice had drawn her down to his study as it had once before, and again before that. Always there had been threats, warnings, denouncements, and a man storming from the house with his hat crammed askew.

  What had changed were the words her father used when speaking to her afterwards. ‘Disappointment’ became ‘shame’ then ‘anger’ then ‘outrage’. Anna was aware of the contradiction she seemingly posed, and that her father still could not get his wits around it. He appeared to think a greasy purse was the solving of any problem and that expensive tutors might achieve what his private counsel could not.

  In the social graces Anna proved an apt pupil. She had a natural elegance that swept her around the ballroom floor with ease. She memorised the steps of each dance as naturally as some take to numbers or letters. At first the expected invitations had come and suitable young gentlemen would attempt to engage her. She found them boring to a man, and took refuge in claret or the brandy punch. All she had to do was cross a room and, in mid dance or mid conversation, men’s eyes would drift from their partners. Even with a wine-spun head her legs never betrayed her. She ate with the manners of a queen and drank like a tavern sot. A swan among ducklings, she left society’s finest wilting on the periphery of the dance floor, smiling, wafting their fans and hating her with passion. She was that Torrance girl and fuelled the fires of gossips’ parlours.

  Soon the gallants bled away to be replaced by a different cut of suitor. She seemed to drag every charlatan or ne’er-do-well into her sphere, though it could be argued some bounded in willingly.

  ‘I want to find you a respectable husband,’ her father complained. ‘Is that so unreasonable?’

  ‘One respectable man seems much like any other.’

  ‘And you think you can find happiness in villainy? These rakes you find so appealing, so glamorous, can give you a future?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they can give me a day, an hour, even a moment, that isn’t exactly the same as every other. These respectable men you so favour seem to mouth scripts straight from some city theatre. I am inveigled into giving all the right responses in all the right places. You want me tidied away and everything well in your world.’

  Because her father couldn’t control her, Anna believed the same was true of other men. Her youth and beauty began to bestow delusions of immortality. But such beauty was a weapon she had no means of mastering. Like putting a musket into the hands of some halfwit savage, who might realise what he held was deadly but had no inkling of what to do with it.

  Anna never mastered the art of polite conversation. When a man was in her company he had no interest in what she said. Later she was to discover that they also had no interest in what she thought. Men did not fight over her. What was the point in spilling blood when she would move as easily from one to another, and all a fellow had to do was wait his turn?

  When the wine lost its lustre another threshold presented itself, another line to cross. It arrived via a sallow-skinned libertine who wore his hair tied like a woman’s and sported shoe buckles the size of blackbirds.

  ‘We don’t need to sour our bellies in order to liberate the mind. Do you want to soar, Anna? Do you want to go places you’ve never been before? Open doors that wine or brandy can’t unlock?’

  ‘Yes, I want to soar.’

  He unfolded his palm. An ivory trinket box lay snug between thumb and fingers. He squeezed it so the lid flicked open. Inside were lumps of a curious sugarlike substance, brown in colour and glinting like crude jewels.

  ‘Is it snuff?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, though I doubt you’d want to snort this up your nose.’ He stroked her cheek with his free hand, as if drawing her into him. ‘Just a little on the tip of your tongue will suffice to change your perspective on a great many things.’

  She took a pinch and slipped it into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his.

  He smiled. ‘At first—’

  Anna did not remember the ride to his lodgings, only that he laid her on his bed with a mother’s gentleness. Already the world was beginning to sprout odd angles. His taste in furnishings was exotic, his wall hangings embroidered with scenes that would make a parson blush. Yet her eyes fixed on a sliver of loose thread clinging to the bed curtain, which seemed to change colour as she watched, at once growing and shrinking. She tilted her head to try to bring some sense to what she saw, but her view was cut as her skirts were lifted and thrown across her face.

  Afterwards, when each morning found her retching into her washbowl, she still could not equate the events of that night with the strange sensations occurring inside her body. This was something the loss of her mother had left her ill equipped to understand. Society ladies, with their rapier eyes, understood only too well. When Anna fell, that fall was spectacular. Invitations dried up like a brook in a drought. Her papa burned the scandal sheets that gutterised both their names, but always more turned up. He took them into his study and read them to their last word, leaving his door open so she could hear his displeasure.

  Now he turned and caught her standing in the alcove, incapable of doing anything except smile at his disasters, both knowing that at least a dozen men had walked into his study and all had hurried out. Nearly a hundred years the family business had grown by the efforts of Father and fathers before him, and now one wayward daughter was causing it to wither at the roots.

  ‘A trollop,’ he said. ‘I’ve given everything I could and what have I raised? A drunken, addle-witted trollop. Well, by God, I shall not go down with you, and no rake’s bastard will get its feet in m
y house. It’s time you came to heel.’

  Calamity

  Wasp brushes out the folds of her gown as Hummingbird joins her in the front hall. Both girls drip with jewellery and fat satin bows.

  ‘A mite fancy for a clop around the park,’ Wasp observes.

  Hummingbird slips on a pair of gloves that match the sapphire blue of her dress. ‘An opera is not the only place to be seen. Our charms need putting on public display. How else will the good ladies of this dismal town know what is fashionable?’

  ‘So what’s involved in this “public display”?’

  ‘We sit in the carriage and preen whilst Leonardo drives us around the flowerbeds. You don’t have to do anything else except wear the face of a disaffected angel.’

  They step into a bold, blustery day. Gusts send autumn seeds twirling past their pinned bonnets. Across the square, children throw leaves into the air and cry with delight as they fall in a swirling curtain of ochre and gold.

  A carriage waits at the foot of the steps. Leonardo sports an impressive livery that turns him into a dandified dwarf. ‘Don’t tease him about it,’ Hummingbird warns, ‘or he’ll sulk for hours.’

  Both girls keep a tight expression as the coachman lowers the step. Wasp checks the door handle and window then climbs inside. The interior smells of polish, and a fresh rug has been spread on the floor. Wasp sinks into the generous upholstery while her companion seats herself opposite.

  ‘Why do you always fiddle with the door? I’ve noticed that on a couple of occasions.’

  Wasp serves up a waxy smile. ‘An uncomfortable memory. Nothing worth talking about.’

  Outside, the House shines in a fugitive spar of sunlight. ‘Neighbours must be aware of the House’s business,’ she continues. ‘Don’t they ever cause trouble?’

  ‘How can gentlefolk, mindful of their position in society, complain when such high-ranking men frequent Crown Square? You never know who you might meet stepping down from a carriage. We have also performed the odd neighbourly favour in return for discretion. Residents keep their curtains drawn, their gardens empty and their minds on their own business.’