Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  Nightingale leans over, tugs on the dresser drawer and pulls out a wad of toddler’s garments.

  ‘Are those your daughter’s clothes?’

  ‘No, Wasp, I stole them. The shopkeeper was so taken with my face I could’ve lifted the counter from under his nose and he’d not twitch an eye. I’m grateful I’ve not gone mad enough to steal a baby from its cot, though I’ve considered it more than once. I keep thinking I shall find her, and when I do she’ll have nothing, and I’ll have nothing to give her. So I take the clothes, from shops, washing lines and once out of a mother’s hands. Though I daresay my child will have outgrown the lot by now I can’t see her as anything other than an infant.’

  She pinches her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t know if I’d recognise her. I missed the first words, the first steps. Perhaps even now she’s playing with friends, or picking flowers in the park with a woman she thinks of as her mama. Would my crashing into her life ruin things for both of us? I don’t even know her name . . .’

  Nightingale returns the garments to the drawer. ‘You are surprised? Perhaps you thought me heartless? A witch with flint for a soul? It may be I was that once. Pain can gnaw at your nerve endings until it seems there’s nothing left to feel.’

  Wasp glances at the box. ‘What was I looking at in there?’

  ‘The dream makers. That’s what I call them. An apothecary or herbalist would no doubt have another title. For me they drew a curtain over the sharp edges of the world. I became someone else. And because of that I thought I could be happy.’

  ‘Are they poison?’

  ‘No, a remedy. Of sorts. Do you want to try them? They will take you out of here. Lift you as far as you want to go. You will crave them like you would a lover, and while they are a part of you there’s no need to come back. Ever.’

  ‘No. You’re afraid of that box. You said so yourself. Why do you even keep it there, on that shelf, in plain view?’

  ‘It is part of my covenant with the Fixer. The contents of that box made a slave of me. He broke its chains by taking my baby away. I can make a captive of myself again any time I choose.’

  ‘He makes you keep that box in your room?’

  ‘He wants to see if the desire is still there. ’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘Yes. It still is. The box is both a torment and a means of escape. A terrible means. I can leave the House by throwing away my soul, or keep that lid closed and try to walk out of here with my head up. I have hopes, Wasp, hopes that I might see my daughter again. I need to stay in the real world, not flee to the dream one. And that, more than anything, is why I don’t touch the box. One day I’m going to sit in the park with a large bonnet to keep off the sun. I want to watch the roses bloom and hear playing children laugh. I want to wear a soft, white woollen scarf around my shoulders and not care if clouds drizzle on me. I don’t wish to be rich or blessed with a handsome husband. I had a slice of men before ever putting a foot over this doorstep. I’d like a room overlooking a lawn with a cedar tree spreading in one corner. The room will be filled with my things, trinkets and baubles, letters, cuts of coloured lace, items of no value except what they mean to me and the fact that they are mine.’

  ‘Yet your box has been tinkered with.’

  ‘Yes. Another symptom of an ever growing malaise.’

  ‘Have you told the Abbess?’

  ‘The Abbess is losing her wits. Not quite all together, no, and not all at once. You can see it here and there, in little ways, but soon I think these will roll into one big whole. She built this place and held it together through those self-same wits. Once they are gone all that will be left are the rats.’

  ‘Rats?’

  ‘Already they are gathering. They whisper, hold clandestine meetings, make plans. They scamper both inside and outside these walls. I won’t lie. I know this has been building for a while. There are too many people with big ambitions. The House is a juicy pie and they all want their cut. Now you’ve come along and somehow put a spark to the tinder.’

  ‘Me? How so?’

  ‘Think, Wasp. The Abbess has no heir. If she falls, those rats I mentioned will scrabble over the pieces she leaves behind.’

  ‘Did you ask me to look in the box just to tell me this?’

  Still that defiance. ‘The muslin pouch you saw was always full. Now it’s half empty. The dream makers are a potent force. Their theft bodes trouble.’

  Nightingale stands and paces around the bed, squeezing the material of her gloves together. Only a persistent thread of curiosity is keeping this girl here, she realises. If Wasp wishes to walk back out that door there is nothing to be done about it. As a Harlequin, Nightingale expects obedience from the other girls, but this one is not so easily leashed. She could be the saving of them all.

  ‘Soon the House will be holding what is known as a Parade. Those girls not on distant Assignments are dressed up and sent to the Scarlet Parlour. Clients enter and select the escort of their choice. Government ministers, peers, men of the highest rank all take their turn. It is quite the gathering point for our country’s noble and illustrious. Someone of a certain disposition might think to use that influence to their advantage.’

  ‘A Parade?’

  ‘In truth it’s no more than a dandied-up party. During such events the Masques are feted as the Toasts of the Town. Most of these cullies are on a trophy hunt. We watch them ride their aristocratic high horses then pauper themselves to beg a sweetmeat out of a Masque’s hand. Everyone wallows in the attention. Some more than others.’

  ‘So much for respecting clients.’

  Nightingale gives a tight smile. ‘The fleecing begins the moment clients step through the front door. They dine only on the finest French cuisine at extortionate prices. Bottles of claret are served at triple their worth. Girls are perfumed down to their toenails. Only the very air comes without charge, and rumour has it the Abbess would extract a price for that if she could. But this Parade, I suspect, will differ. I think the Queen is about to be deposed.’

  ‘Then why not leave? I know you can. Moth saw you getting on a coach at the Meldrum inn. You could go looking for your daughter and not come back.’

  ‘Only one person knows where my child is, and that is the man who gave her away. The Fixer. Both he and Kingfisher are the ropes that keep me bound to this room, no matter how far an Assignment or otherwise will take me.’

  ‘Can’t you do something about it?’

  ‘God help me I have, and much as I want my daughter I fear for the consequences. But there is something else. The House exerts a thrall. Most of us have fallen under that spell, myself included. We know no other home and the comforts provided here have made us idle and compliant. If turned out into the street I doubt we’d survive the week. You, however, have both a mind and a heart that won’t sit still. Dragging me along to the Cellar proved that, and suffering a brand hasn’t cowed you. I’d go so far as to say you might prove our only hope — my only hope. Because I suspect I shall never truly leave here until you lead me out by the hand.’

  She let the girl go then, and marvelled at how easy opening her heart had proved. It must be dark times indeed. You never cease to surprise yourself, she thinks. Now she must become a Masque again. An Assignment at the theatre awaits and she needs to be at the dressing room early to have the pick of the gowns. Nightingale whispers out of her room, closes the door behind her and, before she can stop herself, lets out a short, sharp scream.

  A bloodied apparition pads along the hall towards her, toes leaving scarlet pockmarks in the carpet. A loose pattern of handprints spreads across the front of its shift. Eyes scorch out of that red mask.

  Nightingale feels a moan burble from the back of her throat. She searches for cuts, a wound, anything that can cause such a horror. She grabs the spectre’s wrist. Her hand slides off, smearing some of the redness across her fingers. The scent of petals fills her nose.

  ‘Rouge,’ Nightingale whispers.


  The Abbess’s emblems are smothered by the thick paste. Her features have turned into a scarlet dough. Not a patch of her skin has been left uncovered. Nightingale can see it glimmering darkly through the translucent folds of the old woman’s silk shift.

  ‘Abbess, what have you done?’

  ‘I wanted to look beautiful.’

  ‘We must get this off you at once. All of it.’ Nightingale steers the old woman into the bedchamber and kicks the door closed.

  ‘Don’t bring your box of sin near me, girl. I don’t need your sorcery.’

  ‘No sorcery, just a good clean.’ Nightingale plucks the towel from the side of her washbowl, dampens it and starts wiping the Abbess’s face and hands. Within moments the material is saturated with rouge. What will be said in the washhouse?

  ‘You can’t judge me,’ the Abbess says. ‘Look at your own eyes.’

  ‘I won’t touch the box. You know what it means.’

  ‘There are some things even you would break your head and heart over. I doubt I’d do more than chip them at best. I’m not so witless I don’t know what’s happening. Nor am I alone in that. As long as I can speak I can think. Words are the threads which hold me together. Don’t let me lose them. Don’t let me lose everything. The House will unravel around me.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You? Nothing. Others will bring matters to a head. Watch carefully, then choose your path.’

  ‘My path leads to my daughter. Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was gone shortly after the Fixer brought you to my doorstep.’

  ‘He could have told you?’

  ‘Why? That was a part of your gone-away life. Bringing it back might cause more trouble than either of you can cope with.’

  ‘I must take that chance.’

  ‘Then your time is coming, songbird, as surely as the tide.’

  Full Circle

  Wasp is handed an Assignment by Nightingale. Neither Kingfisher nor the Abbess is at breakfast. Rumours burble around the dining room. Nightingale quells the chatter by announcing the Abbess has a mild fever and has taken to her rooms. Wasp has never seen the Abbess’s private place. Neither has anyone else she’s spoken to. Apparently a number of chambers lead off from the Mirror Room, but no windows pierce that part of the building.

  Dry-mouthed, Wasp takes her scroll upstairs and unfurls it. She reads too quickly, her eyes stumbling over the words. An important Ball requiring overnight attendance. Wasp’s presence has been specifically requested, and Nightingale will accompany her.

  Her eyes skim the rest of the scroll and catch something else, something scribbled along the bottom. In her anxiety she’s almost overlooked it. Cramped lettering, different from the rest of the text, and hastily written:

  Moth can’t return to the Cellar. No client will touch her. She will be killed at the month’s end.

  And below that:

  Don’t blame the Abbess.

  Wasp sucks down a gobbet of air and crumples the scroll against her chest. Moth would be taken care of, she’d been told. They hadn’t ever lied to her, had he? Everything in the room seems to stand out in stark, brittle colours. In less than eight hours she’ll be on Assignment. There doesn’t seem enough time left in the world. The end of the month is only five days away. Five days. She has no reason to doubt the message. Moth had been sent to the Cellar. Wasp herself had been branded. People who could do that to young women were capable of anything. We don’t carry baggage in the House. Again and again that warning. Indeed, what use would Moth be to them now? I’ve heard things, she’d said. There is another place you don’t want to go.

  Wasp drops the scroll onto the fire. She watches the parchment curl and burn. Even if she could pluck Moth out of this situation, where would she go? Mother Joan’s? Far too close. Richard seems an unlikely saviour, but his money and connections might prove useful. How to get a message to him? No writing paper or quills are kept in the rooms. As far as friends and relatives are concerned the girls who live here are all hanged, transported or runaways. The Abbess might have a quill and inkpot tucked under her desk in the hall. A tenuous hope and too fraught with risk.

  What if she waylays a boy in the square outside and sends him off with a spoken message and a promise that Richard will give him a shilling? Hazardous, as even walks around the square are usually taken with an escort.

  Richard, whatever I’ve said to you in the past, however rejected you might feel, please book an Assignment and do it soon.

  A busy evening in the dressing room. Half the House is due out on Assignment and the chamber is filled with chattering girls. Maids tease hair or help with awkward fastenings while Nightingale watches implacably from the corner. During the final days of her recovery, Wasp’s mind has been working over the Harlequin’s words. The temptation is there to talk it over with Hummingbird, but she’d likely laugh and wave it all out of the window.

  Wasp discards three gowns before choosing one she can tolerate. She wants something eye-catching but not too frivolous. Her instructions are to wear ivory, and the confection she holds in her arms, while uncomfortably resembling a wedding dress, is loose enough about the hips to allow a night of dancing. Given the nature of the party she has also been instructed to bring her mask. Removing her day gown, she steps into the velvet cocoon and draws it up around her shoulders.

  ‘You play your part with passion, Wasp.’ Nightingale has ghosted up beside her. ‘Have you dabbled in acting?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘It will be a long journey for us tonight.’

  ‘Us? Yes, the scroll mentioned you’d be coming.’

  ‘This is a demanding Assignment. Your client is very exacting. He specifically requested your presence. But there are protocols involved with which I doubt you’re familiar.’

  ‘And you are familiar with them?’

  ‘I know the tricks. We shall both need to work hard to make this a success.’

  ‘Who is this client? Someone I’ve escorted before?’

  ‘It’s enough that he has requested you.’

  ‘Where are we going? The Assignment never mentioned a destination.’

  ‘Normally I’d say another country dance at yet another country house. They are all much the same. However, in this case I believe our host has something particular in mind.’

  ‘A Masked Ball?’

  ‘That and more. Now let me help you with those fastenings. They’re more awkward than most.’

  Her fingers are nimble on the clasps, and her touch surprisingly gentle. Finally she drapes a necklace around Wasp’s neck. It sparkles when the light hits it. Reflected points bobble on the walls, following the rhythm of her breathing. Then comes the perfume. Nightingale wants to drench her in lavender. Wasp claims it brings on a sneezing fit, though in truth she’d cut her nose off and pickle it before willingly wearing what she has always regarded as an ‘old woman’s scent’. So her tormentor resorts to rose petal. Wasp now smells like her mother’s flower patch. In her head she hears Hummingbird laughing.

  A coach arrives within the half hour. Nightingale changed earlier and looks ready to conquer the night. Her mask is a porcelain masterpiece of shape and colour, her wig a tumble of flowered silver. Wasp’s own hair, now grown to a manageable length, has been pinned back and concealed beneath a pink wig. Once aboard she tucks away a loose strand as the carriage rumbles out of the square. No name has been supplied for her client, either real or invented. Wasp tries to tease an answer out of Nightingale but finds herself cut off with a flick of one finger.

  ‘Don’t say anything. Either now or when we arrive. Stay close to me. Don’t wander. Don’t talk to anyone unless I say so.’

  Fine, Wasp thinks. Her ivory gown crinkles as she settles back on the fat cushions. Leaving town, the carriage follows a road alongside a gushing river for about a mile and a half. A right fork plunges them into thick wood and everything outside turns black.

  Wasp’s hands feel slick i
nside her gloves. Nightingale sits in silence, back straight, staring through the window, though there’s precious little to see. Wasp shifts, flutters her fan. Finally the Harlequin turns from the window.

  ‘This is a seldom used route but quicker by a good half hour. You can stop fidgeting. We are almost there.’

  No surprise this road is ill favoured. The potholes feel deep enough to sink a barn. The carriage lurches alarmingly. Wasp bites her tongue when they bump over a fallen tree branch. Her sense of disquiet grows, and the Harlequin’s distracted attitude doesn’t help.

  After having her spine nearly shaken to pieces, Wasp is relieved when the coach rattles out of the trees. Beyond the window she glimpses an open space with a huge house lit up like a market fair. It looks familiar.

  ‘Remember what I told you,’ Nightingale says.

  Wasp nods. Sight of the house is momentarily lost behind a tall hedge.

  ‘Good. I hope you have a strong character, my young swan. Now put your mask on.’

  A pair of iron gates open onto a crescent-shaped gravel drive. The carriage halts at the foot of a broad flight of steps. Other carriages draw up behind them. Some have two horses, some four. Coachmen cling grimly to the back, hats bobbing with the rhythm of the leather springs.Wasp can hear laughter tinkling on the night air. Coloured lanterns jiggle on cord looped around the portico. As she takes it all in, a liveried footman scuttles down the steps and opens their door.

  Wasp grasps the edge of her seat. ‘I cannot go in there.’

  ‘You can and shall. I shall brook no disagreement.’

  ‘I am known here.’

  Nightingale levers Wasp’s arms from the seat and pilots her towards the steps. ‘Don’t go faint on me. Lord Russell and his guests await.’