Sera had no time to visit her godmother, Granny Harefoot, as she had originally planned. Granny Harefoot sold curios and other odd bric-a-brac in a little establishment three doors down from Jenk's bookshop; the old dwarf was a great friend of Sera's, being the only one of her thirteen godparents who took the role seriously. And being also something of a force in the neighborhood, she was an invaluable source of information concerning the comings and goings, the doings and the general well-being, of all her neighbors. Sera decided to postpone her visit to the curio shop, but she did stop to buy buns and cider cake from a street vendor in a calico apron. She did not like to arrive at her grandfather's empty-handed.
A long procession, apparently one of the guilds, blocked her progress at Church Street. Sera was forced to wait, with rising impatience, until after the parade passed. By that time, the traffic was so dreadfully snarled, it seemed best to take the long way around.
There will be no time for a proper visit . . . Oh, dear, why did I leave so late? If I hadn't been there when Cousin Clothilde came in, I wouldn't be in such a dreadful hurry now.
She was walking on Dank Street, which was blessedly empty, when a carriage pulled up beside her and a familiar voice called out her name. "Good day, Miss Vorder. Out for a little stroll, are we?"
Sera looked up to see Lord Krogan, an intimate of Cousin Clothilde's—a gentleman of that sly, insinuating sort which Sera so particularly disliked. Yet there was no point in being rude when the question had been civilly phrased.
"I am going to visit my grandfather, sir. He is expecting me for tea."
Lord Krogan flourished his whip. He was fat, middle-aged, and (so Sera had been informed) as bald as an egg under his wig, but he fancied himself both dashing and a sportsman, dressing accordingly. "Perhaps you would care for a lift, Miss Vorder. We appear to be heading in the same direction."
Sera opened her mouth to decline, but then she reconsidered. She was late—she was already growing tired—though she disliked Lord Krogan too much to go driving with him under ordinary circumstances, there could be no harm in accepting a ride in an open carriage. "You are very kind. I would be very much obliged."
Lord Krogan stopped the carriage and leaned over to offer her a damp hand up. Sera allowed him to assist her, then settled down in the seat beside him, with her reticule and her bag of buns and cider cake in her lap. She gave Lord Krogan the direction of her grandfather's bookshop and explained the shortest way to get there.
"A fine day," Lord Krogan said politely, as he snapped the reins and the carriage began to move—then he spoiled the effect by leering at her suggestively and adding, "And you, if I may say so, appear in fine form as well."
Sera ground her teeth and did not reply. At the rate they were bowling along she would not have to endure the man's company for very long.
They continued on in silence for several minutes, until the Viscount whipped up his horses and took a corner at high speed, almost oversetting the carriage in the process.
"I think, sir," said Sera, "that you have mistaken my directions. This is not the way to my grandfather's."
Lord Krogan grinned at her and made no answer, except to touch up the horses again. As they rounded another corner, Sera clutched the side of the carriage, in order to avoid being thrown out.
They continued on at the same breakneck speed for some time. Sera gradually realized that Krogan had never intended to take her to her grandfather's at all. She had heard many wild tales of dissolute gentlemen and helpless maidens, but she had never given these tales any credit. Yet, as fantastic as it seemed, she could not escape the conclusion that Lord Krogan was actually attempting a daylight abduction.
"Lord Krogan," said Sera, as steadily as she could. "I demand that you stop at once, sir, and permit me to alight."
Her abductor threw back his head and laughed. "You have accepted my invitation, Sera. It is much too late to back out now."
By now she was growing genuinely frightened—but she stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and replied sternly, "I have not given you leave, sir, to address me by my given name. And if you will not stop, I shall certainly be obliged to jump."
Lord Krogan only leered at her. "I do not believe that you will. You are a sensible girl, my dear, dear Sera . . . and you must be aware how shockingly dangerous that would be."
With a sinking sensation, she realized that what he said was true: they were traveling at such a rate now, that any attempt to leap from the carriage would certainly entangle her with the back wheel.
Sera tried to think. He can't mean to take me out of the town, for he would be obliged to slow down passing through the gate, and I could jump. Merciful heavens! We must be heading for some bagnio or—or a brothel. Can he possibly suppose that I would actually consent to accompany him inside?
"Lord Krogan," she said severely, "if this is intended as a joke or a—a romantic escapade, I hope you do not flatter yourself that I will cooperate with you in any way."
It was then that Lord Krogan made a serious miscalculation, by turning onto another narrow lane much busier than the streets they had been traveling. As the Viscount was forced to slow the pace, Sera braced herself, ready to take action at the first opportunity. Then a stately berlin rumbled around a corner and pulled in front of them.
Lord Krogan hauled in on the reins, and Sera saw her chance. She gathered up her skirts and leaped out of the carriage. Landing badly, she twisted an ankle beneath her and dropped her purse and her package. But she was up in a second, gathering up her possessions and limping down the street as swiftly as she could go.
Lord Krogan, declining to abandon his carriage, gave her up for lost and did not give chase.
CHAPTER 9
Which finds Sera in no better circumstances than the Former.
Sera looked around her, with considerable disfavor. This was no part of Thornburg she knew, no place where she cared to linger. The street was so narrow that the overhanging second stories of the crooked old houses actually met in places, forming a dim, winding tunnel between ugly, sooty buildings: tenements and taverns and gin shops. An occasional lanthorn lit the way, swinging from a rusty chain, but there was no room to accommodate even a narrow sidewalk, forcing Sera to walk in the muddy, ill-paved street.
The people were shabby and dirty; the neighborhood reeked of garbage, poverty, and cheap spirits. Sera gathered her flowered shawl more closely around her and set out briskly in what she fervently hoped would prove to be the right direction.
Men like Lord Krogan should be boiled in oil! thought Sera, as she limped down the street. They should be forced to swallow white-hot iron. They should . . . Oh, I don't know any punishment that is harsh enough!
At first, she could not understand why she attracted so much attention, why the women stared resentfully as she passed, and the men made such rude remarks. Then she realized it was the way she was dressed: the gown, gloves, and bonnet that appeared so plain and old-fashioned among the Vorders and their intimates gave a very different impression here. To these ragged and ill-fed people she must appear the pampered daughter of a wealthy family, who had never lacked for anything in her life. Little wonder if they hate me, thought Sera. She lowered her eyes and walked on, as swiftly as she dared.
But when she passed a signpost, she glanced up, hoping to gain some sense of direction. It was difficult to read the faded lettering in the twilight between the overhanging buildings, but she was just able to make out the name.
Capricorn Street, said the sign, and Sera felt a chill snake down her spine. Capricorn Street—the name was certainly familiar. It had all the familiarity of a recurring nightmare.
"Don't you never go down Capricorn Street, for you'll never return again!" The old warning came back to her, a memory of childhood days in the old neighborhood. Spoken by the mothers and fathers, or the older brothers and sisters of Sera's friends, those terrifying words prompted the younger children to imagine all kinds of horrors. On Capricorn Street there were can
nibal witches, warlocks with wooden feet and staring glass eyes, feral dogs and yellow demon cats—a whole collection of frights and bogey-beasts designed to strike terror into childish hearts.
If Sera knew better than that by now, if she knew that Capricorn Street was nothing more than a narrow dirty lane leading from her own shabby-genteel neighborhood into a perfectly ordinary slum . . . yet some of the old superstitious terror remained. And if there are no witches and warlocks, there is crime and vice and every form of human degradation—and that's quite terrible enough.
But at least she knew for certain which direction to go.
As Sera continued purposefully on her way, she passed many groups of ragged children: dreadful little wraiths, with pinched-in faces and knowing eyes, who conducted their games with a sort of heartless, down-trodden weariness, that suggested a duty rather than a pleasure. Even their laughter sounded shrill and hysterical. Sera could not bear to look at them. She wished that she dared to cover her ears, so she would not have to hear them.
One of their songs, set to a peculiar jangling tune, followed her all along the street:
Sally go 'round the stars, Sally go 'round the moon,
Sally go 'round the chimney pots . . .
Both the words and the tune had a haunting quality that disturbed Sera very much.
And as she walked, she grew increasingly aware that someone followed her, a man, most likely, and almost certainly drunk, by the sound of his shuffling footsteps and the leering remarks that greeted his progress all along the dreary lane.
"Here now, missy . . . seems you've got yourself a fine gallant," someone called out in a rough voice.
"Don't you take no for an answer, cully. She ain't so proud as she looks!"
Yet Sera knew better than to increase her pace. If I run, they will join in the chase.
"How do you do, Miss Vorder?" Sera was startled to hear her own name spoken by a voice that was gentle and cultured, and somehow familiar—and even more surprised to note that the foot-steps following her suddenly ceased, and everyone on the street fell just as suddenly silent.
Sera glanced up. A tiny white-haired woman in a long grey cloak fell into step with her. "Mistress Sancreedi!" said Sera, recognizing the only one of Elsie's many doctors who had ever done her a bit of good.
"My dear Miss Vorder. What on earth has caused you to stray into this part of the town?" Mistress Sancreedi was not much taller than a dwarf, and even more daintily built than the little Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, yet she possessed a natural dignity about her which commanded instant respect. Though no longer young, she was still a handsome woman, for old age had treated her kindly, refining her beauty rather than spoiling it. The one jarring note in an otherwise lovely face was a pair of yellow eyes, as unusual in size and expression as they were in color.
"I come here not by inclination," replied Sera, "but by . . . by misadventure. I am going to visit my grandfather. And if it isn't impertinent for me to ask: what brings you to Capricorn Street?"
The little apothecary made a dismissive gesture. "In the course of my professional duties I come here often. Indeed, I am well known in every part of Thornburg and move about quite freely. Allow me, Miss Vorder, to extend that `safe conduct' temporarily to you, by escorting you to your grandfather's."
Sera was more than happy to oblige. "You are very kind," she said.
They walked on in silence for some time. Though Sera knew it was rude to stare, she could not help stealing a sidelong glance at her companion, every now and again—for truth to tell there was something decidedly eccentric about Mistress Sancreedi's attire. Over an antique gown of mossy green velvet she had laced a stiff black bodice, and she wore, besides, a wide ruffled collar of white lawn edged with point lace. Her big straw hat was embellished with wax fruit and fresh flowers, but rather more startling were the two live birds, a robin and a jenny-wren, that perched on the crown. She carried a covered basket, which (by the sounds issuing forth, and the occasional emergence of a striped paw or a white-tipped grey tail) seemed to contain kittens.
She is undoubtedly the oddest woman that I have ever met, thought Sera. But I know her to be a good one.
They passed another group of children, trudging a dreary circle and singing the same song that had disturbed Sera before. "Mistress Sancreedi," she said aloud. "Do you know what game these children are playing? And the verse that they sing: I feel I know the words, though the tune is strange to me."
"But it is not a game they are playing," the little woman replied. "Rather, they are weaving a charm against the terrors of the night. Nor is it surprising that you should know the words, which are based on an ancient invocation to the sun and the moon.
"You frown, Miss Vorder, as though you disapprove," she added. "Will you tell me why?"
Sera shook her head, uncertain how to express what she felt. "These children . . ." she said at last. "Their circumstances are so wretched, their condition so miserable. I cannot imagine anything worse than the lives they already lead. What need have their parents to—to invent bogeymen with which to scare them?"
"No need at all," said Mistress Sancreedi. "These children are quite capable of imagining their own bogeymen. You are shocked by what you have seen here. The condition of these children moves you to pity and disgust. But to see them at their worst, you would have to come here at night.
"Few of these children have beds to sleep in," said Mistress Sancreedi. "They spend the nights huddled together with their equally wretched brothers and sisters in a pile of filthy rags in some draughty corner. Rats are their frequent bedfellows, and the violent squabbling of drunken parents a familiar lullaby. More often than not, these children go to bed hungry. Is it any wonder if they sleep lightly and their dreams are more often nightmares? But worst of all, perhaps, is their fear of hobgoblins, whenever the moon is full."
"It is very sad," said Sera, with another shake of her head. "But there is nothing supernatural about hobgoblins, you know. They are just—just vermin. And they only come out when the moon is full because subterranean tremors make their tunnels unsafe."
"As you say," Mistress Sancreedi agreed. "They are only vermin. But they possess a rudimentary intelligence, and unlike rats and other vermin, they have clever little hands which enable them to unfasten latches and pry open windows; they have a hundred different ways of gaining entrance to these old, tumbledown houses. Moreover, they run quite mad above ground, and their bite is poisonous."
"You would say that the poison is a mild one, and the wound not serious if treated properly," the apothecary added, when Sera opened her mouth to speak. "But rosewater and oil of clove are quite beyond the means of these folk. That little lad over there . . ." Mistress Sancreedi indicated an emaciated urchin, not more than six years old, who leaned on a crutch and stumped along on a wooden leg. "He was bitten by a hob before he learned to walk. His mother did not send for me until the poison had spread from his foot to his leg. I came in time to save his life, but not to save the limb."
Mistress Sancreedi gave a weary little sigh, as though she was suddenly oppressed by many such memories, and changed the subject. "But tell me something of your cousin, Miss Vorder. Has her health improved at all?"
"It has not," said Sera. "I do wish that Cousin Clothilde had been more reasonable and not dismissed you!" Yet it was not to be wondered at that Mistress Sancreedi's prescription—a sensible diet, moderate exercise, and mild herbal draughts to aid Elsie's uncertain digestion—had not found favor with Cousin Clothilde.
"I fancy," said the apothecary, "that the Duchess had something to do with my dismissal. Marella Carleon has done a great deal of good in this world—indeed, I believe she is universally regarded as a great philanthropist—but she also has much to account for."
As they continued on their way, through the dirt, and the garbage, and the gloom, Sera launched into a long story of Elsie and all her ills, which somehow became an account of her own wrongs and ended with Sera telling Mistress Sancreedi a
ll about Lord Krogan and his disgraceful behavior.
"And I simply do not know what I should do. If I complain to Cousin Clothilde, she is certain to believe instead whatever lie Lord Krogan chooses to tell her; he will be able to convince her that I said or did something improper to encourage his attentions. As for Cousin Benjamin, it is likely that he would believe me, but what steps could he take besides challenging Lord Krogan to a duel and almost certainly getting himself killed? Yet if I say nothing, and Lord Krogan himself spreads the story about—"
"Oh, but I do not think that he will do that," said Mistress Sancreedi. "A foiled abduction is nothing to brag about. His intentions were wicked (which some people may actually admire), but his execution was fearfully inept (which no one will admire at all). Your own actions, on the other hand, were remarkably courageous."
Sera, however, was not convinced. "I don't see that. There is nothing remarkable about jumping out of a carriage which is hardly even moving. Indeed, upon reflection, it strikes me as rather a hoydenish thing to do. I ought to have been able to quell Lord Krogan's ardor by—by the dignity of my bearing or—or somehow taught him to respect me as he ought."
Mistress Sancreedi threw back her head and laughed. "But my dear Sera, I believe that is precisely what you have done. In any case, you have earned my respect, and that is not easily won."
Mistress Sancreedi took her leave outside the bookshop. "Indeed, Sera, I have long desired to better our acquaintance, and regretted that your grandfather and I were not better friends. I wish I had attended your christening." With which mysterious pronouncement she touched Sera lightly on the cheek and went on her way.
Sera entered the bookshop at a quarter to four, feeling unusually uplifted, remarkably at peace with herself and with the whole world. If I were inclined to be fanciful, I should imagine there was something almost magical about her, something in Mistress Sancreedi's voice or her touch, a spell against anger, resentment, and envy. But it is only that she is so very good—so sensible and so wholesome—that one is instantly inspired to become better oneself.
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