Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  “Oy. What are you getting at?” I clench my teeth at the thought.

  “Answer the question. Would you let yourself be used thusly?”

  I scowl at her but nod. “If it comes to that . . . yes.”

  “You cannot be serious, Molly. No one would ever mistake her for one of your courtesans. Look at her.” The doctor flushes a moment later, but I can only agree.

  “You said it yourself: no one wants to see a broomstick in smallclothes. If it’s a tumble he wants, aye, I can do that, but I doubt he’d find it worth the money.” My mouth compresses.

  “’Tis true,” Molly says. “But you will not be alone.” She circles around me, but now she’s feeling down my arms with critical fingers. “Trying to slip her in as one of the regular girls would be a disaster, but I’ve found the more outrageous a spectacle I present, the easier it is to hide something in plain sight.” She gives me a sour look. “With the attention on my courtesans, no one will give you enough of a second look to realize you don’t really belong.”

  Dr. Barrows frowns. “Risky, Molly. You’d only be able to pull that stunt off the once.”

  “Once is all we need.” She taps those pointy teeth of hers with the tip of her fan. “Not that we could show up unannounced, of course. But Lord Balthazaar is rather fond of our services here.” Molly continues to pace, circling, circling. “I’ll secure an invitation to his upcoming fete . . . and offer our resources to be at his disposal.”

  “And you would have me find Ghost that way?” I ask, a brow raised.

  “I don’t actually expect you have to go that far, no. But I needed to know if you were truly committed to playing the part. There is always a possibility that it would become necessary.”

  I snort, looking at my dirty fingernails. “I don’t think it’s my acting skills that will be called into question, aye?”

  Molly smirks at me. “Don’t worry, Moon Child. I have the utmost faith in Martika. If she cannot transform you into a flower of the night, I’ll go dressed as a Moon Child myself.”

  “I’m sure she’ll find that most gratifying,” Dr. Barrows says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Shall I fetch her?”

  Molly’s mouth splits into a broad, toothy grin. “Aye. And have Copper Betty draw Mags another bath. We’ve got some work to do.”

  This time I’m allowed the courtesy of toweling myself off. Though whether that’s because I’ve scared off Copper Betty or because Martika doesn’t want to be bothered is anyone’s guess.

  She eyes my hair critically, running careful fingers through the tangles. “Hmmm.”

  “What? Are there lice up there?” I smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Her face wrinkles in disgust. “Gods, no. Just the ink has diminished some. It’s not all that noticeable yet, but since you’ll be wearing a wig anyway, it shouldn’t matter much.”

  She doesn’t point out the obvious. If the ink is fading from my hair, how soon before Ghost’s becomes obvious? And what would Balthazaar do to him if he found out?

  “Too bad we can’t use the hair you cut off.” The irony leaves a flat taste in my mouth.

  “Even if Molly allowed it, it wouldn’t be a good idea. The other lasses will be wearing wigs, and yours would look too authentic. We don’t want you to stand out.”

  She ignores my scowl and frames my face with her hands. “Curls,” she says firmly. “Pulled away from your face and bound behind your head. So you can move freely. But first things first: we need to get you fitted properly.”

  “A dress?” I sigh, even though I knew this would be the case when I agreed to the plan.

  She nods. “And a corset and appropriate shoes. And we keep you at the back of the group so you’re less likely to be spotted.”

  I shudder. Being forced to mince about in pointy little heels has my heart clinking with despair, but I’ve only myself to blame. “As long as I can wear boots, aye?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but we need to take your measurements. If you would?”

  I fall into step behind her, clutching my towel around my shoulders. “What about the other girls? What will you tell them?” I don’t want my life to depend on Molly’s word or the words of the women working for her.

  “You’re new. Molly’s trying you out for a few weeks to see if you fit.”

  “Not much chance of that,” I mutter.

  Martika says nothing but ushers me into a small fitting room on the second floor. The room is draped with cloth of all kinds—silks, satins, brocades—and I sneer at the luxury before me. She has me stand on a chair and begins fussing with a cushion. It seems to be a heart made of velvet, but a horde of silver needles bristles from it like a prickly pig.

  “How long will this take? Are you making me somewhat from scratch?” I know naught about seamstressing, but surely we don’t have time for this.

  “Heavens, no. Molly would never allow for that sort of waste. We’ll simply take one of the other girl’s existing dresses and fit it to you. Now stand still. The less you move, the faster we’ll go.”

  Grinding my teeth, I do as she asks, my arms held out stiffly at my sides. Before long, she’s fitted me into a simple shift and a pair of silken hose. I hate the way the hose feels, like the slick skin of a snake constricting me within. “Is this necessary? I’m not planning on lifting my skirts for aught.”

  “You told Molly otherwise, but either way, you need to appear the part. At least we don’t have to shave you. Moon Children appear to have wickedly smooth skin, lucky things.”

  “How would you know what I told Molly?” I narrow my eyes at her. “Listening at doors, are we?”

  Martika’s mouth quirks into a smile but she avoids looking at me all the same. “She told me, of course.” It’s said so smoothly, but I know she’s lying. I can’t read the pulse point of her neck because it’s covered, but I see her swallow.

  I study her from beneath my lashes for a moment. Ghost had been about to tell me something about her before seeing the fire in Market Square: She’s not who you— I roll that idea about in my mind. Who I, what? Think?

  I’m still not sure what to make of it, but I’m not about to start making accusations just now. She’s holding needles, after all.

  Martika measures out a length of the shift, marking something on the floor in chalk. She takes in the shift tighter around my hips and deftly pins up the hem. “I imagine this is going to be a new experience for you.”

  I squirm as she wraps a tape measure about different parts of my body, poking here and there. I don’t pay any mind to that until she starts mumbling about plunging necklines. “We’ll have to do something with that panel on your chest.”

  I bristle, though I’m not sure why. I’m hardly one to care what people think of my appearance. “You can’t take it off, if that’s what you mean.”

  Martika glances up at me and shakes her head. “We don’t want you so easily identified if something happens. Maybe we can hide it beneath a bit of lace.” She finishes with the last pin. “Ah, well, there we are. I’ve got your base measurements now. With a little help, I’ll have it ready for you by tomorrow. Molly should have a plan of attack worked out by then.”

  She hands me a set of frilly smallclothes. “Here. You may as well get used to wearing them.” Wordlessly, I take them from her; I have no intention of putting them on, the ridiculous things. Amusement flickers over her face as she helps me out of the shift and hose.

  “I’ll try them on later,” I tell her, my mouth pinched.

  “I’m sure you will.” Her cheek twitches, but she leads me through the twisting hallways and up the stairs. “I’m tempted to have you room with one of the other girls tonight,” she muses aloud, “but I’m afraid that will lead to too many questions. If only we had more time . . .”

  I snort. “You’re telling me.”

  Martika pauses in the doorway of my room. “I’ll have Copper Betty bring you supper. If I were you, I’d get some rest. We’ve some long days ahead o
f us.”

  I pace over to the window, pulling the damp strands of hair from my neck. “Aye,” I agree, though I don’t really mean it. It’s going to be a long night because there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep. I hate not knowing what the plan is. I hate not knowing what’s happening to Ghost. I hate not knowing any of it.

  The door shuts behind me, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I throw the underthings on the bed, still not inclined to try them on. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I pace.

  Scritch. Scratch.

  Something scratches at the window, glittering through the pane. I walk over to it, and my eyes go wide. I jerk the window open and dodge the metallic dragon as it hurtles itself into the room, circling once before alighting on the mantel.

  “And where have you been?” A gasp of hysterical laughter lodges in my throat, as though I’m unsure if I should be happy or terrified that it’s here. I think of the archivist, and my stomach twists until I’m choking down a quiet sob, the wretched remains of her body seared into my memory.

  “A great bother you are,” I say to the dragon. “Wrapped in secrets and death.” It hisses, its wings flaring out. “I see you’ve had that wing fixed. Make sure the theatre doesn’t get burned down for the kindness, aye?”

  I glance out the window, but the streets are silent with barely a lamplight to chase away the darkness. Tempting to get up on the roof myself for another look-see, but I’m still only wrapped in a towel.

  The window slides down with a shudder, the chill night air cut off with a click, leaving my face itchy and hot. I let the towel drop to my feet as I rummage about the room. Somewhere along the way I’ve been gifted with another pair of trousers and a shirt, left folded neatly on the chair.

  At this rate I’m going to start owing Dr. Barrows a clothing stipend. My skirt from earlier was left in the baths; I’m just as happy to leave it behind, welcoming the comfort of the well-woven trousers. I rub a fold between my fingers. “Say what you will about the Meridians, Mags, but they’ve lovely taste in clothes.”

  And best not get used it, the voice in my head adds.

  But first . . .

  The dragon whirrs at me, its tail twitching like a cat’s. I toss it a piece of coal from the fireplace. “I suppose we ought to tell the good doctor that you’re back, aye? Maybe it will help ease his mind somewhat that there’s at least one less thing to worry about.”

  Its ember heart pulses as it swallows the coal. I hold out my arm, wincing when it clambers to its usual spot around my neck.

  I poke my head out into the hallway, but there’s no sign of anyone. A clock on the landing ticks out the minutes, but somehow it seems like the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. The door to the doctor’s rooms is shut. I creep my way there, my ears pricked for any sound.

  “Oy. Doctor?”I tap on the door a few times, spying through the keyhole when there’s no answer. Except for what appears to be the barest hint of candlelight on the other side, I can see nothing at all. I try the doorknob, not surprised to find it latched, but it’s easy to jiggle free with a little luck and a clever twist.

  A moment later the door creaks open, and I slip inside.

  In the daylight, I can only imagine this room to be nearly as humble as mine, but in the candlelight, there’s something oddly comforting about it. Stacks of scrolls and books perch upon a desk like birds made of parchment, as though they’ll take flight into the darkness to scatter upon the floor if I breathe too deeply.

  I give them a cursory look over, but there are very few pictures involved, so I won’t learn anything from them. I let them be, giving myself leave to roam. It’s somehow odd being here, given the intimacy of wearing his clothes, and yet not knowing much about him. The fire pops on the hearth, a spark leaping onto the floor. It begins to smolder so I stamp on it quickly. I barely feel the ember through the hardness of my naked heel, but that’s not what attracts my attention.

  Everything is neat and in perfect order—the bed made neatly, the books organized on their shelves, the pictures hanging just so upon the wall. There are maps of Meridion and other places I don’t recognize, and upon the mantel, decorative baubles and instruments glitter copper bright.

  Meridian-made, I’m sure of it. And also worth a small fortune.

  One of them whirs in time, an assortment of tiny spheres circling one another in an odd little dance I can’t quite figure out.

  Thief? No. Opportunist? Without question.

  The thought dips into my mind as reflexively as the way my fingers twitch. Letters are carved into the base of the device, and I peer at them, my brain struggling sluggishly to make them out even as my lips move. “C . . . onstant as the . . . stars.”

  “Ahem. I would much appreciate it if you chose not to abscond with my orrery. It has a great deal of sentimental value.” The doctor’s voice pulls me from my imagined fistfuls of jingle, the dragon snarling as I jerk upright to face him.

  Only he’s not standing in the doorway to the hall but in front of a small opening beside the largest bookshelf. A fake panel?

  “I was only looking,” I say weakly, hiding my hands in the oversized shirtsleeves.

  “Reassuring,” he retorts, his dry tone indicating he believes nothing of the sort. His glasses are resting on his forehead, as though he’s hastily pulled himself together.

  I flush. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be in here.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. But since you are, you might as well see the rest of it.” He thrusts a weary hand through his messy hair, turning toward the other side of the room. He pauses, eyeing the dragon. “Where did that come from?”

  “It was outside my window.” Its tail tightens ever so slightly around my neck. “Must have found its way back.”

  “So it would appear. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep up with any of you. All this coming and going . . .” He shakes his head and gestures. “Come on. It’s through here.”

  I hesitate for a span of a few heartbeats at the invitation but push past him with a brazenness I don’t quite feel. “What’s all this, Doctor?”

  “There’s no more need for formality, Mags.” His mouth quirks into a self-mocking smile. “Call me Lucian.” The name rolls off his tongue easily enough.

  “Your brother told me. I wasn’t sure . . .”

  “Ghost talks too much.” He snorts, but I barely hear it as we step into the next room. Unlike the warmth of his bedchamber, this room is cold and callous. Sterile and pale and empty. In some ways, it’s the exact opposite of Martika’s cozy little seamstress room, though there are nearly as many needles scattered about. Syringes, scalpels, and beakers filled with stinking fluids and puffs of smoke.

  A cage full of mice sits on a large table. Test subjects?

  “Not what you were expecting, I take it?” The humor has fled the doctor’s—Lucian’s, I correct myself—voice.

  “Not exactly a lady’s fashion closet, no.” I’m only half joking, but he cracks a smile at me.

  “Clever girl,” he murmurs. “But this is the real reason no one else is allowed up here. We tell the girls it’s to give me privacy, but . . .”

  I move closer to the cage for a better look. There are about ten of the little things, some piled into sleeping balls of fur, but a few have been cordoned off into separate compartments. Two of them stare with dull, dead eyes as they stagger about, their faces pressed against the bars so that their teeth chatter madly at the ones who seem normal.

  I recoil in disgust. “The Rot? You’ve got mice with the Rot? Are you mad?”

  “Some might think so,” he concedes.

  “I didn’t even think animals could carry it.” My mind reels with the implication. “If one of these things gets out . . .”

  “I take the utmost care, Mags. And that’s why you must never come into my chambers without an express invitation. I cannot risk the chance of discovery.”

  “So why are you showing me?”

  “Better to make explanations no
w than to apologize later.” He raises a brow at me. “And you’re immune, so you’ve nothing to fear from them. If anything, I may have you assist me on further experiments if there’s time.”

  “Aye. Because getting bit by the little shitbags is exactly what I want.”

  “Oddly enough they’re mostly docile. The Rot doesn’t change who you are so much as it accelerates the aging process, from what I can tell. Eventually their mental faculties fail them, and that’s when they tend to bite.” He shrugs. “It’s more of a tactile thing, I think, like how an infant puts everything in its mouth.”

  My stomach churns. “Ghost never mentioned anything about this.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t know.” A pained look crosses his face. “For this very reason. Now that he’s been taken, he cannot reveal that of which he isn’t aware.”

  I cock a brow, my gaze drawn to the mice, wondering at what he’s really saying. Ghost isn’t stupid; he had to have suspected his brother might continue his work in such a way. But samples or secrets, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m merely a means to end.

  “What’s that?” I point at a drawing on a piece of parchment. It’s got spindly little legs leading to a narrow coil of body and a giant crystalline head. “Some breed of Meridian spider?”

  “In a manner of speaking. It’s the virus that causes the Rot. Or at least a diagram of it.”

  “You’re daft. I think I’d know if I’d seen one of those running about the streets.” I poke at the sketch. “We could step on them like stink beetles. No more problem.”

  He sighs. “If only it were that simple. They’re too small to see, Mags.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Invisible stink beetles, aye.” I glance about the room as though I might catch one crawling up the wall.

  “That’s not even the whole story. It’s all about the macrophages. The way the virus injects itself into the body’s natural immune response . . .” A rueful smile kicks up the corner of his mouth at my blank expression. “Perhaps we’ll save the lecture for another night?”