Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  I tip an invisible glass at him. “Of course. And maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be able to see what you’re talking about.”

  A soft chuckle escapes him, and he gestures for me to follow him back into his bedchamber. He shuts the little door behind us, pulling down a worn tapestry to cover the opening before retrieving a decanter of brandy from a small cabinet.

  The amber liquid gleams as he pours us each a glass. I stare at it warily and then shrug. I don’t usually get to drink anything stronger than the watered-down ale of the docks. It’s the only thing I can afford, but even if it weren’t, indulging is a poor choice. Rooftop dancing is hard enough sober. Drunk, and my chances of kissing the cobblestones after plunging several stories becomes much higher.

  I’d rather have a smoke, but I sip it anyway. My nose wrinkles as it burns down my throat, and he laughs. I toss back the rest of it in two swallows out of spite and set the glass down on the bookshelf next to the copper device with the spinning spheres.

  “What’s an orrery?” The unfamiliar word rolls off my tongue in a slur so it sounds more like orrrerrrrery. Dr. Barrows is kind enough to ignore it.

  “It charts the course of the planets—the relative time it takes for our world to orbit the sun, in conjunction with that of the moon and the other heavenly bodies with whom they dance.” He gazes fondly upon the piece. “A gift from my beloved.”

  “You were married, then?” I blink, wondering what such unions mean upon the floating city.

  “Not exactly. Many marriages on Meridion are arranged. Limited bloodlines give us scant choice in the matter if we wish to avoid inbreeding. But in my case, it matters little enough. Jeremiah was unlikely to get me with child,” he adds dryly. “Nor I, him.”

  “I suppose not.” A wry smile curves the corners of my mouth. “I’ve never had to worry about that, either.”

  “Something we have in common.” He pours himself another drink.

  Inwardly, I sigh. I don’t like knowing this much about people. It makes it too easy to care. But for some reason I feel a strange tug toward Lucian, just as I do toward Ghost. A sort of kinship I’ve only ever felt with Sparrow and Archivist Chaunders.

  “I’m sorry you had to leave him behind.” It’s an awkward thing to say, but I don’t know how else to express it. Matters of the heart belong to those who have room in which to bear them, and mine is only made of metal.

  Lucian smiles. “We were young and bound by propriety. Given my family situation, I cannot blame him for not following me when I left. Well, that and I was under suspicion of murder at the time.”

  “Murder?” I nearly laugh aloud at the thought, but the sadness reflected in Lucian’s eyes stops me. “I’m sorry, but you hardly seem able to hurt a fly, let alone kill someone.”

  “Tragic circumstance, I suppose you’d say. In either case, no, I didn’t kill anyone. But the damage had already been done. My name was cleared eventually, but our family estate was in ruins. Ghost and I had no other choice but to come here in a sort of self-inflicted exile. I don’t regret the choices I made, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be melancholy about it.” He stares down at his hands as he swirls the brandy in his glass. “I miss him. Terribly.”

  “But Ghost comes first,” I say softly.

  “Always.” He drains the glass quickly but makes no move to fill it a third time. “My biggest fear has come to pass, and I’ve no way to hide him behind me this time.”

  A bitter laugh escapes me. “But you’ll hide him behind me, is that it?”

  “To save him? Yes.”

  Red-rimmed eyes meet mine, and relief threads through me. The truth, then. At last. Or at least more of it than before.

  I turn away from the orrery and walk slowly about the room, pretending to study a map on the wall. I must make some questioning sound in the back of my throat because Lucian joins me a half second later, his face flushed.

  He traces his finger over the coastline, pointing out the inlets and bays, towns I’ve never heard of filled with trees and forests, deserts and oceans. All of it might as well be a nursery rhyme.

  “. . . Never been there, of course,” he drones on, as though hypnotized by his memories. “Here, past the Frostfells, there’s the greenwoods of Elwynn. And over here, the Niordians live on the steppes.”

  “Is that where you come from?” I interrupt. “Meridians, I mean?”

  “No. We originally came from across the Goldglimmer Sea, but that was before my time. There was a war . . .” He pauses for a beat. “Meridion was built in an effort to escape it. I suppose we’ve been wandering ever since.” He glances upward and shakes his head. “I was raised on Meridion, and it is the only true home I’ve ever known.”

  The longing and despair wavers in his voice, but my own sympathy dissipates with his next sigh. “And what of me, or any of the other Moon Children? Don’t we deserve a bit of that home?” I gesture about the room angrily, only to have the brandy glass slip from my fingers. It shatters on the floor and the two of us wince, Lucian retrieving a towel from his nightstand to soak up the brandy.

  I make a move to help him, but he waves me off, and I shake my head. “While I appreciate your ‘melancholy,’ as it were,” I say as sincerely as I can, “please forgive me if I find it chafing that Meridians care so very little for their half-breed offspring as to let us starve in the streets, only to bury us before we’re truly dead.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Mags,” he says hoarsely. “Meridion is not full of bad people—just self-absorbed ones. I am trying to undo it, these injustices my people have thrust upon yours, but I cannot do it alone.”

  I hear the question beneath the words, the fear that I will leave him to find Ghost on his own. The terror that he might not be able to do it.

  Both our heads snap to the door when we hear a firm rap upon it. “Is everything all right?”

  Molly.

  “Yes.” Lucian gathers himself and straightens his shirt before opening the door to let her in. “Mags dropped her glass. That’s all.”

  “How very unfortunate.” Molly hovers in the hallway, poking her head in for a brief moment. Her gaze narrows when she sees the dragon upon my shoulder. The points of her teeth show when she grimaces at the shattered remains of the snifter on the floor. “I’ll have Copper Betty come clean up the mess immediately.”

  “Much obliged.” Lucian nods at me. “Thank you, Mags. That will be all.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek at the dismissal, but the weight of the day is heavy on my shoulders and I am out of ideas.

  “Good night, Lucian.” I slip out the door before Molly can say anything else, leaving the two of them staring after me in silence.

  Four-and-twenty magpies baked in a tart,

  A spoonful of blood and a still-beating heart.

  A mouthful of feathers and bristling bone,

  A song for a penny, and a king for a throne.

  CHAPTER 13

  “There now, that should about do it.” Martika steps back, a self-satisfied smirk twisting her mouth. “Fairly impressive, if I do say so myself.”

  “Indeed. She nearly appears to be female now. Well done.” Molly applauds her with an oddly polite clap, and she flashes her teeth at me. “Go on, lass. Take a look.”

  I swallow any comeback and turn to face the mirror, the dress swirling at my ankles. And I immediately stumble in the high-heeled boots that encase my feet. Martika reaches out to steady me, amusement glittering in her amber eyes.

  Eyes like Dr. Barrows’s eyes, I realize.

  Perhaps they were cousins? But no, that would make Martika a Meridian, as well.

  Still.

  I glance at myself in the mirror, and any thought of odd family connections flees with the last of my breath.

  I am . . .

  “Beautiful,” Martika murmurs.

  Molly gives her a sharp look, but I’m not paying any attention to anything but the girl before me. The white, powdered wig hangs in luscious ringlets to m
y shoulders, long enough to cover the brand at my neck, and a feathered fascinator glitters from the top. My skin is luminous, golden; my lashes curled and eyes kohled; cheeks smudged with rouge. My lips part in surprise at the emerald corset and ruffled skirts, the bustle and striped hose, the laced and low-cut bodice. I still have no bust to speak of, but somehow Martika has cut the thing so I’ve got the actual beginnings of curves, my heart panel neatly enshrouded behind the wall of lace. An elegant shawl finishes the look, delicately wrapped over my shoulders.

  “Martika, it’s amaz—” I start, awe in my voice.

  “Not bad for a painted whore, eh, Mags?” Molly interrupts, her words bouncing off my reflection and marring the illusion.

  I shift within the corset, a sudden itch tickling my rib cage with no way to reach it.

  Molly pulls my hands down as I attempt to reach into my bodice. “We’ll have to cover these up. There’s not a manicure in all Meridion that could possibly hide these horse hooves.”

  It’s a fair cop. No matter how long I soaked them, my nails remained coarse, the calluses thick at the tips of my fingers. “We could put false ones on,” Martika suggests, but I make a face at her.

  “And if I need to climb? You think I’ll have time to take them off?” I flex my fingers experimentally. “And that’s assuming I can move around in this bit of frippery at all, let alone shimmy up a roof.” I pull at the skirts experimentally, exposing part of the frilly underclothes.

  “That’s the spirit!” Molly slaps my ass with a wink. “Put her in gloves, then.”

  “Thanks,” I retort, fussing at the tightly cinched bit of torture.

  Molly glances at the clock on the mantel where the dragon remains. “If we had any stones at all, we’d send you with that around your neck. But that’s too brazen, even for me.” She pauses. “Which reminds me . . . That little beastie is far too wily for its own good. We can’t have it slipping away and following you. Do me a favor and make sure it’s contained before you go?”

  I nod.

  “Ah, well, I’m off to check on the other ladies,” she goes on. “You’ve got about twenty minutes to finish up here. Meet us down in the main hall.”

  “Are you coming with us?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’m needed here this evening. We’ve a full house down below, and that means business. Besides, I never attend such events. It tends to limit the . . . interactions.”

  “It reminds them why the girls are there, you mean,” I say, trying hard not to squirm when Martika tightens a loose ribbon at my shoulder.

  “That too.” And with that, Molly whisks out the door, the scent of rose perfume trailing behind her.

  I give my dragon a sour look and retrieve the cage from beneath my bed. Ghost had left it behind that first night I had finally agreed to help them in their plan with the Pits, but I hadn’t bothered to use it before now. The dragon snarls but does as it’s asked, and I slip it another bit of coal before I shut the door. “Sorry. But you do have a way of showing up in odd places.” And the last thing I want is to attract more attention to myself.

  Martika hands me a pair of satin gloves draped between her perfectly manicured fingers. Her nails are short and squared. Practical. She nods in approval when I wriggle my hands into the tight-fitting cloth. “There. Think that should about do it.”

  “They make my hands hot.”

  “Oh, the horror,” she mocks, even as a smile tugs at her lips. “Somehow I think you’ll manage. Now run along downstairs and meet the other girls. I’ll be there shortly.”

  I didn’t think they’d have me mingle with the other girls directly, but I suppose I should get it over with. “Are you coming with us?”

  Martika gives me a tight smile. “Yes. Sending bouncers would be considered impolite, but I’ll make sure propriety is satisfied. Such as it is.” She gives me a gentle nudge. “Now go.”

  I let myself be pushed out the door and follow Copper Betty down several flights of stairs, my hands gripping the railing for dear life. I hope to the Hells I don’t have to run in these damnable boots.

  A snort escapes me. Ask me to leap across rooftops or climb a wall and I don’t have to think twice, but walking in heels?

  “Monstrous devices,” I say aloud.

  Copper Betty pays me no mind at all. I study her smooth movements and the delicate slide of her hips, the way she carefully steps with each foot, and I mimic the motion until I’m no longer staggering like a drunken elephant.

  An uneasy shiver roils through my belly as we step into the main lounge. The bar is in full swing, the men deep in their cups. In my own clothes, I am shielded. But hiding myself openly is more frightening than I thought it would be. I’m being weighed and measured on a scale I don’t even belong stepping on.

  And stare, they do.

  Bored, interested, curious—their gazes linger on my hair, rove over the curve of my hips and the stretch of my legs. It’s like ants crawling over my skin, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep from screaming.

  I see mouths slide open in grins, revealing tongues and saliva and teeth. Some are chuckling and dismissive with their opinions, and others seem quite willing to tear me apart. The girls on the stage begin to sing, drawing the hungry, hollow stares back to them.

  That’s when I make my escape to the main entrance.

  Almost.

  A set of wandering fingers boldly strokes up the inside of my knee. My hands are already clenching and I’m turning, whirling around with my fist drawn up. The man jerks in his seat, his greasy hair falling into his eyes. His terror stops me short, but I don’t ask what he sees.

  Molly Bell descends upon me like a murderous crow, snatching me backward so I stumble into the doorway and nearly fall into the sitting fountain. “Control yourself,” she snaps.

  My face flushes at the rolling wave of titters from the other girls, but Molly is making her toothy apologies as I attempt to straighten out my skirts.

  “Ye must be new, aye?” One of the whores tosses her wig of pale hair over her shoulder, her smile soft as honey. Her gaze glitters with a chilling hardness. All business, this one. “Ye best not come anywhere near me when we get to the fete. Pull that stunt and we’ll all be out of a job and walking home. Except you. I’ll make sure you’re left in an alley somewhere.”

  I scowl at her, fussing with the one of the toggles on my skirt. “Try it and see where it gets you.”

  “Ladies.” Martika inserts herself between us. Her gown has been changed into something just as severe but with a bit more lace. She looks like an oversized lampshade in her dress, but no less intimidating for all that.

  The whore sniffs. “I’d heard you’d found a lover, you old biddy. Keep her up above in the lofts like a bird, feeding her sweeties on the sly.”

  A lopsided smile crosses my face. I know this song. Posturing among the hierarchy happens all the time among Moon Children, and her words slide off me like rain. I don’t really have time for it, and I’ve no interest in fitting in here.

  I let one gloved hand drift behind me to brush over Martika’s face. The matron stiffens. “I’m her Magpie, sure enough.”

  The whore scoffs at me. “Magpie? What kind of name is that?”

  “I like pretty things.” I move slowly toward her. I’m sure it looks like I’m stalking her, but the deliberate motion is only to keep me from falling. My fingers rub together. “Jingle. Jewels. And eyes.”

  “Eyes?” She crosses her arms.

  “Aye. Shiny. Fun to pluck out.” I let my own eyes go half-lidded, as though I’m becoming seduced by the idea.

  She takes a step back from me. Martika coughs abruptly, but I’ve already stopped. There’s no need for violence; I’ve made my point. The others give me a wide berth when I move to the far side of the fountain under the pretense of tightening the laces on my boots.

  Martika’s face is unreadable in the sideways glance I give her. But there’s no time to talk about it, as Molly is clapping her hands
and steering us out the front doors of the Conundrum. A shining horseless carriage is parked in the street by the entrance, long and massive, and I can’t help but stare at it.

  Not that I haven’t seen one before, of course. But this particular model is monstrous, stacked double. It sports no fewer than eight wheels of chrome and brass, and the large, silver wolf crest that belongs to Lord Balthazaar.

  One of the whores giggles as I’m shoved forward to mount the velvet stairs. The door swings open and we’re herded into the belly of the thing, and all I can envision is my little dragon in its cage upstairs. Is this what it’s like to be swallowed?

  Inside, the carriage is plush and beautifully appointed. Leather benches. Valises filled with cigars. Bottles of brandy and crystal goblets and small trays of sweetmeats. A twisted stairwell leads to the upper level where, undoubtedly, another assortment of enchantments are waiting. Not that I’m going to try my luck in these shoes.

  The other girls squeal in delight, rushing forward to fill the seats and pulling out the brandy to pour themselves a drink before heading up the stairs in fits of laughter.

  “Like wee birds in the nest,” I say dryly, but I help myself to one of the cigars. Martika watches me with a sour face as I light up, sucking on the tip. I flop into one of the seats and take a long drag, stretching my legs out on the seat across from mine. “I might be able to get used to this.”

  “My Magpie?” She arches a brow. I can’t tell if she’s amused or annoyed. I’m not sure it matters.

  “It makes for a nice explanation. They accept it. No more wondering why I’m here or why I’d be talking to you.”

  “Indeed. Magpie it is.” She crosses her legs and stares out the window, seemingly lost in thought. Above us, the other girls continue to laugh and make merry. I flick the ash from my cigar into a silver basin as the carriage lurches forward.

  I expect the ride to be rough over the cobblestones—something this large should be unwieldy—but it’s smooth as silk. Beneath us, the pistons hum and churn, but aside from a slight rocking motion, I barely notice we’re moving at all.