“Queen of Earthly Queens,” read the girl. “What’s it mean?”
“Must mean the queen’s after coming for a visit,” said a man with a suspicious-looking sore on his cheek. “What’s she want with a place like this anyway?”
Dodger, who had paused to rest the bucket on the ground, realized the man was talking to him. He doesn’t realize what I am. “Dunno,” he said, ducking his head so the brim of his cap concealed his eyes. He had tied a red cravat around his throat and pulled his collar up to hide the electrodes, but there was nothing to be done about the eyes.
“Don’t you know anything?” The girl, who had rags wrapped around her feet for warmth, was as superior as only a twelve-year-old can be. “Them corpse walkers is meant to be soldiers, in’t they?”
“Not all of ’em,” said the man with the sore. “I hear they take young girls for other sorts of work.”
The girl made a face. “Ugh, disgusting.”
The boy, listening now, stepped away from his mother. “Do they really eat children?”
“Mostly they eat rotten meat,” said the man. “The rottener, the better. Maggots is like candy to them.”
This got everyone’s attention.
“They’re not like lubberkin,” the man explained. “You can pay the fair folk off with a saucer of milk or a place by the fire. These wights, well, they’re nasty like redcaps, but no holy water will deter them.” Warming to his subject, the man with the sore took on a more sonorous tone. “You see, the disasters wrought by science are a singular curse upon mankind. And there’s only one thing that can kill them.”
The crowd leaned forward, distracted by this impromptu bit of street theater. Perfect targets. Hoisting the bucket as though it were a little too heavy for him, Dodger took a step, pretended to trip and then splashed a man who was dressed a bit more nattily than the others.
“Garn, how could I be so clumsy!” Under the guise of patting him dry, Dodger lifted a fine linen handkerchief, his pound notes and money clip and a signet ring with a dark black stone. Whistling as he went back to the pump for more water, Dodger felt almost like his old self.
Money was the key. With money, you could acquire whatever else you needed—even if you weren’t entirely sure what that was. Victor’s admonition kept replaying in his mind: In case you have any ideas about running away, I should inform you that without weekly infusions of ichor, your new life is going to be even shorter than your old one.
Whatever ichor was, he was going to figure out where else to get it. Because where there was a demand, there was a market. And where there was a market, there was a black market.
It was then, with money in his pockets and a feeling of lightness despite the heavy bucket in his hands, that he saw her in the crowd.
A blond girl, shockingly gaunt and unsteady on her bare feet. Her red velvet dress was stained and greasy, and when she raised her bleary eyes, she didn’t seem to recognize him.
“Spare a thrupenny bit, guv’nor?”
“Nancy.” Setting down his bucket, he took a step toward her. “Are you all right?”
“Better than that,” she said, snaking an arm around his neck. “For a bob, I’ll prove it.”
“It’s me,” he said, gently removing her arm. “Dodger. Don’t you know me, Nance?”
“’Course I do,” she said, but her eyes remained unfocused and clouded.
“Are you sick? Thought you was getting better.” He wondered if she had gotten sick while still recuperating. He had never seen her so thin and wan.
She shrugged. “My side was paining me, but Twist gave me some medicine.” She rubbed her face with one filthy sleeve. “I ran out, though, and he says he can’t give me no more.”
“Oh, Nancy. You want to stay far away from Twist. He’s no good.”
“Don’t tell me how to live my life. Where have you been anyway?”
Dodger kept his gaze averted. “It’s a bit hard to explain. Here.” Pulling a bob out of his pocket, he placed it in her hand. “Do not give this to Twist for medicine. Get yourself a decent meal and something new to wear. Have you seen Bill or Faygie?”
“Oi,” called Wiggins. “Back to work, you.”
“I have to go now,” said Dodger. “But tell Faygie I’m going to try to get to the pawnshop.”
“Sure,” said Nancy, happily spinning the shilling in her fingers. “So good to see you, too.” She rewarded him with a flash of her old cheeky grin before rushing off.
Dodger picked up the empty bucket. He had made a mistake in giving Nancy the money, he realized. He could lecture her all day long about clean clothes and nourishing food, and it wouldn’t do a lick of good. His old friend was in the grip of a monster, and she would go wherever it took her.
25
A gray pigeon trying to navigate the London fog alighted on the window ledge of one of the Royal Victoria Hospital classrooms, preened itself for a moment and then peered in at the twenty or so young men and one young woman all seated at their desks, heads bent to their papers. At the head of the class, a bored proctor stared out into space and picked at the pimple under his starched linen collar. Will looked out the window and caught the bird’s orange eye for a moment. Then, with a rattling coo and a disgruntled flutter of wings, the bird took off again.
Can’t say I blame you, thought Will as he watched the pigeon fly out of sight. I wouldn’t stay here with me, either. As he sat through the debacle of his chemistry exam, unable to answer fully a third of the questions, he was painfully aware of Byram, sitting a few feet away on his right. A lock of dark, curling hair fell over his friend’s aquiline profile as he bent over his paper, scribbling diligently away. Byram must have been aware of Will’s gaze, but his concentration never wavered and he didn’t look up once.
Maybe he’s worried the proctor will think he’s cheating. Will forced his attention back to his own paper, but he knew in his heart of hearts that in the old days, Byram would have given him a smile, a wink, some kind of gesture that said it was going to be all right.
That was, then. This was some new phase, that had begun without warning or explanation, and Will could not find his bearings in it.
After the professor returned to the classroom and ordered them all to put down their pencils, most of the students vacated their seats as quickly as possible. Dispirited, Will remained slumped in his chair as his classmates chattered with one another. Out of sheer habit, he looked around for Byram, then watched in disbelief as he spotted his former best friend with Outhwaite and Mothersole, comparing notes on some of the trickier questions. Those two had been Byram and Will’s sworn enemies since first form at Eton, but Will couldn’t say he was surprised by the shift in allegiances.
What he didn’t understand was why. They hadn’t had a fight, unless you counted Byram’s barbed comments about Will’s drinking. But I started drinking more when he started pulling away, thought Will, so that was an effect, not a cause. He gathered his things and stood up, readying himself to join the exodus.
There had to be some kind of chemical equation to express what happened when the bonds between friends break. Something like denaturing, which, he suddenly recalled, was what happened to proteins when exposed to a strong acid or base, and was the answer to one of the questions he had blanked on during the exam.
“Then I realized I’d written down the wrong bloody reaction,” said Mothersole, moving slowly toward the door. Byram did not take the bait.
“No point in fretting about it now,” he said. Will tried not to stare. A few months back, Byram had made Will double up and cry with laughter as he tried to imagine Mothersole failing in various specialties: dermatology, gynecology, urgent care. Now he was all compassion.
“You headed down for lunch?” Mothersole’s question was clearly directed at Byram and Outhwaite—Will might as well have been invisible.
“Actually,�
� Will cut in, surprising himself, “Byram and I need to discuss something first.”
“Ooh, sounds serious,” said Outhwaite, not bothering to disguise his smirk. The old Byram would have punched him on his arse-shaped chin, or at least made a snide comment.
The new Byram frowned at Will. “Can’t it wait? I’m ready for a bite to eat myself.”
“No,” said Will. “I don’t think it can.” The other students flowed around them in the narrow corridor, and he felt a funny lurch in his stomach as the last few stragglers made their way out of the classroom. Lizzie, who always remained behind to try to trick the professor into confirming what she had gotten right, was the last person out.
“All right,” she said, “I think I might have gotten part of the last section wrong.”
“You always say that,” said Byram, “and you never get anything wrong.”
Lizzie made a face. “I think I may really have messed this one up. How about you, Will?”
“I might have gotten one question right,” he conceded. “Otherwise, it was pretty much a wash.”
“Ouch,” said Lizzie, as if she were in the same boat, when he knew as well as she did that she was managing to maintain her 3.8 grade point average while working overtime on some top secret engineering project for the kaiser’s visit. “Hey, you two headed for lunch?” Without waiting for a reply, she added, “I was going to bring something up to Justine’s room. With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t really had a chance to spend much time with her.”
“How virtuous of you,” said Byram. “I’m afraid I find myself a bit unnerved by the whole iron lung contraption. It’s like talking to a living zeppelin.”
“I think you think that admitting that is somehow charmingly authentic,” said Lizzie. “But really, that’s the sort of feeling you ought to try to overcome. After all, how would you feel if it were you, trapped in there like that?”
“Desperately bored. But since, blessedly, I am not the one confined to a metal cage, I choose to avoid being confronted by the melancholy constraints of her existence.”
“That’s absurd,” said Will. “And untrue. You know you’re just saying that to be shocking.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Yet I am afraid that I cannot join you for luncheon with the sweet Justine, as Will here has urgently requested a private conference.” Byram pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “We have about twenty-five minutes remaining until we’re expected at rounds, so I suggest you get on with your mission of mercy, Lizzie.”
“Good Lord, Byram, what’s gotten into you?” Will hadn’t planned on confronting Byram like this, in front of Lizzie, but the words seemed to be bubbling up of their own accord. “Are you trying to alienate all your friends? I thought it was just me, but now I’m thinking you’re trying to drive all of us away.”
Byram made an impatient sound. “Fine. Have it your way. I’m letting the team down. Selfish, terrible me. You can all band together and discuss how awful I am. Meanwhile, I’m off to lunch.” With a mocking sketch of a bow to Lizzie, he set off in the direction of the dining room.
“It’s getting worse,” said Lizzie.
“I know. I thought at first... It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why he’s acting this way.”
“I meant his limp. It’s getting worse. He’s going to need more than a cane soon. He’ll need surgery, and even then, he might still need crutches.”
She was right. Watching Byram now, it was clear that he was moving more slowly and deliberately and yet still his limp was more pronounced. He’s in pain, thought Will, but he doesn’t want me to know. He doesn’t want me to care.
Which means I have to let him go.
* * *
The gin palace brought back unpleasant memories of his encounter with the haggard blond fellow and his thuggish companion, so Will decided to try a public house. The Three Vultures, despite its unpleasant name, had a raffish charm. A rather regal brass vulture sat atop a liquor cabinet that boasted a decent assortment of spirits, but most of the customers seemed inclined to purchase beer on tap, which the barman drew by pulling back brass-handled levers.
Unlike the gin joint, there were tables and chairs. At one table, a group of elderly men were playing a hand of cribbage; in another, two workers were debating something over their pints of beer.
“Not me,” a wiry fellow with deep-set eyes was saying. “I wouldn’t touch no corpse walker juice.”
“Just think, Martin,” said a thickset man with a potbelly that looked as firm as a cannonball. “If corpse juice brings corpses back from the dead, what could it do for the likes of us?”
Martin remained unconvinced. “I don’t trust nothin’ that comes out of the Royal Victoria.” He spat a wad of something brown on the ground. “Bunch of butchers, they are.”
“This bloke’s set up his own shingle,” said the potbellied expert. “Says he’s bringing this groundbreaking new treatment to the people, at a fraction of the cost.” Glancing around, he surreptitiously pulled a small glass flask from his coat pocket. From his vantage point at the bar, Will could see that the flask was filled with an absinthe-green liquid. “See this? This here’s distilled life force, Martin. I broke me left arm as a tyke and it never healed right—two weeks of drinking this, I was golden.” He flexed his arm.
Martin gave a suspicious sniff. “How much do it cost, then?”
Good Lord, thought Will. Either these men where confabulating some story, or some unscrupulous fellow was selling bootleg ichor to living people. From what Will understood, ichor was a concentrated fluid—an aqua vitae that, when activated by electricity, brought Bio-Mechanicals back to life. He had never heard of a living person taking it before.
“What’ll you have, Percy?”
Will turned to face the grim-faced barman, who looked as creased and lined as a week-old newspaper and smelled as if he had been cured in tobacco. “Oh! I’m afraid my name’s not Percy,” said Will.
The barman wiped the counter down with a rag so filthy it probably added dirt to the surface rather than took it away. “You look like a Percy.” It didn’t sound like the barman thought this was a compliment. “You want something?”
“A stout, if you please,” said Will.
The barman, wiping down a tankard with a rag, made no move to serve him. “Which one?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you think is good.”
With a brusque nod, the man chose one of the taps and filled the tankard.
“Thanks. What is it?” Will sniffed the rich, yeasty aroma.
“Stout. What you asked for.” The man looked irritable. “Five pence.”
Will pointed at the chalkboard. “But the sign says three.”
“Only if you bring your own tankard.”
“Yes, I see, of course. Sorry.” Aware of some less than friendly looks from the other patrons, Will put the money on the bar. The barman turned away, leaving Will to his drink and his solitude.
That’s fine, thought Will. I only wanted a drink. But as he sipped the foamy head off his stout, he suddenly regretted not remaining in his room. He had been alone and feeling dismal there, and now he was alone and dismal here. The only difference was that he was going to be in even worse shape in the morning, when he had to face the results of the chemistry test and his row with Byram.
Maybe he should just finish this one pint and then take himself back to his bed. Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye that made his stomach tighten.
At the back table, a girl in a red dress was pleading with two men. “Come on, don’t be so hard,” she said, with a flirtatious toss of her hair. “Is it the money? Look, I’ve got some.” She held out her palm, revealing a shilling.
“You’ve had enough already, Nancy.” The speaker turned so his fair hair caught the light, and Will felt his belly tighten as he recognized the man who ha
d propositioned him outside the gin palace.
“But I don’t feel right, Twist.” The girl—Nancy—had lost a lot of weight since the night Will had seen her draped over Byram by the bar.
“You just need to wait two days,” said the second man. “It’s too soon for another dose.” From across the room, Will caught a glimpse of a familiar, round face, a receding ginger hairline and protuberant eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
Henry Clerval—Victor’s oldest friend and would-be murderer. What was he doing in London? He had left the school last semester, and when he had failed to return, Will had all but forgotten about him.
Whatever he’s doing here, it can’t be any good. Time to leave. Will stood up and felt a prickle of alarm when the blond girl—Nancy—walked unsteadily over to him.
“All by your lonesome?” she asked.
“Actually, I was just finishing up,” said Will, setting down his tankard. “Have to be getting back to get my beauty sleep.”
“You’re beautiful enough.” She reached out to touch his hair, and he flinched.
“I really do need to go.”
She frowned. “Wait—don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Leave it, Nance,” said Twist, giving Will a nod of recognition. “He’s not interested.”
Nancy looked from Twist to Will and back again. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
Will stood up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” said Nancy. “We like what we like. There’s no need to feel...” She frowned, as if searching for a word, and then her eyes rolled up in her head and she crumpled.
“Aw, Nance,” said Twist, as if she had let him down by collapsing.
Feeling like an imposter, Will knelt to take the girl’s pulse. He thought he could feel it under his fingers, but it was so faint he wasn’t entirely sure. “She needs a doctor,” he said.
“I’m a doctor,” said Clerval, standing up. Then his eyes met Will’s.
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