All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  But when the show is done and we leave our balcony box, Aidan does not lead us down the way we came, but rather along a dim passage hidden behind a curtain. We weave our way downstairs, past walls slung with ropes and heavy sacks, chains, and hooks, and other things I don’t recognise. It’s softly lit until at last we come to the back of the stage itself which is glaringly bright – so many candles! –now that magic is no longer needed to enchant the audience: people scurry to and fro, lifting one thing, dropping another, their thick make-up clownish this close; the costumes that seemed so magnificent from afar are in truth moth-eaten and falling apart. No one says anything to us, they simply glance at Aidan, who in turn acknowledges no one, but leads us to another set of stairs, this one set in a corner and a spiral, tightly wound downwards.

  We’re beneath the theatre now, I don’t look at Aoife and Brigid coming along behind; I don’t acknowledge Brigid’s muttering. I follow Aidan’s broad back, a skip in my step to keep up with his stride, though we’re of a height. He’s excited, pacing like a hound on a scent. At last we come to a door, which he throws open as if he’s got a right to, reaching back to grab my hand and sweep me in with him.

  The automaton is in the middle of the small, cramped room – but it’s finely outfitted, a dressing room for a leading lady, no doubt, a deep pink chaise longue for lounging about, a mirrored duchess with candles to gently light a face, racks of dresses heavy with sequins and crystals. But she’s tilted to one side as a small man in a brown suit, half under her skirts, fiddles about like a pervert. He begins to swear, fighting with the voluminous petticoats, flapping at them as if they’re an attacking bird around his head. Then he’s free and he sees Aidan, and his entire demeanour changes.

  ‘Mr Fitzpatrick, sir! A delight to see you.’ But his face, mostly plain, is having difficulty forming the correct expression. He’s younger than Aidan, not that much older than I, and has kind eyes. I think his smile might be nice under different circumstances.

  ‘Ellingham, my cousin was fascinated by your automaton. I thought perhaps she would be amused at taking a closer examination.’

  ‘Of course, of course, sir. Nothing’s too much trouble for family.’ He stands, drops the tool he was using, and wipes his hands. ‘Miss Fitzpatrick—’

  ‘Miss O’Malley,’ corrects Brigid before I can. Her voice is like an arrow. Strictly speaking, I should be “Elliott” but Aoife’s always insisted I go by “O’Malley”.

  ‘Ah, my apologies, Miss O’Malley. Come closer, she’ll not bite, my Delphine.’ He laughs as though it’s a joke he’s told before.

  ‘Is she… alright?’ I ask, indicating her angle, his ministrations.

  He grins. ‘Skirts caught in her hip joint. Boys need to be more careful when they carry her is all.’

  I step up to the automaton, look into her face. There’s no animation to the features and from here I can see the places where the painted porcelain of her cheeks and forehead are starting to peel away; her glass eyes are black, but there are not so many lashes left around them, though the brows are dark and definitive. There are tiny chips in the red of her lips; the wig on her head is a little askew from the titling of her for the purpose of fixing whatever the little man thinks is wrong with her. He doesn’t set her aright, she’s leaning sadly like a broken thing.

  ‘How does she… work?’ I ask, and reach out to touch her gown; the netting is rough, the silver sprayed onto it; it feels like Aunt Florrie’s hair although perhaps not quite so prickly. The beads are cheap and they catch the light with greed. I gently smooth the fabric to cover her, give her some dignity she can’t claim for herself.

  ‘A winding mechanism, Miss. There’s a spot in her back where I puts the key.’

  ‘Did you make her?’ My fingers touch her face, lips, cheeks. The porcelain is cold. She’s shaped with large breasts, a tiny waist; part of me wants to look beneath the skirts, but that seems impolite.

  ‘Oh no, Miren!’ interjects Aidan, though he’s standing well away from us, watching. ‘Found her on his travels.’

  Ellingham nods, leans towards me. ‘She’s been with me a long time. There were toymakers in the old days, who’d create dolls that had a little bit of soul in ’em. Don’t see ’em anymore. I think she might have been something like that, once, or almost.’

  ‘Is there a soul in her?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not so I’ve noticed, but who can tell? Who knows what she does at night when I’m asleep?’ He grins. ‘Sometimes I wake up and think tonight’s the night I’ll catch her dancing! Hasn’t happened so far, but maybe one day.’ He winks, and I think I might like him a little.

  ‘And the language she sings?’ I run my fingers down the silver traceries in her arms, take her hand. It’s colder than her face.

  ‘Whoever made her gave her that voice, Miss. That language. I don’t know where she came from, don’t suppose I ever will.’ He smiles. ‘We travel a lot, Miss, and each new city I wonder if I’ll hear the like, and maybe find her story.’

  ‘Not yet though?’

  ‘No, Miss. But our time in Breakwater’s almost done and we’re off again in a few more days, so…’ His smile is kind and genuine.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I’m not sure if I’m talking to the automaton or the little man. Her hand, in mine, trembles, shivers, convulses, tightens its grip, then is still so swiftly that I cannot be certain if it happened.

  Outside the theatre, Aidan’s carriage awaits. He helps his sister and my grandmother in, then offers me his hand. I reach out, but he wraps his long fingers hard around my wrist, like a manacle. ‘We do look very fine together. We shall do all manner of things together.’

  I stare into his eyes, and his grip tightens so I feel my bones grinding. With his other hand he strokes my throat, below the dip in the neck where the silver bell rests, lingering over it. I say nothing. The moment stretches until he changes his hold, assists me up into the conveyance, then climbs in after me. I sit close beside Aoife; I do not meet Aidan’s gaze though he’s opposite me. Brigid, next to him, stares. Is it because she’s never seen me rattled? But I know the blood’s drained from my face; suspect that beneath the makeup I look like a ghost.

  When we finally arrive at the townhouse, Aidan aids Aoife and Brigid once more. I climb out the other side of the coach rather than go anywhere near him. Struggling in the tight skirt, I must jump to the ground with no one to roll the steps down for me, but I don’t care. I can feel his eyes on me as I go towards the front door, ignoring Brigid’s questions: Are you well? You are very pale, Miren. Would you like a tisane to sleep? Is it a headache or your monthly courses or both?

  Aidan does not follow us. He climbs back into the vehicle, heading off for an evening of entertainment most likely fit only for gentlemen.

  In my borrowed room, I lock the door. I glare at Brigid’s gift, then toss it aside, the maiden’s quilt, with all the dreams and hopes and spells sewn into. I’d put it in the fire if I dared, if it didn’t seem such a shame to destroy such a pretty thing. When it’s in a heap on the floor, I throw myself on the bed and weep.

  7

  The docks aren’t quite deserted, but almost. It’s the sweet hour before the bustle of business begins. Some few women and men – sailors, stevedores, whores – wait, smoking cigarillos, others curl in corners, drape across crates and such uncomfortable things, sleeping off their night’s indulgences. Women and men, again, in bedraggled finery amble towards destinations that might be rented rooms, might be the dressmakers from whom they’ve hired their night clothes – presumably not from Madame Franziska’s establishment. No one gives me a second glance.

  I left the townhouse before dawn broke the sky, wearing my old black dress and a cloak equally black – gods know it took me an age to struggle out of that evening gown, to remove every pin from my hair, to clean the makeup from my skin. I’ve not slept, or barely. I’ve been running through my head the events at the theatre, Aidan’s sudden attentiveness, the seeming kindness of s
howing me the automaton like it was a child’s distraction, the bruise on my wrist that’s now clear to see. Aoife’s smiles and comments, her wild spending. Brigid’s increased sniping and hostility.

  I’m to be sold, a bought bride.

  Aoife’s going to rebuild our fortunes with my purchase price.

  And Aidan… doesn’t he think perhaps that linking himself so closely to the O’Malley core, the dying heart of the family, might affect him? His wealth? For though the outer branches have remained safe and prosperous, grown strong, the true O’Malleys have withered on the vine until there’s just one scheming old woman left with nothing to offer… nothing but a granddaughter who’s the closest thing remaining to a pristine O’Malley.

  Aidan.

  Aidan wants it all. He wants to rebuild what we once had. He wants the house on Hob’s Head, overrun by his servants making it all bright and shiny again. He wants to make the name mean something once more. He’ll take the last O’Malley girl to wife; though her father’s an Elliott she’s been called O’Malley since her parents died, it’s the purest blood he’s likely to find. He’ll get children on me. He’ll start the sacrifices one again: a child to inherit, a child for the Church, a child for the sea so she gives her bounty to us once again. Will he take the name? O’Malley? Or does he think it’s cursed? Will he keep Fitzpatrick and think he can avoid misfortune that way? As if Fate won’t recognise him?

  For hours I’ve wandered aimlessly, watching the sky creep from black to grey to the palest dirty blue. I’ve covered so much of this city on foot, at first thinking myself protected by my cloak and my height – but I honestly suspect now it’s that the Queen of Thieves prefers her city to be orderly. She might make her fortune skimming off others’ ill-gotten gains, but that doesn’t mean Breakwater is chaotic. The streets, mostly, are tidy; houses are well-kept; there are rough men and women but they seem to be waiting patiently for orders. This empire is organised. Murder and mayhem and theft may well be her business, but it is business to be exported to other cities and towns. Óisín’s little knife is in my pocket, but I’ve had no cause to use it.

  I even wandered through the assassins market, located at the crossroads just outside the main gate into the city, which I’d heard of but never seen. Newly sprung up since the arrival of Bethany Lawrence, another source of income and organisation: all manner of commerce did I witness there. Women and men, old and young, sitting, standing, reclining, waiting. And customers approached in droves, some furtive, some quite open in what they did, most business-like. One of the tinkers who’d passed by Hob’s Hallow had told how the Queen of Thieves has made it so convenient for people to find the assassin of their dreams in Breakwater that folk come from all around. The port-city will present the greatest range of skilled killers for your delectation. Middlemen and guildmasters – leaning against lampposts or sitting in tents – established a client’s requirements: What message might be sent in this death, should it be clear to others not to interfere in the manner the victim had, or was the message for that single person alone? Clients would then be put in contact with the murderer most appropriate to their needs. Poisoners, those who favoured the garrotte or fire or water, those with a taste in sharp things or bludgeons, and those whose preference was for ranged weapons and a distant death.

  But even I could tell who were wolves and who were sheep. I was raised by Aoife O’Malley, wasn’t I?

  I marvelled, I confess, at the sheer number of people there, at the idea that this was done out in the open, that there should be no constable or guard here to make arrests. Elsewhere this sort of thing would be done in hidden places: back rooms, sewer tunnels, in the depths of forests, on deserted roads – once upon a time, in the tower rooms of Hob’s Hallow. Not in Breakwater. How long before it spilled into the daylight? I watched as a creature was summoned from a cauldron then decanted into a bottle and handed over for a fistful of coin; an imp, tiny and grey-green that coughed fire. I thought, briefly, oh so briefly, about becoming a customer myself. Aidan dead in his sleep, I’d not be fussed how, as long as he was gone from my life.

  But then, wouldn’t Aoife simply find another suitor for me?

  I’d thought… I’d thought I would be free. Not quite yet, but with Óisín’s death I was one step closer to being released from my grandparents. Then there would just be Aoife. It’s not that I don’t love them, though they’re hard to love, it’s that with them gone… I’d be beyond their rule and regulation. I’d make decisions for myself, although who knew what they’d be. I’d never thought of myself anywhere but Hob’s Hallow, and I never thought of myself as marrying anyone – it’s never been discussed or brought up in even the vaguest of way – I just thought…

  That they’d be gone one day and I’d be free.

  That the big old house would be mine. As if there would be no debts still owing – as if Aoife wouldn’t keep running up bills.

  Óisín’s will is to be read this morning.

  So. If not Aidan, then perhaps Aoife. A quiet death, gentle, something to send her off in her sleep. But why would I pay another to do that? And how? There are the jewels, a voice in my head says, the things she bought you with Fitzpatrick money; the earrings, the bracelets. Hasn’t Maura taught me enough about the plants in the gardens? Aren’t there enough blooms of nightshade and foxglove, wolfsbane and even daffodils to suit my purposes? Brew a tisane, sprinkle some across her food. Who’d know?

  Who’d know but me?

  Me.

  I would know and though she’s never been easy, Aoife deserves better than that, something more honest.

  Just like I deserve something better than a marriage not of my choosing.

  As I moved through the crowd of killers and customers I sensed myself under scrutiny. It was a slow thing, the realisation, and I couldn’t tell when it had begun, only that it was suddenly there though I’d been aware of it for a time. I stopped beside the fountain at the centre of the crossroads market and looked around casually. Too many faces, too many hooded heads, too many bodies moving too quickly. And then the sensation was gone as if the watcher had departed. I left there soon after witnessing a woman raise a spirit. She did not do so for any purpose beyond showing a potential client she could. That someone’s death might be so casual and coolly done. Another woman poured water into silver pans filled with gravedust, to make a hulking figure coalesce slowly from that poor material; another murderous monster. Unlike other cities, Breakwater doesn’t burn its witches, not when Bethany Lawrence can make money from their talents.

  Dawn is approaching and I should return to the townhouse, but I can’t quite bear to just yet. I’m drawn by nostalgia to the docks, by the thought of visiting the old offices once again. Where Óisín would teach me.

  Though it’s a long time since I was here, the map of the streets is tattooed on my heart and mind. Some days Óisín would drop me on a corner and I would have to find my way back to the offices or the townhouse. It didn’t take me long to learn the shortcuts. I pass by the house where once a woman set up a brothel staffed entirely by her own daughters. The front stairs are polished to a high shine; the Queen of Thieves is reputed to have set up residence here – the two muscled men either side of the door seem to support that. The façade is a floral mosaic, a parquetry of coloured gems turned into red roses, green vines. Some still whisper it was created by magic. The front door is ebony, carved with mermaids and sirens – it makes me wonder how no O’Malley ever owned this house – and the brass knocker looked like a piece of rope twisted into a circle. I don’t go close enough to peer in the windows, I stay resolutely on the opposite side of the street.

  Then I pass beneath the Weeping Gate, the sound of my boots loud on the boards in the early morning, until I’m at the end of a pier where no vessel is moored. Behind me is the old building that once housed Óisín’s offices, O’Malley Maritime. Rundown now, the windows boarded up, shards of broken glass littering the sills, the door firmly closed; Aidan has his own bureau
a few streets over. Neither of the remaining O’Malley ships is in port and who knows when they’ll return or if. Will their bellies be filled with cargo or will they have given it all up to pirates? Do they already sleep on the bottom of the ocean, hulls splintered, mariners drowned, their eyes eaten by fish, their bones become thrones for crabs?

  The toes of my boots hang over the edge of the dock, the morning breeze kicks at my skirts and tips the hood half-off my head. I pull it back all the way and lift my face to the sun, which is burning away the last of the dawn clouds. The water smells awful, not like the sea off Hob’s Head, which is clean and salty. This is contaminated by humanity, a greasy sheen lies across the brownish, brackish liquid.

  I could throw myself in. End it all. But what O’Malley can’t swim? What O’Malley wouldn’t fight the drowning? And after all the effort Aoife went to to teach me and my subsequent fear of the sea? How hard would it be to throw myself in just to give my life up when I’d fought so hard to save it from the waters? I could tie weights to my ankles? But where to find them? And why give up my existence just to avoid Aidan? That voice in my head, the one from the assassins market, pipes up again: Marry him now, murder him in a month, a year, inherit everything. But I think that’s my grandmother’s voice, or at least the part of my blood I got from her.

  They cannot make me say the words. They cannot make me agree. I square my shoulders; I can just say no. I’m stubborn, Aoife’s rued it all these years. They cannot force me.

  I sigh, feel a weight go from me, even if it’s only temporary, even if it’s a false relief; that I’ll have to deal with it all again later and it’ll be worse, then, for Aoife and Aidan will both be at me.

  I close my eyes... then the silver ship’s bell necklace gives the slightest ting, and that’s when something cold and wet grabs at both my ankles and pulls me into the brine.

  My lids fly open and I watch as the world tilts and turns, and nothing’s on the right angle. The back of my skull grazes the edge of the dock, stunning me, but I remember to gulp air before I go under into the cold, cold water. I drop like a stone and that surprises me, although perhaps it shouldn’t. Then I realise I’m not sinking but being dragged, the grip on my ankles is still there and tight and my cloak floats behind me, wet and heavy, as if reluctant to follow and my skirts are fluttering up too, blinding me when the liquid is already so dark. I throw a glance upward: the light is brilliant as a diamond, sharp. Below all is murk. I seem to sense two other bodies beside me, keeping pace: pale and fast, sinuous, hair streaming, no legs but tails.