“Perhaps you are right.” Dorinda scanned the interior of Sibylla’s room. “Your highness might finally have become more valuable than your doting ditherer of a cousin.” Her voice took on a mocking tone she used only in private. Sibylla could almost believe the queen sat in front of her. “Maybe her majesty has decided to marry you to some lower nobleman whose estate she’s looking to purchase. Like that lieutenant I encountered earlier.”
Sibylla’s nonchalance weakened at the idea, and she sat down. “You’re not telling me something.”
Dorinda smoothed her hands in her lap. “You should be pleased. How long have you been here? A few months?” Dorinda knew well enough how long Sibylla had been at Helmscliff.
“There must be some reason, some motive, and for Grandmother to send you, it must be something strange.”
“Asking questions and acting as you wish is the kind of behavior that no one likes to see in a princess.” Sibylla considered inking the dry smile off Dorinda’s lips, but Dorinda broke her focus by leaning in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t carry beyond the bedroom’s walls. “Have you met your brother lately?”
Sibylla’s jaw tensed, but she kept the fading glow in her veins from brightening. Under her control, the light winked out beneath her skin.
Half-brother, she silently corrected.
Why was the queen concerning herself with that old rumor? Sibylla’s father, Prince Henry, had produced exactly one child with her mother, Lady Brigitte, and it was well known throughout the palace that Lady Brigitte had been rendered barren in the process. Any other child would be a bastard.
Until a century ago, monarchs killed all bastards for fear of magic spreading throughout the common population. In the civilized modern era, they only did away with those who showed signs of having the gift. It wouldn’t do for some commoner to come knocking at the palace gates with an ill-begotten magic spark in his fingers and an armed horde at his back.
Sibylla knew first-hand the difficulty in hiding one’s magic. Fortunately, magical bastards were as rare as a King Melvin vermillion postage stamp, and those who survived into adulthood rarer still. Properly noble parents produced “divinely blessed” infants, but outside such pairings, only bastard sons had the slimmest odds of demonstrating any talent.
As a child, Sibylla had protected her half-brother’s existence to earn her father’s good opinion, his rare praise more valuable than Celia the Devout’s pearl prayer beads. Then she’d remained silent because her half-brother gave her gifts whenever he saw her, tokens of affection she cherished over the queen’s scoldings. Now she kept the secret not only out of filial love, but also because she understood the queen would toss her illegitimate brother, should she discover his identity, into the bastards’ well beneath Fitzroy Muir’s ledgerstone at St Harailt’s church. There he would molder with the bones of his brethren.
Sibylla scrutinized Dorinda. No half-brother of hers would meet Dorinda and face execution. “As her royal majesty is well aware, I haven’t the pleasure of siblings.”
Dorinda smiled all too pleasantly as she rose from her seat. “Well then.” She clapped her hands. “I’ve already discussed matters with Lady Wayfeather, and she will make the necessary arrangements. Her royal majesty’s stagecoach will arrive in three days’ time to collect you. After your departure, the remainder of your belongings will be sent along to Malmouth at the end of the week, such as they are.”
“So this will be a permanent stay?” Sibylla couldn’t deny the appeal of returning to the palace.
“Isn’t that your wish? Or perhaps you look forward to the daily headcold associated with spring weather in this forsaken valley.”
Sibylla didn’t understand the reason for this reprieve when, as far as she knew, she still hadn’t agreed to marry her cousin Edgar. Still, the queen’s motive would unveil itself soon enough, and though Sibylla had no desire to see Edgar, the crown prince, or her grandmother, she had been longing for Caligo’s beef and kidney stew. More to the point, she’d be able to have a proper word with her father, Prince Henry, about the queen’s renewed interest in looking for a certain surviving bastard. Perhaps it was again time her brother fled the country. She’d been abroad. She must have some useful contacts. And once she returned to Caligo, she’d have other resources at her disposal. No matter the queen’s agenda, Sibylla planned to sail her own course and use her limited power for good, royal currents be damned.
7
After leaving the laundry, Roger collected the rest of his mourner’s kit at Mr Grausam’s Undertaking and Coffining Services. Per tradition, he was expected to carry a staff draped with black linen and conceal his face behind the mourner’s porcelain mask, shaped like the upper half of a skull. He refused the battered cocked hat offered by Nail and tied the trailing hatband around his own new topper instead.
By late morning, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A stiff wind blew cold drizzle into Roger’s eyes as he ambled up Mouthstreet with half a dozen other mutes, staffs hefted on shoulders and masks hanging from necks to show they were not yet on duty. Even Nail had donned black and joined their ranks. Anticipating hours in the cold, some had already filled themselves with gin and expected Lady Margalotte’s bereaved family to supply them with more.
They trudged up Mouthstreet past Eldridge’s College of Barber-Surgeons. A placard hung on the door, advertising the start of a lecture series on basic surgery to begin the following week. A pasted-on addendum read:
Now featuring a new Special Lecture on the afflictions particular to the Feminine Personage, to include a demonstration of basic surgical techniques required by the Modern Medical Gentleman, with anatomization of a Verified Lady Specimen.
A note at the bottom clarified that only current medical students and licensed surgeons or physicians would be allowed in the door.
“You’re havin’ those devilish thoughts again.” Nail matched Roger’s stride. “I saw you eyein’ that monstrous surgeon school back there. If you’re con-temple-atin’ makin’ a snatch fer our lady croaker, I’ve my eye on you. Measures have been taken to protect the lady against the sack-’em-up gentlemen. She paid a pretty penny fer it, too. I won’t even tell you how much.”
“Don’t be daft, man.” Roger affected a wounded tone. “I’m learning proper surgery nowadays.” Still, the idea of resurrecting Lady Margalotte niggled at him. Society disapproved of “violating” a corpse by dissection, and only executed criminals could be legally used. But how was leaving a dead body to putrefy in a box any better? Such sentimentality, if it could be called that, was lost on Roger. Executions alone couldn’t meet the growing needs of the expanding medical district. At least a resurrected corpse could provide a last service to the living, if one fewer surgeon botched a cut on a living patient because he’d practiced on a dead one first. “What sorts of measures did she pay for?”
“One of them sealable iron coffins an’ a welded mortsafe that won’t be removed until… until the lady’s mortal husk be of less interest to the common snatcher. It is an uncommonly useful invention, the patent mortsafe.” He bestowed a significant glare on Roger. “As an undertaker, my clients demand eternal rest. No one wants to wake up dead on some medical student’s table. But you wouldn’t know nothing ’bout that, would you?”
“Me? Of course not. Though if that mortsafe of yours can be removed at all, maybe it ain’t so snatcher-proof.” Roger walked briskly on.
“If that don’t stop him, then the sealed coffin will.”
“Nail, man, if you want widows giving you kisses and cash, you may wish to lay off the talk of mortsafes and coffins.” Roger hoped to fluster his rival. “They don’t find that very romantic.”
Nail’s face flushed to match his fiery hair. “Just because I talk shop to you don’t mean I can’t impress a lass when I wants, widow or no.”
“Good. Let’s have a bet. Which of us can convince a member of the female persuasion to press her lips against his own first?”
“What, as mutes? That’s like askin’ a lady to kiss a day-old haddock, that is.”
“Speak for yourself. We’ll be masked. You’ll have an advantage there.” “I want nothing to do with your bet if we’re wagering stiffs…” Nail trailed off as they arrived at their destination.
The glossy black door of Margalotte’s three-story townhome swung open to reveal a tall man in his fifties with thick sideburns extending nearly to his chin. A pair of silver spectacles hung on a thin chain attached to his lapel, and under his arm he carried a leather-bound ledger. In contrast to the mutes’ second- and third-hand afflictions, this man’s ebony-colored tailcoat had been fitted with lines sharp enough to cut butter. A high clubbed collar covered his entire neck and seemed to disappear into his jawline.
The man surveyed the length of the walkway. From the top of the steps, he glowered at the mutes.
“There are only seven of you.” He affixed his spectacles to his narrow nose. “I – at the behest of the dearly departed – specifically requested ten. Nail, where is Mr Grausam?”
It was a well-known fact that the more mutes in attendance, the deeper the pockets of the deceased. A full platoon of fifty mutes had marched in the vigil parade for Queen Mildred, and toffs still tried to imitate her a hundred years later.
“He’s late, Mr Murray sir, but I can speak for him.” Nail removed his hat and pressed it to his chest. His red hair stood up like a candle flame. “Mr Grausam an’ I determined that ten mutes is a highly unlucky number. Seven is more oss-pishos for such an undertaking, if you’ll pardon the pun, sir.”
Roger recognized the name. Mr Murray was a bigwig barrister who had risen to fame over a decade ago, securing an acquittal for the infamous Scrimshaw Highwayman. The case was especially popular among ladies of a certain age, what with the highwayman being a handsome rogue and his lawyer a dashing orator. Apparently Mr Murray dabbled in probates as well as criminal law.
“Don’t spout that superstitious rubbish at me. As Lady Margalotte’s executor I know her ladyship’s will backwards, forwards, and crossways.
The number ‘ten’ is written here on page forty-three.” Mr Murray tapped the page with his pencil. “Neither you nor your master will be paid unless the terms of our contract are fulfilled. Several of your men are so drunk they’re having trouble standing. Disgraceful.”
“They are but prepared to stand five hours inna cold without relief, sir,” said Nail cheerfully. “Mr Grausam is rounding up a few more of us as we speak, if you are still insisting on the most unlucky number of ten.”
“I do insist on it.” Mr Murray studied the mutes with distaste, lingering a tad too long on Roger. “Line up along the path. Let’s have a look at you lot. You’re enough to frighten off the friends and family. Brush off that dust. Untangle those sashes. You’ll need to act a few shades more mournful if you expect payment. I can only hope that this cold weather will bring on said attitude soon enough. Now, affix your masks. Henceforth, you are officially mute.” The lawyer turned to go, then paused. “By the by, you there with the dented hat. I’d like to speak with you.”
Roger raised a questioning finger.
Mr Murray raked him with his eyes. “Yes, you. Follow me.” He turned toward the house.
Roger handed his staff to Nail and ascended the steps. He paused on the threshold before setting his hobnailed boot on the checkerboard of tiles in the foyer. Gaslit sconces flickered on the walls as he moved through the gloomy hall. The curtains had been closed as tradition required and would not be drawn until after the burial.
He followed the lawyer past the front parlor where he glimpsed the coffin, and a frizzle of blonde hair among the lilies. Mr Murray entered a study and sat behind a mahogany desk. Roger, not invited to avail himself of a chair, remained standing.
“Remove your mask.”
Roger obeyed. The flesh around his eye throbbed, courtesy of Harrod.
Mr Murray narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you somewhere before, and quite recently, but I can’t place where. What is your name?”
Roger said nothing. It was common practice to try to trick mutes into speaking to dock their pay.
“For the next few minutes, you are excused from official muteness.
Your name.” This time it was not a question.
“Roger Weathersby, at your service.”
“From the look of you, you’ve been running with the wrong crowd, Mr Weathersby.”
“Oh, my crowd is alright, as such. My own family ain’t been so kind.” Roger attempted an insolent grin, but a scab at the corner of his mouth began to split.
“And do you mute often at funerals?”
“Not lately, sir.”
“Have you suffered your own loss recently?”
“Not as such, sir.”
“How singular.” The lawyer leaned forward on his elbows, nearly spilling the inkpot. “Now that I’ve gotten a good look at you, I’m convinced I saw you in Greyanchor Necropolis, trailing a funeral party at an… unusual distance.”
Roger’s hackles went up. “You’re mistaken. Perhaps I were visiting my mother there.”
“Perhaps. Though not on Dolorous Avenue, I’d reckon.” Mr Murray wiped his spectacles with a cloth. “There’s some other force at work, bringing you in proximity of the dead. They say criminals always revisit their crimes. What do you think, Mr Weathersby?”
“I’m just here to make some extra coin.” Roger disliked this man’s prying questions and sly tone. “As are plenty of others.”
“Of course. Another starving medical student, I’ll wager. And I can guess what else you do in your spare time.”
Roger bit his tongue to prevent saying something reckless. Now that he thought of it, Mr Murray’s face did look familiar. He had been the solitary mourner at that Smith funeral.
The man was onto him. Roger swallowed hard. “Oh, right, sir. I did follow a hearse once. Didn’t mean nothing by it. Thought I knew the lady as was to be buried. But it turned out to be a Miss Smith, where I’d thought it were a Mistress White. Right daft I felt, once I saw that fine old crypt. Sorry if I caused distress. Is that all, sir?”
A flash of calculation sharpened Mr Murray’s features. He replaced his spectacles on the bridge of his nose as though to hide some dark intention. A chill passed through Roger.
“For now, yes,” said Mr Murray, his tone flat as before. “Though since you are here, I encourage you to pay your respects to the deceased. Let the visitors see your mournful face. They’ll start arriving at any moment.”
“I really don’t–”
“I insist.” Mr Murray rose with great aplomb, and Roger had no choice but to follow him into the parlor. “Once you come into a house of mourning, you can’t leave without spending a few moments contemplating your own mortality. That’s not the way things work in Caligo.”
Servants moved wraithlike along the walls, setting a buffet with stacks of silver plates, finger sandwiches, and a cauldron of hot mulled punch. A black-clad woman sat watch over the deceased, her face hidden behind a lace veil.
Roger shuffled forward, hat in hand, trying to look sufficiently mournful. Mr Grausam had done good work on the deceased. Lady Margalotte’s hands lay calm and folded in her lap; they would not shred the coffin lining to pieces. A wide satin choker hid any possible strangle marks around her neck. She was clad in scarlet and gold, her fair hair haloing her face. A glint of pink caught his eye. A flower hatpin adorned the woman’s dress like a brooch, identical to the pin he’d taken from that thieving ghost Ada.
This was strange indeed.
Roger bowed to the veiled woman. Then, as if overcome with grief, he leaned over the coffin and grasped Lady Margalotte’s hands in his own. As a mute, such extravagant displays of emotion were expected, allowing him to check the inside of her wrist for a pulse. While he counted to ten in his head, something caught his notice. Where her folded hands had concealed her stomach, shallow lumps the width of peach pits raised the red satin of her
dress. The same as Claudine. He wished he might pull back her dress to examine the oddity more closely, but that was out of the question. From his brief undertaker apprenticeship, he knew that overworked city coroners often skipped autopsies if they deemed the cause of death “obvious” at a glance. If only he were a true surgeon, in a starched cravat and carrying a satchel of instruments, he’d demand a proper examination. As a mute, he had less influence than the punchbowl.
Reluctantly, he settled Margalotte’s hands in her lap.
Mr Murray’s bespectacled gaze never faltered. “Now, replace your mask.” He directed Roger outside. “You are again mute. Don’t forget the price of talking out of turn.”
The lawyer made Roger’s flesh crawl. He wanted to throw Mr Murray’s disapproval of bodysnatching right back in his face. After the door closed behind him, the mutes on the cold front steps became decidedly less mute.
Nail beckoned Roger over. “Don’t tell me he’s engaging your services.”
“Come off it, Nail.” Roger wasn’t interested in foolish jokes. “That lady. You’re the undertaker here. Didn’t you notice anything peculiar when you were preparing her for the coffin?”
Nail raised an eyebrow. “We at Grausam’s Undertaking Services strive fer absolute priv-assy in the affairs of our clients. Hold a derringer to my skull, an’ I’ll tell you the same.”
Roger shrugged, feigning nonchalance. He didn’t need Nail to tell him anything he could see for himself. The coffin would have to be in the ground before he’d get any answers. And that, of course, required digging her up again.
The mourners arrived at last, materializing out of the frozen mist that slicked the ground. Men with tall hats and traditional mourning masks helped solemn women in trailing black veils out of hansom cabs. They advanced up the walk with lowered heads. The mutes, even the tipsy ones, fell into dutiful silence, affecting sorrowful poses until the guests disappeared indoors.
Roger rubbed his hands to keep warm and tucked them under his armpits while bouncing on numbed toes. Now that the festivities were underway, the house livened. Liquid spirits loosened tongues and displaced ghostly thoughts. The frost on the windows began to melt.
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 7
