‘He had noticed something that the rest of us had missed, because we had been skulking further and further away from the villages and towns. He dared to walk right past them and into the fringes of the nearest city. And one Sunday he discovered something. The church bells there no longer hurt him.’
‘Church bells?’ asked Not-Triss.
The Shrike nodded. ‘We have always avoided them. They sicken us, make our heads ring—’
‘It’s because you’re evil,’ Pen suggested promptly.
‘It’s the certainty,’ the Shrike contradicted her. ‘Every Sunday, people have always trooped to that cold crypt of a building to share their faith, their certainty – God’s in his heaven, the vicar is His postman and all’s right with the world.’ There was a glint of mirth in his eye that was not pleasant.
‘But everybody does still believe that!’ Not-Triss exclaimed.
‘Do they? Oh, they still troop in, good as gold, and listen to the vicar’s sermon. But they remember that same vicar telling them that the War was God’s war, that all pious young men should be dropping their hoes and grabbing a gun. And they wonder, Was it? That hell-beast that ate our sons whole, was that really God’s war?’
The Shrike grinned, and Not-Triss found that she did not like him after all.
‘I do not pretend to know if there is a God,’ he went on, ‘or whether the cold stars go on forever. The War belonged to humanity, and nobody else. But for us it was a godsend, that much I can tell you. The War crushed faith. All kinds of faith. Before the War, everybody had their rung on the ladder, and they didn’t look much below or above it. But now? Low and high died side by side in Flanders Fields, and looked much the same face down in the mud. And the heroes who came back from hell didn’t fancy tugging their forelocks as they starved on the streets.
‘And the women! Once they kept to their pretty little path and didn’t step on the grass. But those that worked in the farms and factories during the War have a taste for running their own lives now, haven’t they? So all their menfolk are panicking. Frightened. Uncertain. And all of this doubt, this shaking up of the foundations, there was more of it in the cities.’
‘Why?’ asked Not-Triss, scarcely wanting to interrupt the Shrike’s flow.
‘Because cities are beautiful . . . chaos. They’re not like villages, where everybody knows each other and the ruts run deep. They mix hundreds of people and ideas like chemicals in a flask, till things go bang! You can get lost in cities. The walls rise high and swallow all the landmarks, and you’re nearly always surrounded by strangers. And there are automobiles. Everybody knows where they are with a horse, but motorcars? Nobody knows what they’re doing with them! And nobody driving them bothers with the rules! And they churn up great dust clouds, so that everything is uncharted, and impossible to predict. It’s beautiful.’
‘So that’s why you’re here?’ Not-Triss tried to steer the Shrike back to the main topic. ‘It was the Architect’s idea?’
‘Yes.’ The Shrike grinned. ‘He is an architect of sorts, you see. A brilliant one. He can whisper bricks and mortar into shapes that twist your eye and your mind if you stare at them. He can build a palace with a hundred rooms, and make its outer shell no bigger than an outhouse. He realised that the best way to find uncharted places for us in a city would be to build the places, in ways that would show up on no maps.
‘But he knew that he could not do it alone. He needed an ally, a human architect – or better still a civil engineer – to pose as the creator of his designs, or they would never be accepted.’
‘What does he mean?’ Pen was glaring at the Shrike accusingly. ‘He’s talking about Father, isn’t he?’
Not-Triss, however, could guess all too clearly what he meant, though she did not want to. She still felt the real Triss’s pride in her famous father, the Three Maidens bridges, all the landmarks that had put Ellchester on the map . . .
‘All those buildings, the ones that made Fath— Mr Crescent famous.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He didn’t design any of them, did he?’
‘What?’ Pen stared, appalled as the Shrike shook his head.
‘No,’ confirmed the Shrike. ‘But he did rather well out of the deal.’
‘What was his side of the bargain?’ Not-Triss thought of poor, misled Triss, who worshipped her father, and felt an unexpected spark of anger on her behalf. ‘What did Mr Crescent have to do in return?’
‘Oh, you don’t understand,’ answered the Shrike. ‘That was his side of the bargain. He was very reluctant actually. Thought the whole business very queer. It took quite an offer to bring him round.’
‘What was . . . ?’ Not-Triss did not end the sentence, because already her mind was spiralling away from her towards the truth.
‘It was just after the end of the War,’ the Shrike explained. ‘Thousands of young men still stranded out in Europe, waiting to be brought home. Their families over here combing through the bulletins, looking for news. But sometimes it was the wrong kind of news.
‘Your parents received a letter from your brother’s commanding officer. The usual kind of letter, along with your brother’s personal effects. But they did not want to believe it. And then the Architect told your father that if he made a deal with him and gave him one of the items, he would hear from his son again.’
At last the terrible letters from Sebastian started to make sense.
‘But . . . where is he?’ exploded Pen. ‘Where’s Sebastian? Why didn’t he come home?’
‘Because he died,’ answered the Shrike, calmly and mercilessly. ‘He is not gone, but he is not alive either. Sorry. He is just . . . stopped.’
‘Stopped?’ Not-Triss’s mouth was dry.
‘How do we un-stop him?’ asked Pen.
‘I have no idea. You would have to ask the Architect.’ The Shrike gave a smile that made it clear that he did not think she would do anything of the sort.
‘What was the thing the Architect asked for?’ asked Not-Triss.
‘Something belonging to your brother, and tied to his death, I believe.’ The Shrike shrugged. ‘The Architect never told me much more than that, but I would guess that it was something he needed to fulfil his half of the deal.’
‘That’s . . .’ Not-Triss thought of the tormented tone of the letters. ‘That was a cruel, horrible trick! He must have known they thought Sebastian would come home! And now he’s trapped somewhere . . .’ She thought of the way the Crescent family had ruptured and folded in on itself, like a paper hat in the rain. ‘Wasn’t that enough? Why did the Architect kidnap Triss as well? Hadn’t he done enough harm?’
The Shrike looked genuinely surprised by her outburst.
‘The bargain you make is the bargain you make,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If Crescent didn’t heed the wording, more fool him. He wanted to believe a lie, so he did. And maybe there were arguments when he didn’t get what he expected, but he had enough sense to keep his side of the bargain and build the Architect’s designs. Until a few months ago, that is.’
A few more pieces slotted into place. The article in the newspaper. The mysterious conversations Not-Triss had overheard between Piers and Celeste.
‘He stopped building what the Architect wanted, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘He started working on that Meadowsweet suburb instead . . .’
‘He broke the bargain.’ The Shrike’s voice was suddenly pure venom, as if he was naming a sin far beyond the pale. Not-Triss remembered the Architect’s reaction when Pen suggesting ‘telling’, and going against the terms of her deal with him. She shuddered as she recalled his wild, child-like loss of control.
That would be breaking our bargain!
‘There’s nothing in this world more likely to drive the Architect insane than that,’ commented the Shrike. ‘And that’s what he is now, where it comes to the Crescent family. Vengeance is on his mind, pure and simple. He has some plan for young Theresa – something that will see its end in a few days, if you ask me.
&n
bsp; ‘Because that’s where you come in. He needed you to stand in for little Theresa, just long enough for him to do whatever he plans to do. Now, usually when there’s a switch of this sort, it’s enough to leave an ordinary doll cloaked with a simple glamour . . . that is to say, a touch of something to fool the eye. The doll doesn’t need to think. If it’s a baby doll it just squalls and asks for food, then withers over the course of a week. If it’s older, it lies there as if it’s in an impenetrable sleep, and wastes away until it dies. But Crescent knows about the Besiders, you see, so the Architect wanted you to be more convincing. Much more convincing.
‘That one,’ he nodded towards Pen, ‘brought us everything we needed. Diaries to supply memories. Things dear to her sweet sister, all with a power to them. And then I pushed my craft to its limit . . . and I gave you the power to think. To remember. To believe you were Theresa. To act. To feel. And I cloaked your body of thorns and straw with the most powerful spell I had to make you move and look human. That’s why my dolls here started to move when you drew close. They came within range of the spell. They don’t have a mind the way you do, but they can mimic having one, just while the spell touches them.’
‘So all my memories come from Triss’s diary entries?’ Not-Triss tried not to wonder what would happen if those pages fell out through her sides. ‘But . . . then I would just remember what was written down, wouldn’t I? I remember more than that – what things looked like and how it felt to be there. I remember . . . Sebastian.’
‘The diaries were invested with Triss’s memories,’ answered the Shrike. ‘They’re a link, if you like. You only remember events written down in her diaries, but you remember them as she remembers them.
‘There.’ He broke the thread and examined his handiwork. ‘Those seams should hold.’ He gave Not-Triss another shrewd glance. ‘And . . . I cannot help noticing that there’s matter in those innards that I never put there. Other things belonging to dear Theresa, are they?’
Not-Triss flushed. It had not occurred to her that the objects she had swallowed might be visible to the Shrike through the holes in her side.
‘So that’s how you did it! That’s why you’re still so spry. By now, I thought you’d be flat on your sickbed, barely able to raise your head or talk. Clever girl. Won’t make a difference in the end, of course, but good for you.’
His manner was bright and approving, and an unacknowledged little flame went out in Not-Triss’s heart. He was her maker, but he was not her father. He had the pride of a chef who revels in seeing his masterpiece, but does not care what happens to the remains after the banquet. He would not help her.
‘Triss?’ Pen stared at her. ‘What does he mean, “It won’t make a difference in the end”?’
‘Oh.’ The Shrike looked from one face to the other. ‘How sweet. You haven’t told her, have you?’
Chapter 26
A SURPLUS GIRL
‘What does he mean?’ Pen glared at Not-Triss.
‘I’m afraid she’s not designed to endure,’ the Shrike explained, with a tiny shadow of regret in his voice.
‘I’m falling apart, Pen,’ Not-Triss said quietly. ‘I’m made of pieces, and I’m losing them, little by little. That’s why I’m hungry all the time, and keep losing weight.’
‘What?’ For a moment Pen looked totally lost, then she turned on the Shrike. ‘Then . . . put more stuffing in her! Take bits from them!’ She pointed around at the other dolls.
‘It wouldn’t work,’ the Shrike responded promptly. ‘Sticks and stones may strengthen her bones, but all that is keeping her on her feet is objects closely tied to your real sister. And even that will not help her in two days’ time when the enchantments all run out.’
The rooster squirmed in Not-Triss’s grip and gave a muffled abortive squawk. The Shrike visibly flinched, and cast a glance towards one of the narrow windows.
‘Dawn is coming,’ he muttered urgently. ‘The two of you must go – quickly! If you are here when the sun rises, that bird will give a full-hearted crow and . . . well . . . that will be the worst for all of us.’
Remembering the way gravity had started to reassert itself during the cockerel’s crowing spree, Not-Triss had some idea what he meant.
‘Come on, Pen!’ She managed to take the younger girl’s hand again. ‘We’ve got to go.’
‘But . . . you don’t mean you’ll die in two days, do you?’
‘Pen, please! If we don’t go, we’ll die now !’
As Not-Triss left by the door, Pen in tow, she saw the Shrike lift one hand to his brow. Perhaps it was a lazy sort of salute. Or perhaps he was adjusting his hat.
Outside in the street, some of the restlessness had returned. There was a nervous crackle and rustle, as if everything were made of brown paper and had sensed the fizzle of sparks.
The rooster made another attempt at crowing, and in a reflex of panic Not-Triss squeezed the bundle under her arm like an accordion, cutting the call short and occasioning some very annoyed clucking. Faint rays of light could be seen creeping out of the folds of the cloth, as if Not-Triss was grappling a little swaddled sun.
There was a voiceless whisper from every corner, every cobble. It rose in pitch, in volume, in ferocity and urgency.
Get out! Get out! Get out! GET OUT!
‘Run!’ shouted Not-Triss. She set off at a sprint with Pen beside her. The buildings parted before them, unseen hands pushed at their backs and then snatched them up and bore them on, so that their feet hardly touched the cobbles. The streets were a blur, a distorted mosaic of fleeting faces and clutching fingers . . . and then the world fell backwards off its chair, there was a sickening second of weightlessness, and they were crashing into a heap on to cold paving stones in a darkened alley.
The voices were gone. The clutching hands had gone. Not-Triss was lying in Meddlar’s Lane, and beside her lay Pen, who was struggling to sit up. The cockerel had taken advantage of Not-Triss’s flailing fall to recover his liberty and was strutting in ruffled confusion a few yards away, head twitching. Its flopping comb and tiny perplexed eye made her want to laugh and laugh when she remembered how it had terrified everybody in the Underbelly. Looking up, she could see only the dark, graceful arc of the bridge’s underside. When she tried to move her eye along its length towards the secret upside-down village, however, something in the lines of the architecture twisted, straining and tiring her eyes so that she could not help closing them. She had heard of tricks of the light. Here the light seemed to have been thoroughly hoodwinked.
The girls tried to capture the cockerel again, but it slipped between a pair of iron railings into a trim garden a little further down the road. Not-Triss was wary of following it, now that the sun was easing into the sky.
It did not seem wise to dally where people might see them. Looking at Pen, Not-Triss could see that the younger girl’s collar was torn, and her clothing covered in dusty handprints. Her dark hair was a mass of tangles, and there were a few new scratches and pinch-marks on her neck and cheeks. Not-Triss’s clothing had been mended with the Shrike’s neat, tiny stitches, but she could feel grit in her hair and was all too aware of her bare, grimy toes.
Unfortunately there were now more people out and about, many heading to work. The two girls won a glance of curiosity from a couple of factory hands and a milkman steering his three-wheeled handcart through the streets.
Not-Triss drew Pen into a park where she knew there was a fountain, to repair the worst of the damage. She expected resistance, but to her surprise Pen submitted, closing her eyes tight and turning her face upward so that Not-Triss could wipe at it with a drenched handkerchief. She ran her fingers through Pen’s hair, to loosen the worst of the tangles, and the smaller girl winced but did not complain. It occurred to Not-Triss that they were playing the parts of little and big sister, and she felt a crushing sense of loss, as if somebody had shown her something immensely precious then taken it away forever.
She’s nine years old. And what
happened to Triss wasn’t because of her. She was just a pawn. It was all about Sebastian.
Sebastian, trapped in an eternal winter. ‘Stopped’ between life and death. As Not-Triss thought of this, she again remembered the single snowflake floating down to land between Violet’s feet, and the ice on the inside of the windows. Snow and ice. Did Violet fit into this strange picture somehow, and if so, where?
‘That’s good enough.’ Not-Triss finished wiping Pen’s face. ‘We should go back and talk to Violet.’
As they were leaving the park, Not-Triss looked back to find that Pen was stooped, scrabbling at the grass.
‘Pen, what is it? What have you got there?’
Pen ran to catch up, face set with concentration. She held up her hands towards Not-Triss and opened them. They were full of dead leaves, twigs, bits of string, a damp and trodden cigarette card and a ragged piece of a paper bag.
‘They were on the ground,’ declared Pen earnestly. ‘On the road behind you, when we were walking – and on the grass in the park. I think . . . I think they’re probably bits of you, so I picked them up. So that we can put them back.’
Not-Triss looked at the litter in Pen’s small, grubby hands, and felt cobweb sting at her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘I think you’re right. I’ll . . . I’ll take them, and put them back in later. Thank you, Pen.’
Just as the two girls reached Violet’s street, Not-Triss found that Pen had fallen back once more. When the younger girl caught up again, she was carrying two pairs of shoes, one in each hand.
‘Pen! Where did you get those?’
‘It’s just borrowing!’ protested Pen. ‘Like the cockerel!’
Not-Triss sighed, feeling that she was perhaps not setting the best example as fake big sister.
‘Besides,’ Pen went on, ‘you need shoes. And I brought an extra pair so that you can eat them if you’re hungry.’
Cuckoo Song Page 21
