Ironskin

by Tina Connolly

  Jane walked slowly through the fully lit halls, back to the foyer, brushing the dust from her skirt—sitting on Dorie’s floor did little for her dresses, old as they were. She had not even received any help from him for Dorie. All she needed was a way to reach her—

  And then she saw a glint of blue-lit gold, just near the garnet curtains. She crossed the foyer and picked it up. A coin-sized sequin, no doubt fallen from one of the pretty ladies’ dresses.

  Jane pulled the crystal buttons that she had tried the other day out of her pocket and considered them as she wandered down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Shiny buttons. Sparkly sequins.

  Rewards.

  “Cook?” she said. “Do you have any aluminum foil?”

  Chapter 4

  THE BEAST-MAN’S PROMISE

  Jane spent the next several days scouring the house for forgotten treasures: scraps of ribbon from a governess, bits of foil from Cook that she cut into stars, small gold sequins fallen from a party dress in a long-unused guest room.

  She did not see Martha until by chance in the parlor—the maid cleaning the window, Jane examining a beaded lampshade and reluctantly deciding that there was no way she could declare a certain swinging bead both about to fall off and unfixable. Jane watched Martha cleaning in energetic circles, her unpinned ginger braid swinging in tempo, and could not think of a way to admit she’d been spying.

  So for now she did not seek out any new mysteries, but only shiny things, until she had a full double handful, ready to go. That day after Dorie’s nap she brought all the sparkly bits to the nursery in a little bag and showed them to Dorie, whose blue eyes lit up.

  Yes, thought Jane. This might work.

  “One at a time,” Jane said to Dorie. “I’ll give you one pretty sparkle for every one of my games we play. Shall we start with catch?”

  Jane tucked the bag of treasures in her skirt pocket and got up to get the ball.

  She tossed it to Dorie, who did not put up her hands to catch it. The ball fell at Dorie’s feet, and she looked past it, at Jane’s skirt.

  There was a tug on Jane’s pocket.

  Jane whirled, grabbed for the bag, caught the bottom edge of it as Dorie whisked it from the pocket and up into the air. The bag untied itself and a froth of silver stars, gold sequins, and blue ribbons spilled out. They circled over Jane’s head like a planetarium display, and Jane, furious in a way she knew even in the moment that no savvy governess should be, lunged after the sparkling swirls.

  The orbiting stars rose higher, out of Jane’s hands. She shouted, grabbing for them, and Dorie looked solemnly on, her arms raised and her face as blank as a porcelain doll.

  The sparkly bits that Jane had so painstakingly collected rose to the ceiling. Then they swirled into one starry line, shot to the top of the wardrobe, and deposited themselves well out of Jane’s reach on top of the tall white cabinet. Well out of Jane’s reach, but she had no doubt that Dorie could now take the tinsel down at her leisure and play with it anytime Jane was gone.

  She skidded to a halt and stood panting, staring down at the girl.

  If, in that moment, Dorie had looked mischievously up at her and laughed, Jane might have calmed down. But Dorie merely turned from her, walked to the window, and stood, watching the forest with no expression at all.

  Jane left the nursery, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  Day after day and the frustration didn’t lessen. The more Jane coaxed, thought up new games, took Dorie’s Mother doll away, the blanker and more stubborn—and more infuriating—Dorie got.

  By the end of the month Jane was wondering whether she had the temperament to stay after all, no matter how much she wanted to help the girl. She had heart for the task, she had determination—those weren’t the problems.

  It was the self-doubt that was getting to her. The anger lumped along behind her like a black dog nipping at her heels. It raged inward, telling her it was her fault that Dorie was intractable. You should leave, it told her. You expected a lonely girl like you; you expected you could swoop in and solve her problems with a bit of iron and a hug. Never mind that yours weren’t solved so readily. Never mind that when you finally found Niklas and the foundry, you wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks—just sat hidden under a worktable and watched the other scarred children try to master their ironskin, their curse.

  Jane hated her inability to make a difference in Dorie’s life, and she hated how exhausted the girl made her. Where was her patience for this poor waif, battle-scarred just as she had been? Where was Jane’s loving kindness?

  Gone since the war, Jane thought. Gone with her brother.

  * * *

  Jane and Dorie were sprawled on the stone floor of the kitchen, heedless of dignity, when the weekly mail came. Jane had momentarily given up the battle and was watching Dorie waft cut-up chunks of the last mealy storage apples into her mouth.

  “Sure and you’ll never get that one to use her hands,” said Cook.

  “Maybe she just wants to use her feet like a monkey,” said Jane. “I should take off her shoes.”

  “Being tired makes you sarcastic,” said Cook. “Now you’ll be seeing what we went through.” She held the white bowl against her broad hip, beating air into the cake batter.

  “All you had to do was let her draw light pictures on the floor while you worked,” said Jane. “I’m responsible for her mortal soul.”

  “She’ll be having a soul, now? Ha,” said Cook.

  There was no real rancor in these exchanges. Jane rather liked Cook’s lazy cynicism. It meant there was one place in the house she didn’t have to guard her tongue and bite back the sarcasm that spilled over it. That was a rarity—even Helen had not suffered Jane’s black dog moods very well.

  But even if she could be caustic with Cook, they had little else in common. And Jane couldn’t stay in the kitchen all the time, anyway. She got to her feet. “Finish your apple, Dorie, and then we’re going back upstairs.”

  Dorie looked mutinous and Jane sighed inwardly, careful not to let it show on her face. You couldn’t let children know when they were shredding your last bit of patience.

  The old butler, Poule, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She nodded at Cook and reached up to hand her a circular. She was nearly as short as a dwarf, Jane thought—not that the dwarves were seen much anymore either. And for Jane—

  “A letter?”

  Bright eyes gleamed, but the butler didn’t answer the obvious. As Poule reached up to hand Jane the letter, Jane saw a stray flash of light from her sleeve, as if light glanced off metal. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Just what kind of roles were Mr. Rochart’s servants really playing? The woman turned and left, her worn black shoes stirring up a small puff of flour that Dorie had spilled.

  Jane slit the envelope with a silver paring knife and tugged out a thick fold of heavily written-on paper. “It’s from Helen!” she said. “I was almost getting worried. I’ve written her twice.”

  “And she not once?” said Cook. “Tsk.”

  Jane laughed and dismissed the implied rebuke. “Helen probably has twenty letters started to me by now—seventeen of them mislaid. Goodness knows what the flat looks like anymore.” She unfolded the page, pleased that Helen had managed to get a letter actually out the door to her. “Dearest Jane…” began the letter, and then, typically Helen, it launched into a flowery description of the latest ball she and her fiancé had attended, replete with tidbits of gossip about people Jane had never met. The flow of minutiae was occasionally interspersed with a command for Jane to return to the city immediately and have as delightful a time as Helen was having.

  Jane flipped over the page, and an engraved card fell out and fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up—and stopped.

  “It’s a wedding invitation,” she said.

  “As should be,” said Cook. “You said she was betrothed.”

  “Yes, but I thought she was waiting till the summer,” said Jane. “
When the family left on their summer travels.” A familiar worry tugged at her inside—that Helen was busy making rash decisions without Jane there to advise. Not that Helen always listened. Jane was not entirely certain about the character of Helen’s fiancé, but when she had dared mention any concerns, Helen had stormed about, insisting that she adored him, that any faults were easily mendable, and what did Jane know about marriage anyway.

  “Soonest’s best,” said Cook. “Otherwise the man might be finding a new lass, or the woman getting in a spot of trouble.” She beat the batter hard, her wooden spoon hitting the side of the bowl with muffled thumps.

  “Helen would not,” Jane said positively. “She is not, I’m sure of it. Likely she’s lonely without me, and dying for something new to happen. Neither of us were born with much patience.” Jane flipped the engraved card around in her fingers, the attendant letter almost forgotten. “The wedding is soon—just after her eighteenth. Do you think he’ll grant me leave?”

  “Only way of finding out is asking,” said Cook.

  Jane looked up at the older woman, startled. “Am I allowed to go up there? To his studio?”

  Cook tapped the cake tin full of batter against the counter, leveling it with sharp thwacks. “He’ll not be having any appointments today, so I expect you’d be safe. Mind you, you’re not to be saying I said so. And knock first.”

  “All right,” said Jane. She stood up, brushing her dark skirts clear of flour and crumbs. “I’ll go.” She glanced down at Dorie, now lying on her back and pointing her toes at the ceiling for no discernible reason.

  “Sure and I’ll watch her,” said Cook. “This is her I’ll-be-an-angel-if-no-one-is-crossing-me stage. I know it well.”

  Jane nodded, folded the unread letter in her pocket, and took a breath. “I’ll go,” she said again. “It’s just a studio.”

  Just a man.

  * * *

  She repeated that to herself as she climbed the stairs outside the kitchen. Where they opened on the first floor she stopped and peeked out, calculating that this should be the damaged wing she had studied from the back lawn. The hall was nearly pitch black, and she couldn’t see if there was damage or not. At the far right a thin slit of light implied a break in the forest-green curtains she had seen in the foyer.

  Jane continued climbing.

  She wondered as she went past the floors if she was supposed to know immediately where Mr. Rochart worked. Would it be obvious? Or was it off one of the black landings, branching off one of the dark and destroyed rooms?

  But at the fourth floor the stairs stopped and it was obvious. The landing was lit with the most light she’d seen yet in the house. This was the top floor, and the roof was sloped overhead, the great beams visible. It looked like it should be the garret, she thought. It shouldn’t be where the master worked—it should be servants’ quarters, dark and cloistered cubicles of space, twisting corridors.

  But perhaps those walls had been removed, knocked out. Perhaps this area had been transformed.

  On one side of the landing was a large empty area, bright and filled with light. Its polished wood floors were brighter than anything in the house.

  On the other side was a long white wall with one door. The door was ajar, and Jane could just see a form moving around inside.

  She walked over and knocked. “Mr. Rochart?”

  “Come in.”

  She pushed open the door and entered. She had seen shadows moving, heard him—but now, where was he? The room was empty.

  Jane turned slowly, looking around the broad rectangular space. The long side opposite was a wall of windows that should face the backyard and the woods, if she hadn’t gotten completely turned around. On one end of the room was a second door, and on the other was shelving filled with supplies—some of which Jane recognized as pens and charcoal and pastels, some of which were unknown to her. A heavy worktable sat in the middle of the room, covered with tools and more stacks of materials. The walls in the wide room were white, and all the remaining available surfaces were lined with more of those same skin-colored masks that encircled the red waiting room off the foyer. It was strange that anything with hollow eyes could seem so much to leer.

  A noise from behind, and she startled. “Sir?”

  Quiet. Then Mr. Rochart emerged from that other door in the north wall, pulling it closed behind him. “Miss Eliot,” he said, formally polite. Perhaps he was remembering that he had not come to speak with her as he had promised. “Did Poule send you up here?”

  “She brought me a letter,” said Jane, temporizing in case she would get the cook in trouble for pointing her the way. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Of course not. I see you are studying the masks.”

  “They’re hideous,” Jane said bluntly. Too blunt, but it was the second time that he had caught her looking at them, and she was annoyed by their intentional ugliness. As if he knew that people would stop and stare at deformity, as if he were taking what she had to deal with every day and warping it for his own amusement. “I gather they’re supposed to be.” The masks caught and held the eye with their perversity—rows and rows of protruding teeth, cruel scowls, cauliflower ears.

  “They’re the worst in people,” Mr. Rochart said. “Extracted and displayed. A reminder.”

  She could not decide how old her new employer was. When his eyes were shadowed from her, hidden, then he seemed relatively young—late twenties perhaps. But sometimes she saw those deep amber eyes, and then he seemed a hundred years old. It was a strange feeling. “I don’t understand why you need a reminder of how evil people can be,” she said. “It’s something I try to forget.”

  He moved closer, the formality fizzling off and away, as if by coming to the studio Jane had given him the necessary permission to indulge in speaking with her, watching her. His lean frame was so near to her own. “Sometimes we have to remind ourselves what we are capable of.” There was a well of sorrow in those amber eyes, and Jane didn’t know what to say. Her heart beat fast, without her permission. “I wonder what we all would be like, without the Great War. You would not be here to rescue me, Jane, so what life would you lead…?”

  Jane drew away, turned her iron cheek into the shadows. Anger and strange hungers bubbled inside her, so to hide them she looked at the wall and said, “I see you’ve made none with war scars.” There were poxed cheeks, there were knife scars. But there were no masks blotched red, ridged and bubbling as if death crept beneath them. No victims of the fey.

  Maybe even he couldn’t stand that much ugliness.

  “I show the worst in people,” he repeated. “Not the best. Not bravery.” He was near again. He touched a bare spot on her jaw, and his fingers were warm and flecked with clay dust. “You were trying to protect someone; I’m sure of it.”

  Jane set her lips and pulled back, turning away from that touch, that level gaze. Warm looks he couldn’t mean; invasive words that flicked her wounds.

  No options.

  The workbench in the center of the room was covered in tools, paints, glue. A damp towel covered a mound on the workbench; a lump of clay sat in a white-grey bucket of water. White and pink dust was everywhere. “Are you working on something new?”

  “As always.” He drew aside the damp towel to reveal the start of a mask. At this stage it did not look ugly. He was still shaping its basic contours: cheekbones and chin, and the eyes were merely two depressions of his thumb.

  “A mask you cannot look through,” said Jane. She imagined wearing a mask like that, imagined her own iron creeping over her eyes, her nose, her lips. The thought was suffocating, and not just from the imagined lack of air. “Your eyes sealed shut.”

  “Perhaps there are more masks like that than we think,” he said. He covered it with the cloth, his fingers gentle around its form. He studied the cloth-covered mask as he said: “I am sorry I have not been back to help you. My work—”

  “You are busy,” Jane said. She was helping him out, granting
him excuses. Anything to avoid revelations of truth, which would be—what? He did not know how to help Dorie, he did not want to see Jane.…

  “Tell me now,” he said. “How have you and Dorie been getting on? Have you made progress?”

  “Not so much,” Jane admitted. She weighed all the frustrations and decided not to admit defeat just yet. “She is speaking a little more to me now.”

  “She trusts you, then,” said Mr. Rochart.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Jane, “since I keep trying to get her to do things she doesn’t want to do. Perhaps I am familiar now, is all. I know she understands everything I say—she could speak in full sentences, if she wanted to.” She remembered that shadow slipping into the forest. “She talks of you sometimes. Says she sees you from the window.”

  The lines of his mouth fell; a weariness crept over his cheeks. A tiny shake of his head. With an effort he roused himself and said, “But tell me, Jane, what matter of import weighs on your mind? A letter, you say?”

  “From my sister,” Jane said, recalling herself to her mission. “She is to be married quite soon—within the week, in fact. She wishes me to be there, and indeed, I wish it myself.” Jane found herself slipping into the archaic language he so often used.

  The weariness returned. “You would give up on us so soon,” he said.

  “No!” said Jane. She remembered her frustrations with Dorie and felt sharp guilt. “No,” she repeated. “This is not an invented dying aunt, I swear it.” She held out the engraved notice to show him. “I had thought it would be a couple months from now.”

  He did not look at the invitation, but instead leaned in closer. “Decades ago, before the Great War, there was still trade with the fey. Contact, even if it was rare and limited to your friend’s cousin, your neighbor’s father. Those bluepacks were everywhere, ran all the trains and streetlights, trolleys and gramophones, and yet you never knew anyone personally who had met the fey—it was always a friend of a friend, or a faceless business who shipped the lights and bluepacks to the local stores. Stories about the fey spread, of course. Some compelling, some disturbing; and if you saw a fey at a distance, wearing a human shape—well, you never quite knew if all the stories of curses and stolen children were true or slander. The tales of the fey were fireside tales to entrance your friends and family, and not gruesome fodder for the newspaper.”