by Peter Bunzl
She glanced about. It seemed the dorm wasn’t empty after all. Through a thin dividing curtain at the end of the row of beds, Lily glimpsed the silhouette of a hunched figure sitting on the corner of a mattress. She walked over and peered round the edge of the drape to find Molly Tarnish, the mechanical maid, sitting softly crying to herself, her metal shoulders shaking beneath her starched white pinny. Beyond her, the door to the servants’ staircase stood ajar.
Molly raised her head and snuffled away an oily tear. “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t hear you come in. I should probably go.”
“Oh, no need,” Lily said. “I’m not supposed to be here either.” She pulled a grubby handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Molly, who blew her nose with a sound as loud as a steamhorn.
“Thank you,” Molly mumbled, returning the hanky to Lily.
“Please, pay it no mind.” Lily stuffed the damp rag, now covered in engine oil, back into her blouse sleeve. “But whatever’s the matter?”
Molly held up a bright pink sheet from a pile behind her. “I put these in the washer with the school blazers and they all changed colour. Miss Scrimshaw’s going to kill me when she finds out. She’ll have me sent down the cog-and-bone merchants. Or worse, she’ll strip me parts and melt me down like poor old Elsie.” Molly burst into more inconsolable tears.
Lily patted her back. “Don’t cry, Moll. We’ll think of something. Maybe I could write to the school board on your behalf?”
Molly gave another choking sob. “Oh, please, Miss, don’t get them involved, I beg you.”
“Well, all right then.” Lily examined the row of iron bedsteads, thinking. “I know,” she said, “why don’t we use your dyed sheets on the bottom of the beds, then we can use the old white ones as top sheets to hide them?”
Molly sniffed. “D’you really think so?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lily replied. “Come on.” She unfolded a pink sheet and pulled the covers off the nearest bed. Molly watched her for a moment, then stood to help.
Working together, it didn’t take them long to change the majority of the beds, and once the blankets were on you could hardly tell the bottom sheets had been dyed the wrong colour. They’d nearly finished, and were making up the last mattress at the top of the dormitory, when a noise made them both whirl round.
Alice Harvey was standing in the doorway with Lucretia Blackwell, their faces scrunched into sneers.
“Look, Miss Harvey,” Lucretia said. “Lily’s helping the help.”
“What are you doing here?” Lily asked.
“Madame Laroux told us to bring you to class,” Alice replied. “We’re doing chapter twenty-two in The Art of Making Polite Conversation in French.”
“I’m not coming,” Lily told her. “I don’t feel like it. Anyway, Madame wouldn’t know polite conversation if it bit her on the behind.” She threw a sideways glance at Molly, who bowed her head and stifled a wheezing laugh.
“How dare you!” Lucretia grabbed the last of the sheets from Molly, and threw them on the floor. “Look what you’ve done, you stupid mech, you’ve dyed them pink!”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Molly mumbled back.
Lily balled her fists. “Why don’t you leave her alone?” she said, stepping forward to shield Molly from the two girls.
“What business is it of yours?” Alice asked.
“She’s a friend of mine.”
“She? SHE?” Lucretia folded her arms across her chest and gave a disdainful laugh. “It’s not alive, Lily. Mechs aren’t living.”
“Besides,” Alice scuttled closer to Lucretia, “everyone knows mechs and humans can’t be friends. Mechs have no feelings.”
Lily sighed. It was exhausting dealing with such idiots. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told them. “Of course they have feelings. They’re no different to you or me.”
Lucretia tutted at her. “Oh, Lily, Lily, how wrong you are. Let me show you.” She whipped out a hand and struck Molly round the head.
Molly’s eyes flared, but she didn’t respond.
“You see?” Lucretia said. “It didn’t even flinch.”
Creakily, Molly rubbed her head. She bent down and gathered her dropped sheets and stepped to the servants’ door. “Please, Misses, don’t fight on my account. I am sorry, but I must go, I’ve work to do.”
“Go then, mech,” Lucretia spat. “Run along, before you’re thrown on the scrap heap.” She smiled triumphantly at Alice.
Lily had never wanted to hit anyone so much – she could barely stop herself. But she did, because she’d made a promise to Papa to behave, and behaving meant not causing trouble. Even so, as she ground her teeth and watched Molly hurry from the room, the anger ticked away inside her chest, threatening to explode.
Lucretia gave a haughty snigger, and Alice joined in.
Finally, Lily could take it no more – there was not causing trouble, and then there was standing up for what was right. Because mechanicals deserved to be treated like anyone else.
“Listen, you pair of simpering, fat-headed dolts,” she said, “if you ever speak to Molly that way again I’ll… I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Alice sneered. “Don’t you threaten me.”
Lily bit her lip and thought better of her reply. Alice broke into a horsey smile. “See, you snotty little runt? You won’t do anything – and that’s the truth. Just because you’re a mech-lover you think you can boss us around. Well, you can’t. Now, apologize immediately and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
Lily shook her head. “You’ll never apologize to Molly, so I’m not apologizing to you.”
“As you wish.” Alice lunged at Lily, making a grab for her hair. Lily ducked away and the girl’s hand scratched at her collar, pulling at her bun. She tried to push back, but Lucretia had joined in with her friend – she’d got a hold of Lily’s other arm, and wouldn’t let go.
Alice’s long nails raked at Lily’s scalp, scratching her ears. There was nothing for it, she would have to retaliate. She swung her balled fist at Alice’s face.
Crack. Her knuckles made contact.
“I said I was sorry,” Lily protested as the Kraken dragged her down the corridor, pulling her along by the scruff of her blouse. “Besides, she hit me first.”
“Nonsense,” the Kraken blustered. “Anyone can see she has the complexion of a bruised beetroot.”
“Her face always looks a bit purply.”
“What lies you tell, child.”
They passed the main entrance, and Lily glanced at the Academy’s motto carved in the granite lintel. Vincit Omnia Veritas – Truth Conquers All.
Not in this case, Lily reflected, as the Kraken manhandled her down a flight of stone steps, and out into the courtyard.
In the quad, girls in thick winter blousons and woollen hats and scarves strolled arm in arm, or perched birdlike on benches, their backs as straight as ironing boards. They whispered behind gloved hands as they watched the Kraken shove Lily down a narrow alley on the far side of the square.
Everyone knew where that led – past the row of tumbledown sheds and an outside latrine with flaky wood panelling, past a high wall fringed with crenellations of broken bottles, all the way to the coal bunker crouched in the far corner of the grounds, its doorway dark as a demon’s mouth.
Rumour had it the bodies of the worst offending former residents were buried in that bunker, and when the coal ran dry their white bones would be revealed, poking from the dust.
“Please, Mrs McKracken,” Lily cried, “don’t put me in there, I’m afraid of the dark.”
“Rubbish. The dark never hurt anyone.” The Kraken unlocked the bunker and pushed Lily inside. “If you insist on behaving like a common chimney sweep, then you will have to live like one. Never speak back to those older and wiser than you. You’ll stay in here until you learn the value of manners.”
The Kraken’s angry face disappeared with the slit of light as she slammed the door, and Lily heard the snap of the padlock and then her hea
vy footsteps lurching away across the yard.
Alone in the cold, dark bunker, fear pricked at Lily’s heart. She felt around her, her hands brushing icy lumps of coal. Against the far wall, she found a wonky stool; she sat upon it, and it rocked back and forth precariously – one leg rotten. When she tried to put her feet on the crossbar, she discovered that was broken too, so she pulled her knees up onto the seat and hugged them to her. Their warmth, tight in her chest, felt mildly comforting.
Something crawled across her ankle and she brushed it away with the tip of her boot. Faint scuttlings echoed around the space and she tried not to think of all the horrible things it might be. Earwigs, spiders, mice, rats… But, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw something far worse: a dismembered arm, sticking out from beneath the pile of coal.
And watch out for a third
COGHEART ADVENTURE by
PETER BUNZL
Coming in 2018
Head over to
www.cogheart.com
for more magic, mechanicals and mystery…
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First published in the UK in 2017 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House,
83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com
Text © Peter Bunzl, 2017
Photo of Peter Bunzl © Thomas Butler
Cover and inside illustrations, including map by Becca Stadtlander © Usborne Publishing, 2017
Extra artwork for map by Antonia Miller © Usborne Publishing, 2017
Fir trees silhouettes © ok-sana / Thinkstock; Key © VasilyKovalek / Thinkstock; Brick wall © forrest9 / Thinkstock; Wind-up Key © jgroup / Thinkstock; Clock
© Vasilius / Shutterstock; Hand drawn border © Lena Pan / Shutterstock; Exposed clockwork © Jelena Aloskina / Shutterstock; Metallic texture © mysondanube / Thinkstock; Plaque © Andrey_Kuzmin / Thinkstock; Burned paper © bdspn / Thinkstock; Crumpled paper © muangsatun / Thinkstock; Newspaper © kraphix / Thinkstock; Old paper © StudioM1 / Thinkstock; Coffee ring stains © Kumer / Thinkstock / Bikes © Ferdiperdozniy / Thinkstock; Picture frame © hayatikayhan / Thinkstock; Playing card © Maystra / Thinkstock; Back of playing card © Maystra / Thinkstock; Wood texture © NatchaS / Thinkstock; Swirl floral retro frames © milkal / Thinkstock; Jack of Diamonds © Teacept / Thinkstock; Wax seal © bmelofo / Thinkstock; Unicorn shield silhouettes © randy-lillegaard / Thinkstock
The right of Peter Bunzl to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Parent ISBN: 9781474915014
ePub ISBN: 9781474936507
