“What? Me?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Er…” I was stuck for words again.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“I’ve never worn dresses before.” I looked down at the boots, heavy-duty trousers and scratchity shirt that most of the Pbs were issued. They looked clumsy and wrong in this beautiful clean space.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Come on, Serendipity. Let’s get you showered and wash that long hair of yours.”
* * *
The shower itself was another experience. Hot water. Can you believe it? Hot water. On demand. At the trip of a switch. Without having to boil up a big pan first. Amazering. When I came out of the shower room with a large soft towel around me, my hair was all damp and dangly.
“A redhead.” Miss Caritas grinned. “I should have known. Underneath all that dirt there was a redhead. Shall we dry it?” Using a device that gave out hot air, my hair was bony dry in a matter of seconds, and for the first time in ages, it felt clean. “There. That’s better. Now, which would you like to try on first? The green chiffon? Or perhaps the purple velvet evening dress?”
The velvet dress looked a bit heavy to me so I pointed to the green shimmery one. I shyly slipped the dress on over my shoulders and Miss Caritas helped me to clip together the studs on the back.
“There.”
It felt really strange to be wearing something so light and smooth. Something you could move so freely in. Something so airy. You could barely feel it on you. The material kind of danced all over my skin.
“Come. Take a look in the mirror.”
I moved to where the long, tall mirror on the wall was and couldn’t believe my eyes. Where Serendipity had been before was a person I hardly recognized. She was pretty, graceful and elegant. Sweeping pale green like I imagined a tree beside a lake might have been. All flowing and dipping.
“What do you think?” Miss Caritas’s eyes were lit up and questioning.
“It’s…” I gave a twirl and the dress swirled up. “It’s magnificent.”
“It’s one of my great-grandmother’s dresses. Over a hundred years old. She would wear it to parties.”
“Parties?”
“Hmm. Back in the days when real parties were thrown. Parties that would roll on all night in wide checkered hallways with long marble staircases.”
I looked once again at the reflection of the beautiful girl in the mirror. “I wish I could go to parties.”
Miss Caritas picked up another of the dresses she had taken from the rack. “This was my mother’s. She wore it when she married my father.” It was golden and a sort of satin, I thought.
“It’s lovely.”
“She left it to me. When she eventually died. Along with everything else.” Her arm swept across the room and my eyes followed it. It was then I noticed that all of the photographs were of the Minister. Lots of them. Dotted all over the walls. A photo of the Minister waving to a crowd. A photo of him looking deathly serious across a boardroom table. A photo of him with his arms crossed, all powerful and in control. Lots and lots and lots of photos. Like my Pb clothes, they looked out of place.
Miss Caritas swirled dress after dress at me, and I danced in and out of them, twisting and swaying and watching myself in the mirror. After a while I realized that the Professor was probably wondering where I was.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” I said, grabbing my dusty things from the nearby chair. As I lifted them, the necklace that I’d found under Mama’s mattress fell out of the pocket of my dungarees onto the soft carpet.
“What’s this?” Miss Caritas swooped down and picked it up.
“It’s nothing,” I said, pulling my own clothes back on quickly. “It’s nothing. Can I have it back?”
She held it up, the dangly thing swinging just above her face.
“It’s a necklace. My mama’s. Can I have it back please?”
“It’s not just a necklace.” She twirled it around in her hands. “It’s a locket.”
“A locket?”
“Very old. Needs a lot of cleaning up, though. Not expensive. Cheap, even. Pewter or some such. Costume jewelry. Nothing more.”
“What’s a locket?”
She turned to me with a really? look on her face. “A locket? It’s this bit.” She lifted the dangly part to show me. “You can keep pictures and photographs inside.”
“In there? There might be a photograph in there?”
Miss Caritas nodded. “Usually. Have you never opened it?”
“No.”
She twisted it over in her hands. “There’s usually a small latch. Something to release.” She brought the locket right up to her nose. “This one’s rather rusted into place.”
I came alongside her as she held it out for me to see. I suddenly found myself getting excited. There might be a photograph of Mama inside this thing. All these weeks with the locket slapping against my chest and inside was (I desperately hoped) a picture of my mama, or even—my heart gulped—a photograph of my father.
“I just … need … something to…” Miss Caritas walked over to a neat dressing table and pulled out a drawer. She flicked open a small packet before coming back to me, a long pin in her hand. “This should do it.”
She bent over the locket and scratched away at it with the pin. Tiny flakes of rust and dust fell onto the spotless carpet as she worked away at the latch. I craned my neck and squinted to watch. It felt like she was at it forever, until—
“There.” She held it back towards me. “Open it.”
I took it from her and pulled at the locket. It was stiff and difficult, but slowly it came open and something fell out, fluttering onto the floor.
A small piece of paper, folded tightly to fit inside the locket. Not a photograph. Just some stupid paper. My heart dropped and I realized how silly I’d been. Why would Mama have a picture of herself? It wouldn’t make any sense. Disappointed, I picked up the paper.
“What is it?” Miss Caritas was more interested in it than I was.
I unfolded it. The paper was covered in squiggles and words, none of which I could read.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see.” Miss Caritas snatched it out of my hands. “It’s a map.” She turned and straightened it out on her dressing table. “Look.” Her fingers traced across the crumpled page to an area on the right. “It’s a map of Gray Britan. Here is Lahn Dan—see the Emm Twenty-five Wall going right the way around us?”
“Yes.” A scratchy circle going around some letters.
“And I suppose this must be the Emm Four—a very old road that took you away from Lahn Dan but which probably doesn’t even exist anymore.” A thin line of pencil wound its way across the sheet.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to what looked like a couple of Hs.
“Must be the H H Bridge. Back before the Gases, the H H Bridge used to take people into Whales. That’s what they say.”
“Whales?”
“It was a part of the old Gray Britan. Long dead now, of course.” She shook her head in a sort of pretend-sad way. “I don’t know what this is, though.” A house with a star above its roof. “Nor these.”
I stopped still and held tightly on to my breath. I knew what they were. It was so obvious to me. As clear as a tin in a mudflat.
“Horses.”
“Hmm?”
“They’re horses. Aren’t they?”
Miss Caritas peered hard at the map. “Yes. I suppose they might be.”
Stick figures—four legs stretched out in front and behind them—covered the edge of the land just before the sea. Three of them. It looked to me like they were racing. But why would my mama keep a map of horses hidden in a locket? I didn’t understand. Had she drawn the map herself? No. No, she couldn’t have done. She wouldn’t have been able to write the words. This map was drawn by somebody else.
“Does this mean…,” I started, hardly knowing what I was saying. “Does this map show that
there are horses? In Whales?”
Miss Caritas laughed sharply. “Oh, I doubt it, don’t you? Horses died out with the Gases. And anyway,” she continued, “there’s nothing outside of the Emm Twenty-five. Everything outside Lahn Dan is dead.”
“But what if it isn’t?”
Miss Caritas frowned at me. “That,” she hissed, “is the kind of talk that gets people sent to Two Swords.” She walked away from the map back to the dresses lying out on the bed. “I suggest you put that silly map away—fanciful nonsense, that’s all it is—and come and try this pink silk ball dress on. It will fit you perfectly, I’m sure.”
“No. I can’t.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid I have to go.”
Miss Caritas looked a tiny bit hurt. “Why?”
“The Professor will be worried about me.”
“Who’s the Professor?”
“Professor Nimbus. He’s a storyteller. I’m his apprentice. I help him to collect stories.”
“Storytelling?” Miss Caritas sighed. “Look, Serendipity. We had fun this afternoon, didn’t we? You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I did. Thank you, miss.” My eyes and mind were still on the map.
“As did I. What I’m trying to say, Serendipity, is … well … we could do it more often. Permanently, if you like.”
“Permanently?”
“I don’t have a daughter. I never had a daughter. Perhaps it would be possible for you to move in here. Help me pick out my clothes and jewelry. We could go around the markets together, choosing things for the flat. You could eat real food every day. Shower whenever you feel like it. Live your life as an Au. What do you say? It would be fun all day every day.”
It was weird. I had only known this lady a few hours and she was inviting me to share her life with her. I suddenly felt strangely sad for her.
“But, miss … My mama … She’s just died and…”
“I realize that. I wouldn’t try to replace her. It would be different. That’s all. You wouldn’t be on your own. And neither would I.”
It was a teeny bit tempting. To think that I could spend my life in this luxury, being warm and pampered and clean. To turn my back on all the dirt and sweat of being a Pb. To live here, high above the ground in the purple clouds.
But then I thought of the Professor and his kindness, and of Mama and her grubby face and the twangs of guilt made any decision easy for me.
“Thank you, Miss Caritas. It is a kind offer. But I can’t. I belong down on the ground.”
“Doing what? Storytelling? What good is storytelling?” I could see a spark of anger in her face. “Storytelling is the preserve of fools who have nothing to say. It is a way of hiding from their lives. They hide behind what has gone before and think that it can tell them about things to come. You have to rise above that, Serendipity. Be beautiful. Accept your true self. Live for now.”
“Look, miss,” I replied. “Good people are good people no matter where they live. The Professor has shown me great kindness and I feel that I owe him my loyalty.”
“You should never feel as if you owe anybody anything. It is one of the mistakes people make in life. Loyalty is just pompous folly. Never forget that, Serendipity. Pompous folly.”
“Still…” I tried to smile. “Thank you, Miss Caritas. I must go now.” I started to walk away.
“Wait. Your map.” She picked it up from the dressing table and looked at it once again. “You’d better not leave that here. The Ministry never looks too kindly on—” Her face fell and for a moment or two she looked confused. “What…,” she eventually began. “What did you say your name was? Serendipity…?”
“Goudge.”
A sharp sucking of breath. “And your mother? What was her name?”
“Oleander,” I replied, my hand held out for the map. “Oleander Goudge.”
She stood there nodding gently, still gripping the piece of paper tightly. Her eyes moved about like she was trying to think of something—digging things up from the depths of her mind and tying it all together.
And then she smiled.
“You know, I think you are right. This map does tell you the whereabouts of horses. And I think your mother wanted you to find the map because she wanted you to be the one to go and find them.” She looked about the room like she was worried someone was listening in. “I am a member of the Minister’s Security Council. Part of the Council’s role is to maintain and monitor the Emm Twenty-five Wall. Keep it safe. Secure.” She licked her lips before continuing. “There is a gap in the wall, I hear. Past Stret Ham and Pearly. Big enough for men to pass through. And it’s rarely patrolled. But there are plans to block it up. The Minister’s men intend to do it soon. After that there’ll be no way out. If anybody should want to get out of Lahn Dan, that would be the way to go. Only sooner rather than later. You understand?”
“Miss?”
“Your mother wanted you to find the horses, Serendipity.” Miss Caritas slowly handed the map back to me. “Be a shame to disappoint her.”
* * *
As I skittered away down the corridor, I opened up the map. Miss Caritas had seen something in it. Something that had made her change her mind about the horses. I stared at it hard and my eyes danced all over it but the only other thing I could see was the signature of the person who had drawn it. Tiny and barely noticeable, it sat in the bottom corner, a shaky spidery hand. S-H-Y.
Shy.
I took the shiny room down to the ground and hurried out of the building, across the grass that wasn’t really grass towards the front gate. As I went I noticed again that the Aus who lived here were beautiful and handsome, of course. But in truth, they all looked just the same.
chapter 7
THE BEEKEEPER
IF BRACKEN OR Gry could see me, I thought, they’d pickle themselves laughing. Not only did I look silly but I could hardly see what I was doing or where I was going. My only consolation was that both Nimbus and Mr. Tumbril—the roly-poly beekeeper—looked just as brush daft as I did. High on top of the roof of Fortnum and May Sons, we were all three dressed like weird spacemen. The hood over my head kept the bees out but made me feel hotter and drippier than a bagman at teatime. Mr. Tumbril kept using his little puff-puff-puffer thing to keep the bees drunk and the Professor kept asking questions and nodding his head and going “mmm-mmm” to the answers.
The four beehives stood next to one another looking out over the city. Only a few feet away was the edge of the building and a big tumbledown drop to the pavement below, so I made sure I kept one side of my eyes on where my feet were putting themselves.
“The hives were found in storage in the basement.” Mr. Tumbril was obviously very proud of the whole setup. “They each represent a different time in architectural history. Roman, Chinese, Mughal and Gothic.” He gave an extra puff on his puffer as though to highlight the point.
“Mmm-mmm.” Nimbus nodded. “Which is which?”
“Um…” If I could have seen Mr. Tumbril’s face I’m certain it would have had a look of confusion pasted upon it. “I … um … I don’t really know. That is what they say.” Puff-puff. “But what I do know is that last year we managed to produce a grand total of one thousand two hundred and forty-six jars of honey for the Aus. Plenty to go round.” Mr. Tumbril moved on to the next hive.
“Fascinating. Isn’t it fascinating, Serendipity? Almost a perfect society, a hive. Every bee with its part to play, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
Nimbus spun around to look at me, or at least look at the front of my gauzy hood. “Are you well, my dear? You seem a touch distracted today.”
“No. I’m okay. It’s just”—I paused for the teeniest pop of time then whispered to him—“I’m not really all that interested. In bees.”
“But we should learn about them, nevertheless. What we learn about them here today we can take into the storytelling sessions. Tell the children all about the bees and what they
can do.”
“Why?”
“Eh?”
“Why should anybody know about them? If Mr. Tumbril is here to deal with the bees, what is the point in telling other people about them? There’s no need. Only Mr. Tumbril needs to know.”
Nimbus seemed to go rigid. “My dear girl … There is a saying from the old days—my father used to use it. ‘Knowledge is power.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nimbus was surprised at my sharpness. “Think, Serendipity. Think. If there is one thing, one piece of advice this old fossil of a man can bestow upon you, it is to think. And to never stop thinking. Never stop striving to know everything you can. Not until your brain goes fizz or your heart goes numb. For one day, what you know might just be the most important thing in the world.” He leaned in closer to me. “That is what it means.”
I kept my mouth quiet.
Nimbus walked over to the hive with the pointy top, brushing away bees about his head as he went. Slowly, I joined him.
Mr. Tumbril and the Professor were whispering together as I neared, and I could only catch a few slips of words.
“… meeting tomorrow, Nimbus?”
“Yes. Usual place. Usual time.”
“I think old Mason has some news … homes that are going up … even more sinister than we imagined, I’m afraid.”
“Ahem.” The Professor gave a false sort of cough when he saw me alongside him. “Yes. Yes. Lovely hives. Lovely. You obviously look after them well.”
Tumbril looked a bit shifty. “They say,” he seemed to mumble (or was that the hum of the bees?). “They say that if the bees should ever die out—God Man forbid—human beings will follow soon behind. We wouldn’t have long left. Imagine.”
“A sobering thought.” Professor Nimbus cast me a quick look.
“Frightening.” Mr. Tumbril reached into the hive and a fussing cloud of bees swirled up angrily past him. After a few seconds, he pulled out a sticky toffee-colored lump of honey. “Wait till we’re in a safe place and you can try a bit of this. Young Pb girl like yourself, probably never tried honey before, have you?”
chapter 8
A Whisper of Horses Page 4
