by Arthur Slade
Modo glanced at Mr. Socrates, who said, “Please answer Mr. Gibbons’s query.”
“It was Dr. Cornelius Hyde.”
“Hyde?” Mr. Gibbons repeated. Modo felt his eyes drawn to the man’s withered hand again. He looked away. “But he disappeared over ten years ago. He was quite mad.”
“I met him once.” The woman took a long draw from her cigarette holder. “Very adept at clockwork and obsessed with hybridity.” She let out a smoke ring that distracted Modo. He’d never seen such a thing. “Did Mr. Featherstone mention any children?” she asked.
“Uh … no.”
“Could Hyde really have created a tincture capable of altering the essence of a man’s personality?” Mr. Gibbons asked. Modo presumed this question wasn’t for him.
“Perhaps,” said another gentleman with dark hair. His well-trimmed, angular beard looked odd upon his wrinkled face. He was obviously English, but he wore dark blue Oriental clothing, which Modo thought might be silk. “Dire news that he’s involved with the likes of Fuhr and Hakkandottir. One wonders whom they serve; how organized they are.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you this much,” Modo said, “they’re called the Clockwork Guild.”
Everyone in the room was staring intensely at him now. He felt a little proud to have been able to surprise them with what was clearly important information. He was certain he saw a bit of a smile on Mr. Socrates’ face.
“Kindly explain how you came to discover this,” Mr. Socrates asked.
“Featherstone said he had a rhyme stuck in his head: ‘The symbols must fall, the Clockwork Guild sees all.’ And that symbol on the paper has a clock in it.”
“Ah, that is indeed good information,” Mr. Socrates said. Modo took a deep breath, flushed with his success.
“So this Clockwork Guild is several moves ahead of us,” the woman said. “I want to know how these feral children fit into the puzzle.”
“They must be test subjects,” Mr. Gibbons said. He scratched his forehead with his good hand. “The real threat at the moment is this gang of young gentlemen killers. And we don’t know how many cells of these murderous youth exist. May I remind you that we still have no idea what has happened to young Prince Albert. He could be—”
“Let’s conjecture after the interview with my agent is finished,” Mr. Socrates interrupted. “What else did you learn?”
“I now know the names of all the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society.” Modo listed them. By the nods exchanged between his interrogators, he could tell that many of the names were familiar to them.
Mr. Socrates set down his glass of wine. “Well, better late than never. Any other details you feel should be passed along?”
“Only that Oscar Featherstone is innocent.”
“Well, half of him is,” the woman said. A few of the men chuckled. Modo wanted to rush to Oscar’s defense, to press his point about innocence, but thought better of it.
“You’re dismissed,” Mr. Socrates said to Modo. “Thank you for your services.”
Modo nodded and backed to the door, then plodded down the hall to the stairs. A gleeful thought penetrated his exhaustion: I’ve now met the movers and shakers. They were likely titled, lords and a lady, maybe even a duke or two. And all of them worked secretly to protect Britannia.
“I’ll bring you food,” Tharpa said from behind him.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself.”
“I choose to. Your dressings need changing, also.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Modo used the banister to pull himself up the stairs to the third floor. Inside the wash closet he took off his mask. His ugliness never failed to disconcert him, like an unexpected and unwelcome guest. He ran a wet cloth over his pockmarked forehead, enjoying the comfort of the cool water. He cleaned his hands, happy to find that the glass cuts were not too deep. Hearing a noise in the hall, he put his mask back on.
When he opened the door, Mr. Gibbons was standing right outside. “Ah, I beg your pardon, young sir. The other wash closet was in use.”
“You are welcome to this one.” Modo tried to step by him, but Mr. Gibbons didn’t budge. He rubbed his withered hand. Modo tried not to stare at it again, but his eyes had a will of their own. He allowed himself a brief glance, enough to notice the man’s dry, cracked skin.
“What is your name?” Mr. Gibbons asked.
“Modo.” The moment he said it, Modo cursed himself. He wasn’t certain if Mr. Socrates wanted the associates to know his name.
“Ah, I see. Mr. Socrates hasn’t mentioned you before. Why do you hide your face?”
“To keep my identity secret.”
“Ah, even from Mr. Socrates?”
“No.”
“He always has the most interesting agents. To get into the Tower of London is no small feat. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Modo edged away from Gibbons’s overly large eyes. They didn’t seem to even blink.
“Has he told you much about our association?”
“Very little. Nothing really.”
“He is such a secret-monger, but it has served him well. I suppose you don’t know that two more attacks have been made on senior politicians?”
“They have?”
Mr. Gibbons nodded. “That’s why we’re meeting. Earlier this evening, George Glyn, the parliamentary secretary to the treasurer, was murdered by his son, Henry. With a saber, no less.” It dawned on Modo that if he’d remembered all the names of the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society sooner, then this man would not have died. The thought sickened him.
“There was also a failed attack on William Yarrow.” Mr. Gibbons paused, as though expecting a reaction. Modo said nothing. “He is the postmaster general. Very odd target; not usually considered a powerful position. Perhaps they were angry about slow mail delivery.” Gibbons chuckled, but even as he did so, he continued to stare, as though trying to look through Modo’s mask.
“You have a curious name, Modo. Why did your parents choose it?”
“Mr. Socrates named me.”
Surprise and delight flashed across Mr. Gibbons’s face, and Modo swore silently. He shouldn’t be letting information like that slip out. “He named you? Ah, he has known you a long time then, Modo. In Latin your name means formed, did you know that?”
“Of course.” He had studied the meaning of the Latin word, and wondered why Mr. Socrates had chosen it as his name.
“Formed by what? By whom?” Mr. Gibbons asked. Again Modo chose to say nothing.
“Well, I sense you are anxious to retire, my friend. You’ve had a long night. It has been a pleasure to meet you.” He stepped aside and allowed Modo to pass. “Thank you for sharing your discoveries with us.”
In his room, Modo collapsed on the bed. Minutes later he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door squeak open. Tharpa entered with a plate of roast mutton and stewed carrots. Modo greedily took the plate and, while Tharpa gently changed the dressing on his left arm, Modo wolfed the food down one-handed.
When done, Modo lay back on his pillow again and closed his eyes. As Tharpa shut the door behind him, he said something that Modo didn’t understand. He assumed it was a Hindoo word. He hoped that it meant sleep well.
21
A Pair of Wretches
A voice was calling for him, but Oppie couldn’t open his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a fortnight. A dull ache was starting to bother him, along with the voice. He tried to move his lips to call for his mum, but they were frozen. Then, he thought he heard his father speaking.
“Boy? Can you hear me?” The voice was louder now. “Please wake up.” Oppie opened his eyelids just a sliver and blinked. He was in a stone cavern, gas lamps blazing full flame all around him. He couldn’t move, as he’d been tied down to something.
“Boy! Boy!”
Oppie slowly turned his head. His neck muscles were stiff and sore. Someone was lying near him, but Oppie’s gaze was drawn to a glint right n
ext to his eye: A three-inch-long bolt jutted out of his shoulder! His pulse quickened and he let out a little moan, feeling like he might throw up. Had there been anything in his stomach, he surely would have.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
Oppie looked over at the man who had spoken and recognized him immediately. Prince Albert. He had been strapped to a narrow table only inches away. And he, too, had a bolt embedded in his shoulder. “We’re a fine pair of wretches,” the prince whispered. “They have done something appallingly wrong to us. For the love of God, bolts in both our shoulders.”
Shoulders? Oppie thought. With everything he could muster, he turned his head to see the horrible truth. “Who dith dis?” he slurred.
“Dr. Hyde.”
“Yer a printh!” Oppie said. “Printh Albert, my lord.”
“Yes, yes,” Prince Albert replied. “I … I need your help. They’ve been giving me a … a drink that seems to be affecting my mind. I must escape. Can you move your hand?”
Oppie tried. “A little, my lord.”
“Can you reach these straps?”
Oppie stretched out his hand, but fell short.
“I’m sorry.”
“What is your name, boy?”
“Oppie.”
“Don’t give up, Oppie. I know it’s hard.”
Oppie wriggled and stretched until he felt a belt.
“Yes, that’s it. Pull.”
He was able to lift the tongue of the strap enough to loosen it.
“Good work. The queen will pin a medal on you.”
This encouragement gave Oppie his second wind and he loosened another strap. Soon Prince Albert had a hand completely free and was working on the remainder of his straps. Within a minute he was on his feet. He took a hesitant step toward the door.
“Wot about me?” Oppie asked.
Prince Albert looked back. “Yes. Yes.” He stumbled over to him. “My loyal subject, I shan’t forget you.”
Just as he unbuckled one of the straps holding Oppie’s arms, the door opened and a man with muttonchops entered, hissing with each step. “You’re awake, Albert. That will not do.”
Prince Albert patted Oppie’s hand, gave him a conspiratorial wink, and turned to face the man. “Where are my companions?”
“They’ve been released into the wild.”
“Well, Mr. Fuhr, I demand, in the name of Queen Victoria, that you release me, and my acquaintance here, at once.”
Fuhr’s laugh made Oppie’s stomach turn. He yanked desperately on the remaining straps that held him down.
“You are not allowed to leave yet,” said Fuhr as he stepped nearer. The prince swung feebly, and Fuhr caught his hand mid-swing and squeezed. There was an audible crack and the prince dropped to his knees.
“Release me!” he exclaimed, in agony. “I’ll ask the authorities to be as lenient as possible with you.”
Fuhr lifted him up with one hand and set him on the table. The prince grimaced, holding his arm.
“Don’t you move, either, boy,” Fuhr said, glaring menacingly over at Oppie. “Or I’ll pluck both your arms off.”
Oppie stared wide-eyed. The doctor entered, holding calipers and two flasks, while peering through a thick monocle that magnified his eye.
“Oh, wakefulness in both of you. I must adjust the amount of chloroform,” he said, shaking his head.
“What have you done to us?” the prince demanded. “It’s abominable.”
“Tut-tut, you do not understand. You’ll soon be the heart of a giant.”
“Are you insane? I won’t drink that loathsome liquid again.”
“You will,” Fuhr said, seizing a flask and squeezing the prince’s wrist until he gasped with pain, and drank it, a little of the potion burbling down his chin. Prince Albert shook slightly and his eyes glazed over.
The doctor turned to Oppie with the second flask. “Ah, young master. You shall drink your share, too. But because you are not yet fully grown the potion shall change both your body and mind. Don’t look so afraid. As I recall, you liked my little sparrow. Well, you will become just like that sparrow, except you will be a little god who never tires. And all the little gods and the little prince will become one god. Do you see? It’s so simple.”
The words were gibberish to Oppie. Seeing he had no choice, he drank the liquid without a fight. It prickled his throat going down, yet it had a sweet aftertaste. Soon he felt himself floating, as though on a mound of cotton. In a short while he fell asleep.
Sometime later he awoke, throbbing everywhere. Try as he might, he could not move as much as his little toe.
“Sit up,” a woman said, sweetly. His body responded automatically. “Look at me,” she said, and he turned, first seeing that the prince was gone, then laid eyes on the red-haired woman who sat on a stool next to him. She offered a flask. “Drink this.” He didn’t want to reach for it, but his hand did anyway, and a moment later the liquid was hot in his throat. He trembled and tears formed. He writhed madly, all the while catching glimpses of his body. His muscles were beginning to bulge; his skin produced mottled, hairy patches. A controlled anger grew in his heart, making him stronger.
When he had stopped convulsing, the woman said, “Finally. You are the last one. We’ve saved a good compartment for you, near the heart. Follow me.”
He jumped off the table, unable to resist her instructions, and followed her into a larger room. As he passed the desk he noticed a clockwork sparrow among the papers. Its eyes seemed to mock him.
22
Into the Ruins
Modo felt a poke on his shoulder and opened his crusty eyes to find Mr. Socrates standing next to the bed, impatiently tapping his walking stick. “Time to rise.”
“Did you bring me tea, toast, and boiled eggs?”
Mr. Socrates laughed. “I see your sense of humor has woken along with you. You’ll be on your own for breakfast.”
Modo read the clock on the desk. “It’s half-past six. I’ve hardly slept.”
“It’ll have to do. Two more members of the government have been attacked. One was killed.”
“I know. It’s awful.” He expected Mr. Socrates to blame him because he’d forgotten the names of some of the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. But instead, Mr. Socrates raised an eyebrow.
“You know?”
“Mr. Gibbons told me last night.”
“Do not talk to members of the association without me. You are my agent. Do you understand?”
Modo nodded, and then, as if to lighten the mood, Mr. Socrates smiled and gave him a friendly tap with his walking stick. “I know I’ve been pushing you these past few days, but we have to move quickly. The queen is sequestered in Buckingham Palace, under constant guard. She’s devastated that her grandchild, Prince Albert, is missing. The Parliamentarians are behaving like frightened rabbits. If the Clockwork Guild’s goal was to inspire terror, they’ve succeeded. With the names you’ve provided we should be able to prevent any further damage. We hope to discover where Hakkandottir and her accomplices have secluded themselves. Then they’ll feel our wrath.”
“I understand.”
“You and Octavia will explore the ruins of that burned-out house. I’ve read the chief officer’s report; it wasn’t thorough. Are you rested enough to transform?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do what you can with your appearance and get dressed. Octavia will arrive any minute.”
After his master left, Modo got up, his bones creaking. The bandages on his arm were dry, and when he peeked below he was pleased to discover that the scrapes had scabbed over. He willed his body to change, picturing the knight—the face he had put on around Octavia before. It took him a minute to straighten his eyes and lower his ears. Truthfully, he was too tired, but he imagined being able to laugh and talk freely with her. He concentrated until his new face took shape. It was handsome enough, though his eye was still red where Hakkandottir had poked it.
Then he
worked on the rest of his body, but the harder he tried to transform, the more his facial features would melt away. He gave up on his body, leaving himself only a little taller and less hunched over, preferring to keep his face perfect. Clothes had been left on a nearby dresser, so he pulled on a gray vest, jacket, pants, and gloves, choosing a camlet cloak to cover it all. He went downstairs.
In the kitchen, he found two peeled boiled eggs in the icebox and shoved them in his mouth, washing them down with a cup of cool tea. He made his way to the library, and looked up at the curved rows of books. If only there were time to read. He doubted he’d find any Varney the Vampire tales or other penny dreadfuls, but it would be fun to read Shakespeare again. After some searching, he found a row of Shakespeare’s plays and opened a copy of Hamlet.
“Oh, you can read, can you?”
Octavia stood in the archway wearing a striped green dress. Modo needed his hearing checked; how had she crept in? The fabric of her long, full skirt shimmered, the light playing over it in such a way that she could have stepped out of a stereoscopic image. He couldn’t help staring.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “I can read.”
“Well, congratulations, Modo.” She floated over and grabbed the book from his hands. “Ah, Hamlet. He’s too much of a gabber, that boy. Wouldn’t survive a second in our world.”
“It’s Shakespeare!” He raised a hand as though on the stage. “‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt/Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!’ See! It’s marvelous!”
“Marvelously boring. Though there is a good sword fight at the end.”
He snatched the book back and returned it to the shelf. “I see there’s no point in arguing,” he said, jokingly. It felt so good to have her eyes on him.
“Did you shrink in the wash? You look shorter.”
“Hardly!”
“Well, something’s changed about you. But we should go, our chariot awaits.” She gave Modo an appraising glance. “I do say, in that getup you look a little like you could be my servant. Will that be the game we play today?”
