by Arthur Slade
“Yes, my lady!” He gazed at her perfect face.
“Good.” She waltzed out of the house. Scampering after her, Modo grabbed one of Mr. Socrates’ walking sticks from the bin beside the door, deciding it would make him look more sophisticated.
Octavia climbed gracefully into the cab, despite her dress’s large bustle. It took up so much of the seat, however, that Modo had to squeeze against his armrest. He reveled in her flowery scent.
“We’re waiting,” she said.
“For what?”
“For the address of the house.”
“Oh, yes,” Modo said. “Twenty-two Balcombe Street.”
“Don’t tell me, tell the cabbie.”
“Twenty-two Balcombe Street, please!” he said a little louder.
“Righto!” The reins snapped and the horses cantered down the wide, curved driveway. When they reached the street, each stone and rut jarred Modo’s rib.
“We’re living in some very strange times,” Octavia said.
“I’ll say. The murders are terrible.”
“Oh, that, of course.” She waved her hand as though she encountered such intrigue every day. “I was referring to us meeting again. It’s a pleasure.”
“It is?”
“Yes, well, Mr. Socrates talks about this shadow organization we belong to as if there’s a great network of spies like us, but you’re the only agent I’ve ever met more than once. So that’s the pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
“Of course it is.” Something about the tilt of her head made him blush. She was looking at his face and seemed to like it. “I do find it peculiar that Mr. Socrates is sharing so much information with us.”
“He has faith in our skills.”
She guffawed. “He only has faith in Queen and Country. I believe he’s become desperate.”
“He doesn’t get desperate. He’s acting with speed and good judgment.”
“Are you his agent or his parrot?”
“I’m not a parrot!” He gave her his best withering look and she responded with a grin.
“Well, any thoughts of your own?”
“Yes, of course. These … these young gentlemen have been poisoned with a tincture that makes them automatons. That’s what I understand from speaking to Oscar Featherstone.”
“How exactly did you do that?”
“I walked into the Tower of London and interviewed him. In disguise, of course.”
She was silent for a moment. “That’s impressive.”
“You’ll find that I have many faces.” He couldn’t help chuckling at his own joke.
“So, you’re more than just a pretty face.” She paused. “I do wonder about these orphans, this business about them being larger, and stronger, and having bolts embedded into their shoulders. It’s so ghastly.”
“Why did you disobey Mr. Socrates’ order and try to take the girl to the hospital?”
“That sounds a little judgmental.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Truthfully, Modo? Because that girl was once me. She didn’t deserve to be part of such a cruel experiment. It’s happening because someone thinks she’s worthless. Being an orphan doesn’t make you worthless.”
You’re not worthless, Modo wanted to say. He couldn’t imagine her ever being as sad and dreary as some of the poor children he’d seen. And Tharpa had once talked about how his father had been an untouchable. Never seen. Never missed. Was that what those children were?
“I want to bloody the nose of the person behind this,” Octavia said. “What’s the point of it?”
“Perhaps Mr. Socrates and his associates know. Last night I met several of them.”
“You did?” She patted Modo’s knee. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Well, the men are all older than Moses.” She laughed and Modo grinned with delight. “There was a woman, too. Not a friendly sort.”
“Lady Artemis Burton, I’d wager. I met her once with Mr. Socrates. She’s a walking ice sculpture. Did you know they call themselves the Permanent Association?”
“How’d you discover that?”
“Oh, I keep my ears and eyes open. They chose their name because they want to bring order to the world and have Britannia rule it permanently. After all, the British way is the best way.”
“You sound doubtful.” He stroked the handle of the walking stick.
“Who am I to worry about that? Let the mucky-muck plutocracy stab one another in the backs. It’s richly entertaining!”
“What kind of attitude is that?”
“My own. You should try having your own.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, guvnuh.”
Modo snorted. She was the most exasperating person in the world! “Well, if you disdain them so much, why do you work for them?”
She gave a thin slice of a smile. “Because the job is a brilliant, exhilarating game.”
They passed near a park and Modo observed well-dressed boys and girls hitting a ball with a wooden mallet. One girl laughed with another and Modo felt envious. He’d never played games outdoors. “What are they playing?” he asked.
“Croquet,” Octavia said. “Haven’t you seen it before?”
“I’ve read about it.”
She went silent, so he turned his head to look at her and discovered that she was unabashedly staring at him. Panic struck his heart: Was his face changing? But then she said, “Only read about croquet in books? You’re an odd one, Modo.”
Before he could respond, the cab stopped with a jerk. “Here ye be!” shouted the cabbie. Modo climbed out and leapt from the last step to the street, getting a sharp twinge in his rib. Nonetheless, he offered a gloved hand to Octavia, who took it and elegantly descended from the cab. He liked how firmly she held his hand, and was sorry when she let it go. He dug in his pockets, but he had no money. Octavia smiled and paid the driver.
They walked through the front gate, which had been left ajar. The house was charred, and the lingering smell of smoke brought the events of two days earlier flooding back: the mad fear of being trapped in that chair like an animal; the flames leaping around his feet. The stone wall still stood, but the roof was gone. Judging by the scattered spoons, burned boxes, and broken chairs in the yard, scavengers had already been through the house.
“You’re stooping a bit, Modo. Are you unwell?” Octavia asked.
“It’s only an affectation.” He had been using the walking stick for support because his body was slowly twisting into its hunched shape. “People underestimate me, I find, if I behave like I’m crippled.” All the same, Modo straightened up.
“You’re almost as tall as me when you do that.”
While they poked through the rubble, Modo kept an eye out for his haversack even though it had likely disappeared in the flames, along with his spyglass. He missed the spyglass; it had been a handy tool.
He turned over a few bricks with his walking stick, stopping when he found glass on the ground outside a charred window.
“This is where I jumped out.”
“You must have been very frightened.”
“Frightened?” He waved his hand. “I just needed a breath of fresh air.”
Octavia gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “You’re a right jolly jester, I like that.”
They worked their way through the house, avoiding places where the floor had been burned away, revealing the cellar. Modo spotted a half-burned pair of India rubber boots and the sight prodded a memory. He nudged them with the stick. “Three pairs of boots sat here. And Fuhr had a scent of sewage about him.”
“Curious. Most gentlemen don’t stroll in the sewer for a bit o’ fun.” A curly lock of hair had fallen loose and bounced gently on her forehead. It mesmerized him.
“Featherstone did talk about descending into Hades,” he said.
“Ester may have disappeared down a manhole. It would make sense for us to look underground.”
“W
ill it be safe?” Modo’s voice cracked. The idea of climbing into a rat-infested sewer made his skin crawl.
“Safe? Be brave, Modo.”
“This isn’t about bravery,” he lied. “It’s about the wisdom of going where we may not be able to breathe.” He thought he sounded very rational.
“The rat catchers and sewer workers survive down there. It hasn’t rained for a few days, so the flow should be lower. We don’t want to go back to Mr. Socrates with nothing; he becomes such a crab when that happens.”
Modo laughed in agreement, feeling a little traitorous for doing so. He gave the boots a final prod, inadvertently twisting the knob on the top of the cane. Something at the end of the cane flashed and sliced the boot in half.
“Zounds!”
Octavia walked over to him. “What is it?”
He lifted the walking stick, to find a five-inch blade protruding from its end. “Mr. Socrates’ walking stick is also a weapon.”
He turned the knob back again and the knife slid into the base of the stick.
“That’s a nasty piece of work. Mr. S really does like his tools.”
Modo made the knife eject again and again. “Fascinating,” he whispered.
“When you’re done playing, we’ll continue our work.”
“Oh, fine. Where do we go?”
“I assume there’s a sewer entrance in the vicinity.” They walked to the backyard, where Octavia explored a well built of stone. Modo looked in the garden shed, then behind a fountain. He crossed the wooden floor of the gazebo and was taken by the sound. He tapped it with the walking stick, then again with his right foot, hard. It sounded hollow. Looking closer, he saw the outline of a trapdoor surrounding him.
As he took another step the slats beneath his feet snapped. He let out a scream, grabbing at the air as he fell. A breathless second later, he hit the bottom, jarring his legs.
“Modo!” Octavia was looking down from at least ten feet above him.
He moved his legs, which hurt but weren’t broken. He tapped his foot on a circular stone lid, and yelled with all the drama he could muster, “Behold, I present to thee the sewer.”
23
Underground
Octavia watched from above as Modo effortlessly lifted the stone lid. He was unusually strong under all his oversized clothing, and she was about to tell him so just to see his reaction, when he staggered back. A moment later a thick wall of stench overcame her, making her eyes weep.
“You might not want to come down here,” he announced, covering his mouth and nose with the hood of his cloak.
“Nonsense!” Octavia climbed quickly down the wooden ladder at the edge of the trapdoor, but as she got closer to the sewer hole, she slowed. Even breathing through her mouth made her gag. “Oh, nothing like the sweet perfume of sewage to test one’s constitution. Do remember, Modo, I grew up in a foundling home. Nothing stank worse than the governess.”
With that, she shouldered past Modo and bent over to pick up a rope ladder piled near the hole. “Off we go,” she said, dropping the coils into the darkness below. Then she hesitated. The entrance was far too small for her bustle. As it was, it had been marked by soot, and she didn’t want to add sewage to the mix. “Oh, Modo, I can’t roam around down there with my favorite dress on.” She began unbuttoning her bodice, and giggled when Modo looked away. “Don’t worry, I have underclothes on.”
“I know, I know, but it’s improper all the same,” he muttered, his face still averted.
“I’m improper at heart. I was educated on the streets of St. Giles, after all.” It took Octavia but a minute to slip out of her dress and bonnet, leaving her in a long-sleeved black underblouse and dark brown pantaloons and stockings. She hung the clothing on the ladder and turned to Modo.
“Oh,” he said, relief in his voice, “you’re dressed like a boy.”
Octavia burst out laughing. When she’d chosen these clothes earlier that day, she couldn’t have imagined this scenario. She had simply been preparing herself should she have to run. After the night chasing Ester, she swore that would be the last time she gave pursuit in layers of ankle-length skirts.
“What’s that?” said Modo, pointing at her thigh.
Octavia pulled her stiletto from its small sheath and flashed it at him with a smile. “It’s my best friend,” she said, and then slid it back into the sheath without looking at it. She had practiced this move many times in the past few years.
She eased herself into the narrow hole and climbed down the rope ladder. The hole was lined with bricks that had become slick with fungi. The circle of light from above revealed a half-broken brick ledge beneath her and not much more to stand on. She stepped onto it; the sewage rippled an inch from her toes. Don’t even think about where this all comes from, she told herself.
She moved over to allow Modo to take his place beside her, but he didn’t let go of the rope. He poked at the water with his walking stick. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she was certain his grimace matched her own.
“You’re almost invisible,” Modo said, “except for your hair and eyes.”
“Nice of you to notice them.” She imagined he would be blushing. He was such an easy mark. “We need a little light.” She reached into one of the pouches in her waistband and removed her pocket lucifer.
“I hope you aren’t getting out matches. The gases down here could be explosive.”
“This isn’t a match, but there’ll be a spark. We’ll have to risk it. If there is gas, dive into the water; sewer gas rises, remember.”
“I knew that.”
“Well, here’s the test then.” She found the switch on the back, flicked it, and with a zap and a spark, a bright light glowed into life. “Boom!” she said right into his face, giving him a start. Her voice echoed in the tunnel.
“That’s not funny, Miss Milkweed,” Modo whispered. “And do be quiet. We have no idea how far away our enemies are.”
Octavia tried, unsuccessfully, to look apologetic.
“What kind of light is that?” he asked.
“A pocket lucifer—it’s one of Mr. Socrates’ little gadgets.” Octavia held up the tiny lamp, which was hidden inside a pocket watch. She pointed it right at Modo and he quickly covered his eyes. For a moment, one eye had looked larger than the other to her. “It’s powered by an electric cell.”
“Electric cells can be made that small?”
“Of course. You should ask him for one. He has all sorts of clever inventions. Pneumatic pistols, wireless telegraphs, electric nail clippers.” She laughed. “I made up that last one. So what direction do you suggest?”
The light revealed an arched brick tunnel and a long stream of sewage flowing into the dark. Here and there, large rats skittered along the edges. “I don’t know that it matters,” Modo said.
“Forward, then. Let’s call it Octavia’s intuition. I guess I’m going to have to sacrifice my shoes. I ain’t walking through that in bare feet. I’m no mudlark.”
She had long ago learned to do these sorts of tasks without dwelling on them. In her line of work, hesitation could be death. Of course, she told herself, in this case the smell might be the death of me. She stepped into the cold stream of sewage, teeth clenched as she felt it moving around her calves and knees. It wasn’t just human excrement, but anything that could be dumped down the drain. Rags. Twigs and leaves. Fat, blood, and skin from slaughter houses.
In an eddy near the wall, a baby floated, faceup, its left arm draped over the brick edging. Octavia’s stomach tightened, but a hesitant step closer revealed that it was just a cloth doll with a ceramic head.
She held the pocket lucifer high above her head, speaking quietly. “There are miles of tunnels. We could even tramp underground to Buckingham Palace and watch the Royals do their business.”
“Don’t even jest about that!” Modo exclaimed.
Octavia laughed, saying, “You’re from Greenland.”
“What do you mean?”
&nbs
p; “You’re so green you’re from Greenland.”
“I’m not green.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“I’m no lady! And don’t you dare quote Shakespeare at me. You don’t even like him.”
Octavia shrugged, tossed her hair back, and sloshed on ahead of him. From time to time her footing would slip on the bumpy floor of the sewer lane, and she’d wobble. Her fear, of course, was of falling over. Lines on the wall showed how high the effluent ran during heavy rains. She pictured a sudden downpour, she and Modo up to their chests in muck or swept away to who knows where in mere moments.
They stopped at a split in the tunnel. Octavia moved her pocket lucifer back and forth. “Hmm. Do we go left or right?”
“Over here,” Modo said excitedly. “There are scratches in the shape of a triangle.”
Well, this was a piece of good luck. Octavia slapped him on the back.
“Don’t do that,” Modo scolded her in a harsh whisper. “Please don’t touch my back.”
She pulled her hand away in confusion, and let him push on ahead of her. She followed for a long time, wondering why he had lashed out at her that way, before she broke the silence. “So where are you from, Modo? Or may I ask that?”
“You may ask me anything, Miss Milkweed. Whether I answer it or not is another matter.”
“It’s Tavia,” she said. “Please call me Tavia.”
“Well, Tavia,” he said, and she was pleased that he was sounding friendly again. “I grew up near Lincoln in a house that belonged to Mr. Socrates. He raised me.”
Octavia stopped in the middle of the stream. “You were raised by Mr. Socrates?”
“Of course!” He sounded proud. “And Mrs. Finchley was my mother … my governess, but unlike yours, she smelled good. Have you met her?”
“No. Is Mr. Socrates your father?”
“No. What a silly question. I—I don’t know who my parents were. Mr. Socrates, he … found me. Trained me. Raised me.”
“So you’re an orphan? We have that in common at least. I was left outside a foundling home with just the clothes on my back and a one-word note: burden.”
