“It is not my fault,” said the little man, his hair sticking up in tufts. “He is just a boy. What else ought we to have done?”
The other man’s voice was gruff and low; his back was turned to the door. “You ought to have guarded him more closely. Never let him out of your sight.”
A shiver ran down Cirrus’s spine. There was no mistaking the owner of the other voice. It was the man from Black Mary’s Hole! Peering stealthily round the door, Cirrus could just make out his dark blue coat and the three-cornered hat clenched in his hand.
“Come now,” said the Governor. “You were just like him once. A happy, carefree child. What has changed you so?”
“I have seen the ways of the world,” said the stranger, “and grown up.”
Cirrus felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He wanted to flee from the room immediately, but his path across the gallery was blocked. He would have to remain where he was. He hugged the wall and listened carefully.
“The woman,” said the man from Black Mary’s Hole. “She was here last night. I saw her.”
“Madame Orrery?” said the Governor, his voice quavering a little. “No, no, it is not what you think. She was helping me with a private matter; that is all. She is a mesmerist. She was relieving me of my gout.”
“She is a damnable woman and not to be trusted,” said the stranger. “She has seen the sphere before and will not rest until she finds it.”
Cirrus rolled the sphere once more in his fingers, wondering what it was for. It didn’t look all that special. Perhaps the metal was valuable? Or perhaps it led to treasure?
“Have you still got it?” asked the man suddenly. “Is it here?”
The Governor glanced at the study door. “But of course,” he said. “The sphere is well hidden, I assure you.”
“Get it for me now,” said the man. “I shall take it with me and be off. It is something I should have done long ago.”
“But it is the boy’s token of remembrance,” said Mr. Chalfont feebly. Nevertheless, he did as he was told and marched the short distance to the desk.
Cirrus stiffened behind the door. The Governor was so close that Cirrus could almost reach out and touch his crimson jacket. But Mr. Chalfont seemed interested in only one thing. He grabbed the tin of ginger and carried it back to the man in the other room.
“There. You see,” he said, removing the lid. “It’s … gone!”
The color drained from his face.
“It must have been the woman,” said the man from Black Mary’s Hole.
“No, no, it was there this morning,” said the Governor. “I checked. I was feeling rather dizzy and needed a piece of ginger to revive me. It was still there when I looked.”
“The boy, then,” said the stranger. “He must have found it and escaped!”
“Cirrus Flux?” said the Governor. “But that is impossible! I fail to see how that could be …” But his voice faltered and his face fell, dejected.
“There was a girl,” said the stranger suddenly, and Cirrus felt his blood go cold.
The Governor looked puzzled. “A girl?” he said. “What girl? There was no one here besides Madame Orrery.”
“The girl who climbed over the wall of the hospital,” continued the stranger. “I was watching from a distance. Madame Orrery later took her away.”
“There was no girl!” insisted Mr. Chalfont, but the other man was already heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the Governor.
“To find the girl and see what she knows. There is a chance she may be involved.”
“And what shall I do?” asked Mr. Chalfont, hanging back.
“Keep looking for the boy. And, if you find him, be sure to take back the sphere. It is not safe to keep it here in London. Not with Madame Orrery looking for it—and possibly the Guild.”
Mr. Chalfont muttered something under his breath and then hurried after him, racing down the stairs.
Behind the door, Cirrus sank to the floor. His mind was reeling. What was so important about the sphere? Why was everyone looking for it?
The Governor was obviously not to be trusted; he seemed all too willing to hand over the token to the man from Black Mary’s Hole. And who was to say that Mrs. Kickshaw, outside looking for him now, would not want it, too?
Perhaps the girl could help him?
He jumped to his feet. There was only one thing to do: he had to get away. He wasn’t safe here anymore.
Looping the token round his neck, he tucked it securely under his nightshirt and made his way to the door. Checking to make sure that the coast was clear, he tiptoed down the stairs. He still held the girl’s keys in his hand, but didn’t want to return to the dormitory in case the boys asked him any unnecessary questions. He would have to steal some clothes from elsewhere.
The answer hit him. The laundry.
He dashed to the back of the hospital and fled across the yard, wincing as bits of gravel stuck to the soles of his bare feet. Then, making sure that Mrs. Kickshaw was nowhere within sight, he crept to the laundry. He scooped up a handful of clothes and raced to the orchard.
He crouched among the shrubs and plants to put them on. The shirt he had grabbed was much too small, so he decided to make do with his nightshirt, stuffing the ends into a pair of loose-fitting breeches. He had no shoes or stockings. Finally, he shrugged on a jacket and climbed the apple tree near the wall.
He very nearly made it, too.
But then, just as he grabbed the rope and started to descend, he heard Mrs. Kickshaw ringing the bell behind him.
“Mr. Chalfont!” she yelled. “It’s Cirrus! He’s headed for the fields!”
Instantly, he let go of the rope and jumped down, landing in a patch of prickly grass. He sprinted toward the Gallows Tree and then, reaching the dirt road, swerved sharply toward the city.
Within moments he was lost in a maze of buildings, surrounded by clattering carts and noisy people pushing him in all directions. He looked around in bewilderment and then plunged headlong down an alley.
He checked behind him. There was no sign that the Governor or the man from Black Mary’s Hole had followed. He had made it. He was free!
The Face at the Window
Pandora awoke with a start. Where was she? What had happened? The last she remembered she was staring deep into Madame Orrery’s eyes, falling into a strange dreamless slumber.
She sat up and looked around, relieved to find her thoughts slowly coming back to her. She was in her room, at the top of the house in Midas Row. The sun was low in the sky and seeds of shadow were sprouting along the walls. What time was it? How long had she been asleep?
She listened carefully. Below her the house was quiet. There were no cries coming from the Crisis Room, no sound of Mr. Sorrel playing the glass harmonica. She tiptoed to the door and tried the handle.
It was locked.
A tray had been placed on the floor inside and she took a sip of water, desperate to slake her thirst. Immediately, bubbles erupted on her tongue and she spat it out.
She took a closer look at the liquid.
Was this the medicated water Mr. Sorrel used to revive Madame Orrery’s patients? If so, had she been mesmerized as well?
Worrying suddenly that Madame Orrery might have seen into her mind, she returned to her bed and lay down, struggling to remember the events of the night before.
Moments later, footsteps padded to the door and Mr. Sorrel looked in.
“What happened?” asked Pandora, turning toward him. “How did I get here?”
“Madame Orrery caught you in the Foundling Hospital,” he said angrily. “She brought you back last night. She is most displeased. Whatever were you thinking, child?”
All of a sudden she remembered the curly-haired boy and recalled leaving him in a closet.
“Cirrus Flux,” she said. “Is he safe?”
“Madame Orrery says you helped him escape,” said Mr. Sorrel disapprovingly. “Do you know where h
e is?”
Pandora was about to reply, when she noticed Mr. Sorrel giving her a searching look, as though he suspected her of something, and she shook her head, not certain whether she could trust him.
“I do not remember,” she lied.
Mr. Sorrel frowned and stared at the floor.
Pandora looked around her—at the scabby walls, the empty grate and the grimy window that opened only a few inches.… She was effectively a prisoner.
“What is going to happen to me?” she asked, fearful of what Madame Orrery might do to punish her.
Mr. Sorrel fussed at his sleeves. “I honestly do not know,” he said, refusing to meet her eye. “Madame Orrery says you are to remain up here indefinitely. I ought not to be speaking to you now.”
He craned his neck to check the door and then said in an urgent whisper, “Please, Pandora, it is not wise to disobey her. If you are not careful, she will take away your thoughts for good. You are fortunate she has not already done so.”
“Why hasn’t she?”
“Because she believes you may be of some use to her yet,” he said. “She’s going to use you to help her find the boy.”
“Find the boy?” she repeated weakly.
But before she could hear his answer, a bell rang from downstairs and Mr. Sorrel scurried to the door. “Please, Pandora,” he said one last time. “Consider what I have told you. Do not cross Madame Orrery again.”
With that, he left the room and locked the door behind him.
Dejected, Pandora glanced at the window, wondering how she could possibly get away. From across the city came the sound of church bells tolling, and she counted each long hour as it passed.
Dusk seeped into the room.
Then, just as she was about to close her eyes, she noticed a red flicker against the window.
Instantly, she turned toward it, fearing there was a fire, and let out a startled shriek. A man’s face was peering in! He was standing in some kind of wicker basket and hovering in the air.
Pandora leapt back and clutched her pillow to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. Her heart knocked violently against her ribs.
The man tapped on the glass. “Pssst! Girl! I need your help!” She could just make out his voice.
Terrified, she turned to the door and wondered if she should call out, but the thought of summoning Madame Orrery filled her equally with dread.
She glanced again at the window.
The man was still there, beckoning her toward him.
Curiosity took over. She peeled herself away from the bed and inched closer, peering nervously into the gloom. A copper moon floated above the man’s head. A sail of fabric.
And then she ducked in fright. A fiery creature was flapping its wings beneath the sail, sending plumes of flame into the air.
It was some kind of magical bird!
The man was signaling for her to open the window. Slowly, very timidly, she climbed onto the chest and opened the glass as far as it would go, one or two inches at best. Once again her eyes traveled up to the fierce creature, which whooshed into flame.
“I need to find a boy,” said the man urgently, fighting to maintain control of his craft, which thumped against the side of the building. “Cirrus Flux. Do you know him?”
At the sound of the name she went cold.
She shook her head, unable to speak.
The man must have read the expression on her face. “But you know the boy of whom I speak?” he said.
She remained silent.
“Please!” he said. “It’s imperative that I find him. It is not safe for him to be alone—not with Madame Orrery looking for him.”
Finally, she found her voice.
“Who are you?” she said. “Why should I trust you?”
The man thought for a moment and then took something from round his neck. He held it against the glass.
Pandora peered closer, studying it by the light of the bird. It was a little brass disk, embossed with a lamb. There was a low number on it, too: 016. Her heart started beating faster. If the man was a foundling, he was one of the first!
Suddenly, footsteps sounded on the landing and Pandora turned toward the door.
“Quick! Get back to your bed!” the man instructed her.
Instantly, she obeyed.
Moments later, a key turned in the lock and Madame Orrery looked in. She was carrying a candle. Her eyes flitted from Pandora to the window, which was still slightly open.
Pandora whirled round, but the man had gone, vanished into thin air. She was staring at an empty pane of glass.
Madame Orrery looked at her suspiciously. “Trying to escape?” she said, but then seemed to shake the idea from her mind. “Why, it would be a most unpleasant fall. The street is a long, long way below.”
She moved into the room and locked the door behind her.
“You really are a meddlesome girl,” she said, advancing toward Pandora and placing the candle on the floor beside the bed. “It appears you were telling the truth, after all. The boy, Cirrus Flux, has disappeared. The Governor cannot find him anywhere.”
Pandora’s heart was racing. She was aware of Madame Orrery reaching into her gown for the silver timepiece.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. “How long am I to remain up here?”
“For as long as I desire it,” said Madame Orrery. “You could stay here forever and no one would know. Or care.”
Pandora delved in her pocket for the scrap of fabric she carried with her, hoping to calm her nerves, but Madame Orrery caught the sudden movement.
“What have you got there?” she asked, and snatched it from her.
Before Pandora could prevent her, Madame Orrery had turned it over in her hands and seen the embroidered letters.
“Hope.” She read the word aloud and sneered. “How touching.” And then she thought for a moment. “Is this one of those children’s tokens?”
Helplessly, Pandora nodded.
A gleam entered Madame Orrery’s eye and she quickly bent down to pick up the candle. She held the piece of fabric above the flame.
Pandora leapt back, as if burned. “Don’t!” she cried, but Madame Orrery fought off her attempts to get it back and Pandora watched, horrified, as a small brown singe mark appeared on the cloth. An unpleasant odor scorched the air.
“Don’t!” she cried again, with an enormous sob, expecting the fabric at any moment to go up in flame. “Please! I’ll do anything you ask, I promise! Just don’t destroy my token. It belonged to my mother.”
A smile curved on the woman’s lips. “Good,” she said. “I am pleased to hear it.” She removed the cloth from the flame and hid it on her person. “You will start by helping me find the boy.”
Pandora regarded her with red, swollen eyes.
“How?” she said miserably. “How can I?”
“Tomorrow, we shall visit the man with the all-seeing eye,” replied Madame Orrery coolly. “Mr. Sidereal has lenses all over London. There is nowhere for the boy to hide.”
Cirrus, Alone
Cirrus rolled over on the hard, lumpy ground and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He was lying in a churchyard. Gravestones pitted the darkness around him and a tall steeple blocked out the sky.
He sat up. A light was growing steadily bigger and brighter in the adjoining lane.
“Oi! You there!” shouted a watchman, holding up a lantern. “This ground is no place for the living. Off with ye, boy!”
Cirrus staggered to his feet. The night had seeped into his bones and he was shivering with cold. His jacket and breeches were filthy. He moved stiffly away from the churchyard, onto the road.
The watchman shoved him rudely on with his cudgel.
Even now, in the middle of the night, Cirrus was aware of other people shuffling beside him in the dark. Night-soil men removed cartloads of excrement from the yards of the houses, while boys with sputtering torches lounged in doorways, waiting for people to escort home. A church bell
tolled the ungodly hour.
Cirrus stumbled blindly on. He had no idea where he was going. His only friend in the world was Bottle Top, but he could no longer remember the name of the gentleman who had apprenticed him or the location of his museum. And he had no way of finding the girl.
He had long since given up asking for assistance. “Out of my sight, boy!” and “Confound your stupid questions!” were just two of the replies he had received from passing strangers the day before. Several times he had even been given a clap on the ear for no reason at all. Finally, exhausted, he had fallen asleep in a churchyard not far from the river.
And now here he was, on the march again.
As soon as he could, he gave the night watchman the slip and disappeared down a side alley. The dome of St. Paul’s, which he had been using to navigate his way, was no longer visible, hidden behind a warren of tall buildings.
He kept going.
Gradually, the darkness lifted and people began to file through the streets. Carts and carriages clattered everywhere. So many people. How could he possibly hope to find Bottle Top or the girl in this crowd?
Eventually, he sat down in a sheltered courtyard to rest his weary feet. His head was aching and his stomach panged with hunger. Grocers and merchants were plying their trade in the surrounding streets. He took out his sphere, wishing again that it could show him the right way to go, but all it seemed to do was point at the other side of the world. How had his father come by it? What was it for?
He must have drifted off to sleep, for when he next looked up a gang of boys had crowded round him. Their faces were lean and hungry, and there was a dangerous glint in their eyes.
Cirrus jumped to his feet, but they immediately knocked him down again.
“ ’Ere, what’s that round ’is neck?” asked the boy nearest him. His coat was riddled with holes, and a sooty neckerchief was knotted round his throat.
“A jewel of some sort,” said one.
“A locket, I think,” said another.
The first boy, obviously the leader, took a step closer. Cirrus could see a livid scar across his cheek.
The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 10
