Then, as they passed high overhead, she noticed a window set in the roof of the Guild. She could just make out a small figure beneath it, dangling in the air.
“Mr. Hardy!” she called out, and pointed below. “Look there! It’s Cirrus!”
Mr. Hardy leaned over the edge of the basket and peered down. “Hold on,” he said as Alerion folded her wings and the moon-sail plummeted once again.
This time the wind snatched the cap from Pandora’s head and her short auburn curls flew out behind.
The basket landed with a hard, heavy thump on the side of the window, sending a large web of cracks through the glass. Almost immediately, the wind shifted direction and swept them back into the air.
“Mr. Hardy!” screamed Pandora, as they began to ascend.
But the man was ready. Grabbing the anchor from the side of the basket, he dropped it through the glass, into the furthest corner of the room, and the window shattered into a million fragments that rained to the floor, narrowly missing the boy.
Cirrus looked up at them with terrified eyes and tried even harder to break free from his bonds. The anchor was swinging recklessly back and forth, banging into a table, knocking over some chairs.
Mr. Hardy turned to Pandora. “Quick! Climb down the rope and secure the anchor. Untie the boy and I’ll haul you up!”
Pandora stared at him incredulously and then peered over the ledge. It was a thirty-foot drop, at least. Her stomach revolted inside her.
“I can’t,” she cried. “It’s too far. You go instead.”
Mr. Hardy glanced at the moon-sail and shook his head. “The wind is too strong. We haven’t much time!”
A mass of dark cloud had piled overhead and violent downdrafts of air tugged at them from the Thames. The sky had taken on a terrible greenish gray pallor.
Pandora was shaking from head to foot, but Mr. Hardy grasped her by the shoulders and steadied her with his eyes.
“You can do this, Pandora,” he told her firmly. “I’ve seen you climb the wall of the Foundling Hospital, don’t forget.”
She braved a false smile and took a deep breath. Finally, she nodded.
“Aye, that’s my girl,” said Mr. Hardy.
With his help, she reached over the edge of the basket and took a tentative hold of the rope, which was lashing beneath her. Slowly, carefully, she began her descent.
The wind twirled around her, screaming in her ears, but she clung onto the rope with work-hardened fingers and eased her way down.
“That’s it, Pandora!” yelled Mr. Hardy, guiding her from above. “You’re almost there.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as she passed through the shattered window, into the relative calm of the room. Cirrus was a short distance from her, squirming in midair. His arms had been bound behind him and his mouth had been gagged. His face was slick with sweat.
“Don’t worry,” she said, quickening her pace. “I’ll let you down.”
As soon as she was able, she dropped to the ground. At once she grabbed the arm of the anchor and secured it to the table, fixing the moon-sail in place. Then she dashed to the pulley in the corner and started lowering the boy to the floor. She removed the gag from his mouth.
“It’s you!” he said, gasping for air. “How did you …? What’re you …?”
Pandora was loosening the straps that bound him to the swing. Then, all of a sudden, she covered his mouth with her hand. “Shhh!” she said.
She listened carefully. Voices were rising from downstairs.
Immediately, she started unpicking the rest of the straps.
Her fingers were trembling and the bonds were too tight. In desperation, she looked around for a sharp piece of glass to use as a knife.
“Hold still,” she said, as she sawed through the fastenings.
Finally, the last bond snapped loose and Cirrus slumped to the ground. Tenderly, he rubbed the spots where the harness had cut into his skin and kneaded the stiffness from his limbs. He limped toward the door.
Pandora pulled him back. “No, not that way,” she cried, and pointed up.
The boy turned to her in alarm and then peered up at the sky, where the moon-sail was visible, buffeting back and forth. Mr. Hardy was leaning over the edge, urging them to hurry.
Seeing him, Cirrus shrank back in terror. “I can’t,” he said. “That man—you don’t understand—I’ve seen him before. He’s after my sphere.” He clutched the spot where his token had been and looked ill.
Pandora grabbed hold of his wrist. The straps had left a raw, savage mark on his skin and he winced.
“Listen,” she said. “Mr. Hardy’s a friend. He knew your father. He’s here to help. Now hook your legs over the anchor and he’ll hoist you up!”
She yanked the anchor out from under the table and forced it into his hands.
“A friend?” he said, confusion growing on his face.
The babble of voices was getting louder on the stairs.
“Please!” said Pandora. “There’s no time to explain. You’ve got to trust me.”
Cirrus started to protest, but then, remembering how the girl had tried to help him at the hospital, he did as she said. Planting his legs on either side of the anchor, he hugged the metal crossbar to his chest. Almost immediately, the man began to haul him up—pulling him, hand over hand, toward the roof.
Pandora, meanwhile, searched for something heavy to barricade the door. She grabbed a tall, straight-backed chair from beside the table and dragged it across the floor, angling it under the handles of the twin wooden doors.
Cirrus was now through the open window and swinging in the air. Dark clouds were thrashing overhead; the storm was growing more intense.
Heart in mouth, she watched as Mr. Hardy reached over the edge of the basket to drag him in.
At that instant, the moon-sail, freed from its mooring, drifted away. It lifted from the roof and headed toward the clouds. Pandora let out a moan of dismay as the boy and the man disappeared.
She spun round to face the door, on her own.
Footsteps had now reached the landing and she drew in a sharp breath as the ornate handles began to turn. The door inched open—
—and then stopped.
The chair had dug in its heels and become stuck.
There was an exclamation of surprise and then an oath from the other side. Someone hammered on the door.
“What is the meaning of this? Boy, open up!”
Pandora backed away from the door. Her heart was beating against her ribs. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the moon-sail to reappear.
Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder clapped, but there was no sign of the vessel. Mr. Hardy was not coming back.
Someone slammed a shoulder against the door, making her jump. The chair skipped a few inches and a purple sleeve wedged itself through the gap.
It was the dark-wigged gentleman from the museum. She could just make out his loathsome features through the crack.
“Wait till I get my hands on you,” he snarled, clawing at the chair with his hand.
The chair began to give way with a screech.
She took one last look at the sky. Just then a luminous sail of fabric drifted overhead.
“Pandora!” shouted Mr. Hardy, dropping the anchor through the remains of the shattered window. It clanged to the floor. “Grab hold!”
Pandora nearly cried with relief. She lunged for the rope and caught it mid-stride, jamming her foot down hard on the metal crossbar and starting to climb, not even waiting for Mr. Hardy to haul her up.
Behind her she heard a savage cry. She turned to see the dark-wigged gentleman storm into the chamber. He stopped in confusion and then propelled himself toward her.
“What have you done with my Golden Boy?” he roared.
Pandora was rising quickly now, scrabbling up the rope, but at the very last moment the man leapt onto the table and jumped … snagging his fingers around the arms of the trailing anchor. He tried
with all his might to drag it down.
“Alerion!” shouted Mr. Hardy as the rope slipped through his fingers and Pandora began to sink once more toward the floor. “Up, girl, up!”
The great bird flapped its wings and sent another wave of heat into the sail, lifting the vessel into the air.
Cirrus, who had only just managed to stumble to his feet, fell down again as the basket climbed steeply upward. Pandora was pulled through the open window.
She looked down.
The man below her had refused to let go; with a fearful cry, he, too, floated into the mouth of the storm.
Below them, in the Celestial Chamber, the members of the Guild crowded round the shattered window and gaped, unable to take their eyes off the moon-sail, which was rising rapidly toward the clouds. Only one person bolted from the room: a woman with elaborately coiled silver hair. Madame Orrery! Pandora gasped when she saw her and nearly let go of the rope.
The moon-sail was ascending quickly, lifted by a swell of warm air, but the basket was teetering at a crazy angle, tilting toward the ground. Pandora could see the slate-gray roof tiles of the Guild sloping beneath her and tightened her grip on the rope, which was creaking ominously under the additional weight.
“Let go, you fool!” shouted Mr. Hardy at the man, who was kicking and flailing below them. “You’ll kill us all! We can’t carry this much cargo!”
But the man refused to let go. He had hooked his arms round the base of the anchor. “Help me! Oh, dear God, help me!” he cried, as the wind ripped off his wig and tore at his clothes. The folds of his long purple coat flew out behind.
The moon-sail was lurching over the river and Pandora caught a whiff of the foul, smelly water: a filthy soup of sewage and bits of timber. Sweat greased her palms and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look.
The extra weight on the moon-sail, however, was beginning to take its toll. Alerion, tiring, was unable to keep them away from the downdrafts of air and Pandora could sense the vessel sinking in a slow, steady spiral toward the waves.
She had no choice: She had to climb higher.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up, grimacing with the effort. All of her muscles were straining, her tired fingers ached, but she fed the rope between her tightly locked ankles and inched her way up.
Cirrus was leaning over the edge of the basket, urging her on, reaching out a hand to assist her, even though she was still too far away. Mr. Hardy, meanwhile, was throwing sandbags over the opposite side of the basket, trying desperately to even out their weight. Alerion was furiously flapping her wings.
Pandora could sense the waves slapping beneath her.
A sudden change in the tension of the rope caused her to look down.
The man from the museum had propped his feet on the bar of the anchor and was clawing up the rope.
His face sharpened into a sneer of contempt. “Thieves!” he shouted, gaining courage with every hold. “Give me back my Golden Boy!”
Panic surged through her body and, ignoring the pain in her arms, Pandora forced her way up. The boy was only a few more yards away … almost within reach!
But just as her fingers brushed his own, she felt a hand clutch her sharply by the ankle and drag her down. The rope slithered through her fingers, igniting a fire of pain in her palms, and she fell through the air, landing on the gentleman’s shoulders.
“Thief!” he snarled again, trying to throw her off. But she kicked out in terror and connected hard with his jaw, leaving him stunned. The man dropped several feet before managing to cling to the rope.
Quickly, before he could recover, she scurried toward Cirrus’s waiting hand.
“Mister!” cried Cirrus as he tried, but failed, to pull Pandora in. “I need your help!”
Mr. Hardy immediately turned from the mast, where he was steering the sail through the storm, and, together, they managed to haul Pandora in, almost tipping over the basket. Exhausted, she collapsed into the mound of blankets.
The boy was instantly by her side, feeding her drops of brandy from Mr. Hardy’s flask. He appeared to have recovered from some of his shock, although his face was still anxious and pale. He kept casting uneasy glances at the man and the bird, cowering a little whenever Alerion burst into flame.
“Are you all right?” he asked her, propping her head up.
The fiery liquid helped revive her and she nodded, forcing herself once more to her feet.
The moon-sail was no longer tipping at such a crazy angle, but the ropes were protesting under the weight. They were sinking still toward the waves.
“Let go, damn you!” yelled Mr. Hardy at the man from the museum, who was scrambling up the rope.
“Not without my Golden Boy!”
“Very well, you leave me no choice!” Mr. Hardy reached into his pocket and pulled out a sharp knife.
Pandora reached over to stay his hand. “You can’t!” she cried.
“But he’s pulling us down. The scoundrel’s dead weight!”
“He’ll drown!”
“Don’t you worry about him,” he said to Pandora. “Rats like him can swim.” And with that, he severed the rope.
Pandora plugged her ears as the thin, repulsive man hurtled back through the air and crashed into the waves more than a hundred feet below. He disappeared beneath the water, with next to no splash.
“But we need the anchor to land,” said Pandora miserably, as the moon-sail soared into the clouds.
The boy was peering down at the dark churning water. “I think he’s survived,” he said, as a small, slimy figure crawled onto the muddy riverbank.
But before he could say anything else, a clap of thunder exploded overhead and the moon-sail dipped wildly through the sky. Cirrus, leaning over the edge, lost his balance and fell.
The Breath of God
For a terrifying moment the wind skimmed past his face and buffeted his body as he plunged headlong toward the waves. Then something hot and fiery hooked him by the shoulders and carried him back through the air. He twisted his neck to see the fierce eagle-like creature flapping its wings above him, the heat of its feathers searing into his flesh. It had clasped him firmly in its talons.
The world turned somersaults, and moments later the bird dropped him again in the basket and returned to its perch. Cirrus found himself staring into the face of the man from Black Mary’s Hole. Fear flashed through him, but he recalled what the girl had said: the man was a friend.
“Careful,” said the man, as the bird lifted them higher into the air. “You may have your father’s curls, but you ain’t got his sea legs just yet.”
There was a hint of humor in his voice, although his eyes were shaded by the brim of his three-cornered hat.
Cirrus struggled to sit upright, but before he could speak, the man said, “Now then, boy. Hand over the sphere.”
Cirrus was aware of the girl watching him. She was no longer dressed in her foundling’s uniform, but in a short blue jacket and beige trousers instead. He remembered her name: Pandora.
“The sphere,” said the man again, breaking into his thoughts. “Have you got it with you?”
“Bottle Top,” he muttered feebly, feeling a stab of betrayal. “Bottle Top took it.… I thought he was my friend.”
The man regarded him blankly for a moment, then realization dawned on his face. “Why, the little devil!” he said to the girl. “It’s the boy in the gilded carriage. He’s taking the sphere to Mr. Sidereal!”
Immediately, Pandora rushed to the far side of the basket and raised a spyglass to her eye. Cirrus joined her, stepping more clumsily over the blankets that were heaped inside. Once again, he noticed the glossy sail bulging above them, and the cords and cables holding everything in place, and wondered how they were able to stay in the air.
They were above the river still, following a path the wind carved through the sky. London stretched in all directions: a sprawl of darkened buildings and twisting lanes. Most of the streets were deserted, lit
by flickering lanterns.
Suddenly, the girl raised her arm and pointed. “Mr. Hardy! I can see the carriage! It’s almost there!”
Cirrus followed the direction of her finger—past the wharves and warehouses along the river to the dome of St. Paul’s. He could just make out the tail end of a golden carriage streaking past the churchyard, the same carriage he and the other boys had traveled in before.
“Hold on,” said Mr. Hardy, grabbing onto the ropes and leaning over the side of the basket, steering them into a channel of cold air.
They dived toward the city.
Cirrus grasped the sides of the basket and accidentally brushed the girl’s hand. Here, beneath the clouds, her face was jubilant, alive. Her amber eyes sparkled and her auburn hair flamed.
Embarrassed, he turned away and looked at the bird, which was burning above them, flapping its wings.
“Wonderful, isn’t she?” said the girl. “She’s a Halcyon Bird, from the other side of the world.”
Cirrus suddenly remembered the ashes he had seen at the bottom of the cage in the Hall of Wonders. “Like the one in Mr. Leechcraft’s collection?” he said.
The man heard this and scowled. He spat over the edge.
“Mr. Leechcraft was a no-good thief,” he said. “A scoundrel. Got what he deserved.”
Cirrus cast him a nervous look, but had no time to ask questions, for just as they passed over a ditch, spewing its filth into the Thames, Pandora spotted a dove-gray carriage pursuing them through the lanes.
“Mr. Hardy!” she called out, aiming her spyglass at the ground. “There’s a carriage following us. I think it’s Madame Orrery. There’s a silver timepiece on the door.”
Mr. Hardy swore and urged Alerion to a higher elevation, carrying them over the inns and yards below. Cirrus could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising above the city. Mr. Hardy was steering them straight toward it.
Cirrus stared at him in amazement, marveling at his ability to sail through the air, but then a ferocious clap of thunder cracked overhead and a claw of lightning split the sky, scratching the underbelly of cloud. With a hiss, hail began to fall, whitening the air like sudden winter.
The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 18
