“Don’t pull so!”
“Oh, hush.”
“You’re never so rough with Asha,” whines Nane. Yara, sitting opposite her, nods, “No, never so rough.”
“I’m not rough,” protests Nel, “but you will let clients mess up your hair like this. Honestly, it’s a bird’s nest—what do they do?”
“Naught you’ll ever know about.” Nane laughs and pokes her tongue out. Nel catches sight of it in the mirror and tugs harder on the black tresses, smiling when her sister howls. Yara sniggers and earns a kick from her twin.
From one of the beds comes a growl. Silva sits up and glares. “Shut up, you lot. Some of us are trying to get our beauty sleep.’”
“Some need it more than others,” replies Tallinn silkily and a barrage of giggles and pillows explodes from Silva’s bed. Her aim is excellent and her ability to throw in more than one direction at once is impressive. Only Nel is safe. As if the sisters know Dalita’s treatment of the plain one is more than enough torment for anyone, they are always tender to their kitchen sister.
“There.” Nel draws the silver-backed brush through the now-smooth locks one last time, smiling at their lustre with contentment. “Hurry, Yara, you’re next, before Asha comes.”
“Oh, yes, Asha’s big entrance. Gods forbid she ever slip quietly into a room.” Kizzy rolls out of bed and slides to the floor, a look of discontent painted on her porcelain face. She is rounder than her sisters, scrumptious and cuddly, and the youngest; as such she instinctively knows she should be the one who is spoilt, but Asha’s pre-eminence has deprived her of this and she it resents it daily.
Yara slips into the spot vacated by her twin, and lets her eyes close, feline, as the brush begins its work. Yara is as neat as Nane is untidy; with their faces so alike it’s hard to believe that their natures are so different. Nane is robust, hoydenish; Yara is sleek, almost virginal (something truly precluded by her occupation, but the impression is more than enough to satisfy a particular kind of client).
“Someone help me with these stays,” howls Carin. “Gods, Nel, can’t you be more careful when you wash these things? You’ve shrunk my corset!” She struggles with the garment, tugging it this way and that, straining the tying ribbons until they threaten to snap. Nel puts down the brush and makes her way over the wildly struggling sister.
Calmly, she bats Carin’s hands away and adjusts the corset, shifting a fold of fabric here, straightening a caught-up hem there, and finally pulling the ties into alignment and deftly doing them up. She pats her sister’s face and kisses her cheek.
“I think you’ll find the corset is the same size and you’re one who’s changed. How long since—”
“Oh, no!” Carin wails. “Not again.”
“You’re so careless,” says Tallinn, rippling a frilly green day dress over her head. “Mother will make you keep this one—she said so last time.”
Carin slumps to her bed, head hung low, face covered with her hands. But she doesn’t cry—none of Dalita’s girls are given to tears for they redden eyes, puff up faces, coarsen complexions, and fill sinuses with unpleasant fluids; no one looks charming thus.
“Maybe,” she mumbles through her fingers. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?”
“And what life for it?” snarls Kizzy. “What life?”
Nel looks at the youngest and frowns, putting a finger to her lips. “Hush now, hush, Carin. We’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Dalita doesn’t need to know.”
“Maybe,” says Carin, “Maybe I could find Iskha?”
Carin’s expression of hope hurts Nel’s heart. She wonders if her other sisters suspect. “I could go to stay with her? Do you think, Nel? Could we find her?”
“I think I’ll make the appointment for next week. Mother Magnus will take care of it. Just keep your food down for a few more days, and give me one of those broaches the fat little Constable gave you last week.’”
“What for?” demands Carin, affronted that any of her trinkets might be taken. Nel rolls her eyes.
“You have to pay for her services somehow and what money do you think I have?” she asks tartly. Carin subsides and reaches into the top drawer of her bedside table to pull out a square mother-of-pearl container filled with things that shine. She hands Nel a cameo, engraved with the head of Medusa, lovely and serpentine, then insists, “Could you find her, Nel?”
“I think she wanted to get away and if she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be.” Nel pats her shoulder and returns to Yara’s hair, which she gives a final cursory brush and twists into a tightly elegant chignon. “Now, all of you, neat and tidy! Lest she come looking and find you wanting.”
As if summoned, Dalita appears, with all the imposing poise of an empress. Her eyes sweep the room, finding nothing to complain about, all daughters dressed and coiffed, paints applied to faces, potions and perfumes to skin. In her hands (strangely square, mannish, very capable, ruthless—what might those hands not do?) is a box, ancient, highly polished, yet with its wood cracking under the weight of years, a gold clasp holding it shut. It is almost four of the afternoon and the clients will soon come a’knocking, but first there is this to be done, this important thing before tomorrow.
Behind her stands Asha, quietly dignified, her wedding dress, a great white confection, glowing in a ray of last sun pouring through the skylight above. Taught by her mother, she knows how to always present herself in the best possible way; she knows everything there is to know about lighting, position, composure, posture, how to dominate a room from the moment you entered to the moment you left.
One senses, however, that she is not at full power, that she has dimmed herself for this practise run; she conserves her energy until she needs to glow.
The dress—the result of seven seamstresses sewing sleeplessly for seven nights—is rather like a wedding cake, with its lace and frills, its layers and embellishments. Shiny white, reflecting with so many hand-sewn crystals it almost hurts the eyes. It is the first time she’s seen it and Nel thinks it looks like a suit of armour.
No one but Dalita is to have the honour of preparing Asha for her wedding day, for Dalita trusts no one but herself. She certainly knows her craft: Asha is breathtaking; her sisters, even Kizzy (slightly green) stare in admiration and longing, and not a little envy.
Upon Asha’s hair—which has been carefully coiffed, bouffed, backcombed, woven, plaited, twisted, tied and knotted and sculpted like spun black sugar—is a fringe tiara, a framework of gold-wrought wire. From it flows a veil of silk gossamer, spider-spun, almost to the floor, but somehow incomplete. The headdress fans across the crown of her head like a peacock’s tail, with seven fine, hollow spikes as part of the structure, yet there is no adornment, none of the gems one might expect.
Dalita looks over her shoulder, gives Asha leave to move into the centre of the attic so she is encircled by her sisters (not Nel, though; Nel falls back, knowing her place is not there, and stands against a wall, quiet as a shadow-mouse). Dalita’s fingers clutch at the casket, fumble with excitement as she flicks the clasp.
“This box,” she says, pauses, struggles. “This has not been opened for forty years, not since your grandmother wed. What is inside is a gift to the bride that only a family can give: protection and a dowry against the future.”
She lifts the lid and offers the contents to Silva, then Tallinn, then Yara, then Nane, then Kizzy, and finally Carin; she herself retrieves the last item. Apiece, they hold what looks like a very long hatpin (the length of a hand), topped with a gemstone, each a different colour. Dalita takes her diamond-tipped pin and approaches Asha; carefully she inserts it into the middle spindle of the headpiece. “Long life to you, my daughter. Bring your family prosperity and pride.”
All the sisters do the same, and soon a rainbow arcs across Asha’s tiara: blue, red, green, purple, orange, pink, and the diamond, clear as light.
The earrings from Asha’s betrothed hang like clumps of dirty water at her ears. Dalita adjus
ts her daughter’s hair, just a little, to try to cover the offending ornaments. She frowns, making mental note to ensure the ’do is tweaked just-so on the morrow.
Dalita surveys her other daughters, does not speak, but merely waves a hand.
To a woman, they traipse out of the attic and down the stairs, past the two floors of the house where each bedroom is equipped with a sturdy bed, themed decorations, and a discrete bathing corner, down to the three parlours on the ground floor, where they will drape themselves over chairs and long sofas. Yara and Nane will pull back the curtains in the front windows and settle themselves on the padded seats to watch for oncoming visitors, and smile and wave, welcoming the regulars and drawing new customers in. Kizzy and Tallinn will ensure the drinks trolley in each room is fully stocked and all the heavy crystal glasses of varying shape and sort and size are ready. Silva will hover to open the front door upon the third knock (always the third, any less is too hasty, any more too tardy—three is just enough to sharpen a client’s anticipation, but not enough to stretch his or her patience). Carin will wait with her, ready to take coats and hats and canes and carefully put them away in the walk-in cupboard by the door. Tomorrow, they will have the day off, but not tonight.
“You,” says Dalita, pointing a finger at Nel, but not looking at her. Nel wonders if the woman suspects. “Take this to the Viceroy.”
Nel nods, pocketing the letter.
“But first help your sister out of that dress.” Dalita’s need to control extends only to the construction, not the deconstruction, of an illusion.
Nel nods again, although she knows this is neither required nor expected.
Dalita turns, her burgundy gown whispering, and lightly touches Asha’s creamy cheek. She catches sight of herself in one of the mirrors hung on either side of the doorway and pauses, struck. Nel wonders how many nights the woman spends before her own reflection, watching the years converge upon her skin and begin to decay her beauty. Dalita shakes her head, closes her eyes for a moment, then leaves. Both girls let their breath go as soon as they hear her heels on the stairs.
“Is it heavy?” Nel asks. Asha nods gingerly so as not to dislodge the work of art on her head. Nel begins with the headdress, unclasping the veil first of all and tenderly draping it across the nearest bed. Then the tiara, laid beside it.
“Is he handsome? Up close?” Asha asks unexpectedly.
Nel pauses in the task of unbuttoning the two hundred tiny pearl buttons running down the back of the gown. Nel wonders if she should tell her about the times when she fancied the Viceroy seemed other, but decides against it. “Yes. You’ve seen him from the window.”
“But that’s not close up. Is he nice? You’ve spoken with him.”
“No, I’ve delivered things to him and that’s different.” She considers. “He seems . . . determined. He knows what he wants. He is polite.”
Asha sighs. “I suppose it’s the best I can hope for.”
Nel hugs her sister, pressing her plain pale cheek against Asha’s butter-rose one. They are silent then, knowing that Asha has already had the best that can be hoped for in the house by the Weeping Gate.
Mother Magnus works and lives in a long narrow room, a forgotten roofed area, a lacuna between two larger buildings. Her bed and washroom are at the back, her workshop and store at the front; a ramshackle kitchen divides the spaces. To look at, Magnus is anyone’s idea of a witch, hunchbacked and bent, a shuffling gait, one side of her face a mess of scars, the other still quite smooth. Her hair, though, defies expectation; it is silver-white, long, soft, luxuriant, and hints at a different past. She smells like lavender.
Nel picks up bottle and jars, then puts them down. She flicks through the yellowed hand-written recipe and spell pages Magnus sells, stacked in boxes on a bench. She shifts back and forth impatiently while waiting, batting at the dried plants hanging from the low ceiling.
“Stand still before I hex you, child.” The woman’s voice is sweet, mellifluous and deep.
“I’ll be late. Yet another letter to the bridegroom.”
“Can’t hurry magic, girl. Hurried magic is messy magic. Messy magic is dangerous magic.” Mother Magnus points to the corrugated side of her face, then turns back to the mortar and pestle, attending to the task of grinding herbs with a particular intensity. Nel will ask her, one day, what happened, but she knows that now is not the time. The cunning woman’s back is eloquent in its deflection of enquiries. There is a dry rustling as the crushed ingredients are shepherded into the neck of a small bottle, then a glug as a purple liquid is poured in after. Magnus stoppers the flask and seals it with black wax. She hands it to Nel, who, in return, counts five quarter-golds in her wrinkled palm.
“My thanks, Mother,” says Nel. A tisane for Asha, to help with conception. Dalita is determined that her daughter will be embedded in the Viceroy’s life as soon as possible.
Nel finds herself staring at the ruined side of Magnus’ face and, without thought, she blurts, “Does my mother ever come to you?”
Magnus shakes her head. If the question surprises her she does not show it. “Never. Although if ever there was a woman I thought would seek me out, it’s her.”
“Why?” Nel thinks she knows the answer.
Magnus grins. “Why, for a cure against woman’s mortal enemy.”
“Time.” Nel nods, smiles a little; is thankful she doesn’t have to worry about having beauty to lose.
“If ever I thought there was a woman who would want potions—if ever there was a woman I thought would seek a soul clock or some such . . . ”
“A soul clock?”
“Steals the life—the youth more particularly, and all that goes with it. Done right, it will give you another lifetime, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“I’ve never seen it done right.” Magnus rubs at her own face and turns away. She will not say more. “Night, Nel.”
Nel is out of the street and heading up towards the finer part of Breakwater, where the houses rest at the feet of the mountains, when she remembers she neglected to mention Carin and her needs. No matter. There will be plenty of time after tomorrow.
The Viceroy, in preparation for his wedding, is not at the council chambers this day. Running of the city has been suspended as the townsfolk anticipate the celebration to come and no one has any complaint. The taverns have opened their doors and libations are free—courtesy of the Viceroy’s fat wallet—and the brothels similarly are offering their services gratis (not Dalita’s girls, though—there is no promise of a change of life for them). There is much laughter in the streets and good-natured camaraderie; petty arguments have been suspended, debts and obligations forgiven and forgotten, at least for a few days. A carousing city relaxes, lowers its guard.
As the afternoon shades to an evening-lilac, Nel finds the iron gate of the Viceroy’s mansion secured. From her pocket she draws out a lockpick (a gift from Lil’bit), and has the lock clicking merrily in a trice. She slips in and wanders along the path, which rises slightly as it makes its way towards the white plaster and granite edifice. A mansion of twenty bedrooms for a single man and his two men servants. And soon, Asha; and soon Asha will have children. Nel dreams that she might leave the house by the Weeping Gate and look after Asha’s babies.
The trail winds its way through the overgrown grounds of the house, which are somewhat tropical; the air here is hot and damp. There is the smell of rotting vegetation and something else. Nel thinks the garden needs work and wonders that a man who so generously spreads his fortune across his citizens, who is so concerned with an organised and tidy city, takes no such care in his own home. In the foliage, behind the trees and bushes, things move and her spine twitches with the weight of gazes she cannot see. Nel picks up her pace.
The stone stairs of the mansion are off-white (no one washes and sweeps this stoop) and in places cracks make deep veins where dirt has infiltrated, looking like black blood. Nel tiptoes over them, and towards the front entrance.
She raises her hand and knocks—which causes the door to swing open.
“Hello?” she calls.
There is only silence. She steps into the wide entry hall. The floor is covered with a black and white chess pattern of tiles; dual staircases climb the walls, to the left and right of a strangely placed fireplace, where only cold ashes shift in the slight breeze that has snuck in behind her. To her left and right are double doors, ornately carved, painted dove-grey with gold filigree decorations around the handles. Nel chooses the left. The parlour is empty, silent, and filled with stale air. She wanders through and finds another door, a single one this time. She pushes it open: a room lined with books and at the far end, two chairs (with curved armrests, slender legs and threadbare cushioning) wait, each with a large silver pan in front. In the pans is dust: two heaped piles of grey particles. On closer inspection, there is dirt, too, and what look like flakes of snake skin. On a delicate table between, two pewter ewers, filled with water and beside the chairs, a mound of clothes: the livery worn by the Viceroy’s two attendants.
Nel slips a hand into her pocket and rubs at the thick paper of Dalita’s note. Her heart does not hammer, but its rhythm has become more certain, like a punctuation of every second she remains here. She backs away, turns, and sees something she missed before: a curtained alcove. There is the sound of a latch rattling, a handle turning and now her heart kicks like a startled horse. Without a thought, she slips behind the hanging and holds her breath.
The space is small, containing only her, a slim crowded shelf and a chest, a sea chest, not closed, with fabric spilling out. Nel reaches down and pulls at one of the rags; it’s a dress, aged, dirty, with smears of coal dust across the skirt. Another dress, and another. All old, well-worn, as if by someone who could not afford to replace it; eleven in all. On the shelf, bottles. Phials half the length of her hand; she counts twelve and only one is empty. The others swirl with a roiling red-grey mist that seems to push against the very glass as if to get out.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 9
