by Cate Cain
“Oh, bravo! Bravo!” cried the duchess. She stood up and clapped her hands.
“You are so clever, dear count,” she continued. “You always bring us such interesting things.”
Cazalon’s strange eyes glittered and he made a small bow to the woman.
“Ah yes. Forgive me, my lady. I had almost forgotten.”
Cazalon turned to the duke. “George, I have some pleasant news and some disappointing news for you. The pleasant news is that the exquisite book you asked me to find for you has arrived from my dealer in Paris. The disappointing news is that I have quite forgotten to bring it with me. I am sure, given the excitement of our business today, you will understand?”
The duke smiled broadly. “That is quite understandable. But I must have the volume as soon as possible. Is the condition good? And the… engravings,” he shot a furtive look at the duchess. “Are they… in order?”
Cazalon grinned and his painted lips parted to reveal the pointed tip of a black tongue. “I assure you that everything is of the finest quality. If we were not both expected at court tomorrow I could bring it to you, but as it is I fear that you will have to wait.”
Cazalon stared significantly at the duchess before continuing. “Something of such great value cannot be carried across town by anyone except the most trusted servant.”
“But of course. I have the solution, George!”
The duchess’s voice was high and careless. “Why not send young Jem?
Wormald coughed and peeled himself from the wall where he had been trying to make himself invisible. He had been waiting to see Jem punished, but now it looked as if the boy was to be trusted with a special task.
“Ahem… if I may, my lady, the lad here is mostly a kitchen boy. If I might be permitted, ma’am, I should be the one to go.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed. She would not be thwarted. Cazalon had made it clear – Jem and no one else was to collect her new supply of mummia.
“Nonsense, Wormald. You have too many important duties to be spared. Jem here is ideal. That seems to be an excellent solution, do you not think, George?”
The duchess’s anxious question was aimed at the duke, who was now helping himself to an orange from the platter of fruits displayed on the side table. But as she spoke she glanced meaningfully at Cazalon, who inclined his head.
“You may do as you wish with the boy.” Bellingdon spoke though a mouthful of pulpy orange flesh and spat out a pip, before adding, “But I’ll not have my book carried on the open streets. You’ll have to send a coach for the lad, Cazalon. My grooms would never find the way in that maze across the river.”
Cazalon’s thin scarlet lips curved into a taut smile. “Oh, I think that can be arranged very easily,” he said softly.
With that the count clicked his fingers and Tolly, who was still cradling Cleo, stood and bowed to the duke and duchess. Cazalon brushed a speck of dust from his cloak, threw the long trailing tendrils of his black wig back over his shoulders and stalked towards the door. Tolly followed. As the dark boy passed close, Jem managed to slip the scarab jewel into his pocket.
From the hallway Cazalon’s voice came again. “I shall send my carriage for the Green boy at the tenth hour.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When he opened his eyes next morning, Jem’s first plan was to feign sickness. The thought of going back to Malfurneaux Place made his blood run cold.
Then, as he lay there in the attic wondering what sort of illness would sound most convincing, the horrors of the day before began to worm their way into his mind. He shuddered at the thought of the vicious scars on Ann’s arm. Then he remembered the terrible conversation they had overheard from the fireplace, and the men, talking as if they had been infected by Cazalon’s evil.
But most horrific of all was the way Cazalon had controlled Cleo, sending her fragile little body jerking, spinning and bumping across the rug like a toy.
“I enjoy games, Master Green.” Jem recalled the count’s words with a shiver.
But this wasn’t a game, it was real – and Cazalon was playing with people’s lives.
Jem sat up straight and pushed a mass of black hair back from his forehead.
He’d suddenly realised that his fear of Count Cazalon, although strong, was now eclipsed by something sharper and fiercer… hatred.
He burned with the desire to fight Cazalon and defeat him – and all at once, it seemed very clear that the only way to do that was to find out exactly what the count was up to.
There was no alternative: Jem had to go along with Cazalon’s plans.
For now.
The boy slipped out of bed and splashed cold water on his face. Then he gathered his clothing from the floor and dressed, noting with dismay that the sleeves of his jerkin now stopped just below his elbow.
Outside the city, churches jangled the discordant six o’clock chime – the clanging lasted for a couple of minutes as each church kept its own time. Jem walked over to the little attic window and threw it open to take deep gulps of fresh sharp air. He’d need all his wits about him today.
The smoky haze above the city shimmered and danced. He stared out across the jumble of old rooftops and twisted brick chimneys that glowed golden red in the early morning sun. For a second it almost seemed as if London was burning.
Jem clenched his fists. It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it – they wouldn’t let it.
In a window opposite he saw a man carrying a small boy in his arms. The man was showing the child a couple of pigeons building a nest on a nearby parapet. He set the little lad on his shoulders and held his legs so that the boy could get a better view.
Jem wondered if his own father would have played with him like that. Perhaps he would have carried him through the city on a pair of broad shoulders and…
“Your father is alive.”
Ann’s words cut through his thoughts. Jem froze. What if his father was right here in the city – the city that Cazalon intended to burn to the ground?
“I will protect you,” he whispered, into the shimmering air.
As Jem waited in the hall of Ludlow House for Cazalon’s carriage, he kicked his heels impatiently against the oak panelling, earning himself a clout from Wormald, who was crossing the hall carrying a steaming bowl of lavender-scented water to the duke’s bedchamber.
“Think yourself lucky do you, pot boy?” he hissed. “Perhaps your high and mighty new friend will give you and your hoity-toity mother a home when the duke tires of you. We’ll be well rid of the pair of you.”
The tufts on top of the steward’s head quivered with righteous indignation as he turned his back on the boy and headed to the staircase.
The single hand on the golden hall clock reached the tenth hour and a jingling chime echoed across the marble tiles. At exactly the same moment, there were three loud knocks and one of the footmen opened the double doors to reveal Tapwick standing on the broad steps outside.
The brim of a large floppy hat hung low over the little man’s eyes and he carried a whip instead of a stick. “I’ve come for the boy,” he grunted, indicating a monstrous black coach that waited behind him. Four gigantic horses were in harness, also black and each one sporting a red plume. The horses struck at the ground of the little courtyard, anxious to be on the move.
From the hallway, Jem could see that the coach bore a strange painted crest. A central pyramid topped by an elongated eye was flanked on either side by a man with the head of a bird and something like a cross with a loop on the top. Jem gulped as he realised there was no other coachman waiting. Other than small, blind Tapwick.
Jem took a deep breath and walked out into the sunlight.
Tapwick opened the coach door and a small curved red step clattered down. The door revealed an interior that was dark and red as an open mouth – even the step looked like a long, lolling tongue.
Jem shuddered, despite the sunshine, and climbed inside. The door slammed behind him. Seconds later, there wa
s a wild shout from above and the coach jolted forward, rocking and rumbling out of the courtyard and into the busy road.
Jem was thrown back into the threadbare upholstery of the crimson seats. Steadying himself against the padded seat back, he tried not to think about Tapwick’s milky sightless eyes and the speed at which they were travelling.
The coach was old and heavy. It smelled musty and Jem recognised the faintest trace of the stench he associated with Cazalon: something overpoweringly sweet and floral, laced with the fetid scent of decay. He wrinkled his nose and looked around.
There was just one small window in the door, making the interior dark and oppressive. A little gilt vase fixed to the wall behind him contained two dead and faded roses, some of their brown desiccated petals were scattered on the tattered seat.
He thought he heard a sound above and looked up. The coach roof was tented with fraying red fabric that was caught up in a central knot over his head. The knot was held in the jaws of a snarling dog’s head carved in blackened wood. The eyes of this animal, a long-muzzled hound, seemed to be watching him.
“Horrible, isn’t it?”
Jem started.
“Not sure which is worse,” the high-pitched voice continued, “that dog thing up there or the awful smell! I’m down here by the way, just by your left hand.”
He looked down and saw a small white mouse on the seat beside him. It was standing on its hind legs, resting its two front paws on the fold of his coat pocket, and it was looking up at him with eyes that gleamed like bright little emeralds.
“Er… is that you, Ann?” Jem coughed, feeling suddenly very self-conscious about talking to a mouse.
“Well, of course it is, Jem. Who did you think it was, Oliver Cromwell?”
The mouse’s voice was irritated. Now it definitely sounded like Ann.
“Tapwick and my guardian have no idea what I’ve been up to – I’ve been trying different animals. I had quite a success as a cat, but I got left with a tail for several hours afterwards, which made sitting down extremely uncomfortable.”
Jem tried not to laugh as Ann continued. “So far, the smaller the creature, the easier the transformation, but for some reason I seem to be much better at objects – like the scarab brooch. Oh, by the way, thank you for passing me back to Tolly yesterday. That was quick thinking.”
“How’s Cleo?”
“She’ll recover, but her right paw is twisted. Tolly thinks it might be broken—”
The coach lurched on a street rut and the mouse rolled to the far side of the seat, getting caught up in some ragged cobweb-like upholstery.
“Blast!” Jem heard an infuriated squeak. “Could you pop me into your pocket or something, please. The way Tapwick drives this thing I wouldn’t be surprised if we had an accident.”
Jem leaned across and gently freed the mouse from the netted shreds of fabric. He carefully placed her in his coat pocket. Ann peeked out, her nose and whiskers twitching.
“Did you know that there are marchpane crumbs in here?” she asked.
Jem grinned, remembering the sweetmeats he’d stolen a couple of days earlier from the kitchen, from right under Pig Face’s very snout. “You certainly don’t miss anything, do you?”
“That’s the thing about being a mouse. They are always incredibly hungry.”
She burrowed down into his pocket and appeared a couple of seconds later with sugar on her whiskers. “That’s better. Now, I expect you’re wondering why I’m here?”
“I’m certainly glad that you are,” Jem replied. “Look, I’ve been thinking… After yesterday… Ann – we need to find out as much as possible about what Cazalon’s up to.”
The mouse nodded.
“You’re so certain about this jade boy stuff being the real key to his plans, but the only thing we have to go on is the fact that you think it’s me.”
The mouse nodded again and her tail whipped from side to side.
“So, we need more information,” Jem continued. “And the only way to get that is for me to go back to Malfurneaux Place. It was very clear that he wanted me to go back and we need to know why. Don’t worry. I’ll be on my guard this time.”
He stopped for a moment.
“Ann, what you said about my father being alive. I have to know, please…”
The mouse stared up at him and blinked.
“Please.”
The mouse gave a little sigh. “There’s not much to say. I’m sorry, Jem. When I held your hand that first time, I saw and felt lots of things about you. But I pick up the details so fast that everything gets confused. I can’t tell you anything more about your father, other than the fact that he is alive and that he is near.”
His father was near? Then he really was in danger! Jem’s stomach clenched tight as an oyster.
Ann continued. “There are so many secrets threaded around you, Jem. They’re in a knot – and it’s too tight and complicated for me to unravel. I’m sorry.”
“Is it the duke?” he blurted out. He couldn’t stop himself.
The mouse flicked her tail contemptuously and made a noise that sounded like a squeak of disgust.
“No, it can’t be. I’m absolutely certain of that. How on earth could you imagine that a vile man like that would be your father?”
Jem fell silent for a moment. He was surprised to feel a mixture of relief and disappointment. But if the duke wasn’t his father…
“Listen,” Ann’s voice was high and sharp. “If I knew any more I’d tell you, Jem. Isn’t it enough for now to know that your father is alive and that he is here in London?”
She twitched her whiskers before adding, “Oh, and you will know him before your thirteenth birthday. That’s the only other thing I can tell you.”
“Ann! Why didn’t you tell me this before?! My birthday’s less than six months away!” Jem was filled with panic. “London could be burned to a cinder in that time. What if we can’t stop it? I might never meet my own f– fa…’
He faltered. He knew it sounded selfish to be thinking of himself when a whole city full of fathers, mothers and children was on the brink of destruction.
“I– I’m sorry. I just wanted to know.” He reached down and gently gathered the little creature from his pocket, lifting her up in his cupped hands so that she was just below his chin. He stared into her brilliantgreen eyes. “I won’t ask any more. I promise.”
Ann made a noise that sounded like a sneeze and began to groom her sugary whiskers vigorously.
“Er, excuse me,” she said after several seconds. “It’s really hard not to do mouse things. Anyway, what you really need to know now, Jem, is that I’ve found a way to barricade your mind from my guardian. That’s why I’m here.”
“But Cazalon won’t be there today, will he?” said Jem hopefully. “He’s supposed to be at court with the duke. I thought it might be a chance for me to look round Malfurneaux Place and pick up some clues.”
“Of course he’s going to be there, Jem. He’s waiting for you!” Ann sounded exasperated. “That’s why I came to help you. I know what to do to block him.”
“Does it work – have you tried it?”
Ann shook her head. “I don’t need to. He can’t read my thoughts – he’s never been able to. He can’t read Tolly, either. It infuriates him. Actually, I think it’s one of the things he’s been asking my mother about but…’
Ann fell silent and Jem saw a series of tremors run through the fur of her tiny white back. He tentatively put out a finger and gently stroked the little creature until she seemed to calm.
She looked up from Jem’s cupped palm. “To close your mind against Cazalon you need to inscribe an ancient symbol on your skin in a place where he cannot see it. The symbol is known as the Eye of Ra. Do you know it?”
“I– I don’t think so,” Jem said, thinking back to any books from the duke’s library that he might have read.
“Well, the important thing is that I know, so I can describe it to you. Bu
t what can we use to draw it on you?”
The coach jolted again and Jem was thrown forward. Ann tumbled from his hands, but Jem deftly caught the little white animal before she hit the ground, gently closing his hands about her to keep her safe.
“Thank you!” The words came from within the cage of his fingers.
Outside, the street seemed to have narrowed. People thronged about the coach, their curious faces pressed against the pane of the small window. The rank smell of a thousand emptied middens thickened the air… They were crossing the Thames at London Bridge.
“We must be quick, Jem, find something sharp.”
He gently set Ann down on the seat and scoured the interior of the coach, but couldn’t see anything that might do. Standing, he tried to prise loose a sliver of the blackened woodwork that formed the dog head, but it was hard as iron. He slumped back into the moth-nibbled seat, careful not to crush the mouse.
“There’s nothing,” he said dejectedly.
“There is another way,” said Ann, after a moment. “But it might hurt. I– I could… um, well, that is to say, I could gnaw the Eye of Ra into the sole of your foot?”
“But that’s horrible.” Jem winced at the thought.
“Well, you come up with another plan then,” came the indignant reply.
Jem sighed and bent down to unlace his shoe. “This had better work,” he said grimly.
“And your feet had better be clean!”
When she had finished, Jem was left with a sore patch on his heel the size of a sovereign. The Eye of Ra was a circle containing a triangle, and in the centre of the triangle, Ann’s sharp rodent teeth had incised an eye.
The mouse stood back on the crimson seat and surveyed her work. “That should do. It’s not pretty, but as long as you keep it hidden he won’t be able to open your mind. Did I hurt you?”
“Not really,” Jem lied.
It had actually been incredibly painful and now it stung. He held his foot and bent it round so that he could see the still-bleeding mark more easily. Even through the blood, he noticed that it was very like the symbol on the door of the coach.
