She read the beginning again, hearing her mother’s voice in her head as her blurring eyes skipped over the lines.
If so, then chances are, unfortunately, that we shall never see you again….
Emmeline noticed her fingers shaking a little as she replaced the letter, and she formed two fists on top of her satchel, her knuckles whitening. At the same time she told herself in no uncertain terms that she was to grow up and stop being such a nincompoop.
But that, of course, was easier said than done.
Watt drew the car to a juddering halt just in front of a long, low, white-painted building. Large double doors swung open and closed constantly as people passed through in both directions, most of them carrying luggage—or having it carried for them. Beyond the doors was a mystery, though from what Emmeline could tell, it involved light, and sparkling music, and lots of noise.
Just then a huge MAAAAAAAARP split the air into molecules. Emmeline jumped, dropping her satchel on the floor in the process.
“Only the ship’s horn, miss,” said Watt, covering Emmeline’s embarrassment. “Nothing at all to be concerned about. Now let’s get started, shall we?”
Emmeline couldn’t find the words to ask Watt to let her stay. Instead, she gave a very tight squeak, like someone rubbing a finger on a wet windowpane. The next thing she knew, he’d flung open the car door and was bundling her out, making a rather unnecessary fuss about it. As soon as she’d found her feet, Watt whistled, and as if he’d been waiting for the summons, a boy ran over pushing a large, flat-based luggage cart. He had a wide face, covered in sweat, and a small hat tied to his head with string, and he almost bashed his cart into Emmeline’s leg as he came to a stop. She was overcome with an urge to cower behind Watt for protection but glowered at the boy instead.
“Sir?” he said, ignoring her. “Cart, sir?”
“For Miss Widget’s bags,” said Watt in a rather grand and unfamiliar voice. “The young lady is sailing for Paris this morning, and so a bit of haste would be appreciated.”
“O’course, sir,” said the boy. “Very good, sir.” Emmeline watched in amazement as the boy hauled every last box, bag, and case out of the car and placed them on the cart, all in the space of less than a minute.
“Miss?” he said, stretching out his hand to take her satchel. Emmeline clutched it to her chest, her nostrils flaring in indignation.
“The young lady prefers to keep that piece of luggage about her person at all times. If you don’t mind,” said Watt smoothly. The boy shrugged before turning away and taking off through the doors of the white building like a greyhound out of a trap.
“Best get a move on, then, miss,” said Watt. His ordinary voice was back, sounding a little quieter than normal. “Don’t want your worldly accoutrements sailing the high seas without you, eh?” Emmeline noticed him looking around, his scrawny neck and bulging eyes reminding her of a wary bird, as though he suspected predators everywhere. She felt her indignation drain away, replaced by a heavy coldness that settled around her heart.
“But, Watt. Why do I have to go right now?” she asked, feeling very small. Her eyes were hot. Something tickled her cheek, and she raised her hand to wipe it. Much to her surprise, her fingers came away wet. “Why is there such a rush?”
“Well, now, miss, I’m the wrong person to ask.” Watt paused in his head-swinging and turned back to her, pulling at his collar. “I s’pose your parents wanted you to be safe, you know, and to get started off into a new life without having too much time to dwell on the past. The less you remember, the less it’ll upset you.” He gave her an uncertain grin, which ended up looking more like a grimace.
Emmeline narrowed her drying eyes at him. “Safe? Are you insane? With parents like mine, it’s amazing I’ve even lived as long as I have.”
“But you did, miss. Live, I mean,” said Watt, glancing around again as if he were looking for something he’d lost. “That’s the important thing.”
“What are you talking—” Emmeline began, but she got no further than that.
“Yer luggage is loaded, miss!” shouted the cart boy from a few feet away. Watt snapped to attention, and Emmeline wanted to scream in frustration. “Boat’s leavin’ in twenty minutes,” gasped the boy, right behind her. “I fair had a struggle gettin’ all the bags on in time, and packed neatly, an’ all….” He let his words trail off into midair, where they hung, pleading. Watt nodded, reaching into his breast pocket, and Emmeline felt the boy tense up beside her as he stared intently at Watt’s fumbling hand.
“Here you are,” said Watt, drawing his fingers out of his pocket. Clutched between them was a crisp white card, which he presented to the boy. “Should you ever need admittance to the London Scientific and Zoological Institute, or any of its associated clubs, simply show this at the door and no questions will be asked. A very useful way for a young man like yourself to get ahead in the world, you know.”
As Watt held out the small white rectangle, Emmeline recognized it as her father’s business card, and a strange feeling washed over her, one that felt a little like missing your footing on the stairs. She noticed something she’d never seen before—letters, all in capitals, embossed above her father’s name. Silently she read a single word, OSCAR, but she had no idea what it meant. Curious, she thought, and filed it away for future reference.
“Yeah,” griped the boy, snatching the card from Watt’s fingers. “Not goin’ to buy me a new pair o’ shoes, though, is it?” Grumbling, he swung his cart away, stuffing the card into his pocket as he went.
And with that, Emmeline’s interest in OSCAR, whoever or whatever it was, burst like a soap bubble. Reality slid back into place all around her.
She turned to Watt, feeling a bit like she was drowning and he was a distant shore. “I don’t want to get on this boat,” she said hopelessly. “Please don’t make me go.”
“Miss, you read the letter,” said Watt, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You know I’ve no choice. Your parents’ wishes are my wishes, miss. They’ve had me by their side all these years, and I can’t turn away from ’em now.”
Emmeline’s jaw dropped. “But don’t my wishes count?”
“No,” answered Watt after a second or two of contemplation. “I can’t say they do, miss.” He looked down at her, his eyes wet and red-rimmed. “I’m sorry, girl. I really am.” He cleared his throat and straightened up, brushing Emmeline’s shoulder like it was dusty. “Now, we’d best not waste any more time. This boat won’t wait for the tardy, remember?”
Emmeline stood on the deck of the giant ship and watched the dark speck that was Watt, several hundred feet below. People all around her were yelling, shouting their farewells, pleading for telegrams and letters and visits and lots of other things, but Emmeline saved her breath. All she wanted from Watt was for him to come striding up the gangplank to take her home, and she knew that was completely pointless. Shouting and shrieking about it would make less than no difference, and so Emmeline stayed quiet and still, like a small, forlorn statue.
Eventually Watt was swallowed by the crowd, and no matter how hard or fast Emmeline blinked, she couldn’t catch sight of him again.
She sighed and stepped back out of the crush, her arms carefully wrapped around her satchel. As she walked across the boards toward the cabins, a sudden vibration under her feet almost knocked her flat. Her fingers instinctively flew to her satchel buckles, which leaped open beneath her practiced touch. She began searching for her life-preserving hot-water bottle, but then she heard a man nearby cry out with what sounded like joy.
“She’s away!” he said, slapping his friend between the shoulder blades, making the other man cough. “Those’ll be the engines firing up. We’ll be at sea soon enough.”
At sea, Emmeline thought as the guffawing, mustache-wearing gentlemen passed her by. Also meaning “lost” or “confused,” or both.
“Apt,” she said to nobody in particular, grumpily refastening her satchel.
“Didja say somethin’?” replied a curiously metallic, hollow-sounding voice, seemingly out of nowhere. “Only, I thought you did, and I wouldn’t want to be rude an’ not make a suitably witty and interestin’ retort.”
Emmeline looked around. All she could see was a few carefully welded benches, a flotation device or two bolted to the wooden wall in front of her, and a seagull, peering at her sideways.
“I beg your pardon?” she ventured, clutching her satchel close, but the seagull said nothing.
“You talkin’ to me?” The metallic voice sounded no closer nor any farther away, but every bit as odd as it had the first time.
“How very strange,” she said, taking a step backward.
“I’m not strange,” said the voice, now becoming a little less hollow-sounding. “I’m perfickly normal, thank you very much. And I’m over ’ere.” Something moved to Emmeline’s left, and her gaze was caught by a dusty head emerging from a grating in the wall. This head—the color of whose hair was impossible to determine—was swiftly followed by a grubby body dressed in overalls. The fingernails of this creature were clotted with dirt and oil, and its—his?—face was smeared with grease. As Emmeline watched, he slithered out of the hole he’d been hiding in, until all of him—and there wasn’t much—was standing in front of Emmeline with a hand held out in greeting.
“Mornin’,” he said. “M’name’s Thing. Who’re you?”
“I’m sorry?” said Emmeline, looking at his outstretched hand as if he’d offered her a used handkerchief.
“Yeah, me too,” said the boy wearily.
Emmeline blinked. “Um. Pardon?”
“Sorry ’bout my name,” he replied, taking back his hand and shoving it into a pocket, looking altogether unconcerned. “Wasn’t that what we were talkin’ about?”
“I’m quite sure we weren’t talking about anything,” replied Emmeline, adjusting her grip on her satchel and trying surreptitiously to look around.
“Need a hand with your bag?” The boy snuffled, like he had a heavy cold. “I’m good at that. Givin’ hands with stuff.”
“No,” said Emmeline, aghast. “Thank you.”
“Suit yerself,” he replied, rocking on the balls of his feet. “So, are you goin’ to tell me your name, or do I ’ave to guess it?”
“How on earth would you guess it?” said Emmeline, taking another step back.
“Bet I could,” said Thing, grinning. His teeth were nearly as filthy as his face, and Emmeline’s nose curled upward in disgust. Thing just grinned wider.
“Look, I have to go to my cabin now,” she said. “So if you’ll excuse me?”
“No,” said Thing. “Is it Amy? Angela? Angelica? No—wait. Agnes. It’s Agnes, ain’t it?”
“What do you mean, no?” said Emmeline, wishing she had Burke’s A History of Tenting (Illustrated) on hand. Thrown just right, it would have done considerable damage.
“Y’asked if I’d excuse you. So I said no. Agnes.”
“My name is not Agnes,” Emmeline muttered.
“Betty? Bettina? Bucephalus! Go on, say it’s Bucephalus. Always wanted to meet one o’ those.”
“You’re not even on the right letter.” Emmeline’s arm was starting to hurt from holding her satchel so tightly, and she really wanted to find her cabin and lie down.
“Right. Caroline. Carly. Christina. Chrysanthemum.”
“Chrysanthemum is a flower. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Lots of girls’re named after flowers. Rose. Lily. Petunia. Gardenia. Viola. Violet. Daisy. Poppy. Lily.”
“You said Lily already.” Emmeline sighed, shifting her satchel to the other arm.
“So you were listenin’.” Thing grinned.
“My name is Emmeline, all right? Now, can I please go?”
“Emmmmmeliiiiiiine,” said the strange boy, rolling her name around in his mouth like he was tasting it. “I like it. That’ll do.”
“Do for what?”
“Collect names, I do,” Thing replied. “Someday I’ll meet one I can’t resist an’ I’ll keep it for meself.”
Emmeline sighed. “Look, this is fascinating and all, but I really need to—look, I’m going now. All right?”
Thing shrugged, sucking on his front teeth. “Free country, innit?” he replied, yawning slightly, and pulled out a hand to scratch his head, fixing his gaze on something just beyond Emmeline’s left shoulder. She struggled not to turn to see what it was. “Jus’ don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re on the point o’ dyin’ from boredom, yeah?”
“I’ll try my very hardest,” said Emmeline, squeezing past. Thing smelled like smoke and dirt and sweat, and as soon as she was clear, he swung himself back into the hole in the wall. Despite herself, Emmeline couldn’t help but be curious about where it went.
“Well, cheerio, then,” he said as he waved and disappeared from view. The grating clanged shut and Emmeline was by herself again. Even the seagull was long gone.
She was irritated to notice that she felt a lot more alone than before.
Her cabin, Emmeline soon discovered, was far less luxurious than she’d expected. For one thing, it was barely bigger than a wardrobe. For another, it was crammed full of her bags, which had been unceremoniously thrown in without any consideration for their shape, or their contents. She was fairly sure some of them had been deliberately kicked into place.
Sighing, she closed the door and turned to her left, where a tiny bed was folded flat against the wall. She pulled it down, its springs squealing loudly, and clicked it home. It was so close to the cabin door that you could probably open the door without lifting your head from the pillow. She grimaced. Clutching her satchel, she clambered up on the bed and stood on tiptoe to gaze out the porthole window set right above it. All she could see outside were planks and planks of empty deck leading to a railing and, beyond that, nothing but water, water everywhere.
Like a magician’s rabbit pulled out of a hat, a head suddenly appeared outside the porthole, slightly distorted by the thick glass. Emmeline blinked, but it didn’t go away.
Then the head grinned in at her, and Emmeline sighed again, this time from her toes. Her curiosity about Thing had dwindled on the way to her cabin, exhaustion sweeping in to take its place, and she really wasn’t in the mood to have another conversation, particularly with him. But there he was, enthusiastically gesturing at her to open up. She pretended not to understand for a minute, but he just raised his eyebrows at her.
“All right, all right,” she grumbled. After a few finger-rattling moments, when she had to strain against the tight seal, the porthole window finally unstuck itself with a loud pop.
“H’lo,” said Thing. “Ice cream?”
“Sorry?” said Emmeline.
“Ice. Cream,” repeated Thing. As he spoke, he thrust a small, battered cardboard carton through the window. His fingers were thick with dirt, and although the ice cream itself looked delicious, Emmeline couldn’t imagine eating it without thinking of Thing, which was enough to put her off food entirely.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
“Well, ain’t you gonna eat it?” said Thing.
“Not really hungry just now, actually,” said Emmeline, even though nothing could have been further from the truth. She realized that in the rush to leave she hadn’t had breakfast, and despite the fact that looking at the ice cream was enough to make her weak, she refused to budge. She’d have to test it for contaminants and poisons, and check it thoroughly to make sure there were no traps embedded in it, and—
“Suit yerself,” said Thing, leaning back and bringing the tiny carton with him. His grimy spoon was just about to sink into the clean white mound when Emmeline couldn’t bear it anymore.
“No!” she cried. Thing paused, his spoon inches from the ice cream. “I mean, actually, I could force it down, I suppose.”
“Thought as much,” said Thing, grinning, and he handed the carton to her. He fished another spoon out of an unseen pocket and huffed a
breath over it before polishing it vigorously on his sleeve. Then he presented it to Emmeline, handle-first.
“There y’are,” he said, settling his elbows on the curved edge of the porthole.
Emmeline’s stomach was rolling and growling and boiling inside her. She’d never eaten anything she hadn’t tested, of course, as was only sensible living with parents like hers. But, she told herself, it’s going to melt away to nothing….She stared at the silver belly of the spoon that Thing had given her, and tried not to see the millions of tiny germs that she felt quite sure were skating around on it, laughing up at her with their moldy teeth.
“Just get going, would ya?” murmured Thing. “I ain’t got all day to ’ang around here, y’know.” He paused thoughtfully before continuing. “Or, well, I ’ave, but I don’t want to spend all day ’angin’ around here. Better things to do.”
Emmeline watched her fingers dig the filthy spoon into the pristine ice cream. As if her hand were being driven by someone else, it lifted itself to her mouth. Her lips opened, the spoon went in, and the next thing she knew, she was licking the carton clean.
“Weren’t ’ungry, were ya?” Thing grinned.
“Sorry,” said Emmeline, wiping her chin.
“Yeah,” said Thing. “Now. Ready for yer adventure?” Emmeline, who felt she was already having the worst and most terrible adventure of her life, stared out at him.
“What adventure?” Thing didn’t answer but instead spread his arms wide to the left and right, as though taking in the whole ship.
“Stand back,” he said. When Emmeline didn’t move immediately, he repeated himself, this time with a bit more force. “Stand back, yeah? I’m comin’ through!” Before Emmeline could tell him she’d rather he didn’t, actually, he’d stuck his head through the porthole. Like toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube, the rest of him followed, until—with a somersault—he was standing on her bed, grinning through his mop of filthy hair. Emmeline grabbed her satchel, using it like a shield, and snapped her mouth closed.
The Eye of the North Page 2
