"She is resting now," he added calmly. "I fear she exhausted herself, reacting so strongly, but she appears to be slumbering naturally. There is no doubt that she possesses a fully developed set of lungs."
With an angry sense that he had been cheated, Caleb limped over to the basket to take a closer look at his tiny sleeping "daughter." Her grey-green hair was still damp—it had an odd, feathery appearance, like moss or fern—and her skin was pale, with a creamy tint. The gills on the side of her neck had closed, and she appeared to be breathing easily. And suddenly—suddenly, Caleb did not feel cheated any longer, but humble and grateful, and slightly in awe of the miracle that he and Jenk had created between them.
He cleared his throat. "She's real pretty, ain't she? Daintier than a little wax doll."
"Indeed," said Jenk, with an indulgent smile. "And that reminds me; you might as well show me the garments you had made for her."
But when he saw the elegant little gowns Caleb had commissioned, the smile changed to a frown. "I perceive that you mean to spoil her. You will turn her head with all this finery!" He turned back to his flasks and his chemicals. "Never mind, you can hardly return them. You may dress her when she awakes."
"Dress her . . . me?" said Caleb. He lifted the little blanket, looked doubtfully down at the tiny female creature. Neither child nor woman, as yet, she appeared to be something in between, her figure immature but developing.
"We can hardly bring a woman in here to do it," said Jenk. "Yes, of course, you are the one to dress her. Have you not already promised to play the role of nursemaid?
"She must be perfect in every respect before I publish her existence abroad. She must know how to speak—to read and to write—she must have elegant manners. There must be no doubt in anyone's mind that she is indeed intelligent and self-aware, not a brute beast to perform a series of actions on command or to parrot certain phrases. Were she anything less than perfect, so, too, would my triumph be less than perfect.
"I shall supervise her education, when the time comes," the book-seller went on, with mounting enthusiasm. "But for now she must learn what every other infant learns: to walk about, to feed herself, and to communicate her needs. I leave her in your hands, Caleb, for the time being. When you have taught her to behave tolerably well, we shall send word to the Duke, and he will undoubtedly send his man out to observe her." Caleb experienced a sharp pang of apprehension. "The Duke . . . he won't be expecting us to hand her over, will he? She's ours, Gottfried; she don't belong to him. You promised we'd be able to keep her for ourselfs."
"But of course," said Jenk. "I would not think of parting with her, my miraculous creation. The Duke must be satisfied with the formula. He will be satisfied with the formula—you need have no fear on that account."
"And later on, if you should be offered money—a circus or a traveling exhibition—what then?" Caleb persisted.
"She is not for sale; she is positively not for sale. I grieve, my dear Caleb, that you should think me capable of any such thing," replied Jenk, with his hand on his heart.
"That's all right, then," said Caleb. "That's as it should be. Because I tell you straight out: there ain't no one going to part us, my little daughter and me . . . not while I'm alive and breathing!"
CHAPTER 28
In which Francis Skelbrooke experiences a Revelation.
Not far from Capricorn Street was another dark and narrow lane, where the sun did not shine until mid-day and evening shadows came early. Yet Blue Phoenix Lane was a street less dirty and degraded in character, being the abode of the "working" poor, and lined with old houses and humble businesses: chandlers, printers, ropemakers, and coopers; old-clothes men, cobblers, and rag merchants; purveyors of ink, quills, paper, pins, and needles.
Along Blue Phoenix Lane, one evening, slouched a sinister figure in a frieze coat. He wore his dirty blond hair in a greasy pigtail and a battered tricorn pulled low to shadow his features. Just where the lane began to climb Fishwife Hill, a lanthorn suspended from an overhang cast a beam of light on the door of a neat little apothecary shop.
After a moment of hesitation, he entered the shop. It was a typical apothecary shop, cluttered and homely, smelling of herbs and unguents, soaps, perfumes, and essential oils. The walls were lined with shelves and cabinets crowded with china jars and earthen pots, bottles, bags, and boxes, containing pills, powders, syrups, elixirs, cordials, drops, essences, and tonics. A stuffed fish hung suspended from the ceiling, among strings of poppy-heads and strings of rose-hips, and bunches of catnip, fennel, and madder hung up to dry. There was a fire burning on a little hearth at the back, a pot of boiling lye, to be made into soap, and a hypocaust brewing hydromel for drops and confections.
The proprietor was a little white-haired lady, who sat in a rocking chair behind the counter, writing labels for bottles in a thin spidery hand. Finding that he and the woman were alone in the shop, the man—he appeared to be either a gaoler or a particularly low sort of bargeman—closed and barred the door behind him.
He removed his hat and executed a low bow. "Your most obedient servant, Mistress Sancreedi."
"Francis Skelbrooke, what a turn you gave me," said the little apothecary, but a mischievous twinkle indicated that she had seen through his disguise immediately. "Might one ask what this . . . astounding costume . . . is supposed to portend?"
"Bad men, ill deeds, and (if I am successful) vengeance of no mean order," said Skelbrooke. Evidently much at home, he perched on the counter and set his battered tricorn down beside him. "I had your note, yesterday, promising extraordinary revelations. And I should have come last evening, but I was otherwise engaged."
Mistress Sancreedi shook her head. "Unexpected information, I believe that was the sense of my message. I must say, it was quite a puzzle you set me. It has taken me these many days to determine the contents of that vial you brought me."
"And . . . ?" asked Skelbrooke, swinging his legs.
Mistress Sancreedi put down her pen. "It contains, principally, the essence of a rare plant which grows only in the mountains on the continent of Orania. You were correct in supposing this medicine is the cause of Elsie Vorder's panics and visions—but I must tell you it is often used as a tonic to strengthen the blood, and may have been innocently prescribed with that purpose in mind. You told me—did you not?—that Dr. Mirabolo had diagnosed a distemper of the blood."
"That is true," agreed Skelbrooke. "But my own observations—"
"Your own observations agree with mine. At least when I knew her, Elsie Vorder was suffering from a poor circulation of the blood due to insufficient exercise, irregular hours, and an improper diet. Her original problem, as I believe, was nothing more than the growing pains and dizzy spells which are so common among young girls of twelve or thirteen years. Had she been left alone to recover naturally, she would be as healthy as her cousin Sera is today. But that is quite beside the point," said Mistress Sancreedi. "We both know that it is not uncommon for physicians to disagree—and indeed, Dr. Mirabolo was not the first of Elsie's doctors to diagnose a disease of the blood. Even I must admit that a girl who regularly breakfasts on vinegar and biscuits might well benefit from a blood-building tonic. As for the other unfortunate side-effects, they are less well known, and indeed may be easily avoided. The visions and the rising sense of panic only occur when a large dose of the tonic is followed soon after by the ingestion of sugar and alcohol, as in a cordial, or when taking a combination of cakes and sweet wine, or—"
"—or cherry ratafia," said Lord Skelbrooke.
"Did Elsie drink ratafia at Count Xebo's ball? Yes, that would certainly have brought on an attack, if she had taken her medicine earlier that same evening." Mistress Sancreedi went back to labeling her bottles. "It is altogether possible that Elsie's problems are only the result of honest ignorance on the part of Dr. Mirabolo and Jarl Skogsrå, who perhaps did not know to warn her against these undesirable effects of the medication."
Skelbrooke slipped off the co
unter. "A convenient mistake for Jarl Skogsrå, who uses these fits of Elsie's, and his ability to bring her out of them, in order to heighten her regard and press his suit. The entire situation seems so very contrived, his methods so sinister—"
"His methods do not seem altogether sinister to me." The apothecary dipped her pen in an inkwell on a shelf beside her. "This animal magnetism, it is not so very different from a method that I employ to soothe my own patients, to calm unquiet minds. Fairy glamour, they used to call it in the old days, for it comes quite naturally to those of us with a hint of the blood."
She looked up from her work. "It is, I believe, a very important part of the Duchess's famous charm, and may also be closely akin to those spells you employ in creating your illusions. The face you wore when you came in the door, for instance, that was very convincing."
"With all due respect, dear lady, I do not think so," said Skelbrooke. He began to pace around the shop. "The ability of which you speak is (I take it) a natural talent. Whereas the magic I practice is a discipline of the mind, the application of a trained will, the—"
"Yes, yes," said Mistress Sancreedi, with a humorous sigh. "We have discussed this before. No doubt it is just as you say. Yet this applied will may also be aided by a natural aptitude on your part. I have often wondered, dear Francis, if you might not be one of us, and never know it."
Lord Skelbrooke stiffened. "I can assure you that my ancestry is solidly human on both sides of the family. The genealogies I was taught to recite as a boy, at my grandfather's behest—"
"Not a recent ancestor, certainly," said the lady. "Else you would certainly know. Fairy gifts do not always take an attractive form, but they are virtually unmistakable. Do stop and gaze at yourself in a mirror some time, Francis.
"But I stray from the point. I know that you are ready and more than ready to suspect evil motives on the part of the Duchess, yet you have no idea what those motives might be. My dear boy," she asked, with a look of pain, "how long must all women suffer in your regard, for the wickedness of the one?"
"I believe," said Skelbrooke, beginning again to move restlessly around the shop, "that in my more lucid moments I can tell the difference between a good woman like yourself and . . . the other sort. Nevertheless, I do not consider the Duchess a virtuous woman. You will tell me, no doubt, that she is generous—that she endows hospitals, schools, and other charitable institutions—all with the Duke's money. But I will tell you that her private habits are perverse, and her knowledge of the Black Arts varied and extensive."
Mistress Sancreedi corked her inkwell and her gluepot. "Yet to study these arts is not necessarily to practice them—else how would good folk like you and I know to recognize them? No, I should not go so far as to term the Duchess a woman of virtue, but I can assure you of this: Marella Carleon is not one to act out of idle malice. It is not in her nature; it is not in any fairy's nature, be she Fee or Farisee. That being so, and under the circumstances, I cannot believe that she means Elsie any harm.
"It would be different," she added, "if we knew of anything that Elsie had done to offend the Duchess. They are an unforgiving lot, the Fees, and their vengeance can be . . . exaggerated. It would not even have to be something that Elsie had done intentionally. But indeed, the girl is so very inoffensive, I find it hard to imagine even an unintended insult."
"As do I," said Skelbrooke, with a slight shake of his head.
It was a very different Francis Skelbrooke who ate supper at the Guildhall with his lodge brothers, later that same evening: freshly bathed and barbered; powdered, scented, and patched; in pastel satin and snowy point lace, and a waistcoat embroidered with roses and pansies. The members of the guild ate a very good meal and lingered long over their brandy.
"My dear Lord Skelbrooke, pray tell us something of your recent exploits," said a pale young fellow in a grey wig, another of the "bookish gentlemen" attached to the speculative branch of the guild. "I daresay that you are presently engaged in something particularly dangerous and exciting."
Lord Skelbrooke took out his pocket watch. It was shaped like an egg: a very pretty trinket, if a bit outsized, it had been coated with a shell of fine white porcelain and painted with tiny flowers. "I am presently endeavoring to put an end to the white-slave trade as it is practiced in Thornburg and neighboring towns," he said, lifting the upper half of the egg and studying the watch face beneath. "Decent young girls, and sometimes boys as well, are kidnapped and spirited away—sometimes in wagons over the Alps, but more often in ships by way of Spagne—and sold in Ynde to serve as concubines, or even common prostitutes."
"A shocking practice, no doubt, said the pale young gentleman. "Though why it should merit your concern, I do not precisely comprehend. Your purpose—indeed, the purpose which we all share in common—is to seek out instances of the misuse of magic, and see that the offenders are punished."
Skelbrooke smiled his sweetest and blandest smile. "But of course, Lord Mallekin, it is just as you say. And that being so, perhaps it would be in order for you to share with this assembly your own (no doubt considerable) exploits in the pursuit of that goal?"
There followed an uncomfortable silence, during which Lord Mallekin and some of the other gentlemen exchanged uneasy glances. Lord Mallekin cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to criticize. I am well aware—"
"You are well aware," said Skelbrooke, closing his watch, and still smiling that same amiable smile, "that it is only my presence among you, and my willingness to take on risks which none of the rest of you dare to even contemplate, that extends this chapter any credibility at all. You are also aware that until I arrived in Thornburg and presented myself to the Grand Preceptor"—here he gave a respectful nod of the head in the direction of Mr. Christopher Owlfeather—"and was duly admitted into the chapter, you and your fellow members could no more claim an active pursuit of that particular purpose than—I beg your pardon, I do not mean to imply that the other goals of the Glassmakers were neglected, that the poor were not fed or that widows and orphans were not given aid, or that my own contribution is in any way more important than the charitable works of this institution. But in regard to the oath that all of us take to seek out the guilty and to render justice, nothing at all was done, beyond a great deal of talk and the performance of some very pretty ceremonies and rituals. Even now—"
"Even now," put in Mr. Owlfeather, from his place at the head of the table, "only you, my good Francis, have the courage, the daring, and the expertise necessary to take an active role. For which reason," he added, with a significant glance in Lord Mallekin's direction, "I have taken the position that it is not for the guild to dictate Lord Skelbrooke's activities, so much as to sponsor them. Where and when he chooses to act must be left entirely to his own discretion."
"I thank you," said Skelbrooke, with another nod. "I am perfectly convinced that insofar as you are concerned, Mr. Owlfeather, no explanation is necessary. But for the sake of the other gentlemen here present I will say this much: there is evidence that these white slavers make some use of magic in snaring their victims and rendering them docile. These spells, so very minor in themselves, would hardly merit my attention, were it not for the purpose to which they have been addressed."
"Nevertheless," the young man in the grey wig insisted, "from what I know of your previous activities, this project does not appear to be precisely in line with your usual endeavors."
"My dear Lord Mallekin." Skelbrooke's voice took on a steely edge, and his smile lost some of its sweetness. "I oppose myself to anything which tends toward the rape of innocence."
The Glassmakers conducted their more private ceremonies in a vault beneath the Guildhall: a vast octagonal chamber built of stone, purposely constructed to resemble a glassblower's furnace, with arched apertures on every wall, except at the east, where the heavy iron doors were located.
There were seven arches, and twice seven pillars, and seven marble statues of the winged Fates. The floor was tile
d in an elaborate mosaic pattern depicting the ascent of the soul through the seven spheres. At the center of the vault was a raised dais, reached by nine shallow steps.
On this particular evening, only lodge members of the sixth rank and higher were present, for this was a ceremony of elevation to that rank and title: Exalted Commander of the Burning Water. There were two Wardens at the door, south and north, Francis Skelbrooke and Master Ule, both of them attired in purple robes emblazoned with suns and stars. They wore sharp-edged scimitars with golden handles, tucked into their belts. And Mr. Owlfeather, as the Grand Preceptor, waited on the dais.
As the iron doors opened; the Wardens drew their scimitars. Two members, acting as Chaplains, appeared on the threshold, escorting the blindfolded Candidate between them. His eyes were bandaged and his wrists manacled with wide cuffs joined by a stout chain—symbolizing the heavy weight which those who live in ignorance must bear through the world. The Chaplains led him to the dais, and Mr. Owlfeather, descending, removed the blind-fold.
In his place by the door, Francis Skelbrooke was experiencing the greatest difficulty concentrating on the action by the altar. His thoughts kept straying back to the apothecary shop and the puzzling revelations of Mistress Sancreedi. Every instinct he possessed assured him that Skogsrå and the Duchess presented a threat to the health and well-being of Elsie Vorder, yet the nature of that threat continued to elude him. Something was missing, he told himself, some clue, some word, some perception—lacking which he was incapable of making the right connections.
Up on the dais, the ritual continued. The Preceptor produced a poniard and placed it ceremoniously at the initiate's throat. On receiving the correct response, he removed the blade and freed the Candidate of his shackles. The initiate crossed his arms, palms up, offering his wrists to Mr. Owlfeather, who carefully made a shallow, ritual scar on each one.
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