The Friday Society

by Adrienne Kress

  Foolhardy, perhaps, for anyone but her. Your average robber probably would have thought her totally barking mad for trying to slip into such a place during the day, but Nellie was a whiz at making herself invisible. She understood how helpful a shadow could be, how she could make herself smaller by turning one way or the other, or crouching, or bending to mimic whatever she was hiding behind. How many times had she had to slip out of the Magician’s boxes, or bend herself up out of the spectators’ line of sight, or conceal herself in plain view in the audience? Too many to count. She could hide.

  She could also do wonders with a rope. Scale the sides of set pieces, lean out and over, swing across a vast auditorium. And there wasn’t a lock she couldn’t pick.

  So for her, the trick was not in getting into the house or keeping out of sight, it was waiting for Mr. Carter to head out to the bank for the day.

  Nellie had learned a fair bit about Mr. Carter in the last couple days. While Cora had set out to talk with him, Nellie had been asking around town, finding out where he lived and how he made his money. He was an MP. But he was also a banker. And a pretty successful one at that. Knowing he had a day job made life easier for Nellie, who felt quite confident she could then poke about his home office without being interrupted. After all, who went into a man’s private office?

  Nellie glanced around and, when she was sure no one was about, quickly removed the long black coat she was wearing to hide her dark blue Magician’s-assistant costume. She’d been inspired the other night by Michiko’s having a special outfit in which to disappear into the shadows. And besides, there was no way she could be sneaky in a long skirt. You needed mobility to break into someone’s home.

  She hid the coat under a bush and without pause made a running jump at the lowest branch of the large tree before Mr. Carter’s estate. She pulled herself up by her arms until she could hook her legs over, bringing herself up to a sitting position. She then reached for the branch above and carefully stood on the one currently supporting her. She swung off it and propelled herself to a higher branch, hooking her knees over it. She continued on this way until she was neatly hidden from view.

  Now there was nothing to do but to wait.

  27

  . . . But Also This Was Happening

  “IT ISN’T ENOUGH time,” whined Hayao as Michiko ended their second session. She was surprised to hear his frustration. After all, they’d had a very decent first round of sparring, though she’d hardly admit it to him. “How will I ever learn if I study only a couple of hours every morning?”

  “Just as I will learn your fast running studying a couple hours every night. We make do with our situation. We do not complain.”

  Hayao sighed loudly and dramatically, and Michiko wondered if he would ever learn how to keep his emotions to himself. Not only was it dangerous to let your enemy know your every thought and vulnerability, it was also just annoying to everyone else.

  “What time do you want to meet tonight?” he asked, handing her back the cane.

  “Can’t tonight.” She slipped it into the bag with the other weapons, closing the bag quickly so Hayao wouldn’t get excited noticing the Silver Heart hidden at the bottom.

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Because I have to find the Fog, that’s why. I have a goal, and it must be accomplished. And though the running last night was . . . astounding . . . it means I am now a night behind in my search.

  “I can’t.”

  She hated that she felt guilty about leaving him in the small park as she sneaked back into the house. She hated that she felt like she was letting him down. That wasn’t the way it should be. He should feel bad for making her feel bad. He should be embarrassed by his histrionics. But the fact was, she did wish she could be the master he wanted her to be. In letting him down, she was letting herself down.

  Callum didn’t rise until after nine in the morning, so Michiko had some time to sit with Shuu in the kitchen, watch him carefully prepare breakfast in that slow deliberate way of his. She knew Callum couldn’t stand his old servant’s slowness, but Michiko thought it quite beautiful to watch. Like a dance underwater.

  Soon, though, the third little bell to the left over the door began ringing incessantly. Though it rang at the same volume no matter how hard you tugged its cord, Callum always seemed to pull on the rope at the far end of the house in his room with as much vehemence as he could, to make sure he got Shuu and Koukou’s full attention.

  Michiko had no bell, only—

  “Michiko!”

  She stood at the foot of his bed and watched him gulp down his breakfast without even tasting it. So much for your efforts, Shuu, thought Michiko.

  He’d summoned her to his room, then made her wait until all his food was washed down with hot black coffee. Then he lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.

  Finally: “We are making a house call today.”

  “Yes, Callum-kun.”

  “A private teaching session, a family. And you won’t embarrass me.”

  Most of his words she didn’t understand, but “embarrass” she did. I won’t, if you won’t. “Yes, Callum-kun.”

  They stared at each other, and once again the gaze of his too-round eyes sent a shiver up her spine. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get packing!”

  “Packing,” another very familiar word. A little bow, just the head. Nothing more. “Yes, Callum-kun.”

  She was used to packing. She knew what Callum wanted to bring along to each particular outing. For presentations, it was weaponry that looked showy and exciting. For classes, usually just sticks—parasols, canes, maybe the pair of wooden training katanas. So she packed up the latter, thinking fondly of the Silver Heart, now hidden away upstairs in her wardrobe.

  She dressed in her all-black training gear, which she had only just removed from her training session with Hayao, and in short order she was joining Callum in his carriage. He was wearing a tweed suit and shiny leather shoes. Michiko sighed inwardly at how impractical an outfit it was for fighting purposes.

  She anticipated a very long day.

  28

  . . . And Still in the Tree . . .

  TIME PASSED. NELLIE remained still. People walked below her, had short conversations about the weather and politics—“I say, isn’t the sun bright this afternoon!” “It is indeed, and did you hear about Lord White’s latest push in the House?” “He thinks he’ll be Prime Minister someday . . .” “What a laugh. And isn’t the sky a remarkable blue?” “That it is.”

  Finally, the wrought-iron gate to the house opened wide and a steam carriage burst out onto the street like a horse champing at the bit just set loose in the yard. For a moment Nellie was enveloped in the white-hot vapor, then the carriage disappeared down Kensington High Street.

  There was no time to waste. Nellie climbed across the long branch until it almost reached the roof of the house. From her belt, she took the long thin rope that the Magician had designed especially for his act. Made of a metal so thin it looked like it would support little more than a feather, the rope, in reality, could haul something as heavy as a piano quite effortlessly. It was so fine that, with the correct lighting, it could make a person hanging from it appear to be floating. This rope was Nellie’s good friend.

  She’d attached a small hook to one end, which she now tossed toward one of the chimneys. The hook just missed its target, and she tried again. And again. And again. By the fourth time, she was getting angry, and her hands were shaking now. Calm down. Breathe if you can. Breathe. She tried to do some of that yoga-breathing thing that the Magician had taught her, but she didn’t have the patience for it.

  And, just as she thought she would have to give up, a little squawk came from above. It was so quiet. A little “psst” in bird form—meant just for her.

  Nellie glanced up.

  “Well, bless my stars! Sherry,” she said in a bemused whisper. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “That’s a laugh,” replied the bir
d, and flew to her shoulder.

  Nellie wanted to scold the bird for following her. And to praise her for keeping herself so well hidden. It wasn’t easy for a creature as brightly colored as Scheherazade to keep out of sight, but she’d done a remarkable job of it. Come to think of it, it was really the first time the bird had ever followed her like that. Nellie was a little proud. And honored.

  Then she had an idea.

  “Hey, Sherry, do you think you could fly this rope over to the chimney and hook it around?” She realized after she said it that, of course, the bird didn’t understand a word. So she showed her what she meant, hooking the fine rope around a tree branch. Then she released it and tossed it toward the chimney, this time without any intention of getting it to hook on. Just to show the bird what she meant.

  Scheherazade watched the whole display intently, but it wasn’t altogether clear if she had any idea what Nellie was going on about.

  “Here you go, Sherry, open wide.” The bird knew that order and opened her beak. Nellie carefully placed the rope inside, the hook dangling down to one side. “Now go!”

  She gave the bird a little push in the right direction, and Scheherazade took off toward the roof. Nellie crossed her fingers.

  The parrot landed on the roof right by the chimney and looked at it. Then she looked at Nellie.

  “Go around,” mouthed Nellie, and drew a large circle in the air with her finger.

  Scheherazade looked at the chimney again. Then looked at her. Then at the chimney. Then she hopped along around the chimney until she’d made a full circle and dropped the hook on the other side of the rope so it caught it fast. The bird looked at Nellie again, and then at the hook, and then at Nellie.

  Nellie tugged at the rope from her end. It was holding fast. She smiled at Scheherazade and said, “Good Polly!” as loudly as she dared so the parrot would hear.

  Now all she had to do was swing. Swing so that she was standing on the top-floor window ledge—the servants’ quarters and the one place Nellie knew wouldn’t be occupied this time of day.

  Nothing to it.

  Nothing at all.

  She’d performed such a move a thousand times before onstage.

  Though, of course, in the theater she had trained stagehands in charge of the rigging, and here she had only a parrot . . .

  This is what they called a leap of faith . . .

  29

  . . . And Back to Michiko Again . . .

  THE LITTLE GIRL wouldn’t stop crying. It horrified Michiko to hear this wailing sound from such a little creature. The girl was sitting in the middle of the large ballroom, mouth open so wide you could count her tiny teeth.

  Her mother was alternating between frantic apologies and violent pulls on a long red rope in the corner. Eventually, a frightened-looking young woman maybe only a few years older than Michiko came running into the room. She wore a white bonnet and apron, and she scooped the small child off the floor and exited the room so quickly it was as if she’d never been.

  At last there was calm again, and the mother gestured to Callum that they should continue. It had been a basic demonstration: Callum with his cane, Michiko with her parasol, but the small child had found their choreographed fight evidently too traumatic to witness in silence. Now they began again, and Michiko barely focused on the steps she was performing—they were so familiar that she didn’t have to—and instead made plans for the night ahead. She’d definitely be using the rooftops as her highway, but where to begin? That same spot where both the doctor and flower girl had been killed? It didn’t seem likely.

  “Michiko!”

  Michiko snapped back to attention and saw that Callum was giving her a stern look. “Yes, Callum-kun?”

  “Show. Show them.” He pointed to the two girls, around ten and eleven respectively.

  “Yes, Callum-kun.” She hadn’t spent much time working with children. To be honest, they kind of scared her. These two, in particular, had very haunted expressions. Their black eyes, which stared at her from under an almost pure white fringe of hair, made Michiko pretty sure they could read her thoughts. Their sad little faces seemed to suggest that they didn’t much like what they were finding.

  She gave them each a child’s parasol, objects she hoped they were familiar with, and set them opposite each other. Immediately the younger one whacked the older over the head.

  Michiko ran between them. “No,” she said, holding up a finger. “No.” She waited a moment and then took a step away.

  The older one whacked the younger one.

  Both girls started to giggle.

  “Michiko!” called Callum from across the room. She had a sudden urge to throw one of the parasols, spearlike, right between his enraged eyes.

  The mother placed a hand on Callum’s shoulder and smiled gently. Michiko didn’t like the look of this woman at all. She was like one of those English desserts with whipped cream and berries and sugar all over the place. A sweetness masking a lack of real substance. She seemed held together by her corset, so cinched she looked ready to burst. Her cheeks a little too red. Her voice a little too high.

  She leaned in and whispered something in Callum’s ear. Her red lips grazed his skin. He glanced at her and nodded. Instantly the mother was ushering her children out of the room and Callum came storming toward Michiko.

  “Go,” he said.

  “Home?” she asked, confused but relieved.

  “No, not ‘home.’” He did one of his delightful imitations of her accent in repeating the word. “Somewhere else. In the house. I’ll find you later. Just . . . get the hell out of here.” He hissed the last bit at her, spit flying into her face.

  Oh. She knew what was going on now. She had to stay in the house so that she could leave with him. Keep up appearances and all that.

  Fine. She’d wander.

  Does a samurai warrior peek into private closets?

  Oh, who cares?

  Michiko was feeling distinctly grumpy.

  She made her way down the wide main hall and toward the grand staircase, following it as it twisted upward. The second floor, she hoped, would have bedrooms and the like. She tiptoed past the nursery, where all three girls were now playing happily with their nanny, and crossed over to what was clearly the grown-ups’ part of the house. First she entered what she assumed was the mother’s bedroom. It couldn’t have been anyone else’s—all pink flowers and pillows everywhere. It even smelled pink.

  Michiko did a little quiet rifling through the woman’s large closet and couldn’t help but be astounded by the yards of fabric she’d consumed for her clothes. Silks and thick woolen blends, and sheer fabrics that had almost no texture to them. Then there were her fantastic undergarments, made of French lace with bows sewn on all over. And so many different kinds of corsets, all looking rather frightening with their ropes and metal fasteners.

  She moved on from the room into what must have been the woman’s husband’s. This was a room that intrigued Michiko much more than the woman’s. It wasn’t the rich green velvet of the curtains or the rather intimidating bearskin rug complete with bear’s head at the foot of the bed that fascinated her. Rather it was the glass case of curios at the far end.

  She approached it and peered inside. The man had all manner of objects locked away in there. Two ancient books, so old that they clearly were only held together by gravity, sat side by side with what was . . . well, it had to be, a shriveled monkey’s head. Poor creature. There was an open box with several different stones that glittered inside. A letter that, of course, she couldn’t read, but that must have been written by someone of significance. And more things—some unidentifiable artifacts with sculpted faces on them, a row of buttons, a snakeskin, and at the very bottom, lying flat so that she hadn’t noticed it at first, a silver mask.

  It hadn’t been taken care of, was horribly tarnished, so that at first Michiko didn’t even realize it was silver. But when she knelt down to take a closer look, she could see the odd brightnes
s peeking through. Her first thought was of a samurai mask, though this object clearly wasn’t one. It was far less expressive than the mask of the samurai. There was no indication of a mouth, no indication of any expression whatsoever. It only had holes for eyes and and for nostrils, and the skillfully carved decoration over it was not meant to represent a human face. Instead it looked like a face that was covered by delicate sweeping vines, a face that hadn’t been entirely overtaken by nature, but had become one with it. It made her think of O-Ryu, the goddess of the willow tree.

  There was a sound from the room next door.

  Michiko quickly escaped back into the hall, determined that her nosiness not be discovered. Though she was a little sad to part with the mask. She heard the noise again. It sounded like someone was in the next room. Maybe it was the master of the house himself, but that was odd. She had seen him leave through the front gate directly after she and Callum had arrived through the back.

  It was probably just a servant, then, but for some reason, her gut told her to check it out. She approached the room quietly and peered carefully around the open door.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  But she’d heard . . .

  She entered what she assumed was the library, or someone’s study, and closed the door behind her. There was a large oak desk at one end, framed by two tall windows. Bookshelves lined the walls, and at the right, there was a large unlit fireplace with a mantel that displayed yet more interesting objects from around the world.

  She heard a small sound. This time it didn’t sound human. It sounded . . . like a bird?

  And just as she heard it, a curtain twitched.

  Okay. Now she just had to investigate. She crossed the room and pulled the curtain back in one quick movement.

  It was the blond one. Nellie. Her parrot sitting on her shoulder. Both looked completely dumbfounded.