Persephone sat on the end of the bench. She shuffled closer, keeping her eyes on the old woman as if she were a squirrel who might bolt if you came too near. Now the woman made a further incision, a third of the way down the cube corner. It formed a shallow v. On either side of it she cut two horizontal lines.
Finally, she spoke: “That is the bridge of the nose. Do you see? Between a pair of eyes.”
Persephone nodded, although she didn’t see, just yet, anything in the soap that resembled eyes or a nose.
Directly beneath the horizontal lines, the old woman made one downward cut, and one upward to meet it, creating a small pyramid. This, Persephone recognised, was more nose-shaped. To mark the nostrils the woman hollowed out two specks of soap.
“It is very important to leave in the septum,” she said. Septum wasn’t a word Persephone knew, but the woman tapped her knife on the narrow strip of soap dividing the nostrils. Persephone raised a hand to her own septum, to check its shape.
The old woman adjusted her grip on the knife. Instead of curling her fist around it, she now held it like a pencil. With the tip she cut two inverted pyramids on either side of the nose, far deeper than the other cuts she had made.
“You must put the knife in straight,” she told Persephone. “No wiggling it around! The blade would break!”
“Are you a Sorcerer?” Persephone whispered, because the instructions suggested experience.
The old woman nodded.
“Once,” she said. “In the past.”
With her pencil-knife she continued. She made two swooping smile lines, again very deep, running from the sides of the nose. This addition gave the impression of cheeks. Of all the lines the woman had made, these were the first to be curved, not angular, and they brought a humanity to the face.
“I must add a mouth.” The woman made a horizontal cut in a straight line. That interested Persephone, because when she drew a mouth on a piece of paper it was always u-shaped, and it occurred to her for the first time that nobody’s mouth was shaped that way.
A second line, beneath the mouth, made a lower lip.
“Let’s give her a little shave. Yes? Let’s shave her little chin.” The woman rolled the knife around the bottom corner of the soap, paring papery flakes away. Once she was satisfied with the chin she defined the nose more clearly and cut deeper into the eyes, to create shadows.
She took a second piece of soap from her shawl. This one had already been cut into a torso, arms, and legs. The torso did not look like any other doll Persephone had seen from the shop; the soap breasts were unmatched sizes. The stomach was marked with small, wriggling lines like the ones Persephone had seen on her own mother’s belly, the marks she said came from growing Persephone inside her. Now the old woman licked the base of the soap head – Persephone shuddered in sympathy at how bitter it must taste – and sealed it to the neck.
Distantly, Persephone saw one of the Sorcerers, Barnaby Sabin, running across the muddy turf towards them.
“Oh no,” groaned the old woman. She handed the knife and doll to Persephone. “Take these. Hide them in your pockets.”
Barnaby’s face was very red when he reached them.
“Hester,” he scolded. “What are you doing wandering off?”
She said nothing.
“Augusta’s been worried sick.”
“Goodbye,” Persephone said, sensing that the old woman was in trouble. Barnaby seemed to register she was there for the first time.
“Why didn’t you let us know, Seph? We’ve been looking for her everywhere.”
Persephone bristled. “I didn’t know who she was.”
At this Barnaby’s face softened somewhat. “No. No, I don’t imagine you would. She mostly has to stay indoors these days.”
“How old is she?” Persephone asked.
“One hundred and eight,” and then he was preoccupied with cajoling Hester from her seat, so Persephone left, half skating, half wading her way home through the mud. She sat on the front doorstep to remove her skates, and took the knife and doll surreptitiously from her pocket. The doll had the slightest undertone of an enchantment. Maybe soap didn’t hold enchantments well. But it was definitely there. Courage, the doll evoked in a whisper. Persephone knew the Sorcerers had lied when they said it wasn’t a woman’s job.
6
In his first few weeks, Larkin made good progress in Kendricks Workshop. Each morning he arrived at seven for a twelve-hour day. Making dolls was hard on the eyes, the fingers and the spine; Larkin took solitary walks round the eyot at lunchtime, to allow his bones to decompress. But he was always eager to return to his workbench. The world outside, and the people that walked upon it, with their hidden thoughts and inclinations, seemed insubstantial compared to the small figures forming beneath his chisel. Most of the time he made wooden maquettes. These practice pieces, Dennis told him, were appropriate for an apprentice, as he could learn without the pressure of making dolls for sale until otherwise instructed. Larkin didn’t protest that he was a practised, and nuanced, whittler. He obeyed; he perfected the exact angle of a doll’s nose, the slenderness of her eyebrow, the curve of her ear. So absorbed was he in this work that when, one Friday afternoon, Dennis approached Larkin’s workbench, Larkin twice failed to respond to his name.
He apologised for his inattention, and asked: “Am I needed?”
“The workshop’s ahead of schedule. The other chaps are finishing early for the weekend. You can go with them if you like. But if you’re tiring of maquettes, I can guide you in a new skill this afternoon, while things are quiet. Do you have a preference for what you learn next?”
Larkin sensed, in the offer, an implicit approval of his good work. He thought he could lose nothing by being bold.
“Enchantments,” he said. “Teach me how to lay enchantments.”
Dennis laughed uneasily. So far they’d adhered to Conrad’s edict that the Sorcerers mustn’t share their enchantments with Larkin. To maintain their secrecy, the six men carried out this aspect of their work after Larkin left the workshop each night.
“You can learn enchantments when you’re more settled in,” Dennis said. “For now, let’s test your mettle in another material. Is there any medium besides wood that you’d like to try? Ceramics?”
Larkin brushed sawdust from the maquette, taking his time to reply because he feared his disappointment would show. He had applied himself these past weeks to show he was settling in. And Larkin was sure he’d told Alastair he already had some skill with porcelain; he was no more a novice with ceramics than he was with wood. But perhaps Dennis didn’t know that – and in any case, he mustn’t think Larkin was petulant.
“Might we try iron?” Larkin asked. Since seeing the Paid Mourner at close range – or rather, the guards that stood on the latch – Larkin had been intrigued by the possibilities of iron dolls, and particularly what Hedwig Mayhew said about the intensity of feeling they allowed. Larkin knew the basics of smithing, but so far hadn’t been shown the forge. If Dennis agreed then Larkin would at least see some more of what Kendricks had to offer.
“Iron’s a niche market,” Dennis said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “But if you’d like to learn more about it… I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
They went together to the small brick forge that stood behind the workshop. Dennis explained that the forge was run on coal. He demonstrated how the fire was lit and controlled, before urging Larkin to take a long rod of iron and heat the tip till it glowed white and amber. Silently Larkin accepted the instruction; a refresher did no harm.
“Now place it on the anvil,” Dennis said. “You need a good strong surface to work upon.”
He handed Larkin a hammer – more of a mallet, to Larkin’s thinking – and encouraged him to strike the iron flat with repeated blows. Larkin weighed the hammer in his hand before beginning, judging it to be at least two pounds. He swung it with satisfaction.
“You need to work quickly,” Dennis explained. “
Quick blows, in succession, before the iron cools.”
The heat from the dwindling forge and the exertion of striking made Larkin’s skin itch beneath his cotton overalls. Dennis produced a series of additional tools, each secured through a hole in the anvil and designed variously to curl, pierce or twist the iron into the desired form. Eventually a flat, but undoubtedly human figure took shape upon the anvil.
“She has a truculent set to the shoulders,” Dennis observed. “And her fists are up.”
Satisfied with this appraisal, Larkin laughed.
“What enchantment would you like me to lay upon her?” Dennis asked.
Larkin had already been considering the matter while he worked.
“Determined Perseverance.” He believed such an enchantment would suit her weight and rigidity as well as his own endeavours on the eyot. Still, with Dennis’s question he no longer felt like laughing. It shouldn’t be Dennis laying the enchantment. Larkin should be permitted to do so himself.
*
Shortly after seven that evening, Larkin finished work for the weekend. As usual he stepped into the paternoster alone; except, instead of travelling all the way down, he hopped out on the second floor. The lights were off there, as the architects had already left. But there was some illumination from the glass ceiling above. The half-constructed wooden houses, which lay all about, resembled a moonlit village.
Larkin could see, from below, the Sorcerers’ workroom. He walked between the cottages and mansions, trying to find the best vantage, before standing on a drafting stool to gain height. This gave him a partial view of Dennis, at his small work table, handling the iron doll. Dennis dampened a cloth and swabbed the doll’s back. He brought the doll close to his face – as if to sniff it, or kiss it.
At that moment, the door opened behind Larkin with a rasp. He didn’t stir – as if lack of movement could trick the onlooker into thinking he wasn’t really there. Above him, Dennis shuffled his feet, scraped back his chair and made for the stockroom.
Only then did Larkin turn, to see his captor. Persephone was staring at him from the doorway. She wore a black coat with a plush collar. In her hand was a magnetic jig, which the men used during dolls’ house making to hold small pieces in place. Swiftly she hid the jig behind her back. Her gaze flickered from him, to the glass ceiling above, and back again.
Larkin stepped down from the stool – boldly, to convey nothing in his behaviour was worth challenging. Neither of them spoke, and she didn’t stop him when he made for the paternoster.
*
By the time Larkin reached the Eyot Tavern, he had persuaded himself he was in the clear. He would face no consequences for peeking when he shouldn’t – for what had Persephone witnessed, after all? Merely Larkin on the wrong floor after closing, which there could be any number of reasonable explanations for, once he’d given it some thought.
The Tavern had an ornate interior, rather than the rustic aesthetic favoured by the pubs in central Oxford; red flock walls, gilt light fittings, and a ceiling heavy with Lincrusta. The building was very tall with rooms to let, including Larkin’s own utilitarian lodgings, however the bar room was narrow, which quickly created the impression of a packed venue. That night it was busy with weekend celebrants. Yet Larkin sat alone for half an hour; which reflected, no doubt, his status as an outsider.
Just as he contemplated retiring to his room, Persephone entered the bar. Despite the lack of connectivity, Larkin took out his phone and scrolled through some old messages, as that seemed less suggestive of guilt than staring in Persephone’s direction.
She approached the table a few minutes later with a half of stout. She placed it before Larkin and sat on the velour stool opposite. This was, for Persephone, remarkably conciliatory, though she didn’t bother with any other niceties such as saying hello.
Instead, she stated: “You have to follow Conrad’s rules.”
“I’m sorry?” Larkin feigned incomprehension.
“Stop pretending. You know what I’m talking about. Conrad said you can’t learn anything about enchantments yet. If you play spies, eventually you’ll get into trouble.”
A cheer rose on the opposite side of the room. Larkin looked across, to see a group of interior designers crowing over Jenga blocks. Persephone awaited his response.
“You’re right,” Larkin gave in, and it wasn’t wholly appeasement. He intended to be obedient now; the risk of being expelled simply wasn’t worth finding out the enchantments sooner. He’d win them by demonstrating his value to the company, even if it took longer. That was what he’d learnt from his scare – provided his superiors were lenient this time. “You know I didn’t actually see anything?”
“Yes. I arrived in time.”
“Have you told Alastair yet?”
“Alastair doesn’t need to know. I’d land myself in it, too. So we’re agreed? Neither of us says anything about it again, and you’ll be more careful.”
He didn’t understand why Persephone would be punished for his misdemeanour. Then he recollected the way she had hidden the jig behind her back and realised that she wasn’t meant to be on the second floor any more than he was. She didn’t have permission to take the jig. Why she would want it was beyond him. She was a puzzle. He had thought so at their first meeting in the shop, since when they had barely exchanged words. She didn’t really speak with anyone at Kendricks, though she occasionally growled at them.
“I should have thanked you,” he said now. “For arranging the initial meeting with Conrad.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have any influence over Conrad. He must have thought you were good, to give you a job.”
“But I couldn’t get to him without your say-so.”
“No, all right – you couldn’t, I suppose.”
“I hope my coat buttons were useful.” Larkin paused, to allow her to clarify her need of them, but she said nothing; so he prompted, “You sew, I take it?”
“What difference does it make?”
He laughed nervously. “I don’t really have an answer to that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t want to be rude.” A blush rose on her neck. “I just liked the buttons’ shape and size. It made them suitable for a project I’m working on.”
He sipped some of the stout. “You didn’t buy yourself a drink. Shall I get you one?”
“No. I don’t like alcohol.”
“A soft drink, then. I feel bad; people can see you sitting there without one. They’ll assume I’m ungallant.”
“I see. I didn’t think. I’m not thirsty at all. An orange juice is fine, if you really want to buy something, and don’t mind me leaving it.”
The queue at the bar was several people deep. He half expected Persephone to have left by the time he returned, due to her lack of social graces, but she was still where he had left her. She had taken off her coat, which indicated a willingness to stay for a while. He was glad of it. They shared a secret now, bound by their mutual desire not to get caught by Alastair. And that made them allies.
7
Three young women sat together in the snug, adjacent to the public bar: pink-haired Daisy Gilman; Imogen Strange, a freckled girl with chestnut curls who had been mute since infancy; and Hedwig, their implicit leader.
They’d gathered to make Venetian masks, in preparation for the yearly masquerade. The celebration, scheduled for the following weekend, took place in Conrad’s house, and was an opportunity to bid the autumn farewell. Everyone approached by rowing boat, with lanterns aloft, if river levels permitted. Other than their masks, the guests dressed unfussily – the women wore dark gowns, the men vicuna frock coats – as the ground was often boggy in October. Games and bonfires were the evening’s chief attractions.
Hedwig, Imogen, and Daisy held a plain mask apiece. Upon the tabletop were jewel-coloured paint pots, trays of sequins, glittering studs, and feathers, intended for embellishment. The snug was, in its smallness, fully occupied by their endeavour. D
aisy briefly left her station to change the jam jar water. On returning, she announced: “Persephone and Larkin are drinking together.”
Imogen forsook her mask at once, to spy with Daisy through the etched window, temples touching. Hedwig wasn’t crass enough to join them, but awaited further details, regardless.
My word, they are together! Imogen signed. Whatever’s going on there?
Hedwig guessed Persephone had noticed Larkin’s good looks and deep pockets. Sitting one-to-one with such a new arrival was a risk. Most employees recognised that Conrad hadn’t given Larkin full approval. Larkin was apprenticed to the Sorcerers, which indicated that – for now – he was a valued fixture; yet he was excluded from laying enchantments, rendering his status on the eyot ambiguous. Hadn’t this occurred to Sephy? What would happen to her, if she fraternised with him, and Conrad ruled him too untrustworthy to take on permanently? Wouldn’t Sephy’s loyalty be questioned by default? She should have kept their meetings secret. Hedwig concealed her own affairs from Conrad, because he insisted on vetting any new partner unfamiliar to the eyot.
“I bet it’s not romantic,” Daisy said. “The Eyot Tavern isn’t a romantic place to meet, is it? And have you ever heard of Sephy going out with anyone? She probably just saw an empty chair and took it. Do they look like they’re on a date? Her face is looking very disagreeable.”
That’s how she always looks, signed Imogen. She laughed with Daisy.
“Girls,” Hedwig said reproachfully.
I think it is a date, signed Imogen. They’re mirroring one another. What a sly cat Persephone is.
Seph had never come across as calculating. Still, it didn’t do to underestimate a person; maybe she intended to ensnare Larkin, and his income, while the other women showed excessive caution.
The Thief on the Winged Horse Page 4
