Contents

Map of eighteenth-century London

Prologue

Chapter 1:    The Gallows Tree

Chapter 2:    The Girl Behind the Curtain

Chapter 3:    Blackguards!

Chapter 4:    The House in Midas Row

Chapter 5:    Mr Leechcraft

Twelve Years Earlier

Chapter 6:    The House of Mesmerism

Chapter 7:    Black Mary’s Hole

Chapter 8:    Across London

Chapter 9:    The Dark Room

Chapter 10:  The Silver Timepiece

Twelve Years Earlier

Chapter 11:  The Boy Who Did Not Exist

Chapter 12:  The Face at the Window

Chapter 13:  Cirrus, Alone

Chapter 14:  The Scioptric Eye

Chapter 15:  The Hall of Wonders

Chapter 16:  The Moon-Sail

Eleven Years Earlier

Chapter 17:  The Halcyon Bird

Chapter 18:  The Hanging Boy

Chapter 19:  The Fallen Angel

Chapter 20:  The Celestial Chamber

Chapter 21:  Escape!

Chapter 22:  The Breath of God

Chapter 23:  H-O-P-E

PUFFIN BOOKS

image

Matthew Skelton was born in the UK but spent most of his childhood in Canada. He started writing while working as a teaching assistant at the University of Mainz and continued when he came back to Oxford to work as a research assistant. In 2006 Endymion Spring was published in Puffin Books. The Story of Cirrus Flux is his second novel.

Books by Matthew Skelton

Endymion Spring

The Story of Cirrus Flux

For Thomas and Oliver

‘The summer of the year 1783 was an amazing and
portentous one, and full of horrible phaenomena…’

– Gilbert White, The Natural History
and Antiquities of Selborne

image

Prologue

The Antarctic Circle, 1756

 

 

The boy can hear something scratching at the sides of the boat – a restless scraping sound, as though the sea has grown claws and is seeking a way in. For countless days His Majesty’s Bark the Destiny has been drifting through uncharted waters, crossing new latitudes, until it can go no further south, blocked by an impenetrable reef of ice and fog.

Is this it? the boy thinks to himself. Have they finally reached the edge of the world?

He shifts uncomfortably under the blankets he has heaped on top of himself and tries to sleep, but it is so cold that the hairs in his nostrils stick together, stitched shut. For several hours his dreams have numbed him, carrying him back to London and the fields surrounding the Foundling Hospital, where only a few years ago he was making twine and weaving nets. Now he is awake on the far side of the globe, the blood slowly freezing in his veins.

The cold decides him. He must move.

The boy swings his legs over the edge of the hammock and drops to the ground. All around him men are slumped in sleep, but he takes care not to rouse them as he creeps through the cramped quarters to the stairs. For many it is their second or even their third voyage to the southern reaches of the globe and they are accustomed to such hardships. Their faces have been scoured by wind and rain, and their beards are grizzled with frost.

He finds his childhood companion, Felix Hardy, sprawled against the bulkhead door. By rights Felix ought to be above, on watch, ensuring that the boat does not run aground on the sheets of ice, but the big, burly youth has sneaked down during the night and dozed off in his heavy fearnought jacket. The boy watches him for a moment, but does not have the heart to disturb him. The ghost of rum is still warm on his friend’s breath and a smile is slung across his ruddy face. Instead, he bunches his own jacket more securely round his narrow shoulders and climbs the wooden steps to the deck.

Outside, the light dazzles him with its brightness. The icy fog that has dogged them for weeks, ever since they rounded the tip of Cape Horn, has lifted and the sky is a pale powdery blue. Icebergs the size of cathedrals throng the sides of the boat.

The boy has never known such a desolate, beautiful place. Suddenly all of the privations he has suffered – the wretched food, the hard physical labour, the bouts of seasickness – slip away and leave him charged with excitement. Remembering the thrill he first felt when he boarded the ship at Deptford Yard, dreaming of a life of adventure, he skates from one side of the deck to the other, taking in his wondrous surroundings.

And then he senses something. A crackle in the air, a hint of sound, as though the ice itself is breathing.

All at once he can hear Mr Whipstaff ’s instructions in his ear, training him in the arts of navigation: ‘Invisible forces be at work in this world, boys; and while we cannot always divine their origin, yet can we discern their presence. Let your mind be your compass and it will seldom steer you wrong.’

In an instant, the boy is climbing the rope ladders to the top of the mast, to get a better view. The steps are braided with ice and slip underfoot, but he is used to scaling such heights, even in stormy weather, and soon he is standing on a little platform high above the frosted deck. Up here, the air is even colder and ice fronds form on his lashes, but he brushes them away with his sleeve and stares into the distance.

Nothing. Nothing but a shining white immensity of ice and water, for as far as he can see.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a short brass spyglass and holds the freezing lens to his eye. His hands are so cold, the world trembles. Even so, he manages to guide the glass across the barren wastes.

And then his breath escapes in a silver cloud – a dissolving yell. For, barely visible against the horizon, something has loomed into view, a precipice far larger than any he has seen. A luminous shelf of ice, a whole continent perhaps, made, it seems, of shimmering light. It towers above the water, girding the horizon like the gateway to another world.

The boy’s heart clamours inside him. He must alert the captain.

His foot is on the ratline, ready to descend, when something holds him back. A suspicion, a doubt. Bright blue flames have appeared above the mast and the air flickers with a quiet intensity. He looks up to see a scintillating stream of particles rippling overhead, passing back and forth across the sky.

The boy stands perfectly still, wondering if he has imagined it, and then glances down at the small sphere he wears on a cord round his neck – his terrella, the miniature globe on which he has been charting his travels. Some of the particles have drizzled down, surrounding it, disappearing into the metal with short, sharp flashes of light.

Slowly, as if filled with the miraculous substance, the orb begins to glow.

Startled, he drops his spyglass, which rolls across the platform and tumbles into space, hitting the deck below with a resounding thud. Instantly, the light around him dissolves and the noise is picked up by the surrounding ice, echoed and multiplied. Explosive cracks burst through the silence like cannon fire and icebergs calve into the sea, sending huge, crashing waves spilling against the side of the boat. The boy is nearly thrown from the mast.

Almost immediately, there is a rumble from below. Cries of panic, footsteps on the stairs. Men appear on deck in disarray, seeking out the cause of the disturbance. Felix is at the belfry, clanging the bell with all his might. The ship is a hive of noise and activity.

Numb with shock, the boy clings to the mast and stares dumbly into the distance, where, to his dismay, the apparition he has seen has vanished behind a gathering wall of mist. Flecks of powdered ice drift before his eyes, blurring his vision. All that remains of the icy continent and the flames above the boat is a ghostly, lingering glow.

‘Ahoy there! Boy!’

The boy looks down and sees first Mr Whipstaff and then the captain standing below him on the deck. He opens his mouth to answer, but cannot find the voice to speak. Words fail him. Instead, he gazes down at the terrella, shimmering faintly still against his chest, and hides it deep in the folds of his coat. He knows instinctively that no one will believe him, that gleaming particles have rained down from heaven and filled his sphere with light.

Jittering more than during his first days at sea, he descends from the mast and manages to coax his shaking legs to carry him the rest of the way to the captain.

‘Yes, what is it?’ says ‘Smiling Jack’, with his customary frown.

The captain is a tall, gallant individual, dressed in a dark blue uniform with golden braids. He has been in a surly mood ever since the boat was blown off course and became stranded in this icy landscape.

‘Speak up, boy.’

‘Able Seaman James Flux,’ whispers Mr Whipstaff in his ear.

‘Explain yourself, Flux.’

James averts his eyes. ‘My spyglass, sir,’ he says, running his fingers through his wavy hair. ‘I dropped it from the mast. It… it shattered on the deck. I’m sorry, sir.’

The captain glances from James to Felix, who has sheepishly approached, holding what remains of a dented spyglass in his hands. His hard emerald eyes narrow with suspicion.

‘And you were the boy on watch?’ he asks.

‘Yes, sir,’ says James, unwilling to look at Felix directly in case he incriminates him.

‘And pray tell me, Flux, did you see anything that warranted awakening the ship in such a manner?’

The boy doubts again that anyone will believe him; he has heard too many tales of sailors who have mistaken common gleams of light for unnatural phenomena at sea. ‘No, sir. There was nothing, sir. Nothing but ice and emptiness, sir.’

The captain considers his verdict for a long time. ‘Very well,’ he says eventually. ‘At least you have found us a favourable wind. For that, I suppose, we must thank you.’

The boy lifts his head. Only now does he feel the cold, cutting breeze on his cheeks.

Raising his own spyglass to his eye, the captain quickly scans the horizon, but finds nothing of interest and hands the instrument back to Mr Whipstaff, who swiftly sheathes it in a polished tube. With a visible shudder, he turns to his second in command.

‘Tell the men, Mr Whipstaff, to raise the sails. Today, we head for New Holland. I have had enough of this accursed climate.’

A cheer greets this announcement and the men are soon hoisting the sails, which flap and swell above them.

‘And you, Flux,’ says the captain, bending down to speak to James privately. ‘Either you are incredibly lucky or you are damned loyal. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now get to work. I shall be keeping my eye on you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A short while later, once the boat is ploughing through the waves, James sneaks back to the stern and watches the icebergs recede in the distance. He is not aware, at first, of the other boy standing close beside him.

‘You saw something from the mast, did you not?’ says Felix, his reddish-brown hair flapping behind him. Like most of the seamen, he has tied it back in a knot – although, in his case, it looks more like a frayed rope than a ponytail.

James, locked in his thoughts, knows all too well that Felix will not move, will not budge from his side, until he shares his secret. There is a strong, safe silence between them. For the first time he manages a smile.

‘Aye, something strange and mighty powerful, I shouldn’t wonder, Felix,’ he says, peering into the waves that chop and churn behind the boat, erasing all memory of their passage through the water. His hands reach for the terrella beneath his jacket and he feels a strange tingling sensation pass through his fingers.

‘I reckon,’ he says at last, ‘that I seen the Breath of God.’

image

Twenty-seven Years Later

London, 1783

image

CHAPTER ONE

The Gallows Tree

For as long as anyone could remember, the children had been drawn to the Gallows Tree. The black twisted oak stood on the outskirts of the city, in the corner of a field not far from the dirt road leading to the hills of Hampstead and Highgate, several miles to the north. The oak was clearly visible from the upper windows of the Foundling Hospital and the children liked nothing more than to gather under the spell of moonlight and whisper strange stories about the tree.

‘Do you see that shadow in the topmost branches?’ said Jonas one night, as the boys prepared for bed. ‘Do you know what it is?’

The boys pressed closer to the window, ghosting the glass with their breath. They nodded as a small round shape detached itself from the gloom.

‘What is it, Jonas?’

‘Tell us.’

Jonas’s voice was dark and menacing. ‘Why, ’tis only Aaron’s head,’ he said. ‘The boy who used to sleep in that bed.’

He pointed to a narrow cot, one of many that filled the room, causing the little boy who now owned it to cry out in fear. Barely five years old, the new boy had just left his wet nurse in the country and wasn’t yet used to life in the boys’ dormitory. His eyes widened in fright and large tears splotched the front of his nightshirt.

Voices circled the room.

‘What happened, Jonas?’

‘Go on. Pray tell.’

Jonas stood for a moment in front of his captive audience and then, like the Reverend Fairweather at the start of one of his sermons, raised a forefinger in the air. ‘Promise not to repeat a word I say. Not to the Governor, the Reverend, nor the Lord above. Do you promise?’

‘We promise, Jonas.’

‘We swear.’

The vow passed from mouth to mouth like a secret. Even Tobias, the new boy, managed to murmur his assent.

When at last the room was quiet, Jonas spoke. A thin, pale-faced boy, he had a shock of dark hair and rings of shadow, like bruises, round his eyes.

‘Aaron took it upon himself to leave the Hospital,’ he said. ‘Tired of being a foundling, he was. Wanted to make his own way in the world.’

His gaze settled briefly on Bottle Top, who was stretched out on his bed, pretending not to listen, and then travelled back to the other boys, who were sitting, cross-legged, on the floor.

‘But all he met was Billy Shrike.’

‘Billy Shrike?’ asked the new boy uneasily.

‘A cut-throat,’ one of the others whispered.

The older boys knew that Jonas was lying – Aaron had been apprenticed to a wigmaker in the city – but Jonas was the most senior boy among them, one of the few who could read and write, and his mind was a gruesome compendium of details he had scavenged from the handbills and ballad sheets visitors sometimes left behind in the stalls of the chapel. He could tell you everything, from the names of the criminals in Newgate Prison to the lives of those condemned to hang. Billy Shrike was his most fearsome creation yet: a footpad who liked to stalk the fields by night and snatch young foundlings from their beds.

Jonas swept the hair out of his eyes and leaned towards Tobias. ‘The felon was waiting for Aaron near Black Mary’s Hole,’ he said, ‘and slit his throat with a smile… and a rusty knife.’

The boy who had inherited Aaron’s bed now streaked to the chamber pot in the corner.

Jonas’s voice pursued him. ‘Billy put his head in the Gallows Tree to keep an eye on you, Tobias. To warn us not to let you escape. For, if you do, he’ll hunt you down and –’

‘Stop it! You’re frightening him!’

Heads turned to find Bottle Top standing on his bed. Dressed in a rumpled white nightshirt that came down to his knees, he looked like an enraged angel – except that his ankles were smeared with dirt and his wild flaxen hair shone messily in the moonlight. The air made a slight whistling noise as it passed between his teeth, which were chipped and cracked.

Jonas stepped towards him and, for a moment, the two boys glared at each other, face to face; then Jonas glanced at the new boy in the corner.

‘Have we frightened you, Tobias?’ he asked, with false kindness.

Tobias, crouched near the floor, looked from one boy to the other. Then he noticed the small gang slowly crowding round its leader and sniffed back his tears.

‘No,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m not frightened.’

‘Bah!’ exclaimed Bottle Top, throwing himself back on his bed and rolling over to face the wall, defeated. ‘The Devil take you all!’

‘Shh! Someone’s coming,’ said a voice from the opposite end of the room. Cirrus had pressed his ear closer to the door and was listening for any trace of movement. He backed away as he heard the first heavy footfall of the Governor on the stairs.

Quickly and quietly, the boys returned to their beds, while Cirrus rushed from window to window, closing the tall wooden shutters, which had been folded back to reveal the moonlit night outside. He gazed into the dark stretch of fields – at the wide expanse of grass and the huddled hills beyond. Then, as he came to the last window, he noticed the Gallows Tree.

Sure enough, exactly as Jonas had said, there was a head-shaped shadow in the topmost branches; but now, standing beside the tree, there was also the unmistakable figure of a man. Cirrus could not distinguish him clearly, but the man appeared to be wearing a long black coat – just like a highwayman – and a three-cornered hat that obscured part of his brow. His hands were cupped round a flickering flame that cast an uncertain glow on what was exposed of his face. At first, Cirrus thought it might be a lantern, but, as he watched, the flame slowly escaped from the man’s fingers and rose in the air.

A key scraped in the lock.

Cirrus spun round and saw a thin wedge of light slide under the door. Immediately, he closed the wooden shutters, ran across to his bed and leapt under the covers. He lay perfectly still, hoping that his racing heart would not betray him.

Light seeped into the room and the short, stubby figure of Mr Chalfont, the Governor, appeared. Carrying a candle, he trod up and down the dormitory, in between the rows of beds, checking on the boys, who all seemed to be sleeping peacefully, snoring at intervals.

Cirrus watched the steady advance of candlelight from under his blanket and sucked in his breath as it paused briefly above his head. He could smell the Governor’s familiar aroma of pipe smoke and brandy, and was reminded of those nights, many years ago, when Mr Chalfont had taken him aside and shown him the treasures in his study. He had been just a small boy then, no older than four or five, and more interested in the private stash of ginger, which the Governor kept in a tin in his desk, than the dramatic seascapes on the walls.

‘Goodnight, lads,’ said Mr Chalfont at last, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Sleep tight.’

He made his way across the room, closed the door behind him and locked it.

Instantly, Cirrus was back at the window, peering outside. The figure with the lantern – if it had been a lantern – had gone and the tree was a stark silhouette, a solitary shadow by the side of the road. Cirrus quickly scanned the fields, but they were empty also. There was no sign of the mysterious stranger.

‘What’re you looking at?’ asked a timid voice from behind him. Tobias was sitting up, watching him with moist eyes. ‘Is it Aaron’s ghost?’

The other boys began to laugh, moaning and groaning like phantoms beneath their sheets, but Cirrus ignored them and padded over to the young boy’s bed.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said gently, tucking him in. ‘You’re safe here. Now go to sleep.’

Shivering slightly, he stepped back to the window, looked out once more and then, when he was absolutely certain no one was there, returned to his bed, near the unlit fireplace in the corner. Beside him, Bottle Top was muttering something under his breath, something to do with Jonas and the Gallows Tree.

‘How about you and me sneak off tomorrow and show him, eh, Cirrus?’ he said.

But Cirrus wasn’t listening. He was thinking of other things: of the strange figure beneath the tree and the ball of flame that had hovered momentarily in the air.

image

CHAPTER TWO

The Girl Behind the Curtain

The following morning Pandora was cleaning one of the upstairs windows when she noticed the two boys sneaking away from the Hospital. They climbed the apple tree near the back of the garden, tied a rope to one of its overhanging branches and jumped over the surrounding wall, disappearing from view.

She watched for a while, then caught sight of her reflection imprisoned in the glass. A girl with a mutinous expression and ghastly hair – the victim of another of Mrs Kickshaw’s haircuts – stared back. Pandora glowered in response. Why did she have to look like this, dress like this and do the same tedious housekeeping, day in and day out, while the boys were free to roam outside? It wasn’t fair.

She picked at the scarlet ribbon on her coarse brown uniform and found the answers lining up in her head like obedient schoolchildren: because she was a girl; because she was a foundling; because the Governor had kindly taken her in, fed her and clothed her since the week she was born; and because she had nowhere else in the world to go…

A small sigh escaped her and she watched as her doppel-gänger faded in the dull glass. Then, remembering the cloth in her hand, she half-heartedly began to wipe her sigh away.

Without warning, footsteps approached and the door opened. Instinctively, Pandora backed into the folds of the heavy, half-drawn curtain and made herself invisible. She grasped the keys in her apron pocket to keep them from jangling and peered cautiously round the edge of the curtain.

Mr Chalfont, the Governor, looked in. A portly gentleman with spools of woolly white hair, he swept his eyes round the dimly lit chamber, misjudged it to be empty and stepped aside to admit the most breathtaking person Pandora had ever seen.

A tall, graceful woman, dressed entirely in silvery blue, strode into the room. A thousand tiny frost flowers seemed to shift and shimmer across the surface of her gown as she moved, and Pandora longed to stroke the fabric, wondering whether it would sting her fingers with cold. Then, with a shock, she drew back. The woman’s hair was coiled in an intricate system of loops and curls that stayed in place on their own; it was the most extraordinary thing she had ever seen.

Pandora blushed, touching her own scrub of curls, and felt the damp rag brush against her skin. There was no time now to dash the duster round the room, pretending to look busy. Nor could she politely excuse herself and leave. Mr Chalfont would surely suspect that she had been up to no good: napping, thieving, or, worse, evading her chores… when all she had been doing, really, was gazing out of the window, wishing she could be somewhere, anywhere, else.

Yet here she was. Trapped.

Fortunately, neither Mr Chalfont nor his visitor appeared to have noticed the gently swaying curtain or the hyperventilating girl now safely concealed behind it. There was only one thing for her to do: remain hidden.

Hitching up her skirts, Pandora climbed on to the window seat behind her and knelt on the plump velvet cushions. She pressed her eye to the partition in the fabric, curious to see what would happen.

‘The boy,’ said the woman presently, as Mr Chalfont drew the dark wooden door shut behind them. It closed with a soft, furtive click. ‘Is he here?’

‘Cirrus Flux?’

‘You know very well the boy I mean. You received my letter, did you not?’

Mr Chalfont moved towards the fire, though the day was neither wet nor cold – merely overcast and murky. Embers snoozed in the blackened hearth, but, brandishing a brass poker, he managed to prod them into life. Shadows began to prowl.

For a dreadful moment Pandora feared the Governor might open the curtain to let in more light, but he appeared to have other things on his mind. He kept his voice to a whisper and his motives to himself.

‘I fear, dear lady, that we cannot oblige you,’ he said, removing a letter from his frock-coat pocket and unfolding it in his hands. ‘Cirrus is but a child, and not the most agreeable child at that.’

His eyes drifted towards the window and Pandora cringed in her hiding place.

‘I confess that, even now, he is most likely running off in the fields, causing trouble,’ he said. ‘Indeed, we’ve had a most difficult time placing him with a Master.’

‘Which is precisely why I have come for him now,’ said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. ‘To offer him a position. A trade.’

Mr Chalfont said nothing. Instead, he gazed into the hearth and, with a casual flick of his fingers, dropped the letter into the flames. The paper flared for a moment, then curled into a tight crimson fist.

The woman, in the meantime, stepped over to an ornate table clock.

‘You do know who I am?’ she remarked, removing the casing and inspecting the dial.

Mr Chalfont inclined his head. ‘Of course, Mrs Orrery.’

Madame Orrery,’ said the woman sharply. ‘Of the Guild of Empirical Science.’

The man glanced up.

‘Of the Guild of Empirical Science,’ she said again. ‘Do not think for a moment, Mr Chalfont, that my origins – or my humble sex – should ever thwart me. I am accustomed to getting what I want.’

‘I was under no such illusion,’ the man murmured to himself, averting his face so that only Pandora, listening very carefully, could hear. He began to fumble with the ends of his lace jabot, which was knotted round his neck.

‘Yet even so, Madame Orrery,’ he continued, ‘I am afraid you seek the impossible. You see, here at the Foundling Hospital, we endeavour whenever possible to apprentice young boys to Masters, not Mistresses, and Cirrus –’ his eyes darted this time to a side door, as though he wished he, too, could escape – ‘Cirrus is not like other foundlings. His is a special case. His circumstances were… are… exceptional.’

Mr Chalfont almost choked on his choice of words and his meagre smile came slightly unravelled.

Madame Orrery studied the man closely for a moment, her powdered face pinched with suspicion. Then, pursing her lips, she calmly extended a hand, which was dominated by a large oval ring. She smoothed her fingers over its flat, moon-coloured surface and somehow retrieved a miniature key from its secret compartment.

‘I knew his father,’ she said softly, her words shivering in the air before melting into silence.

Mr Chalfont turned pale. ‘I see,’ he said, mopping his brow with a large linen handkerchief and sinking into the arms of a waiting chair. ‘I do not suppose he is… still alive?’

Pandora did not hear the response. Like most foundlings, she longed to know where she had come from, exactly who her parents had been, and at the mention of the boy’s father she had plunged her hand deep into her apron pocket, past the loop of keys, searching for the scrap of fabric she always carried with her. A patch of pink cloth with a single word embroidered across its front:

image

It was the only memento she possessed of her mother, a token of remembrance she had found in the Governor’s study and taken without permission. She studied its gold lettering carefully, trying to draw solace from its simple message.

When at last she looked up, Mr Chalfont was squirming in his chair. The woman had withdrawn a delicate silver object from the folds of her gown and was winding it very slowly, using her tiny key, all the while staring intently into the man’s face. A pocket watch. Pandora could hear the instrument whirring and ticking, spinning time.

‘Yet, even so, Madame Orrery,’ she heard Mr Chalfont repeat himself feebly, ‘Cirrus is a special case. His circumstances are exceptional.’

He ground to a halt, too tired – or else too dejected – to continue.

A sudden rap on the door caused them to turn round.

Madame Orrery snapped the watch case shut and returned it to a pocket, while the Governor glanced up, bleary-eyed and confused.

‘Yes, what is it?’ he said, as a stout, middle-aged woman looked in.

‘Begging your pardon,’ said the woman with a curtsy, ‘but there’s a gentleman to see you, sir. Come about a child.’

‘Good, good. Show him to the waiting room,’ said Mr Chalfont. ‘I’ll be with him shortly.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said the woman, giving Madame Orrery a suspicious stare. ‘Are you all right, sir? You look a bit peaky.’

‘Yes, yes, never better,’ said Mr Chalfont, blinking hard. ‘Just a twinge of the old gout, I’m afraid.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kickshaw. That will be all.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mrs Kickshaw, with another curtsy, and closed the door.

Madame Orrery stood for a moment before the fire and then turned to face the Governor. ‘Are you certain there is nothing I can do to change your mind?’ she said. ‘About the boy…’

Mr Chalfont held up his hands apologetically, but shook his head.

‘Very well,’ said Madame Orrery. ‘I shall not test your patience further, Mr Chalfont. Good day.’

She moved towards the door.

Mr Chalfont appeared to have woken from a disagreeable dream. He blustered to his feet.

‘Madame Orrery,’ he gasped, rushing to detain her, ‘if you merely seek a child to assist you in your work, then why not consider one of our other foundlings?’

He crooked his arm round her ruffled sleeve and escorted her back towards the fire. ‘We have female children – girls, even,’ he said, his tongue tripping over itself in an attempt to make himself useful. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to consider one of these? We are always anxious to place them.’

The woman paused. ‘A girl?’ she said, as if tasting the foreign flavour of the word.

‘Very obedient girls,’ said Mr Chalfont, regaining some of his composure. He leaned back on his heels and revealed the full globe-like girth of his belly. ‘Trained in sewing and cleaning and general housekeeping,’ he continued, unable to stop. ‘Indeed, we have several in need of employment, ranging in age from ten to –’

‘Enough!’ said Madame Orrery.

Mr Chalfont held his tongue and gazed down at the floor like a scolded dog, the hopeful expression on his face wavering just a little.

Madame Orrery considered him for a moment and then said, ‘Thank you, Mr Chalfont. That is an agreeable suggestion.’

Her eyes searched the room and a thin smile spread across her face like a ray of sunlight on a very cold day.

‘If you do not mind, I think I shall take the girl hiding behind the curtain.’

image

CHAPTER THREE

Blackguards!

Don’t look like no head to me,’ grumbled Bottle Top, as he and Cirrus reached the Gallows Tree. They tore off their matching brown woollen jackets, tossed them in a heap on the ground and stared up at the dark, interlacing branches. The clump of shadow was clearly a nest of some kind: a messy bundle of sticks and twigs, patched together with mud.

‘What d’you suppose built it?’ wondered Cirrus aloud, scratching at the flea bites on his neck. ‘It’s too large for a rook.’

‘Dunno,’ said Bottle Top, ‘but I can find out.’

He peeled off his shoes and stockings, tucked his shirt into his breeches and approached the Gallows Tree. The ancient oak had once been struck by lightning and a cindery smell still clung to it like a shadow.

‘Here, tip us a hand,’ he said, placing a grubby foot against the trunk, which was thick and knotted and scaled with green ivy – the only sign of vegetation on the long-dead tree.

Cirrus moved in beside him and helped heave his friend up to a long, sinewy branch.

‘That Jonas!’ said Bottle Top suddenly. ‘Thinks he knows everything on account of he can read. Well, I can show him a thing or two!’

With tremendous agility, he pulled himself up to the next-lowest branch and quickly squirrelled across to another.

‘Never mind Jonas,’ said Cirrus, glancing behind him. ‘It’s Mrs Kickshaw you ought to be worried about. She’ll start ringing the bell if we’re not back soon.’

‘Well, I for one ain’t in no hurry to return,’ said Bottle Top, taking a moment to survey the surrounding land. ‘Did you see the way she was looking at me? Means to duck me in the cold bath, make no mistake.’

Cirrus picked at the scabs of black bark with his fingers but said nothing. He could see dark clouds rolling in from the horizon.

‘And she’ll be after you, too,’ said Bottle Top, ‘with them scissors. You mark my word. First sign of a Master, she’ll be trying to make you look persentable.’

Cirrus brushed a hand through his curls, which were growing back in worse waves and tufts than before. He could well remember the last time Mrs Kickshaw had tried to trim his hair. ‘Just look at the state of ye,’ she’d exclaimed, chasing him around the kitchen with a pair of barbaric shears. ‘Face of an angel with the horns of a devil! What’s to become of ye, I’ll never know!’ He grimaced at the thought.

‘Soon as we’re apprenticed,’ continued Bottle Top, clambering further up the tree, ‘we’ll need never take a cold bath again. There’ll be plenty of hot water and fine clothes and all the food we can eat. We’ll be proper gen’lemen, Cirrus, you wait and see.’

Cirrus felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Unlike the other boys, who were content to be tailors and drapers in the city, he and Bottle Top were going to seek their fortunes abroad, travelling the world and sharing adventures.

‘Nor will we have to listen to any more of Jonas’s stories,’ said Bottle Top, glancing up at the nest, which was wedged in a fork between branches. ‘Aaron’s head, my –’

Just then, several crows that had been bickering over a nearby dunghill let out a savage croak and disappeared in the direction of Black Mary’s Hole, a row of thatched huts clustered round a disused well on the far side of the neighbouring field. It was, Jonas told them, an area notorious for murderers and thieves.

Cirrus watched them go and then bent down to retrieve a stick that had fallen to the ground. ‘D’you believe what Jonas says?’ he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘About Billy Shrike?’

A giggle snaked down from above.

‘Are you afraid of him, Timid Flux?’

‘No,’ said Cirrus, remembering the cloaked figure he had seen the night before. ‘But suppose –’

‘S’pose nothing,’ said Bottle Top. ‘Don’t believe a word Jonas says. A base-born liar is all he is. No wonder he ain’t yet been apprenticed.’

Cirrus swiped his stick through the air, making it whistle.

‘P’rhaps,’ he said, unconvinced.