Nettleblack, page 14
I gaped at her. Not eight hours ago, she’d resented every inch of my existence – yet here she was, squinting, taut with concern. Taut and close, close enough for me to catch the sheen of sweat on her temples, the pale notches in her lip where she’d bitten it.
With the darkness nestling around us, and the turnips beaming in the windows, and her eyes almost black against the dim light and the shadows, there was something astonishingly soothing about giving myself up to her scrutiny. It was something I quite couldn’t have felt had it been daytime, had the street been a notch less quiet, had we not both staggered in tandem through the ghastly interlude with Lady Miltonwaters. Septimus frowned, touched a fingertip to my cheek – there must have been a mark there – as if she could smudge the redness away along with the greasepaint, narrowed her eyes when it didn’t work.
“It’ll fade,” I heard myself stammer, my voice shatteringly bizarre in the silence. She blinked at me, then nodded; she didn’t ask me how I knew that.
Then she blanched, as did I. Turnips and soft lights were all very well, but there was still a severed head in my hat.
“Right,” she declared, dropping me abruptly. “Well. Come on. We’ll get the head back and make a likeness of it. Any chance Girton taught you to draw?”
It seemed my irrelevant accomplishments weren’t entirely superfluous after all. Our return to the Division had been quite as feral as I’d feared – Oliver pranced about the main desk like a gangly stag, delirious for a look at the head, and Cassandra smirked above her ledger with quips at the ready. The Director had sliced through her subordinates, taut at the lips with the effort of keeping her calming smile in place, ushered me into the morgue and tugged Septimus away to her office. I’d been given another fold of toast, a scrap of flimsy paper and a broken pencil, and the others were under strict instructions not to disturb me whilst I made the all-important sketch. Mordred, having apparently decided that this ruling in no way applied to him, snuck round from the dormitory after fifteen minutes, clawed up onto my shoulder and nibbled curiously at my earlobe.
The morgue was like a house just built, or a shoe not yet worn – it smarted with its newness. The walls were plastered the palest white yet, and the floorboards had been painted to match them. There was a pallid cold slab in the middle of the room, trying very much to look like marble, which I co-opted as a desk, and a few rickety wooden chairs. That said – greengages, it’s hardly as if I knew what to expect of a morgue! – but I couldn’t entirely tell which part of this ashen room was supposed to store the bodies, or how it intended to preserve them once it had any to store. Perhaps the Division hadn’t decided either. There was space for what I could only guess would be a grisly cabinet built for this purpose, marked on the white floorboards in dark painted chevrons, but no cabinet as of yet.
“Not got the budget, from what I’ve heard. Bit of a shit morgue, eh?”
I started, pencil squiggling over the page. I had the head on the table before me, and my faltering sketch was half-finished – but Gertie Skull had sloped in, muffled in a knitted cardigan, and she’d seen my eyes drift to the empty corner.
“’Scuse my language,” she added wryly. “You don’t look much of a one for swearing, I’ll give you that. ’Part from the fruit. Anyway. Can I get a look at the head? I’ve never seen a head – not seen many corpses at all, really – none of us have, ’less someone’s got some dark secret I don’t know about. Or an aunt in state. Alright?”
I swallowed. Weren’t they all – wasn’t there some sort of stricture – wasn’t I not to be disturbed? Was she inclined to make off with the remnants of my toast – quite the largest evening meal I was likely to get?
“Oh – I – erm – ”
She’d sauntered past me already, swung her elbows down on the not-quite-marble until she was practically nose to nose with my cadaverous subject. Her sandy plait tumbled over her shoulder to swat the head between the eyebrows – not that she particularly seemed to mind it doing so.
“Bloody hell. That’s a head, that is. A real head. Thought it’d be – well – gorier – and smell more – y’know – like in Life and Limbs – but – it’s still a head!”
“I – I thought the same,” I admitted. She was here now, and genial as ever – I could hardly snub her! “Division Sergeant Septimus – she did too – it does seem awfully – erm – preserved – ”
“And apparently it’s not got a body.”
She pushed up off the slab, dragged another of the spindly chairs over, leapt onto it as if she were mounting a horse. Her feet dangled either side, heavy in their woollen stockings, dusty at the soles. “So we’ve got a mystery! And investigation’s already started – you hear a lot when you loiter in the corridors of this place. Septimus’s in with the Director right now, and she must’ve got Ballestas senior in a good mood. Care to have a guess why?”
She wasn’t mocking, but I blushed all the same. “I – I’m sorry – I – I don’t know – ”
An incredulous cough of a laugh. “No need to be sorry! But how about this – Septimus’s done her usual, wanting to bring Pip Property in to ask about the head – and tonight the Director’s not said no!”
Now I glanced up in earnest. The idea of Pip Property, complete with curious cravat-based occupation, mysterious pronouns, and windowboxes full of ferns, had become rather a household myth to me, a legend, a Division ritual – not a real person in the slightest, and certainly not one about to manifest on the doorstep. “They – what?”
“It might be almost useful this time, too! Property was there at the theatre, and could well’ve seen something, something worth telling us. Best-case scenario, it’ll help. Worst-case, it’ll be bloody good fun.”
Why could I only envisage the latter?
Gertie blinked at me bemusedly, sunburnt forehead creasing to a frown. “Hang on – Hyssop – why’ve you got a ferret round your neck?”
Sweet cloudberries.
Mordred hadn’t bitten me for a good ten minutes, and I’d grown absentmindedly used to the warmth at my collarbone. There was hardly any concealing him now, without even a gush of hair to muffle him under.
“Oh – erm – I – ”
She arched an eyebrow. “You do know the Director banned rodents?”
“Ferrets aren’t rodents!” I blurted. Panic spat the pencil out of my hands, skidded me round on the chair, until there was nothing between me and her smirk. “I – erm – it isn’t – he’s just – he has to stay with me – I can’t – I – ”
My voice curdled in my throat. She laughed.
“‘Don’t tell the Director, Gertie’?”
It was shameful in the extreme, but I could only nod weakly.
“Reckon I can manage that.” She ran a hand along her plait, caught the end and pushed her fingers through it, eyeing me ponderously. Between that, and the slab beside us, and the bright gaslit walls of the morgue, she might as well have been carving me open, merrily dissecting with her feet still swinging, like the heroine of Life and Limbs. “He’s our mouser, then. And you’re his keeper. There I was, thinking you a perfect little porcelain doll – and now it turns out you’re a regular rule-breaker!”
“I – erm – I’m not!” I cried, my voice and my blush back with a vengeance. “I didn’t – please – I never meant to – ”
“Why,” she drawled, nudging my skirt with her toe, “are you still so bloody terrified? ’S not like it don’t take one to know one! Keturah Ballestas’s got more than her fair share of spotless lads and lasses – Septimus, before all her madness started, she was a case in point – and Matthew Adelstein wouldn’t know misbehaving if it poked him in the eye – but we’re not all machines, y’know.”
This was precisely the sort of conversation Septimus would reproach me just for listening to. But the room was small, the door shut, and I’d no polite way of leaving – no way of leaving at all that didn’t involve pivoting past Gertie on her tottering chair. Her stocking had left a dash of dust on my skirt. Persimmons, but if that wasn’t entirely the most ominous gesture she’d made yet –
“You should come out with us one night.” She’d dropped her voice, and her eyes were smirking quite as much as her lips. “The Inferior Contingent. When there’s not a head to draw. Millie’s dad’s tavern’s just round the corner. Drinking and Divving ain’t exactly bedfellows, so you have to dress a bit careful – it’s worth it, though, for the company! I’ve a friend there – well, I say friend – bit of a chess partner, if y’know what I mean. She’s got a ferret too – bought it off me! – though the spoilsport never brings it along. Could be fun. Think about it, and let me know.”
Then she dipped closer, barely skimming a whisper. “Don’t tell Septimus I said any of this. Well – not like you could tell her anyway, ’less you wanted the Director to come down on that ferret of yours. Best to be careful, eh?”
In the face of which, of course, I could only amend my earlier assessment: this was the most ominous gesture she’d made yet, without a doubt! I couldn’t speak, not even in monosyllables, with her gaze so smug and searching on mine. Whether she’d meant her languid spiel as a threat or not, it worked on my lips like a wax-seal, folded her sentences tight to the back of my throat and held them there until they set. And what did any of it mean? Why was it being murmured to me, over that freezing slab with its gruesome decoration, at whatever ragged hour of the night it was? Where was Septimus – stern, and comprehensible, and concerned with nothing more alarming than the innocent mechanics of Divisionary duty?
Gertie winked. “Make sure you get some sleep, Hyssop.”
She’s asleep now, at any rate. All of them are. It’s as late as it was yesterday, the reception clock-chimes squirming into the small hours. The dark is monstrous, too thick to make out what my pencil’s doing – there’s a box of candles for general use behind the reception desk, but I quite only have nerve enough to filch one at a time. I finished the drawing – not well, I should note, though it does slightly resemble a face – but I didn’t see Septimus again, before I finally gave in and tiptoed off to the dormitory. Gertie Skull, meanwhile, is a string of steady breaths in the darkness beside me, dreaming – oh, plums! – of taverns and ferrets and heaven knows what.
It’s horrendously cold again – infinitely colder than it should be, inside a building with a wood-burner in it! I had to pick my way into the Division’s back yard after completing the sketch, scour my hands under the icy water-pump with soap (Gertie had, in a marginally less frightening move, proffered me that) to scrape any trace of the head from my fingers, and not even the combined efforts of taper-flame and bedsheets have warmed them since. Everything else of me throbs for its own sorry reasons, relentlessly enough to distract me from the worst of my current panic. My feet are cracked and swollen, my legs quite leaden, my chest smudged with yellow where I twisted past those elbows in my ribs. Even my chemise is wretched, the delicate fabric worn to holes at my waist – unaccustomed to rough skirts and heavy belts. For this, I can only groan, as hushed as I can manage amidst the shufflings and the snores. With no money, and the sewing skills of a tardy schoolboy, and no idea where one might obtain clothes beyond the work of the family tailor, how am I supposed to replace it?
I could ask Septimus.
Figs – no, I couldn’t – I’d never get the words out.
Correspondence (from the past)
21st Dec, 1887
Miss –
I hope you don’t think this impertinent. But – after that chat we had – you said you wanted us to correspond – so – call this a start.
Most of the stuff I said already. About your parents – I’m so sorry – this must be so difficult. And I think it’s brilliant that you’re handling it like you are – the new servants, your sisters away and that. But you said it would be nice to talk, so if you ever want to talk – and you think you can talk to me – I’d be alright with that. No – nothing improper. Just an ear.
Also – I’ve sent the sample scraps you asked for. Let me know which one you want for the lining. I can mock a few options into bodices if you need to test them.
Your servant (well, your tailor),
Lawrence (Lorrie) Tickering
*
16th January 1888
Dear Mr. Tickering,
I am grateful for the sentiments you express in your letter. As you say, it is of crucial importance that our correspondence remains respectable. I think I can trust you: you have not once struck up town gossip about my tailoring requests. It is foolish, perhaps, that I should care so much, but I cannot have any questions asked about my character. I am forging vital friendships in preparation for my sisters’ arrival, and I must not allow such friends to suspect that I am in any way – not what they would expect me to be.
But it is hardly incriminating to confess that the last year has not been easy. The family name and fortune are counting on my abilities. I cannot doubt them, especially now that there is no one beyond me to temper my doubts.
I would appreciate the mock-ups you suggest, with the grey wool as usual. Additional payment is enclosed.
I have not signed, for safety’s sake. It would perhaps be sensible either to burn this letter, or to send it back to me with your next, to which I am greatly looking forward.
*
27th Jan, 1888
Sounds like a plan! Mock-ups coming with this letter.
But of course I wouldn’t gossip! Is that a thing tailors are meant to do? I wafted into the job by a bit of a happy accident. I’ve got a sister too – just the one, mind – and the old ghouls who ran our orphanage wanted to set us up with nice sensible countryside jobs – anything to get us out of London. Sept was meant to be the seamstress – they gave the Singer to her – and they wanted me out on the farms doing terrifying things with a reaper-binder – but that way round lasted all of two days. If I ever thought harvests were a bit quaint, I can’t see it now. But of course Sept loves driving all those monstrous machines.
Let me know if you want me to come adjust the fit.
L. T.
*
25th February 1888
Mr. Tickering,
I am delighted to report that you have done it again. The second option is exactly what I require. I have sent it back so that you might fit it to the tweed. I fear I must have tweed if I am to be deemed suitably presentable, but I cannot abide the feel of it. It is – I do not know how to explain – but it is wrong. Against my fingers, perhaps, I can bear it, but nowhere else.
I confess I would not know to point out a reaper-binder. I do not think I am supposed to carry knowledge on such things. And yet I am expected to be able to distinguish a pheasant from a grouse, which is not an easy thing to do when they are soaring high above one’s head. I am also expected to know when to smile during the many, many anecdotes about pheasants and grouse that I am obliged to attend to, and I fear I am falling short in that too.
Would you come at your earliest convenience when the lining is finished? I would like to hear more of your stories about thwarting your orphanage matrons. I do not imagine I shall ever be in a position to defy anything, but it is pleasant all the same to listen to you do it.
*
3rd April, 1888
So – don’t panic – but I wildly underestimated the amount of buttons – and the supplier’s run out. The bodice is fine – completely forgot the cuffs existed – entirely my fault. There’s a new tailor moved in close to you – at least I think there’s tailoring involved, seems mostly like design and accessories – but I reckon if any business could point me to extra buttons! Name’s Property Cravats if you want to give it a check-over.
I’ll come as soon as you want – and bring stories aplenty.
L. T.
*
15th April 1888
Mr. Tickering,
I have made the investigations as you suggested, and I think it is the best way forward. That said – the proprietor of Property Cravats is certainly unusual, and I would not recommend involving my name in the purchase. It is not that I do not deem said proprietor capable of carrying out my requests – but I have gathered enough information to know that my friends do not approve of the individual in question, and doubts might be raised about my suitability to remain within the circle were it known that I supported their business.
I do not know why I call them my friends. I do not trust them. I know, indeed, that I would receive much the same treatment as Property Cravats, if I were for an instant to let myself slip in front of them.
You are my friend. And I am looking forward to your visit immensely.
7.
IN WHICH CRAVATS RETURN
TO MY EXISTENCE
More of myself
Definitely Tuesday and Hallowe’en now, I think (figs, I’ve not done these dates well, have I?)
Well. Plums. I started the day by stepping barefoot into Gertie Skull’s ablutions jug, and it hasn’t improved from thereon in.
I knew, at least, what to anticipate from the morning, beyond my own giddy clumsiness. Septimus didn’t make the personal trip to my bedside this time – it was hardly as if I expected her to wake me every day! Gertie and the others sang me awake, tearing the curtains down and striking lucifers for the candles on the walls, sniggering between gasps of croaky patter –
“How beautifully dull the sky,
The chance is rising very high
That after breakfast we will see
Our sergeant strangle Property! – ”
(Perhaps that was what distracted me into the jug – their relentless good cheer, and my hazy recollection of why that was, and the thought that Septimus’s cravat-designing chimera might be arriving at the Division in a matter of hours, and – and then, of course, I felt the water gushing up my ankle.)
