Nettleblack, page 28
There’s a weird smell on the air. Spiky. Musky. The sort of thing you’d slap a name on straightaway if you knew what the name was. The room was a stable once, so it ain’t improbable a bit of its old scent’s crept up from the cracks in the floor –
And then these thoughts parcel themselves up and drop back into their box, because I’m stood over Henry’s bed, and it’s that first morning of her all over again.
There’s my gasp, sharp and cold on my teeth.
I tug in my lip and bite down hard, ’til I can trust myself to breathe silently. It’s just – she looks like a kind of sprite when she’s asleep, all the more so when you see her by shaky candlelight. She’s curled up like one of my bookpages, her squirrel-brown hair tangling into her pale face. If I dipped my free hand and touched her – just there, where her cheekbone starts under her eyes – it’d be like bringing a sculpture to life. I flush to think it, but I want to. When you touch her, all you can feel’s her heartbeat, rising frantic to the surface of her skin.
I touched her there last night, didn’t I? And she stared at me with those darting green eyes. And I damn near fell into ’em.
’Course that only makes me colour more.
She’d laugh, if she could see me. If she could hear what’s in my head. She’d take in my admiration – though that word can’t hold the half of it – and she’d cut it in two with a shrill little giggle, and she’d not be the first. Or she’d just run, scramble out of the Div like a rabbit – when you want to see ’em, but you snap a twig with your foot, and they skitter away from your clumsiness before you can get close.
Wouldn’t she?
She twists onto her back. She’s sleeping in her shirt now. Can’t blame her. Shirts get issued with the uniforms, proper warm collarless things. This one’s sallow next to Henry’s skin. She’s so pallid she’s almost blue, like a starling’s egg. Her, and the shirt, and the bedsheets – so many shades of pale, but only one of ’em’s got a pulse, flickering in her neck –
But that ain’t pale, that hard-edged lump jutting out from inside the pillowcase, where her head just was. I slide my spare hand under the linen, ease it out, hold it up to the taper. It’s a book, thick-spined and heavy, dark foresty green at the covers, inkblots on the page-edges.
I’m a Divisioner, not a spy, I’d said. But here I am, sneaking round and staring out a notebook thrice the size of mine. Turning the thing in my hand. More terrified of it than I’d like to admit.
It’s a proper investment, too. The sort of thing you’d get if you’d a mind to write a lot. It must’ve cost a fair bit. Leather-bound, soft – so soft it’s at my cheek – get it down, damn you! Open it!
Scores and scores of tiny letters inside, in thick seamless ink or scratchy pencil. I lift it close again, raise the candle, squint hard. I know my letters, whatever Cassandra’d smirk – but this writing’s nothing like the neat dull hand we all got taught. Here’s dates, every so often, topping some of the pages. A journal? Lot of effort, to keep a journal here – and these entries are pages and pages long, the sort of page-span you can grab and hold stiff between finger and thumb.
I’m frantic. More frantic than I’d like. Slapping the pages over with my thumb, skimming the cramped little paragraphs. There must be a word – a sentence – anything – something I can make out.
There! Splayed on a half-empty page, finishing off an entry. The book topples open of its own accord. There’s the faded dregs of a flower, sunk into the paper like a cranefly’s wings. No – it’s more than one flower. It’s the paltry bundle of Lorrie’s off-cuts, the one I ended up throwing at her. I wince every time I remember that, for her shock, for how stupid I must’ve looked –
But she’s kept ’em, even so.
Does it twitch me to a smile? Alright – fine – yes, it does.
But – that ain’t all of it. There’s a thicket of words around the flowers, then the thicket breaks off, and the next sentence starts out clear on the creamy paper.
In short – I may well be duelling Mr. Adelstein for my life, but –
Half a snarl behind me, Gertie Skull clears her throat.
I spin. I’m too deep in Henry’s writing not to be startled, and too startled not to show it. Gertie’s sat up against her metal headboard, looking a mort more morose than usual. Knees curled to her chest, eyes red, lashes sticky and clumped. It scares me – as much as her having seen any of this – that I didn’t hear her move, not even a creak of the bedframe.
I try to swallow again, just get bile. She – she! – has her lips pursed with disapproval, as if she’s got any right to disapprove of me.
The blood scratches in my face. She’s got every right, damn it.
“Put it back,” she whispers – she’s soft-voiced, but steely at the edges – “and I won’t tell her. Don’t, and I’ll tell the Director.”
My mouth drops open. She’ll tell – when all she ever does is break the rules – !
But she’d still do it. And the Director’d not look kindly on me scheming with Mr. Adelstein without consulting her. And Henry’d find out.
And if this gets back to Adelstein, he’ll make Henry leave.
Assuming she ain’t run for the hills already.
I grit my teeth. I want to snatch Gertie’s plait and throttle her with it. I want none of this to ever’ve happened. I want to be back in my office, or out on a bicycle, not stood here getting scolded –
“Quick now, Sarge,” Gertie adds. “Don’t want to wake her.”
I’m too furious to speak. The journal snaps shut in my hand, louder than I’d meant it to. Then it’s back where it was, and I’m storming for the door, the taper blown clean out, with Gertie’s eyes jabbing me in the neck. I slam it, hard. They can wake up now, for all I care!
Henry ain’t against the Div. She said so. She’d not lie.
Then why’s she duelling Mr. Adelstein for her life?
Staggering away from the dormitory door, I can’t think of anything else. Not that thinking about this sharpens it into any sense. Might be easier to concentrate in my office, maybe. Yes. That’s the place to lay the thoughts out, flatten ’em into neat rows until everything comes clearer. Back to the office, then, before anyone sees. Before Gertie Skull changes her mind and chases you for an explanation. Before Henry wakes up.
There’s a hiss on the air, a sudden snag of breath. It catches my feet and pins me to the spot, however suspicious that must look. There’s someone in reception where there weren’t just now, and they’re watching me. She’s watching me. Cassandra, early at her desk. Still in her cape, and that mad long scarf Gertie knitted for her. Five hundred snipes in her head for me, no doubt. Staring.
No. Wait. Sobbing.
What?
If she can gape at me, I can do it to her. She’s turned on the gaslights, lit herself up for scrutiny in the doing. Her hat’s only just come off, and her hair’s not yet settled, thickety curls damp and stuck to her freckles. Damp with tears, same as her eyelashes. Deep brown eyes, nothing of her mother’s gold, wide with shock. Shaking hands. Not a word in her parted lips.
Say something? Give her space?
“You alright?” I manage feebly.
’Course it’s only after I say it that I spot how stupid it is. She knows it too. She blinks, sniffs, rolls her eyes like each pupil’s got a weight to it.
“With those deductive skills, Javert, you could be Matthew Adelstein.”
Fine. You don’t want my friendly. You never do. “I was just trying to help.”
She groans. Hands up to scrub at her eyes, to push the wet curls away. “Of course you were. So perfectly perfect, even when you’re not perfect.”
“What?” – and it’s as much a genuine question as it is something snappish to say. She’s the last person in the Div to think well of me. Ain’t she always said so?
“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” she mutters. Her voice prickles, spasming off another sob. “Mother plucks you out of some farmer’s harvest and you do everything right, and she’s never stopped relishing it. Oh, of course it was a productive idea to cultivate Septimus – ” – she’s smoothing her words now, a genteel sham of the Director – “ – and she’s the walking proof, all the proof of Keturah St. Clare Ballestas’s genius that her own daughter never gets to be! And even when you wreck everything and turn the town against us – she still brings you back! She still believes in you!”
I blink at her. I don’t know what else to do. Henry’s duelling Mr. Adelstein, and now Cassandra’s yelling at me, too furious to stick to mockery. Every edge of the Div, toppling inwards, like someone’s thwacked a house of cards.
“I – look, I don’t – I ain’t proof of anyone’s – ”
“She won’t do that for me, though,” she snaps. There’s a bleak smirk to it, and it ain’t directed at me. “I’m a Ballestas. I’m not allowed to get it wrong.”
No more mysteries this morning. I frown, jut her the question as gently as I can manage – “When’d you ever get it wrong?”
“I haven’t!” She’s at a shout, inkstained hands crumpling to fists. “And even if I had, I’d deal with it!”
Between my slam and her scream, of course we’ve got the Div paying attention. There’s a scuffling behind the dormitory door – that’ll be Gertie, skidding over to eavesdrop. Worse than that’s the scrape of the doors behind me – the front doors – and the slap of cold across my shoulders. I’ve no choice but to turn. The Director’s a stark figure against the misty gloom, hollow under the eyes, glowering between Cassandra and me with a look that’d chasten the Sweetings.
“I do hope that this is a productive discussion,” the Director declares, prodding at our sudden stiff silence. “Not another unhelpful slanging-match.”
I wince. Getting caught arguing with Cassandra’s only slightly better than getting caught spying on Henry’s journal. Even so – she started it. She can damn well explain it. Spinning some fancy words, she’ll like that.
“It’s fine, Mother.” Not her fanciest, but there ain’t a scrap of sob left in her voice. “Everything’s fine. Javert was just – I mean, God knows what Javert was doing – ”
“What are you doing, Septimus?”
God’s sake!
I dart Cassandra a glare, and I get one back. “Nothing. Just waking up the Div.”
“I see.” The Director glances from Cassandra to me, narrow-eyed above her spectacles. Whatever she’s worked out, she ain’t letting on. “Very well. Take Miss Hyssop and concentrate on searching the towpath today. Once we’ve checked every bit of the bank for the head, we can start dredging the river.”
I nod. Safest option. Back behind the desk, Cassandra twitches. Her ink-spattered fingers tip to nails on the wood.
“And – Cassandra, are you sure nothing is wrong?”
She’ll have to say it now. Whatever it is. If she’s done something, the Director’ll get it out of her. I’m watching her too, mind simmering a few theories. Has she wrecked the ledgers? Bought us the secret mouse-destroying animal? Written some mocking lyrics about Mr. Adelstein on the paperwork he’s currently reading? Broken some bit of the building (everyone’s done that) and hoped no one’d notice?
But she’s fixing herself into a taut painful smile. Straight up through her spine, perfect corset posture, bracing herself.
“Of course nothing’s wrong. Not for a Ballestas, eh?”
The Director frowns. A tight little glance at me. I drop my gaze fast. She must think my evasiveness’s something you catch if you talk to me, that I’ve gone and infected her daughter with it.
If she brings me and my secret into this – now, of all mornings – with Henry to face at half past –
“Well.” The Director clears her throat, and I risk a glimpse. She’s looking at Cassandra, and her voice’s brisk. “Good. Tell Gertrude that she’s to go out with Millicent and her brother, would you?”
Cassandra nods, frightened and quick. For a moment, we’re all outstaring the floor. The Director sighs, stalks straight through the silence. Past us both, down the corridor, into her office. Everything I should’ve just done.
But I can’t pretend I didn’t see any of it. Even if it’s bloody Cassandra.
“You ain’t telling her, then?” I mutter.
Cassandra arches an eyebrow. Now her mother’s gone, the fear’s crumbling off her face. “Familiar strategy, isn’t it?”
’Course there’s no way I can answer that.
“Thought so,” she hisses. Already she’s shoving past me. Every word flung back over her shoulder, sharper and sharper. She’s fixing herself, ready for the day, and I’m the whetstone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me from the impromptu interrogation, Javert, there are logs that need fetching, things that need scribbling, and generally everything in the world that needs doing except talking to you.”
And she’s gone, stomping out to the log-shed, before I’ve got a retort.
Half an hour later, and the Div looks a bit closer to normal. I stalked outside the moment Cassandra got back in, grabbed the earliest of the market-stalls, bartered for breakfast as long as I could stretch it out. It’s busier in reception when I come back – and everyone’s got their usual faces pinned in place. Cassandra’s stoking the wood-burner like her life’s fastened to its grate. No one looks aslant when I drop the dead taper behind the desk. It ain’t raining – that’s something – but there’s frost on the windowpanes, and it’s slippery at the door if you ain’t careful. The apprentices – Gertie, Millicent, Oliver, all but Henry – go skidding into the doorframe, grabbing for a hold, yelling when the hinges catch their fingers. Odd-coloured fingers, stiff with the cold. Their faces’re much the same. Mine must be too.
And Henry’s. She’s never known the Div in a better season. Late spring, when we moved in, that’s when the building stops feeling cold, and high summer gets the thick old walls on our side, keeps us shady and serene while the market melts. That said – it ain’t just seasons. She picked the worst week in our history to join up, between the weather and the cases and the public and all the wretched subterfuge. I’m stunned she ain’t walked out yet, even if she’s never known the place any different.
And – alright, yes. I’m impressed. Everything we’ve chucked at her – everything I’ve done – and she’s still here. Turns up every morning, regular as you like. Sneaks off like a maniac on a mission and tries to guess her way round a bicycle. Sticks at it. Sticks with me.
Sort of.
“Septimus?”
Henry shivers across reception, her hair curling odd at the ears, her face wincing in a nervous smile. Her skin’s exactly the colour of Mr. Adelstein’s best china, the stuff Nick says he ain’t allowed to touch without a carpet under him –
Mr. Adelstein. Him that she’s duelling for her life.
“Morning,” I manage, a bit too stiffly, chucking a bacon roll at her. She blinks. Worried little eyebrows creased in the middle. She must think I’m upset with her about last night. “Trust you slept well.”
Why won’t it come out right? Why do I sound so bloody stern?
“Oh – I – erm – quite – ”
Her favourite word. I swallow, though it ain’t a natural one, and it makes my throat scream. If that forces my voice softer, so much the better. “Well. Yes. Good. Shall we?”
She nods. Then just stares. Wide-eyed, intent, like she’s waiting. She’s right to force it out of me, however much I smart for it. I can’t pretend last night didn’t happen, and she’s my assistant – I’m the one that’s meant to bring it up.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” I hear myself stammer. “After – well. Hard night. Didn’t mean to – y’know. Yes. Sorry. For – yes. All of it. Yes.”
“Oh!” She blushes, in that quick elegant way of hers, straight across the cheekbones. Drops her gaze, too – which is good. Gives me a moment to scowl back some self-control. “I – no – of course – I – erm – I didn’t mean to – either – ”
Then she glances up again. Pulse twitching in her throat, where it starts out over the red collar. Expectant – she don’t know what to say next, so she’s deferring to me. As if I know any better than her!
“That’s settled, then!” I declare, brisk as you like. Keturah Ballestas to the life, I must be – nice crisp endings for weird conversations. I’m lying through my teeth, but if she stares at me like that for much longer I’ll end up just as speechless as her. “Right! We’re looking for a head on the towpath today! Yes!”
We don’t talk much on the job. Ain’t like we usually do, when it’s too cold to keep your thoughts straight. The big exception’d been – and we’re back there now, the very street, where the latticed windows hang close overhead and the puddles’ve frozen between the cobblestones – that row on the way to Mr. Adelstein’s. Well. We ain’t repeating that today. I steer us away from Pole Place, out onto the towpath. Set us to tracing footprints and peering down the riverbank – anywhere you could chuck a head if you’d a mind to get rid of it. Something’s churned up the muddy path, and the chill’s stiffened the streaks and bruises in place. The mud don’t even dent when you step on it. The river’s more sluggish than normal, crusting frosty at the edges. Soon enough, it’ll just be ice. The sky’s beaten the river to it – it’s already the colour that ice’ll be, low-hanging and solid, a sky to crack your head on.
All the while, I can’t wrestle my mind off that journal. I may well be duelling Mr. Adelstein for my life – and if she’s duelling the detective, I’m on her side. Why’s it that I don’t even hesitate before I know that? Adelstein ain’t a villain. He’s part of the Div. The Director ain’t got much by way of male allies – so we need to keep him. He’s good at his job, too. Never known him to be wrong before, not so wrong that every keen edge of me yells out to stop him.
