Nettleblack, page 47
Nicholas snatched this moment to ask the question I really ought to have thought of: namely, why had Nettleblack not enlisted her admirer to assist her? At this stage of the evening, it hardly came as a surprise to discover that Septimus was in some sort of danger too, from which she may or may not have extricated herself, but which nonetheless posed a threat to her immediate ability to join the campaign –
“Of course it does,” I muttered, until I caught Nicholas glaring at me.
And how, pray tell, did Nettleblack want our help? Her answer to the aforementioned came with an accessory, in the form of a battered little notebook produced from her pocket and proffered in a shuddering hand – which, for the moment, I pointedly ignored. If we – she was evidently planning this on the spot – could stir ourselves to locate Septimus and the other missing Divisioners through strategic use of the marked-up map in the notebook, we could make sure they were protected, acquaint them with the swirling situation, and prepare our next move, all whilst she snuck back into the Division and transcribed whatever sordid conversation was taking place between the Director, her daughter, and whoever (for these wild claims of a conspiracy between an aristocrat and a governess still seemed alarmingly speculative to me) happened to be with them.
“This plan is patently insane,” I informed her curtly, when her spluttering had reached its illogical conclusion. She actually gritted her teeth.
“I quite don’t see that there’s anything insane about making sure Septimus and the others are safe – do you?”
I coloured then, for to be swatted with the righteous wrath of this little matchstick was rather more than I wished to endure. My retort was set in the sharpest possible terms: she still had no guarantee that I was even willing to assist her, given that I had made my resignation from the Division as clear as I –
“That’s unfortunate, Matty,” Nicholas remarked suddenly, his gaze solemn, his resolution unsettlingly absolute. Before I could stop him, he reached out and clasped hold of the notebook she held out to us, squeezing her hand as he took it from her. “Given that I’ll be giving them all the help I’ve got.”
I’m fairly sure that I gasped his name, that I snatched him by his elbows and readied myself for a fruitless attempt at chastising him. The impulse was involuntary, the last flash of anger from Nettleblack’s admonishing tone – I knew, as he must have, that there was no more substance left to flesh my retorts. He lifted his hands, tobacco-stained at the fingernails, and laid them against my cheekbones, until all I could breathe was the smell of him. He was smiling gently, his voice soft as his fingers on my skin.
“Matty. This is the Div. They gave you the job you dreamt of, and they’re some of the only folk who’ll still look me in the eye now I’m waifed and disowned. I can’t make you, but – if I can do anything to help – to stop Ballestas and the rest going the way of everything in Dallyangle that’s ever been different – I’m going to be doing it.”
With that stare, that quiet fervent murmur, the warmth of his hands and the tang of his tobacco, he could have talked me into anything. And – I readily confess it – he was right. Is right. Insufferable as it can be (and has been), I cannot simply sit back and let the Division crumble, not with all it has done and might yet do. I could not forgive myself for that.
Perhaps my cooperation would have been entirely unreserved, had that wretched tincture-heiress not seen fit to add a gloss.
“So – erm – I – we don’t have much time – ”
I flicked her a glower so severe she started out of the sentence. “You. What do you intend to do with yourself? If you have any sense left in you, you’ve doubtless realised it’s your status as Miss Nettleblack that the Director wishes to call upon for your transcription, not your feeble efforts as Henry Hyssop.”
She blinked. She was tremendously pale, even for her. Evidently the logic had occurred to her in the abstract, if not yet the actual. “I – I suppose you – you want to be the one to hand me in – when I – erm – when I have to – ”
Change back? I thought, rather nastily – but didn’t voice, for which Nicholas must have been tremendously grateful. She really was an absurdly twisted fairytale: the clock would strike midnight, and transform her from a filthy skivvy to the youngest heir of Dallyangle’s wealthiest family. The clock, at any rate, hadn’t had Rosamond Nettleblack snarling at it all afternoon, and doubtless had far less to lose than Nicholas and I.
“How you unearth yourself,” I told her evenly, with a swift glance to Nicholas to ensure that he followed my drift, “is entirely in your hands.”
Nicholas, delighted to the point of pure recklessness, tugged me towards him and dashed his lips against mine. Perhaps he was relieved to find me so graciously abandoning the case and vendetta he’d disliked from the start. Or perhaps – to consider every possibility – perhaps it was affection, earnest and simple, and there was no point in trying to decipher every potential nuance in the twitch of his mouth and the taste of smoke on my tongue.
Nettleblack, of all things, looked desperately relieved. Her elaboration wasn’t unwelcome in this instance, stammered rather sheepishly to my bewildered stare: “I – just – pleased that you – and Nick – that neither of you – erm – that there’s never been – anything of the sort – between you – or you – and Septimus – ”
“Oh, for goodness’s sake,” I groaned, whilst Nicholas sniggered triumphantly at my shoulder. I knew it, he was muttering to me, his eyes glittering in the gaslight, I could just tell with this one, I detected it way before you, I knew it, I knew it!
But enough of this. One way or another, during the remainder of this interminable night, Septimus has to be found, and the Division has to be prioritised, and we all have to take up our parts in the Director’s half-legible plan. If we emerge, I hardly dare imagine the contrition with which I shall be forced to pen Keturah Ballestas a tentative request for my reinstatement.
And Nettleblack? What can possibly be left to happen to her?
That’s a matter for tomorrow. Nicholas is calling me.
26.
OF ROOFTOPS AND
BOTCHED SCHEMES
Septimus (quite possibly battling the world by this point)
Even when I’m halfway to buckling at the legs – even when I’ve just had to hurl the diarist I’m sweet on out of a window, not five seconds after kissing her – even now, it’s still a devil of a thing not to snigger for the Sweetings’ faces. They’ve been out in that corridor far longer than they’d like, bawling for Property to unlock the door for ’em. When it finally swings open, they’ve clearly planned their entrance, pistol at the ready, both trying to hold it at once. Obviously meant it to scare Henry out of whatever wits this night’ll leave her with. Definitely didn’t expect the same Divisioner they’ve spent the past two days trying to kill, more upright than anyone’d like her to be, tottering on filthy boots in the centre of the room.
“Aren’t you dead yet?” Norman blurts, part fury part fear.
I’m still afraid of ’em – mad not to be – but there’s a dash of triumph sparking in me too. Henry’s away, and safe, and if I trust her with my life I more than trust her to get to the Director. I’ve one job right now, and it’s to make sure she’s got time and space enough to do whatever needs doing.
So I – me, who can hardly read sarcasm with the best of ’em! – I tip the Sweetings an ironic salute.
They gape like anything, but Maggie recovers quickest. Four creaking strides and she’s up to me, the jut of her chin an inch from my nose.
“Nice of you to come back, dearie! Tonight just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”
I won’t flinch. Not this time. Not even when she splits to a yellow smile. I keep my face blankly scornful, though I’m all confusion under the skin, and my damned eyes won’t stop watering. Property’s plan is to run, was what Henry said – so why’s that so brilliant for the Sweetings? Why’s Maggie so delighted to see me, if the whole scheme’s been to keep me away?
“Gracious,” Property murmurs from the doorway.
Right.
What’ll I give ’em? Blank scorn too. Teeth gritted so taut you couldn’t stick a needle between ’em.
The Sweetings, two grimy courtiers, step away to train their pistol at a respectable distance. I snag my eyes on a splintery roof-beam and keep ’em there, as the polished footfalls saunter closer. As if they’re getting my gaze, after tonight, after all the maddening inconvenience of their escape attempt –
“Where’s Hylas?”
I ain’t answering that. Keep your wretched nicknames out of it.
Property grabs my chin – and I gasp. I’d not been expecting it. Now I can’t look anywhere but their eyes, twitching a little on the inside edge. There’s no smell beyond my blood, but I can taste the scent of their pomade.
“I asked you a question, sweet sergeant – and I’d be obliged in the extreme if you answered it.”
“What does it matter where Morfydd’s gone?” Maggie ventures cheerily, leaning on the doorframe. “This one’s worth a thousand of her! We can have the hair – and a bit of revenge while we’re at it – we can have the Div at our feet – ”
I can’t not grin for this, vicious as I can get it. Oh, Maggie, as if you’ve any idea what’s coming for you now! You’ve only got days! As soon as Henry and the Director are done saving it, the whole deadline-driven might of the Dallyangle Division’s going to hoist you and your brother straight out of your crime-spree!
Property spots the change on my face, and glares back. Actually glares. Ain’t this a tweak at fortune’s wheel, to have ’em glaring while I smirk!
“Something amusing, darling?”
Damn. They know right well how to pinch my smile off, and that’s it. And don’t I hate that they can still play on my nerves easy as Lorrie’s piano. I kissed Henry tonight, and all I want’s to kiss her again, but even now I can’t stop myself flushing for their endearments.
Neck arched above their bow-tie, fingers sharp around my jaw, they lift an eyebrow. ’Course they’ve noticed.
So retort. Didn’t cut out your tongue when they broke your nose, did they?
“I ain’t your darling. And you ain’t hurting Henry, not tonight and not ever, as long as I’m alive to stop you.”
Their glare hardens. “Dio mio! Jealous of Hylas, are we? Would you rather I’d made off with you instead?”
I kissed Henry. She kissed me. You’ve got no hold on me – not anymore!
“Hate to disappoint you, but – no.”
For a moment, Property just stares at me. Fair enough. This snarl’s got a real sting to it, not like my old panicky bluster. What’s happened, they must be thinking – what’s snapped, in my head, to slacken their grip there?
If that’s what they’re thinking. I never could work it out.
I force a rattling breath. Never mind what they’re thinking. You think of Henry, and that’ll be enough.
Property drops me, and for a moment I almost think I’ve won. Almost. But then their hands are up again, past my face and into my crumpling chignon – and I’m stunned, frozen, enough to let ’em – prising and coaxing ’til pins clatter on the floorboards and vanish into the rag-rug. My hair, all of it, topples down over my shoulders. It’s tangled, heavy, brushing at my wrists. Hair this long, you can feel it right the way down, feel where it twists and whorls itself out.
I ain’t frozen now. I’m shaking, too much to hold their gaze. I watch their slim olive fingers slide through to the ends, catch the knots and pull ’em out, settle at my waist once they’ve run out of hair.
“Never mind Hylas and Hercules,” they mutter, “I should have called you Samson. I underestimated it before, for which I can only apologise. Your thirty-shilling mind can’t even imagine the price a latter-day Pre-Raphaelite would gush up for this.”
It’s one thing to stand here all heroic, and let ’em shear it, and call it a cheap exchange for Henry and the Div. There is a part of me, mercifully, that’s thinking that, and smarting for it, and sticking by it. But – I can’t lie – it ain’t just that, lurking in my mind. I’ve never had my hair down with anyone else’s eyes on it, not since I grew out the orphanage crop. I’ve never had someone – and for it to be Property, with their slick parting and mocking smile! – hold me like this, and study it, and run their fingers through it. If they really wanted it that badly, back when we met, they shouldn’t’ve bothered with the Sweetings. They could’ve swaggered up to me and prised my hair loose, and (and it stings in my ribs, to admit it) if they’d done it like this I would’ve let ’em cut off as much as they wanted.
And they’ll cut it now. And Henry’s not had time to see it loose.
“Sweet Sweetings,” Property calls suddenly, eyes still warm and gloating on mine, “Allow me a moment alone with her. Don’t fret, I’ll be perfectly safe. Just go and check the carriage is still there, would you? There’s a pair of scissors under the back seat, if you’d be so kind. Sheep-shears are hardly the most appropriate tools for the job in this instance.”
All the while, they’re watching me. Even at the heart of that gloat, there’s still a glinting wariness in their eyes. Must be in mine too. We ain’t had a moment alone – not properly alone – not since that night two months ago. But it’s rushing up at both of us, and for all that it makes me twitch there’s no way to swerve past it. The Sweetings are already almost gone. They’ve seen my hair unravelled, must think that’s me beaten.
Am I beaten? Not if I can outlast this moment alone. Not if I can keep Property distracted enough to forget about Henry. Not if –
Then the door’s slammed, and Property’s dropped my waist to snatch at my shoulders, and their horrified face’s about as far away from sarcastic seduction as you’d ever possibly get.
“What are you doing here?”
I just blink at ’em. They’re actually whispering, of all things.
“Where are the others?” they hiss, shaking me. “What possessed you to come alone? And what have they done to your face? Hylas already had her hair cut – she would have been safer – you are not safe! Have you come to wring an apology from my cadaverous hands, in the fraction of a second before you’re as much of a cadaver as I’m about to be? Va bene! You have my profuse and reiterated apologies for the attempted appropriation of your hair, all attendant amorous offers, and the poor timing of certain infamous burglaries – there! Was it worth it, sweet sergeant? Was that worth your nose and your life?”
I can feel my eyebrows at my hairline. I’m far too stunned even for feigned defiance – and can you blame me?
“The hell’re you on about?”
The mad dandy lifts a sharp finger, flicks me at the collarbone, gets a tangle of my hair round their thumb for the trouble. “Don’t you see? That was only the preamble – the Sweetings think I want them to kill you! That’s ostensibly the plan!”
News to me and Henry both, then. “Thought you were running away?”
“I am running away!” Property groans, dragging their pomade off-kilter with – God’s sake, a shaking hand, still knotted up in my hair. I yank the strands free, shove shard after shard behind my ears, anywhere to get it out of the way. This is why it’s never loose, damn it! “But do you really imagine I was fool enough to tell them that? Far more sensible to let them believe tonight to be their grand revenge. I get them blamed for the whole sordid business – and, once you all catch up with them, I don’t have them coming after me! So I ask again – why, in the name of your every insane abbreviation, did you not bring the entire Division with you?”
Sensible?
“Oh, right! ’Course! Foolproof plan! ’Cept for the bit where they work out you’ve double-crossed ’em, and given ’em all the weapons while you’re at it!”
They grab my jacket both-fisted, wrench our faces close. There’d better be blood on those spotless white cuffs before they let go of me. “I had no idea they’d invested in a pistol! I discovered this fact this evening, and my world has been nothing but villainous improvisation ever since!”
“How can you not know? They didn’t tell you they beat people up to get hair, they didn’t tell you they’d got themselves a gun – do they tell you anything?”
“If you could gloat at a slightly less suicidal dynamic, I’d be infinitely obliged,” they snap, flushing. “I thought your whole wretched family were musicians – can you at least manage a mezzo-piano?”
Oh, as if your damned wit’s going to help us now!
“Look. Right. Right.” I’m spitting the words, at more or less the same speed as I’m thinking ’em. “You want to leave. Well. Right. How do we get you out, that’s question one. I need to not get killed – not before the Div, at any rate – that’s number two. Dealing with those maniacs downstairs’ll have to wait ’til – ”
“What?” Property blurts across me, slack-eyed with surprise. I ain’t seen those eyes solemn for months. “What the devil do you mean, how do we get you out?”
“I mean, they’ve got a pistol and you’re in your bloody white tie, so – ”
“But you don’t want to get me out! You’ve done nothing for the last two months but try to ruin me!”
I gape at ’em. Every second’s a risk, but I can’t just leave ’em thinking that.
“I – I didn’t mean – I only – I wanted to stop the Sweetings, and I knew you know more about ’em than anyone else in Dallyangle! And you weren’t telling us any of it! If you’d just come clean – we could even’ve protected you!”
“What?” They’re open-mouthed, stunned, fumbling through words. “Septimus, with all due respect, you did at no point make that clear – ”
