The Golden Specific (26 page)

Theo only put the book aside for dinner, and it was late in the evening when he reached the penultimate chapter, “Care and Healing.” There, following a disturbing section on tree diseases, was one called “Winter Sleep.” Theo skimmed it without really taking it in. Then a light flared in his mind, and he read it again:

Just as bulbs sleep in the earth during winter, so do some with the fullest manifestation of the Mark. Well packed in nourishing soil, such a person might comfortably rest for weeks or even months, as long as this does not extend beyond a single season. In cases where disease or injury has taxed the body to extremes, such winter sleep can even be a necessary remedy.

Theo pictured the contents of the shed: a worktable with a few objects; a wall of tools; and three empty planters stacked beside it. They were long and wide—like coffins.
I was looking at
the wrong thing,
he realized.
Not the pruning shears, but the planter
s.
The Weatherers were there. He kept them in winter sleep, and then he took them out. The question is, where are they now?

He slowly closed the book, replaced it on Sophia's shelf, and returned to his own room. There, he curled up on his bed and considered the objects around him. What were they, really? A bed, a chair, a desk, a collection of souvenirs from the pirates, and a bundle of clothes. They were, in reality, worthless. He could have easily stolen their value ten times over. And yet, at the same time, they were priceless. This room, in this house, with the people who lived in it, were worth more than anything. If need be, they were worth his life.

There was really no choice, Theo realized. He didn't want to, but he had to. Nettie was right—he had to get closer to Broadgirdle.

 28 

Wearing the Mustache

T
HEO
LEARNED
OF
the job because he was lingering by the State House, trying to find a way of approaching it that would not be too obvious. He kept his distance from the crowd of younger and more ragged boys that loitered just across the street, waiting for a message or a package to carry. The guards always made sure that these boys didn't make it onto the steps, but Theo looked older and tidier, and when he approached the steps with a doubtful expression a guard immediately pointed to his right. “You're looking for job postings? Rear door by the servants' entrance.”

“Thank you,” Theo said amiably. He had been looking for nothing of the kind, but this would be an easier and less visible
way of gaining entry. When he reached the servants' entrance, he found a wooden board covered with paper advertisements, and while he waited to get a sense of how much foot traffic there was, and what was required to get in, he looked over the postings. One in the center sprang out:

JUNE 6: Bertram Peel, in the office of MP Gordon Broadgirdle, seeks a responsible and diligent assistant of good character to work full-time, beginning immediately. Inquire within.

Theo reread the advertisement and the date three times, unable to believe what it said. Then he turned on his heel and went home.

He did not return for two days. Theo told himself that he needed the time to work on his knowledge of parliament, but in reality it took those two days to work up his nerve.

It was true that his knowledge of parliament was negligible. He had heard a great deal about the Ministry of Relations with Foreign Ages from Shadrack, but he had no interest in the workings of the legislature. If he was going to do this, he would have to learn. Plunging into a pile of newspapers at Miles's house, he read everything he could about recent happenings. He was aware that a temporary prime minister had been appointed in place of Bligh and that a proper election would be held at the end of the month. He also knew, as did all of Boston, that Broadgirdle would be the candidate for the Western Party.
Theo suspected that the position he was applying for was due to an increased workload resulting from Broadgirdle's campaign. But he had not known or suspected much beyond this, and over the course of two days he did his best to memorize as many names of MPs and as many details about the histories of each party as his brain could hold.

He arrived at the State House on June 10, dressed in a way that was meant to both flatter and disguise. The thin mustache and severely parted hair were there for Broadgirdle's vanity; he knew that Graves, as ever, thought himself a handsome man, and he would be pleased to think that he had imitators. The kidskin gloves and the pressed suit were there for concealment: in proper clothes, with his scarred hand hidden, Theo felt confident that he would be unrecognizable.

Or, at least, he felt confident at the State House entrance. By the time he arrived at Broadgirdle's offices on the top floor, he was having difficulty breathing. He stood in the corridor for a moment and took deep lungfuls of air. There was sweat on his brow, and he wiped it away quickly.

Then he walked to the door of Broadgirdle's offices and knocked. A thin, reedy voice called, “Come in.”

Theo found himself facing a gaunt and unbecoming personage with a hairstyle and mustache identical to his. He felt a bubble of mirth rising through his nervousness. “Mr. Bertram Peel?”

“Yes?”

“I am here to inquire about the office assistant position.”

The man looked him over in silence for several seconds. Then he glanced at his watch. “You are fortunate to have arrived at a good time,” he said. “If you will have a seat, I would like to ask you a few preliminary questions.”

“Certainly,” Theo said, taking the seat by the desk.

Peel made a great show of procuring a clean pad of paper and testing his pen. “Your name?”

“Archibald Slade.”

“How did you learn of the position? Were you referred by anyone?”

“No, I saw it posted near the servants' entrance. I had been hoping—waiting, really—to see a position in MP Broadgirdle's office for such a long time.”

Peel pressed his lips together with approval or skepticism—it was hard to tell. “You are a supporter of MP Broadgirdle?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Theo replied. “I think his vision for New Occident is exactly what we need.”

Peel let his pen pause over the paper. “How, exactly?”

Theo took a deep breath. Broadgirdle had made numerous campaign speeches, and his agenda was simple, at least as he presented it to the public:
Look west and conquer.
The self-righteous bombast with which he spoke of conquering the west managed to conceal its messiness, impracticality, and, in some cases, downright impossibility. There were not enough people in New Occident to “conquer” much of anything. The standing army was minuscule. Only people on the border with the Indian Territories had any desire to edge westward, and
they were already doing it. Broadgirdle's campaign could have easily been brought to a halt with one question: “Who?” That is, “Who will look west and conquer?”

Theo did not say any of this. Instead, he said what Peel wanted to hear: “‘Look west and conquer!' It is such an inspiring message. This is what people really need—a strong leader with a bold plan.”

Peel allowed his face to relax slightly. “The other parties also have leaders with plans. Why not support those?”

Bligh's party, the New States Party, had chosen Gamaliel Shore, a rope maker from Plymouth, as its candidate. Like Bligh, Shore wanted to overturn the border closure because it isolated New Occident and made it a poor trade partner. This was true, but it did not sound as daring as Broadgirdle's argument. Shore also wanted to grant the Indian Territories statehood, which would have benefitted the nation as a whole but did not have quite the same ring to it as “Look west and conquer.” Those who bothered to listen carefully realized that Shore's policies, as a continuation of Bligh's, were prudent and wise, while his competitor's were brash and delusional. But not many people listened carefully.

The third party, the vigorous but small Remember England Party, had chosen Pliny Grimes. Their campaign rested on a simple premise expressed aptly by its name. Dedicated to preserving the memory of that vanished colonial power—which, of course, had ceased to rule the states well before the Great Disruption—the Remember England Party
made its decisions based entirely on the speculation of how England would have wanted it. This was a frequent refrain in their debates and discussions. “England would have wanted us to stop the pirates at all cost.” Or, “England would have warned us about the dangers of paper currency.” Or, “England would have said, ‘No land, no vote!'” In reality, the party strained its imagination and credibility at every turn, attempting to envision what an England that had not existed for more than ninety years would have done in crises trivial or extreme, none of which was conceivable in 1799. And, in any case, it was unclear who or what they meant by “England.” Surely all of England did not think the same way? As critics were keen to point out, England had itself been a hotbed of highly contradictory politics at the moment of the Great Disruption, before it was plunged into medieval obscurity.

“I believe the entire foundation of the Remember England Party is questionable,” Theo said truthfully. “And though I have tried, I cannot understand how their plan for New Occident is even feasible. MP Gamaliel Shore,” he continued, less truthfully, “seems to me weak-willed in a situation that requires force. New Occident must take a commanding role with its neighbors.”

Peel, who had stopped taking notes, sat back in his chair. “Very good, Mr. Slade.” He considered for a moment. “Let me see if the MP is available. I would like him to meet you briefly, if he is.”

Theo knew that this meant he had done well, and yet his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He forced the words out. “Thank you.”

While he waited for Peel to return, he looked around the office. A second desk—bare apart from a lamp—had been added for the new assistant. The walls were lined with tall wooden cabinets labeled carefully in what Theo already recognized as Peel's hand. A door at the rear of the room led to a narrow corridor and an inner office. It was from this corridor that Peel now reemerged, pressing his mustache with satisfaction. “The MP has a moment to see you. Follow me.” He tucked his small wooden writing desk under one arm.

Theo watched Peel's retreating back, unsure that he would be able to move forward. His legs felt as though they were filled with water. He closed his eyes and imagined his escape route: back through the door of the office, down the corridor, down the stairs, out through the colonnade, and across the common. Then he opened his eyes and stepped forward, following Peel's gaunt figure into the narrow corridor.

Peel turned into an office on the right. Graves—
Broadgirdle
, Theo told himself firmly—was there. He sat behind a massive desk, his back to the doorway, contemplating the view from the window. “Here is Mr. Archibald Slade, sir,” Peel said.

Broadgirdle turned in his chair. Theo's first impression, seeing him at close range, was that he had not changed so much after all. The clothes and teeth and beard were new, but it was still the same face, the same expression, the same penetrating eyes. “Mr. Slade,” Broadgirdle said smoothly, putting out his hand. Though he had long arms, he barely leaned forward, forcing Theo to step up to the desk and stretch across it.

“It's an honor, sir.” Theo noticed, as they shook hands, that
Broadgirdle glanced at the kidskin gloves. “Please excuse the gloves,” he added apologetically. “I have a skin condition.”

“Nothing contagious, I hope?” Broadgirdle asked, smiling faintly.

“Oh, no, sir. Nothing contagious.” He smiled back, feeling suddenly a little sick. “Just unsightly.”

“Well, as long as it doesn't get in the way of your writing and filing.”

“No, certainly not.”

Broadgirdle gave a lavish smile, showing all his white teeth. “Peel tells me you believe in forceful leadership.”

“I do, sir. I think New Occident needs a forceful leader. Now more than ever.” Theo knew he was saying the right words, but he felt that if required to think or elaborate upon them, he would be unable to. Broadgirdle's grin was dizzying. The too-familiar way he tapped his hand upon the desk—pattering against the surface with his third and fourth fingers, as if sending a message to the underworld—made Theo want to turn and run.

“The opinion speaks well of you. Let me ask you the question I asked Peel when I hired him, which I like to ask of anyone who works in this office.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Pretend that you are already employed here. You are walking down the corridor, and you overhear an MP from one of the opposition parties discussing a measure that would surprise and undermine our plans. The MP sees you. He demands your
word that you will not mention what you have overheard to anyone. What do you do?”

Theo knew that there were only one or two right answers, and he felt with relief that in this instance, his past knowledge of Graves—Broadgirdle—worked to his advantage. Some might think that he wanted an ethical reply. But Theo knew that Graves valued shrewdness greatly and ethics not at all. He took a deep breath. “If the MP is demanding my word, I would give it. Then I would report to you what I overheard. Finally, if the MP protested later on, I would say that he had spoken carelessly to let his words be overheard, and that he had not given me a choice in promising to stay silent.”