The Hunchback Assignments (12 page)

Hands grabbed him, set him upright in knee-deep water. No, not water he decided as he took a step. Too thick. Sewage. The hands half pushed, half dragged him through the muck for several minutes. Then he stumbled across solid ground. A door closed. It smelled only slightly better, wherever they were.

An aristocratic male voice asked, “Why is this boy here?”

“’E’s me son,” the man beside Oppie said, shoving him forward. “Pay him no nevermind.”

Another posh voice said, “Why is he wearing a sack?”

Someone cut the cord around his neck and ripped the sack off Oppie’s head, taking a clump of hair with it. “Better, then?” the man asked. The lamplight blinded Oppie. The doctor looked down at him, his eyes magnified by lenses, so he resembled a large insect. Behind him, several men in fancy coats stood at the end of the room. Two were staring at him, but the others gazed off into space. Nearby, leaning over a desk was a red-haired woman in a black jacket and trousers. A woman in trousers? He’d never seen such a thing in his life.

One of the young men seemed familiar. Oppie couldn’t read, but he collected drawings and photographs of the Royals, pasting them to his wall with Queen Victoria at the top. The man looked for all the world like Prince Albert, the Queen’s grandson and the second in line to the throne. Why would a prince be in the sewer?

The doctor reached out and patted Oppie’s shoulder. “You look frightened.”

“I’m not,” he spouted, though in truth he was about to wet his britches.

“Good. A brave young man. Now, I have work to do with these gentlemen. Please excuse me.”

He walked over to a series of beakers being heated by candles. Using tongs, he lifted one, tapped the glass with his finger, then went over to the young gentlemen standing next to the prince. While the prince’s skin was noticeably
pale, the gentleman looked tanned and robust. “It’s your turn, Mr. Featherstone.”

The young man blinked repeatedly. “I’m not certain I want to drink it now,” he replied.

“Come, come, it’s a very important experiment. Your companions have agreed to participate and you have already signed the papers. You will go down in history for this.”

“Why don’t I remember coming to this room? I thought we were going to study the stars.”

“The stars?” A derisive huff came from the woman at the table. “Be a man, Mr. Featherstone. Your father would be ashamed of you.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said and took the flask, gulping down its contents. He grimaced and his hand went straight to his head. A look of absolute horror crossed his face, an expression so hideous that it took Oppie’s breath away. Featherstone’s legs buckled, but he was caught by one of the doctor’s henchmen.

“You’ll find your legs again in a moment, Mr. Featherstone,” the doctor said, “and your mind will soon be as clear as blank paper.” A few moments later, as predicted, Featherstone did stand on his own. There was something odd about his eyes.

The other gentlemen watched all of this impassively. Prince Albert took his portion next, responding exactly as Featherstone had. Soon all the young gentlemen were seated along one wall, their eyes glazed over. Oppie was surprised at how still they sat.

The henchman led Featherstone to the woman at the
desk. She spoke into the young man’s ear, reading something from the papers on her desk. Oppie couldn’t hear what she said, but when she was finished, Featherstone nodded and stood by the door. He looked, to Oppie, like a dog waiting to be let out.

One by one, all of the young men were taken over to the woman, who whispered into their ears. None of them said a word, and by the end six stood in line behind Featherstone. “They are ready to go home, Mr. Fuhr,” the woman said to the large man. He nodded and the gentlemen followed him through the door and out of the room. Prince Albert, oblivious to all of this, was left sleeping in the corner.

The woman stood and stretched, revealing that she had a metal hand. Oppie couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. “Well, Cornelius, seven arrows have been loosed. In this alone you have accomplished more than any chemist in history. I am proud of you.”

“It’s a small thing, truly,” the doctor said. “And we are only half done.”

“Yes. Half done. You are always dedicated to the task.” She shook an admonishing metal finger at him. “You work too hard. But soon we will rest. May I have my sparrow back?”

“Of course.” He lifted one of the sparrows from his shoulder and handed it to her. She placed it on her own.

“Ah, this is one of the loveliest gifts you’ve given me. Do you need help with the boy?”

“Yes, just a moment’s help.”

The doctor and the woman returned to Oppie’s side.
The second sparrow still clung to the man’s shoulder. Without even looking Oppie in the eye, the woman cut the ropes with a knife, lifted him, and dragged him into a second, smaller chamber. She placed him against the wall, where she snapped manacles around his wrists and ankles. Oppie thrashed about wildly.

“It’s only natural to fear what you don’t understand,” the doctor said, and his bird chirped in agreement. He touched Oppie’s shoulder with a cool hand. “Ah, good, you’re already strong and your bones are well developed. When you tire of fighting me, I will give you some of the … uh … magic potion that my young friends just received. But it will be a larger dose and it will make you much stronger. I know how young boys wish they were stronger! After all, when England’s children rise up to strike against the old blackguards who keep them down, you will need to be strong. So, when you are ready to cooperate, my boy, we can begin.”

A
cutlass was displayed on the wall alongside a black bear’s head, its mouth open in a roar, its marble eyes twinkling in the morning light. Below it was a brass bed, the sheets luxuriant and thick. And under them, snoring with a slight wheeze, was Modo.

As he was coming to he sensed someone entering the room, and heard the squeak of leather as the visitor sat in a nearby chair. Seconds passed and then something poked him in the shoulder.

Modo opened one eye, then the other. His eyes focused and widened in surprise. “Mr. Socrates!” he exclaimed. He sat up, ignoring the pain in his chest. “You—how did you get here?” He looked around. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Towerhouse. This is one of my London safe houses. I figured it was best to keep you off the streets for the next while. You have stirred up a hornets’ nest.”

“Hornets’ nest?” It took Modo a moment to recall a few details from the previous night. “It was more than a hornets’ nest, sir.” When he moved his right arm to feel for his mask, he saw that his burn marks and injuries had been covered by a thick, green paste that smelled of mint. “What’s on my arm?”

“Tharpa treated your wounds. Some mystical poultice. I’m certain it will heal you—at least it hides your smell.”

Good ol’ Tharpa, Modo thought. He’s here! Modo felt his cheek; his face had reverted to its original shape. There were scabs where the woman with the metal hand had scratched him. “How did I get here?”

“Tharpa carried you. With the help of Octavia.”

“You know Octavia?”

“Of course. She works for me.” Mr. Socrates tapped the bed with his walking stick. “You should be putting some of this together yourself, Modo. Octavia assumed you were also my agent and that I would want to help you. She brought you here by cab, telling the cabbie that this was the home of a doctor. And you do need help. Judging by your breathing you have broken a rib, but there’s no damage to your lungs. You cough up ashes, not blood.”

Modo rubbed his forehead and came away with a soot-stained hand. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“You’ve slept for ten hours. I could wait no longer. I need to know what you’ve discovered about the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. But first I must compliment you. You have passed the test.”

Modo’s lips were so dry it hurt to smile, but smile he did.

“I’m pleased by your progress,” Mr. Socrates continued. “You’ve adapted to your surroundings, found lodging, procured a source of income, and used all means at your disposal to survive. Perfect. I felt that you were ready for the next step, so I had Octavia assign you a task. You’re to be congratulated. The faith that I have placed in you has been rewarded.”

“Thank you, sir. It was … uh, sometimes I didn’t eat so well.” He let out a breath, and then, more angrily than intended, said, “I nearly died, you know.”

“Yes,” Mr. Socrates replied. “I’m aware of that.”

But Modo’s anger continued to flare.
You pushed me out of the coach. You abandoned me on the street to fend for myself.
He sucked in a deep breath.

Mr. Socrates didn’t seem to notice his broiling mood. “I cannot resist congratulating myself. Your carefully planned upbringing has paid off. I have taken many notes on my methods and will employ them again in the future.”

Employ them again? With whom? Did he have other young agents he was raising? Modo was surprised to feel a stab of jealousy. Did Mr. Socrates like the other agents more? Were they handsome? Beautiful? Modo ground his teeth. He was being silly. What he wanted most was for his master to pat him on the shoulder. He was reminded of the last person to pat his back. “Is Mrs. Finchley here?”

Mr. Socrates shook his head. “She has other duties.”

Another stab of jealousy! Was she looking after another agent-in-training? Modo swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Is she keeping well?”

“Do not dwell on her, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “She
has served her purpose in your life. Do not succumb to sentimental attachments.”

“And should I forget you, too, if need be?” Modo asked.

Mr. Socrates looked momentarily startled. “Well, well, well. You have grown a bit of a spine, Modo. Good. But don’t become flippant.” He tapped his walking stick once on the floor. “You did fail in one aspect.”

“And what was that?”

Mr. Socrates produced a section from the
Times
and handed it to Modo. On the bottom of the page was a headline:
House burned down by escaped convict.
Modo read the story quickly.

Modo felt sick, remembering how a woman had actually fainted at the sight of him. Then a horrid thought occurred to him: His enemies would read this and know he had escaped. Picturing the red-haired woman set on his destruction made him panic, but he took solace in the knowledge that they would have no way of tracking him and no idea what he really looked like.

Mr. Socrates gathered up the paper. “As a rule, I prefer no descriptions of my agents to appear in print.”

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Modo said. “Next time I’ll just let myself burn up in the blaze.”

Mr. Socrates actually let out a chuckle. “You are coming into your own, Modo. I am proud of you.”

Modo felt pleased.

There was a knock at the door. Tharpa stuck his head into the room. By way of a greeting, he nodded to Modo, then said to Mr. Socrates, “Miss Milkweed has arrived.”

“Bring her up.”

Tharpa nodded again and left.

Modo was disappointed not to get so much as a “Nice to see you” from Tharpa. Then he realized what Tharpa had said.

“Miss Milkweed?” Modo asked, full of hope.

“Yes. Octavia has arrived. I must say finding her was a fine piece of detective work.”

Modo sat up, alarmed. “She’s on her way up here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she can’t see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not dressed properly.” Modo looked around desperately for clothes, wincing as his ribs moved. He threw on a large robe that had been hanging on the bedpost, and his hump disappeared into its great folds.

“Don’t be modest, Modo. She’s a professional agent. She has seen worse things than a young invalid.”

“Where’s my mask? I don’t want her to see my face.”
He’d meant it to be a calm statement but heard himself whining.

“Ah, now I understand. You’re feeling more than modesty. Well, you should not always rely on your mask. Why don’t you just transform your face?”

“There isn’t enough time.”

“There is if you concentrate.”

Which face had he used? Ah, yes, the knight, of course. His bones and muscles knew the face well. He set his jaw, pictured his nose straight and perfect. Just his face, that’s all he needed to change. Sweat beaded his brow. His heart thudded against his breastbone. He made his nose straighten.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell outside his door. She was climbing the stairs, talking to Tharpa. He recognized the timbre of her voice, but couldn’t catch the words.

He lowered his ears and made them shrink, sweat dripping into his eyes.

“You’re botching it,” Mr. Socrates scolded. “Your eyes are uneven. Concentrate. You’ve done this a thousand times.”

Their footsteps were growing closer. Octavia laughed lightly. Modo hadn’t even begun to work on his hair.

“Concentrate!” Mr. Socrates commanded.

The door swung open. Modo slapped a disfigured hand over his face, but Tharpa entered first, then motioned to their guest to stop, closing the door in her face. He marched to the bed, grabbed a nightcap from the desk, and pulled it over Modo’s head, then handed him a handkerchief. Modo
covered his face with it. “Your eyes,” Tharpa said, “straighten them. Let the rest go. Then all will be well.”

Modo caught the sideways grin Mr. Socrates gave Tharpa. “You’re being overly protective,” he said.

“The secret of his face should remain a secret,” Tharpa answered flatly; then he returned to the door.

Mr. Socrates shrugged. “Yes. I suppose. The secret is more important than this little test. Bring her in.”

Modo finished straightening his eyes and tied the handkerchief across his nose and mouth. How long would his features stay that way?