The Mourning Emporium (38 page)

“Perhaps she’s still spying! On her own account!”

Suddenly, everyone—the Venetians and the English—was shouting and waving their hands around.

Even Turtledove growled at Teo, “Is yew a few drops short of a tincture, girlie? Don’t niver see them two villains as breeders.” At which the London mermaids below tittered with their hands over their mouths.

Emilio pointed out: “She never actually told them where the Scilla was, did she?”

Unseen by anyone, Sibella quietly undid the ropes that bound her and edged out of the room.

Lussa’s troubled voice rose above the rest, “Yet who is She? Perhaps She is the Daughter of Evil. Mayhap Evil even sleeps in her young Veins. But for now, She is but a Child, Friendless & Hated, and Afflicted with a rare Disease. We should pity Her, surely?”

“By the way, where is the girlie?” inquired Turtledove.

A shriek was heard up above. Tig Sweetiemouth came rushing into the laboratory. “Come upstairs!” she implored the company. “Everyone come on deck!”

“Sibella!” called Renzo, climbing up the hatch.

“I’m up here.” A faint, bell-like voice came from high in the rigging. “And you need have no worry about how to dispose of me. I shall save you the trouble.”

A piece of paper fluttered down to the deck. Signor Alicamoussa picked it up and read aloud, “ ‘And so I end my worthless life …’ ”

Sibella called down, “I suggest you clear the deck. I don’t want to take any of you with me when I jump.”

“It’s only thirty yards. She might be all right, light little bundle loik that. She’ll prob’ly bounce loik a feather!” whispered Greasy. “Wiv maybe a bruise or two.”

“No,” Renzo groaned, “her hemophilia means she will bleed to death from the slightest injury.”

“Poor maid,” whispered Turtledove.

“And she’s so very pretty,” added Tobias.

A minute later, Renzo was quietly climbing up the rigging behind Sibella.

They talked earnestly. Teo strained to read the sentences she saw above their heads. But the wind was rising noisily, blowing all the words out of shape. Sibella touched her chest and pointed south.

Turtledove patted Teo’s foot with his paw. “Doan fret. Renzo ain’t scrootching up to her all lovey-dovey now. It’s jist a bit o’ business up there.”

Sibella finally smiled gravely and nodded once. Renzo offered his hand and helped her down to the deck.

There, he saluted Signor Alicamoussa. “The prisoner is delivered safely. She insists that she will not explain herself except in front of a court of her peers. We”—Renzo colored slight—“may not be considered her equals, it seems. For she says she is the natural daughter of the Pretender himself. That’s why she has hemophilia, the disease of the royal family.”

Signor Alicamoussa gave Sibella a considering stare. “Those eyes! That chin! That brow! Is a possible thing, I reckon, to see the features of Harold Hoskins in that tiny face, yes. Very liken, in factiest fact. Much more liken to his Nobship than to the Uish female or the Tiepolatrocity!”

Renzo said, “So she was placed on the Scilla not as a spy, but as a hostage—until the destruction of Venice was accomplished. Sibella constituted the personal and private bond of the Pretender to Bajamonte Tiepolo. To be held in his custody until Venice was destroyed. Now don’t you see that Sibella has just been an innocent pawn in all this? I am sure any court in any land—”

“We shall take her back to Venice with us, then, yes. She can answer for herself in front of her peers there. Youse’ll know what they say about Venetians?” Signor Alicamoussa smiled delightfully.

“Of course,” said Renzo. “Every Venetian mother says it when she gives birth: ‘Look, a lord is born in this world. We are all lords and ladies in Venice.’ ”

“Renzo,” Teo admonished him, “why are you so happy? Just because Sibella is his daughter does not mean Harold Hoskins won’t be thinking of invading Venice, now that Bajamonte Tiepolo has given him the idea. He loves power! Craves it! Venice would be a crowning jewel in his new imperial crown, wouldn’t she?”

Sebastiano dalla Mutta suggested, “Or perhaps Renzo quite fancies a Queen Sibella ruling over Venice?”

“No, I do not.” Renzo’s voice was clear and stern. “In fact, my biggest fear is that her father will come after her.”

“Easily risolverated.” Signor Alicamoussa waved the piece of paper that Sibella had sent floating down to the deck. “We shall send her suiciding letter to the London bobbies and to her unfatherly father, who is colder than a billabong’s bottom. He will think she has indeed carked it! In the meaningwhiles, we’ll take her with us to Venice, all alivo and bucksome. And perhaps, with a little proper kindness shown to her for once, the pale girlie will come to trust us with the whole truth, yes.”

A gabble of voices broke out. It was the sound of everyone on the Scilla changing the subject to something far more cheerfully suited to the aftermath of a victorious battle, namely the Londoners’ return to the home comforts of the mourning emporium’s soft-lined coffins and cozy coal fires.

“Now.” Alberto Stampara smiled, hugging Teo and shaking Renzo’s hand vigorously. “Tell us just how you two got all the way here from Venice, and what you are doing here on your own.”

Leonora kissed the top of Teo’s head. “You are changed, somehow, since we saw you last. Not just this strange hairstyle.”

Renzo intervened quickly, “She has traveled now, you know. She is more cosmopolitan, perhaps?”

“No, it’s not that.” Leonora looked puzzled. “Teodora is more … sea-ish.”

“Seaworthy!” maintained Renzo. “She is entirely seaworthy.”

Sebastiano dalla Mutta chuckled. “Yes, if you stand close enough to Teo, you can hear the ocean. From between the ears.”

Sebastiano’s own ears stood in considerable danger of a pinch from Renzo at that moment, but Alberto persisted, “What were you two doing on the Scilla? Did your mother permit such a thing, Renzo? Teodora, we thought we left you safe with Anna. What happened?”

Teo and Renzo exchanged worried glances. Two summers before, they had agreed to spare Teo’s parents the difficulty of trying to believe in mermaids, baddened magic, vengeful spirits. If they started recounting the whole truth now, then many other things would also need to be explained. And then it would come out—the painful fact that Teo now knew the identity of her real parents, that she had visited their graves, and that she wished to be like them and work in the Venetian Archives. This would be too hard on the soft hearts of Alberto and Leonora Stampara, who loved her like the kindest parents in the world. They might be Incogniti now, but they were still human, and they could be hurt.

Signor Alicamoussa saw them floundering. He winked at Teo. Then he put arms confidentially around the shoulders of Leonora and Alberto Stampara and drew them away. “Dear colleagues,” he said, “is very sad news in the altogether of Renzo’s Mamma. Let’s not talk about it in front of the boy. And youse may not realize just what has happened to Venice in your absence.”

“Saved!” sighed Renzo, as the adults moved to a sheltered part of the deck so that Leonora could sit down away from the biting wind.

“As he’d admit himself, Signor Alicamoussa could talk a dog off a meat wagon,” smiled Teo.

“Did someone say ‘dog’?” asked Turtledove, planting his feet on Teo’s shoulders and licking her face clean of all the soot and sweat of battle.

“Not one of my favorite words.” Sofonisba limped up, permitting a caress from Tig. “But I’d honor it now, after having seen you in battle, sir.”

“Yew was no shabby tabby yourself, missis, when it came to the old one-two.” Turtledove nudged her softly with his nose.

“Ah, but I am wrecked and mutilated now by all these adventures,” Sofonisba sighed theatrically. She rolled on her back, erected a rear leg and licked at various sore spots and scratches inflicted by Miss Uish. She sported a large plaster where her wing was once tucked against her side. Her tail was neatly bandaged into a white stump, which still managed to be astonishingly communicative, rapping on the floor to emphasize its owner’s words.

“I’ve no desire to put myself to sea again. What use is a ship’s cat without a full tail? How can the young sailors learn ailuromancy without an all-expressive tail to observe? And my flying days are over. No, a new kitten must be found and trained for the Scilla. By the way, what happens to pensioned-off ship’s cats in this country?”

Turtledove answered expertly, “Ah, they is retired to the Catswolds; ’tis a veritable heaven for cats up there. They has their own villages, like Much-Fondling-in-the-Fur and Purrington, where they lives in ease and style. The Litterbox Lanes is a wonder of modern sanitation. An’ the catnip fields grow green far as the eye can see.”

“Really?” asked Sofonisba. “That is not absolutely uninteresting.”

Tig said enthusiastically: “Sofonisba hain’t ready to retire yet! There’s rats to catch in the Mansion Dolorous! And there’s a dear little babby coffin all lined wiv swan’s down next to mine.…”

Tobias edged forward shyly. His voice was thick with longing as he fixed his large gray eyes on Renzo and Teo. “There is sewers in Venice, right?”

“The most amazing and intricate sewer system, dating back to …,” began Renzo. Then he stopped short and shook Tobias’s hand with both his own. “You are very welcome, more than welcome, isn’t he, everyone?”

Emilio, Sebastiano, Rosato and all the other Venetians raised a cheer.

Renzo added hastily, “And you can sleep in the Scilla’s cargo store all the way home to Venice. Awfully roomy down there.”

“And we can go back to Venice now,” pressed Teo, “can’t we? We need to go home and prepare the forces of good to fight Harold Hoskins and his soldiers, if they come.”

“Wot the fimble-famble? Yew wants to leave London Town right now,” asked Turtledove, incredulous, “jist when the greatest show on earth is ’bout to start?”

As ever, the old Queen preferred to snub London.

The royal funeral was to take place in Windsor, miles from her poverty-tarnished capital. Queen Victoria would pass the rest of eternity in a private chapel, lying next to her beloved Albert, as far away as possible from the vulgar public.

In her meticulous funeral plans, she had, however, conceded a procession through London.

Queen Victoria’s coffin, mounted on a gun carriage and surmounted by her crown, orb and scepter, was to proceed with all possible pomp and circumstance—accompanied by Beethoven and Highland laments—from Victoria Station to Paddington via the grandeurs of the Mall, Hyde Park and Marble Arch, all of which were draped with purple cloth and white satin bows. The Mansion Dolorous gang and the crew of the Scilla enjoyed a splendid view from the roof of Pattercake’s Soho restaurant.

The temperature outside had risen by a noticeable degree. The sun made its first appearance since the death of the Queen. Snowdrops were poking their scented heads through the softening sheaves of snow. The muted drums of the procession were accompanied by the trickle of thawed water and the tinkle of falling icicles.

The Londoners and Venetians sweltered, being all outfitted to the height of melancholy fashion in brand-new mourning outfits, after having been serially dunked in hot water in the claw-foot bath by Turtledove.

Sibella was forced to accompany the Venetians ashore—“We can’t trust her alone on the Scilla, can we?” Fabrizio pointed out.

At the mourning emporium, where everyone had been invited for a Royal Funeral Tea, Sibella was introduced to Messrs. Tristesse and Ganorus as “a young gentlewoman fallen on hard times, who will shortly depart for Venice to take up a position as a seamstress.”

At this, Sibella looked up eagerly. She seemed about to speak. Then she caught a glimpse of Teo’s face and lowered her head again.

Sibella ran reverent fingers down the rolls of black moiré, black faille and black Ottoman ribbon. She was actually seen to smile when she discovered the mourning lace in all its jet-beaded glory. At the sight of the seal furs, she reached out a hand, asking, “May I have one of these, and some scissors and thread, please?”

“No harm, I suppose,” replied Mr. Ganorus.

While the other boys and girls devoured their prodigious Royal Funeral Tea, Sibella sat in a corner, quietly snipping and sewing at the black fur.

Tristesse and Ganorus had done them proud: there was a roast and a boil, a raised game pie, along with three-penny Yarmouth bloaters sizzled on toasting forks and snuggled in envelopes of bread and butter, followed by a massacre of satin pralines and an apple tart (with licorice-rimmed mourning icing). There were basins of sweet tea for the boys and girls, and a hooped tankard of “Saturday Night Pertikular” for Turtledove. Sofonisba graciously condescended to nibble on a tin of boned larks, stuffed and truffled, from Harrods, pronouncing them “not uninteresting in texture and flavor.”

“A tapeworm wunt believe what I’s put away today.” Greasy hugged his belly happily. “I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I’s fully restored to my former glory.”

At the end of the meal, Sibella produced a small, beautifully accurate black bear with button eyes and a dear little paunch.

“Pray what is that?” asked Mr. Ganorus.

“A Mourning Bear,” replied Sibella.

“A toy bear? It’ll never take on.” Mr. Tristesse frowned. “What child in its right mind would want to hug a bear and take it to bed?”

The following days were spent outfitting and provisioning the Scilla for her journey home. She’d be weighed down with passengers, for most of the Incogniti were to join the voyage home. Feeding almost fifty hungry mouths seemed an impossibility: though rich with happiness and relief, the Scilla had no actual funds left.

“Not a brass razoo,” Signor Alicamoussa had mourned.

“What about the treasure under the tree near Greenhithe?” Fabrizio asked. After all that they’d been through, the plundered goods had been far from their minds.

“It’s not ours to spend,” Renzo reproved.

Sebastiano said stoutly, “Surely we’re entitled to a share of it—just to put us on our feet and under sail again. We shall,” he insisted, “call it our wages for saving London from Bajamonte Tiepolo and the Pretender.”