The Peculiar (12 page)

Bartholomew ran.

“Vekistra takeshi! Vekistra!”
the lady in plum shrieked from behind him. “Take the tenth child!”

It was the voice of the creature from the attic. The hidden one that Bartholomew hadn't been able to see. And it wasn't quiet and cold anymore. It was shrill, desperate.

Bartholomew burst into the house. The instant before the door slammed shut, he saw the lady in plum swoop down to the pavement, bottle in hand, dribbling black liquid onto the cobbles. Then the door smashed into its frame and he was running up the stairs and into the flat. He pushed that door closed, fingers slipping on the bolt.
Footsteps.
Someone was in the stairwell, feet booming in the silence. Bartholomew reached for the key, rammed it into the lock.
Where can I go?
The scream of “
Take the tenth child”
was still ringing in his ears
,
awful and final. The lady in plum was not going to lead him gently away, as she had the Buddelbinster boy. She was not whisking him off to some enchanted halls of light and finery. She was going to kidnap him.

“Hettie?” Bartholomew cried, racing to her bed. “Hettie, wake up. Wake up! They're going to come in!” He threw open the cupboard door, poking and jabbing at the sheets to wake her.

Hettie was not there.

He let out a wail and ran to his mother's bed. He shook her, beating his fists against her back. “Mother!” he cried, desperate tears biting his eyes. “
Mother
,
wake
up!” She didn't even stir.

The footsteps had reached the passage. They were approaching the door, slowly, deliberately.
Why won't she wake?

He would open the window. He would throw it wide and yell until the entire faery district was startled from their beds. But it was too late. A tiny c
lick
sounded from the door. The lock. Someone had opened it.

Bartholomew edged away from his mother's motionless form. His fingers closed around the iron handle of the coal scuttle. He drew it up, hugging it to himself. It was so heavy. If he had to, he could dash the faery's brains out with it. Flattening himself against the wall behind the potbellied stove, he waited.

The door to the flat yawned open. Slowly, slowly, it revealed a figure silhouetted against the dim light from the passage. The figure had goat legs and a ruined hat. Two hot-coal eyes glowed under its brim. They slid across the room, back and forth, back and forth. They paused. They turned back to the potbellied stove.
It can't know, it can't know. . . .

“Hello, leetle boy.”

With a great raging sob, Bartholomew leaped from behind the stove, brandishing the coal scuttle as high as he could lift it. The raggedy man grinned. A savage bright flash flew from his eyes, sizzled across the room, and struck Bartholomew in some tender spot deep inside his skull. His vision stuttered out. He felt himself standing, blind and clumsy, in the middle of the floor. Somewhere far away he heard wings flapping, dark wings whirling, and the growl of icy wind. His body was so heavy, pulling him down.
Hettie,
he thought, before he collapsed.
Hettie was the one they wanted. And Hettie is gone.

The scuttle slipped from his hand. It clanged against the floor like a thunderclap. But no one in the whole house woke.

CHAPTER XII
The House and the Anger

M
R
. Jelliby was not the sort of man to make hasty decisions. In fact, he wasn't really the sort of man to make decisions at all. But when the mechanical eye of the faery butler hissed and locked itself onto the bird in Mr. Jelliby's hand, and when the faery smiled that hungry smile at him and said, “Oh! Fancy seeing you here,” as if they were the oldest of friends, Mr. Jelliby made a very hasty, very rash decision. He ran.

Plunging the bird into his trouser pocket, he dashed out of the shop and down the narrow corridor toward the stairs. Shouts rang out behind him. The bells above the shop door began to jangle violently. Down the stairs he leaped, four at a time, barely avoiding the decrepit old man who was making his way upward.

When Mr. Jelliby burst out into the swirling air of Stovepipe Road, he stopped dead.

Oh, no.
A massive black carriage, still as a coffin, was parked across the mouth of the street, blocking his escape. Two mechanical horses stood at its front and pawed the cobblestones. Sparks flew from their metal hooves.

Mr. Jelliby ran the other direction, hurtling down a lane and into an alley. He made his way through a warren of tiny streets, sleeve-over-mouth to keep from gagging on the fumes, and as soon as he could, doubled back toward the wider thoroughfare. He arrived just as the seven o' clock bells were tolling the end of a workday. Laborers from the foundries and breweries were pouring out of doorways, clogging the streets. He fought his way through them, up the stairs toward the elevated railway station.

A steam engine was just pulling away as he mounted the platform, its whistle blowing. He swung onto the wrought-iron porch of the final wagon and collapsed, breathless, against the railing. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he blinked it away. The streets below were packed, row upon row of weary, grimy bodies trudging toward lodgings or public houses, eyes hooked to the ooze beneath their boots. There was no faery, pale as death and cypress-slender, moving among them.

The last wagon had just begun to rumble around a bend when Mr. Jelliby caught sight of the black carriage, parting the crowds like a lustrous boat in dirty water. It paused briefly at a crossroad. Then it slid away, disappearing into the city.

Mr. Jelliby took a long, slow breath. Then another, and another, but nothing could loosen the panic that had fastened itself to his lungs. The faery butler had seen him. He had seen him with Mr. Lickerish's messenger bird in his hands, no doubt the very bird the faery butler had been sent to inquire about. If they had thought he was a spy before, they would be sure he was now. And a thief, too. And something occurred to Mr. Jelliby, then, that made him feel very ill: He had already decided to save Melusine, and stop the faery politician's murderous ways, and deliver England from whatever dastardly plans were under way. But he hadn't wanted to be noticed while he did it. He hadn't wanted to be frowned at, or laughed at, and he most certainly hadn't wanted to seem any different from the other gentlemen of Westminster. Only that was not the way things worked. He saw that now. Westminster gentlemen did not chase clockwork birds through city streets. They did not hunt down killers, or help people. Mr. Jelliby had. And there could be no turning back now.

The faery butler would tell Mr. Lickerish what he had seen. Mr. Lickerish would understand instantly. He would see that Mr. Jelliby knew things no human was supposed to know. He would see that Mr. Jelliby was intent on meddling. And what would he do? Oh, what would that stone-hearted faery do? Mr. Jelliby shivered and hunched into the ash-riddled wind.

 

He arrived back at Belgrave Square just before nightfall, bedraggled and besmirched with all the grime that comes from riding at thirty miles per hour among London's chimneys. Slamming the front door behind him, he barred it, chained it, searched out the key from inside the shade of a gas lamp and locked it. Then he leaned against it and shouted, “Brahms! Brahms! Close the shutters all the way up! And move all the furniture over the windows. Do it now! Ophelia?”

No one answered.

“Ophelia!”

A wide-eyed maid appeared at the top of the stairs. “Good evenin', sir,” she mumbled. “Cook kept your dinner warm and they've got a—”

Mr. Jelliby spun on her.

“Jane? Or is it Margaret. No matter. Fetch all the guns from over the mantelpieces, and all the swords and the carving knives, and perhaps a frying pan or two, and anything else that can be used as a weapon, and then lock up the door to the back garden. And tell Cook to go out and buy a good supply of crackers and salted pork, and lock up the attic windows in case they come in through the roof, and don't forget the guns!”

The maid stood unmoving, her face a picture of confusion.

“Well? What's the matter? Do as I say!”

She stammered something and began backing away down the upstairs hall. Then she turned and ran, polished heels pounding the carpet. A door slammed. Not a minute later, Ophelia arrived at the head of the stairs, the maid peeking from behind her.

“Arthur? Darling, whatever is the matter?”

“You don't suppose we should knock him out,” the maid whispered. “I hear folks get possessed by faeries an' start acting all strange, an' then you have to get a club, see, or that candlestick there will do, and—”

“That's enough, Phoebe,” Ophelia said, without moving her gaze from Mr. Jelliby's face. “You may go sweep up the tea leaves in the sitting room. I'm sure they've collected a boatload of dust by now.”

The maid bowed her head and hurried down the stairs. She inched past Mr. Jelliby, casting him the most despairing look, and sped on toward the sitting room. Ophelia waited until she heard the door click. Then she hurried down herself.

She pulled Mr. Jelliby away from the front door, her pretty face crinkling with worry. “Arthur, what's wrong? What's happened?”

Mr. Jelliby cast a fearful look around him and then led his wife to a chair, whispering, “We're in trouble, Ophelia. Terrible, terrible trouble. Oh, what's going to happen to us? What will happen?”

“Well, if you will tell me what
has
happened, then perhaps I can tell you what
will
happen,” Ophelia said gently.

Mr. Jelliby buried his head in his hands. “I can't tell you what's happened. You can't know. You mustn't know. Oh, I stole something, all right? From someone rather important. And now they know. They
know
I stole it!”

“Arthur, you didn't! Oh, you couldn't have! With your inheritance?”

“People are being murdered, Ophelia. Children. I had to.”

“You ought to have called the police. Stealing money helps nothing in these cases.”

Mr. Jelliby made a complicated sound of annoyance. “I didn't steal any money, won't you listen? I stole a bird. A pisky-cursed mechanical bird.”

“A bird? From who? Mr. Lickerish? Darling, was it Mr. Lickerish?” She bit her nail. “Arthur, do you know what I suspect? I suspect you are reading crimes into his actions. Now, you will put your coat away—oh, it is sooty! Did you not have it brushed?—and sit down by the fire and drink some chamomile tea. Then you will take a hot bath and go to sleep, and tomorrow we shall see what must be done. Perhaps it won't be necessary to rearrange the furnishings after all.”

That sounded sensible enough. Mr. Jelliby was in the safety of his front hall now. The window looked out on an emptying Belgrave Square, on carriages and people, shadowy in the dusk. The evening light was just touching the rooftops with copper and rose. What could Mr. Lickerish possibly do to him here? Out in the wilds of the city he could chase a million horrors onto Mr. Jelliby's back. He could have him pushed from a bridge, or under a steam carriage, or order all the spiders in Pimlico to drag him to the roofs and spin him to a chimney. But here in Mr. Jelliby's own home? The worst Mr. Lickerish could do was murder him in his sleep. And what were the chances of that . . . ?

Mr. Jelliby took off his coat and went to drink some chamomile tea.

 

Fog slunk among the headstones of St. Mary, Queen of Martyrs, that night. It smelled of charcoal and rot, and spread in slow shapes down the sloping graveyard. Above, clouds drifted, snuffing out the moon. Somewhere in the maze of streets beyond the wall a dog barked.

The watchman sat in his hut against the side of the church, fast asleep in the wavering glow of a lantern. Grave robbers had come and gone, finished their business hours ago and were well on their way to the physicians in Harley Street, and to certain faeries of delicate diet. No one heard the sudden shriek of wind, or saw the pillar of wings take shape out of the dark. No one saw the lady who stepped from among them. She looked around her, head snapping about like a bird's. Then she turned and made for the gate, plum-colored skirts dragging over the damp soil.

The lady led a small child. It was a changeling girl, thin, with branches for hair. It was Hettie. She seemed to be falling asleep as they walked, stumbling over roots and sunken gravestones. Her head slumped to one side now and then, as if she didn't know she was in a foggy graveyard, as if she thought she might nestle into her pillow and go to sleep.

“Stop dawdling, ugly thing,” the lady snapped, pulling her along. “We're almost done.”

Her lips did not move as she spoke. The fog swallowed all sound, but even so the lady's voice was distant, as if it were coming from behind layers of fabric. “One more little thing I must take care of tonight, and then you can sleep until your fingernails grow halfway to Gloucester for all I care.”

Hettie rubbed her eyes with her free hand and mumbled something about rats and houses.

“And hold your tongue.” The lady stepped through the gate of the graveyard, into Bellyache Street. She sniffed the air. Then she strode on over the cobblestones. Hettie could scarcely keep up, but the lady paid no attention. She dragged Hettie down Bellyache Street, into Belgrave Square. They hurried out across it, silent in the lamp-lit expanse.

They stopped in front of a tall house with a bicycle bolted to its fence. The house loomed, blacker than the night sky, not a single light tracing any of its windows. The lady eyed it a moment. Then she pulled Hettie toward the nearest lamppost and planted her under it, pointing up at the flame faery behind the glass and saying, “Do you see that? See how it presses its little orange hands against the panes and looks back at you? Now don't move. I'll return for you in seven breaths.” She whirled away, leaving Hettie transfixed under the streetlamp.

At the top of the steps, the lady paused and took from the folds of her dress a heavy metal cylinder. It was ancient, green with verdigris and forged with heathenish symbols. A smiling face, all fat cheeks and twinkling eyes, was etched on its lid.

The lady twisted the lid, winding it like a clock, and suddenly the face began to change. As it turned upside down it became angry, and its eyes began to darken, and its mouth drooped into a bitter frown. The cylinder sprang open.

“Arthur Jelliby,” the lady whispered, and smiled as something flew from the cylinder through the keyhole and into the plush darkness of the house. When there was nothing left inside the cylinder she tucked it back into her skirts, and collecting Hettie up off the curb, swept back toward St. Mary's and the graveyard.

 

It was not a sound that woke Mr. Jelliby. Rather, it was the combined effects of being too cold, lying half out of his blankets, and feeling an uncomfortable lump in his mattress at the small of his back, like a broken spring poking out.

He sat up and felt about in the dark, trying to find the source of this discomfort. He was so tired. Had a man in pointed shoes appeared right then and asked him to sign his name in blood inside a black book, he would have done it just to be allowed to fall back into his pillows and sleep.

His fingers touched on something smooth and cold among the bedsheets. It wasn't a bedspring.
What on earth?
It wasn't even metal.

With a groan, he heaved himself up and lit the lamp on the nightstand. He held it over the bed, surveying the wrinkled sheets. The thing that had woken him was a piece of wood. It was well polished and seemed to have grown from under the bed, piercing mattress and feather comforters until it had finally jabbed into his back.

Mr. Jelliby stared at it, his sleep-fogged mind stumbling, not understanding. Clumsily, he dropped to one knee and looked under the bed. It was a great old four-poster, built of dark wood and carved to look like a grove of weeping willows, their branches entwined to form a canopy. Now that he thought of it, the wood among the sheets looked very much—

He stiffened. Something was wrapping itself around his ankle. With a muffled yelp he jerked his leg around, whirling to see what it was. A brittle snap, like the breaking of a match. He looked down, and there at his feet was another piece of branch, lying still.

“Ophelia?” he whispered into the dark. “Ophelia, I believe you should have a look at this—”

But even as he spoke, another branch rose up behind him and snaked itself silently around his neck. With one swift movement, it drew itself tight. The lamp fell from Mr. Jelliby's hands. It smashed to the floor and went out. His eyes bulged. He reached for his throat, gagging.

“Ophelia!” he croaked, snapping the wood from his neck. The branches were coming quicker now, left and right, crackling from the woodwork of the bed and slithering toward him. “
Ophelia!”

All of a sudden, the carpet under his feet gave a violent lurch and streaked out from under him. He struck the floor like a ten-ton stone. The carpet turned, flew back at him, and began wrapping itself around him, winding and knotting. With a cry, he kicked it off and started crawling desperately toward the door.

He managed to get out into the hall and would have lain there had not the floorboards begun flipping up, slamming him in the back, in the arm. He scooted down the front stairs and stood, trembling. This was a dream, surely. He
must
be dreaming.