The Story of Cirrus Flux (21 page)

Now began a series of experiments the likes of which Cirrus had never seen. While he and the audience watched, Mr. Leechcraft made paper figurines dance on metal plates, lit candles with nothing more than vials of water and even
ignited a rabbit’s bladder, which soared above the stage on a string of flame before erupting into volcanic fire.

And then, just when Cirrus was beginning to tire of all the effects, snowflakes drifted to the ground. He glanced up to see Bottle Top scattering a pail of goose feathers.

“And now see what spirit we can summon from an innocent child,” said Mr. Leechcraft, as Bottle Top began his descent on the swing. “Behold! Cupid with the Sparkling Kiss!”

The audience burst into rapturous applause as Bottle Top finally made his entrance. For a moment it seemed to Cirrus as though all the birds in the aviary had been set free, as women cooed and cawed and flapped their fans. And then something else caught his eye: a gentleman seated near the back of the theater, a diminutive figure in a chair on wheels. He was holding a lens and leaning forward to get a better view of the boy onstage.

Cirrus felt a knot of apprehension in his stomach as he realized this was almost certainly the gentleman Mr. Leechcraft was so keen to impress. The gentleman from the Guild.

A sudden flash of lightning turned his attention back to the performance. Mr. Leechcraft had sent another pulse of energy across the room, just inches away from Bottle Top’s swing. The women in the audience let out a horrified cry.

“Remember,” said Mr. Leechcraft, with a cruel, dark smile. “Aether can be used for good or for ill. It can nurture just as easily as it can destroy.”

One of the women now leapt out of her seat, eager to save
Bottle Top from his apparent fate, but Bottle Top merely smiled and reassured her that she need not worry.

“See?” he said, offering her his hand, which was calm and steady. “I am not scared.”

She clutched his fingers and offered him a coin. Bottle Top turned his head toward Cirrus with a satisfied grin; Micah, however, in control of the ropes, glared.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Cirrus now watched as Mr. Leechcraft made a great show of removing the gun barrel from the front of the electrostatic machine and then, very carefully, aligning the soles of Bottle Top’s feet with the glass wheels instead.

A hush fell upon the audience.

Mr. Leechcraft stepped back to the handle and the disks began to spin.

A slow, soft hiss filled the air.

Cirrus could not take his eyes off Bottle Top, who was lying perfectly still, his face serene. He remembered what Bottle Top had told him about the needling pain, and his hands started to sweat.

Then, when Cirrus could stand the tension no longer and expected Bottle Top at any moment to explode in a flash of flame, Bottle Top held out his hands and, as if by magic, all of the feathers that had scattered to the stage floated up through the air. They clung to his skin. Bottle Top had become a human magnet!

Cirrus joined in the applause rolling over the stage like
a wave. Bottle Top delighted the audience with a beaming grin.

“Behold, the miracles of Nature in the hands of a child,” said Mr. Leechcraft, who continued to crank the handle. “Now see what other spirits we can coax from his soul.”

The wheels turned faster and the audience grew restless once again. Cirrus, concerned, could see the strain beginning to show on Bottle Top’s face. Beads of perspiration slipped down his brow and his brand-new teeth were clenched in pain. Still Mr. Leechcraft did not relent, but continued to turn the handle, round and round.

At last, little cobwebs of light began to appear between Bottle Top’s fingers and, in a sudden flash, a bolt of energy shot across the stage, striking a brass sphere several feet away. The audience shrieked, drowning out Bottle Top’s tiny yelp of pain.

Cirrus glanced anxiously at his friend, who was trying not to flinch as tears slid down his cheeks.

“I present you, ladies and gentlemen, with the true spark of life,” said Mr. Leechcraft, taking a deep long bow. “The Breath of God, if you will.”

The audience burst again into applause.

As soon as the ovation had ended, Mr. Leechcraft invited a lady onstage. “Madam, would you care to kiss an angel?” he said gallantly, extending a hand.

He escorted a short, plump woman to a footstool before Bottle Top’s swing. Bottle Top squirmed when he saw her.
She was old and haggard, with a beauty spot the size of a squashed insect on her chin. She withdrew a coin from her purse and placed it in his palm, then closed her eyes and puckered her lips. She leaned forward to give Bottle Top a kiss.

Mr. Leechcraft immediately leapt back to the machine and cranked the handle. Moments later a sharp bee sting of light snapped from Bottle Top’s lips and the woman exclaimed in pain. She swooned to the floor, while Bottle Top dabbed a finger to his still-healing gums.

The audience roared with laughter and rose, as one, to its feet.

The performance over, the guests now began to take their leave. Ezekiel and Job held their candles aloft to guide them through the darkened museum.

Mr. Leechcraft, meanwhile, rushed directly to the man from the Guild. “Pray, sir, what did you think of our performance?” he said.

Mr. Sidereal said nothing, but continued staring at the stage, where Bottle Top was waiting to be let down from the swing. Instead of releasing him, however, Micah skittered across the stage and turned the handle of the machine, sending yet more energy through the soles of the boy’s feet.

Cirrus launched himself from the shadows to release his friend.

No sooner had he stepped on the footstool, however, than a flash of lightning struck him full in the chest. He was
knocked hard to the ground and cracked his head on the boards.

For a moment he lay perfectly still, aware of a splintering pain, and then he noticed a shimmering light swirling above him, floating up from his chest.

Terrified, he scrabbled at his clothes, thinking he was on fire, and found to his astonishment that the sphere under his jacket had come undone. It was releasing an icy blue-and-white vapor into the air. With fumbling fingers, he managed to thread the halves together and breathed a sigh of relief as, slowly, gradually, the light around him began to fade.

He staggered to his feet.

Everyone was staring at the waning drifts of light—all except Bottle Top, who was slumped on the floor. He had been blown clear off his swing.

“Are you hurt?” cried Cirrus, rushing over to him, but Bottle Top cowered and backed away. He was rubbing his left elbow and whimpering in pain. His wings had been crushed beneath him in the fall.

“I’m sorry,” said Cirrus, shaking all over. “I don’t know what happened.”

Helplessly, he turned to Mr. Leechcraft, who seemed equally perplexed. Only Mr. Sidereal showed no surprise. He was staring intently at Cirrus’s chest.

“That boy,” he said, in a high, nasal voice. “Bring him to me.”

Mr. Leechcraft pointed at Cirrus, who nervously approached.

Mr. Sidereal looked him straight in the eye.

“What is your name?” he asked, and reached out to stroke Cirrus’s jacket.

Cirrus automatically drew back.

“Why, he is my new Hanging Boy,” said Mr. Leechcraft quickly, before Cirrus had a chance to speak. He hooked his fingers round the boy’s shoulders and clutched him tightly to his breast. “I have been training him with my other boys. Only, I was not certain the time had yet come to display him.”

“Well, the time is at hand,” said Mr. Sidereal. “He must be exhibited before the Guild at once.”

Mr. Leechcraft blinked.

“The Guild, sir?”

“But of course! This boy is full of Aether! Can you not see it? The Guild will be most interested in this remarkable child.”

Cirrus glanced uneasily at Bottle Top, who was staring at him savagely from the stage.

Mr. Leechcraft appeared stunned. “When, erm, do you intend to exhibit him, sir?”

“Tomorrow night,” said Mr. Sidereal, clawing at the armrests of his chair. “The Guild will be meeting then.”

Cirrus felt as if he was going to faint. He hoped for a moment that the man might decline the invitation, but Mr. Leechcraft seemed to pull himself together.

“Tomorrow night will be fine, sir,” he said, much to Cirrus’s horror.

“Good. I shall see to it that everything is arranged,” said Mr. Sidereal. He began to wheel his chair away.

At once, Mr. Leechcraft called Micah and Bottle Top forward to help the gentleman. Cirrus cast another frightened look at his friend, but Bottle Top stormed right past him and did not look back.

The Fallen Angel

P
andora stood in the garden outside the Hall of Wonders and stared up at the museum. Torches flared on either side of the main entrance, but the windows were as dark as pewter and showed no signs of life.

“Where is he? What is keeping him so long?” she asked, pacing up and down the gravel paths.

“Patience, Pandora,” said a voice from behind her.

She turned. Mr. Hardy was perched on the edge of a large stone plinth in the center of the square, almost as still as the statue above him. His spyglass was raised to his eye and his sights were fixed on the doorway.

All day long they had been watching Mr. Sidereal. While ash-colored clouds gathered over the city and thunder rolled across the sky, they had stood on a sweltering street corner outside his observatory, waiting for him to lead them to the boy.

Finally, as the sun began to set, igniting the sky with a coppery haze, Mr. Sidereal had left his residence in a gilded carriage. Mr. Hardy had immediately given chase in a shabby black coach he had hired for the purpose. The coachman took the corners at a trot, allowing them to keep up with the fancy carriage.

A short while later they had pulled up outside a building on the north side of Leicester Fields. Pandora had exclaimed in delight when she saw the statue of the horse and rider in the middle of the square.

“Mr. Hardy!” she cried, clasping him by the arm. “This is where I saw him last. I’m almost certain of it. Mr. Sidereal must know where Cirrus is!”

But rather than following Mr. Sidereal inside, as she had wanted to do, they had taken up a position outside the museum to wait. It was safer to remain hidden, Mr. Hardy said, than to barge right in. Besides, he had taken one look at the printed notice outside the door and fallen into a strangely dark humor. A deep line worried his brow.

Sighing with frustration, Pandora stepped away from the statue and advanced once more toward the garden gate.

“Careful, Pandora,” said Mr. Hardy.

His lens was still fixed on the door.

“I shan’t go far,” she promised, and crept along the path.

Numerous carriages had drawn up to the museum’s entrance and she could hear the horses snorting and shifting in the dark.

She moved closer.

Then, just as she reached the edge of the lawn, the door to the Hall of Wonders opened and light poured forth. She pressed herself to the railing and kept very still as two thin boys in matching uniforms led an entourage of men and women down the steps.

Voices carried through the air.

“Such a cherubic boy. I do hope he was not much hurt.…”

“Nonsense, my dear. It was all a trick of the light.”

She watched as the party picked its way over the paving stones and, one by one, the carriages drove off. The two boys raced back to the museum, where they promptly disappeared.

There was still no sign of Mr. Sidereal or the boy Cirrus Flux.

Pandora sighed, wondering if her suspicions had been wrong. Perhaps Mr. Sidereal did not know where the boy was after all.

Her mind flashed back to Alerion, whom they had left on the rooftop of St. Paul’s. She longed to be by the fiery bird’s side, basking in the warm glow of her feathers.

Finally, after an agony of waiting, Pandora saw the door open once again. This time, Mr. Sidereal appeared. Several boys were stooped under the weight of his chair, which they carried down the steps. A little boy in a powdered wig and what looked like damaged angel wings followed a short distance behind.

Pandora glanced at Mr. Hardy, who was virtually invisible in the night. He signaled for her to remain out of sight.
Pandora planted herself in the shadows and turned her attention back to the door.

Two figures were now framed by the light in the hall: a lean, wolfish gentleman in a dark gray wig and a curly-haired boy. Cirrus Flux!

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, and it took a great force of will for her not to shout out. She wanted to leap forward and grab him by the arm, but the man was holding him very tightly, she noticed, and Cirrus looked frightened and pale. He was clutching the buttons of his jacket. Not once did his eyes leave the man in the chair.

“Until tomorrow night,” she heard Mr. Sidereal say, as the boys carried him over the ground. “I shall send my carriage to collect you and take you to the Guild.”

“Why, yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the man at the door.

Pandora’s brow furrowed. What were they planning? Where was this Guild?