The Story of Cirrus Flux (5 page)

Curled up in her thoughts, Pandora peered through a gap beside the blind at the passing crowds. She had never seen so many people. Everywhere she looked there were ragged figures rushing through the streets: charwomen carrying baskets of coal and tinder, carters transporting barrels, and barefoot children dodging in and out of cart wheels, hitching rides on
the backs of carriages. She watched them for a while, envying their freedom, and then raised her eyes to the tops of the tall buildings, hoping for a glimpse of sky, but all she could see were boarded-up windows, cracked tiles and blackened chimney pots spewing smoke.

The city, it seemed, had swallowed them.

Miserably, she groped in her pocket for the piece of fabric she carried with her. Instead, her fingers encountered the sharp stab of metal and she realized with a start that she had failed to return her keys to the Governor. A sudden desire to ask Madame Orrery to stop the carriage and turn round took hold of her. Yet one look at the proud woman sitting next to her convinced her that it was too late. Besides, there was no going back. She was a foundling no more.

With a shiver, she slid even further into the corner of the carriage and picked at the hem of her uniform. Unlike most of the girls at the hospital, she was hopeless at sewing and had twice been confined to the dark room, an airless chamber below the stairs, for cursing whenever needles stung her fingers. What could Madame Orrery possibly want with a girl like her?

Eventually the roar of the streets subsided and the near-constant din of hawkers and ballad singers was replaced by the quieter jingle of the horse’s harness and the comforting sound of its hooves clopping against the ground. Madame Orrery finally raised her blind to admit the weak rays of sunlight filtering through the dusty sky.

Pandora’s mood brightened. She was greeted by the sight
of creamy-white houses with dark railings and iron lanterns set on slender poles. What the houses lost in height, they gained in girth and grandeur. There was even a private park with stately elm trees in which the residents could wander.

Cheered by this discovery, she dismounted from the carriage as soon as it rolled to a stop and followed Madame Orrery up to a large stone house on the eastern side of the square.

The door was opened almost instantly by a peculiar gentleman in a dove-gray coat. He was no taller than Pandora and dressed in powder-blue breeches, spotless stockings and shoes with prominent heels. Wisps of fine white hair rose like steam from the top of his head. He bowed meekly as they entered and closed the door behind them.

Pandora found herself in a glacial hall with curtained doorways on either side and a floor so bright she could almost see her reflection in its surface. A central staircase curved like a swan’s neck up to a small balcony that overlooked the main hall. Two thin doors stood at the top of it, guarding an inner apartment.

Madame Orrery moved beside her.

“The Governor was a buffoon,” she declared, her voice booming against the smooth white walls. “Though I do believe he is protecting more than just the boy.”

She took two steps up the marble staircase and stopped. A veil of secrecy fell across her face. “One of my private sessions, I think, Mr. Sorrel, will be in order. I must find my way back to the hospital as soon as possible.”

The man inclined his head. “As you wish, madam,” he said.

“Good. Now show this girl to her room and see that she is put to use.”

The man gave Pandora a cursory glance and quickly bowed his head.

“Yes, madam.”

Without another word, Madame Orrery walked up the remaining steps and disappeared behind the doors at the top of the stairs. Pandora glimpsed a flash of gold and a streak of mirrors, and then she was gone.

“What is your name?” the man asked her in a high, fluty voice.

“Pandora, Mr. Sorrel,” she answered, with a curtsy.

The man’s lips twitched in a smile. “Very well, Pandora. Come this way.”

Through one of the curtained doorways, she glimpsed a large wooden tub surrounded by a ring of chairs. It was decorated with loose, flowing ribbons and studded with short, elbow-shaped poles.

“What is in there?” she asked, hanging back.

“That,” said Mr. Sorrel, sweeping aside the curtain, “is Madame Orrery’s Crisis Room. It is where she reveals her healing powers.”

Pandora’s eyes widened as she took in the fainting couches along the walls. “Is it true?” she asked, remembering what Madame Orrery had told Mr. Chalfont. “Can she really make people’s memories go away?”

Mr. Sorrel looked as though she had slapped him across the cheek. “But of course! Madame Orrery is the most celebrated animal magnetist in London. Patients come from far and wide to take advantage of her treatments. It is a most persuasive science. She learned it in Paris from Monsieur Mesmer himself!”

Pandora noticed an odd-looking instrument in the corner. It resembled a small organ, but for the fact that thirty glass bowls, of varying shapes and sizes, had been arranged on top of it.

“Ah, the glass harmonica,” said Mr. Sorrel, following her gaze. “It plays the most heavenly music.” He flexed his fingers. “That is
my
job: to play soothing melodies while patients recover their wits. And now, if you will come this way …”

Carrying her bundle of clothes, Pandora followed him through to the back of the house and up a series of stairs to the attic.

“Your duties will be to clean the Crisis Room each morning before the clients arrive,” said Mr. Sorrel, taking short, shuffling steps ahead of her, “and to see to it that the Mesmerism Tub is filled daily with freshly magnetized water.” He stopped and eyed her up and down. “I hope you will be strong enough. The bottles are quite heavy and the last girl was not up to the task.”

Pandora swallowed the lump of uneasiness in her throat and assured him that she was stronger than she looked.

“Otherwise you are not to disturb Madame Orrery during
her sessions,” said Mr. Sorrel. “Her patients are of a highly sensitive disposition and are easily unnerved.”

They had arrived at a dingy corridor at the top of the house. Walking to the far end, they entered a shabby room with a sloping ceiling, a tiny grate and a bare bed.

“This is where you are to sleep,” said Mr. Sorrel. “There are some bedclothes in the chest, should you require them, and some water in the jug. I shall expect you downstairs presently.”

He closed the door behind him.

Pandora stood in the middle of her room, uncertain whether to rejoice at having her own space or to cry at the dreariness of her surroundings. From her window in the girls’ dormitory, she’d had an almost unbroken view of fields, but here the only light coming in was from a solitary window, high in the wall, its glass curtained with grime.

She pushed the chest up to the wall and stood on it so that she could see outside. An endless succession of rooftops and chimneys stretched away from her. Almost directly opposite was a small white church tower with the statue of a saint in knight’s armor on its ledge. He was piercing the belly of a dragon with a spear. His round shield glinted in the light and reflected what could be seen of the street below. She tried to open the window, but could only raise it an inch.

Dispirited, she got down from the chest and decided to put away the clothes she had deposited on her bed. In addition to an extra pair of stockings, there were two white linen
shifts, a handkerchief and a second dress trimmed with red ribbon—the foundling’s uniform.

She picked them up and was about to place them in the chest, when something fluttered to the floor.

A scrap of paper.

Her heart lifted. Had Mr. Chalfont written her a letter? Excited, she unfolded the piece of paper, but was disappointed to find the word
Instructions
printed at the top in stern letters.

The words started to blur and she skipped a few lines.

She glanced at the window, feeling like a bird trapped in its cage, and then, unable to contain herself any longer, flung herself on the bed in the corner and buried her face in a pillow that was soon damp from her tears.

Mr. Leechcraft

“H
ave you no sense, child? Come here!”

Cirrus, fearing another haircut, dodged to the far side of the table and then ducked as Mrs. Kickshaw lunged toward him. Her hands clapped the air above his head and a shower of flour sieved harmlessly to the ground. Bottle Top nearly fell off his stool; he was beside himself with laughter. High, piggish squeals leaked out of him.

“You can cease your jabbering, you foulmouthed monkey,” said Mrs. Kickshaw, who had scrubbed his cheeks so hard they shone. “Do not think I am unaware of your tricks. I can see the devil lurking in your eye!”

She stooped to pick up some buns that had tumbled to the floor and scooped them into the folds of her skirt. As soon as her back was turned, Bottle Top tried to pinch another from a heap that was cooling on the table.

Mrs. Kickshaw was too quick. She planted a vicious smack across his brow.

“ ’Tain’t for the likes of ye,” she said. “They be for good children, who do as they’re told. Honestly, you’re each as bad as the other. I’ve never known two such lazy, gadabout boys in my life!”

Despite her outburst, her face plumped into a smile and she turned her attention to the remaining mounds of dough on the table. She began pummeling them with her fists.

“So what did you two boys discover in them fields today?” she said. “Anything of interest?”

“A nest,” said Bottle Top. “In the Gallows Tree.” He caught Cirrus watching him from under the table and grinned. “There’s a bird made of fire in it.”

“Is there now?” said Mrs. Kickshaw, only half listening. She flicked away a weevil that was crawling toward the mix.

“And a gentleman, too,” said Bottle Top. “Cirrus says he’s been watching the hospital.”

“What sort of gentleman?”

“A highwayman,” said Bottle Top. “He was carrying a pistol!”

Suddenly Mrs. Kickshaw reached down and grabbed Cirrus by the collar. She dragged him, squirming, to his feet. “Is this true?” she asked him, staring fiercely into his face.

Cirrus struggled to free himself, but her grip was too strong. “We didn’t get close enough to see,” he said, standing on tiptoe and gasping for air. “He was holding something. Could’ve been a pistol.”

Mrs. Kickshaw scowled, then released him. Her skin had been baked as brown as a piecrust from years of working in the kitchen, and her cheeks were burned to a crisp where the pox had scarred her.

“If this be one of your tricks, meant to frighten the young ’uns,” she said, “I’ll box your backsides to kingdom come!”

“No, mum,” said Cirrus quickly. “It’s the truth.”

He glared at Bottle Top, who was munching on a bun, which he had successfully stolen from the table.

Cirrus hated disappointing Mrs. Kickshaw. She was the closest thing he had to a mother. He had spent all of his early years under her wing and care. He loved the sights and smells of the kitchen: the way bread fattened in the oven, flies quarreled over the milk pails and currants littered the floor like mouse droppings.

Mrs. Kickshaw frowned. “Well, just to be safe, you’re not to go larking about in them fields no more. Do ye hear? They’re dangerous! Why, only the other day there was a burglary at the Blue Lyon and Molly says that several sheets of linen have gone missing from the laundry.”

A bell clattered against the wall and Cirrus looked up, grateful for the diversion. Bells were always ringing at the hospital—summoning them to prayers, calling them to lessons and chasing them off to bed. Bells seldom led to anything pleasant.

Now was no exception.

“That’ll be the Governor,” said Mrs. Kickshaw. “ ’E’s been
expecting ye. Another master’s come to take one of ye boys away.”

Bottle Top straightened.

“A new master?” he said, brushing the crumbs from his jacket and running spit-polished hands through his hair. “Why didn’t you say?”

“You wasn’t here to tell.”

Cirrus felt his insides shrink. The last gentleman to visit them at the hospital had taken one look at his unruly hair, tidied especially for the occasion, and dabbed a scented handkerchief to his brow. “Why, sir, a wigmaker must have a graceful and comely appearance,” he’d appealed to Mr. Chalfont, who was in charge of the boys’ apprenticeship, “of which this boy lacks all but a … ah … are those devil’s horns, perchance, or hair?”

Bottle Top had not fared much better. As soon as he had opened his mouth to speak, the visitor had backed away in disgust. “Whatever do you feed them here, sir?” he said, spying Bottle Top’s teeth. “Glass?” Eventually, Aaron had been apprenticed—and only then because his head had been shaved on account of nits.