Wasp (27 page)

She leans back, candlelight flickering across her coloured patches. Kingfisher stands immobile beside her, a silver wig forming a halo in the subdued lighting of the Scarlet Parlour. His attention never leaves Beth as the Abbess talks. A scattering of candles send shadowy half-ghosts flitting across the drapes. Outside, a dense, muggy night presses against the walls.

‘The Fixer tells me you can now accept simple Assignments within city society. Hummingbird, too, has been loud in her praise concerning your behaviour during your trial. Becoming a Masque, however, demands more than an ability to dance or eat a certain dish with the proper utensil. A final step is required, an act of boldness tempered with dignity. Are you ready for that?’

Beth dips a curtsey. ‘I hope so, Abbess.’

‘You hope so, do you? Well, so do I.’ The Abbess removes an object from under the desk and places it in front of her. A large ornamental jar, the glass shaped into flower patterns and secured at the top with a cork lid. At first Beth thinks it’s empty but, no, something is moving inside. She scrunches her eyes to get a better look.

‘Come closer,’ the Abbess instructs.

Beth’s nose is a whisker away from the glass. The thing inside hovers then alights on the wall of the jar.

Beth recoils. A wasp.

It’s a wasp.

With summer drawing to a blustery close she thought they’d died out. The thing in the container, magnified by the curved glass, is a yellow-and-black monster. She imagines its sting, sharp as a pin and dripping with venom.

‘Put your hand inside,’ the Abbess says.

‘No.
No
.’

‘Do it. Face your terror. Touch it, feel it sting.’

Beth backs up a pace. She bumps into Kingfisher, who’s moved from the desk to stand behind her.

‘Must you remain a mewling Kitten?’ the Abbess continues, holding out the jar. ‘Perhaps you would like to return to the Comfort Home, be locked up like a beast? Women are either slaves or predators. Which are you? There is no half way Kingfisher secured your release; a word can put you back. By suppertime you will be forgotten.’

Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘You’re sweating, Kitten. Your first instinct is to recoil. All you can see in your mind is that sting piercing your flesh, filling your veins with poison. Look again, harder this time. An insect. Hardly bigger than a fly. You could squeeze it between your thumb and forefinger — crush the life out of it with a single twitch of your hand. So tell me, who is the stronger? Everything you fear is inside that jar.’

The Abbess removes the lid. Beth feels as if the entire House will collapse in on her. She remembers George Russell, face cut with fury, threatening to deny her the children. And just days later, Friend plucking at her soiled bodice. She thrusts her hand into the jar, whimpering as the wasp crawls over her fingers, its legs blunt needles against her flesh.

‘Don’t kill it,’ the Abbess warns. ‘Only a child lashes out without control.’

Beth can’t prevent tremors rippling through her hand. The insect stings once, twice. Fiery agony. Her eyes blur with tears. She becomes aware that she’s shaking her head like a simpleton throwing a fit.

Please
 . . .

She falls backwards. Kingfisher’s big arms catch her. She’s carried to a divan tucked into the stairwell where he sits her down and pushes her head onto her knees. A minute, and the nausea passes. He releases her and Beth leans back, gasping. A fingertip rubs ointment into the stings.

The Abbess stands above her, the jar in her hands, the lid replaced. ‘Your name is no longer Bethany,’ she explains. ‘It is Wasp. Do you understand? Everything you were has gone.’

‘My name is Wasp.’

‘You have done well, daughter, but you are only halfway through the door. You may have a moment before the next step, then you must go to the room of mirrors where the Fixer awaits you.’

‘What new hell is this?’

‘Not hell, daughter. A rebirth.’

Kingfisher escorts her through the curtain and along the passage, his hand resting on her arm. She knows the route so well now, could close her eyes and pace out the distance, the hem of her day gown
swish-swishing
on the thick carpet. The Fixer is ready for her, as always, with his chair and his small folding table, a hundred reflections of a hundred bald men like an approaching army. In his hand is a glittering needle. Pots of coloured ink cluster in a semi-circle on the tabletop.

‘Sit down,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a drop of laudanum to help soothe you.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You are to receive your Emblem. No paper patch now. It’s time to grow up.’

Wasp drinks from the cup he gives her. He’s mixed the drug with fruit juice and it slips down her throat. Kingfisher nods at the Fixer and leaves the room.

‘Now,’ the Fixer says, leaning over her, ‘this will hurt, but you’re a brave girl. Keep as still as you can. I’ve done this many times before.’

Wasp thinks herself hardened to discomfort but whimpers when he presses the needle into her cheek. It’s like the insect sting pricking her flesh again and again. Her instincts scream at her to push him off. Instead she locks her hands behind the chair’s back rest. Pain flares then melts to a heavy numbness which spreads across her face.

The Fixer pauses to dab her eyes. A brief respite before he dips the needle back into the inkpots. Yellow and black. A contrast to Hummingbird and her rainbow-winged Emblem.

‘Nearly done,’ the Fixer whispers. ‘A moment or two more. There.’ He wipes the needle on a cloth and slips it into a pouch. ‘No, don’t touch. I’ll apply a light dressing. Your cheek might ache for a while but keep your fingers off.’

‘Can I see it?’

He gestures. ‘Mirrors all around.’

‘I don’t think I can stand.’

The Fixer chuckles. ‘Laudanum knocked the bones out of your legs? Here.’ He passes her a hand mirror. She holds it up to her face. There, in tiny perfection, is a picture of a wasp, its wings spread, back arched down, sting a dagger thrusting out of the tail.

A whisper of oiled hinges. Feet take measured steps across the floorboards. The Abbess’s voice: ‘That Emblem is for life, Wasp, never to come off unless I decide otherwise. It binds you to me and to your Sisters. Once you feel recovered come to the Scarlet Parlour. The other Masques are waiting to embrace you.’

With the Abbess at her side Wasp stumbles back up the long passage and into the hallway. The door to the Scarlet Parlour lies open and candles set on tall iron stands flicker beyond. Stepping through, a rush of warmth envelops her. She resists the urge to touch the dressing over the still raw tattoo. Her Emblem. A wasp.

A twitch of a curtain. Figures drift like white, wingless angels around the furniture. The Abbess’s voice punctures the silence. ‘Masques, this is Wasp. Welcome your new Sister.’

Each girl steps up, embraces Wasp and places a soft kiss below her Emblem. Each press of those lips is devoid of either warmth or malevolence. Simply a gesture, an elementary initiation into the fold.

The Masque at the end of the line, a tall woman in a gold-trimmed gown, locks her in cold arms and places a kiss as bitter as winter on her face. Through those chilled lips, teeth nip Wasp’s skin. She pulls away in surprise. Eyes, brittle as icicles, stab her from beneath corn-gold hair. Two Emblems puncture her cheeks. One a pattern of red and white diamonds, the other a bird.

A nightingale.

In the general hustle of House life Wasp has mostly forgotten about the Harlequin. She seldom attends breakfast and it has been some time since she last haunted the corridors. Wasp watches as she rejoins the line.

You don’t frighten me,
she thinks.
I shan’t let you.

And then she is once more alone with the Abbess. The older woman curls her arm around Wasp’s waist and draws her into her bony arms. ‘Welcome, daughter,’ she whispers.

A hot bath awaits Wasp in her bedchamber. She flings her clothes onto the bed and slips into the water, appreciating the soothing warmth. Afterwards, she rubs herself briskly with a towel, lights the bedside candle with a taper from the hearth and climbs between the sheets. She’s still awake when Hummingbird arrives.

‘Hello, Sister.’

‘Sister?’

‘Kitten is gone. You have a new life. You’ve grown up.’

The world buzzes around Wasp’s head in shades of yellow and black. ‘Why weren’t you at my initiation?’

‘I couldn’t get back from my Assignment in time.’

‘Someone snitched on me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Abbess had a wasp. A wasp in a jar. I had to put my hand inside. Someone must have told her how much I hate them. My fingers are all swollen.’

‘I doubt it was much of a secret, Sister. We’ve all noticed how you flinch at the mention of one. Sometimes our fears are written all over our faces.’

‘Nightingale bit me.’ Wasp prods the tender flesh.

Hummingbird bends to take a closer look. ‘I thought she might pull a trick like that. Nightingale is still the Abbess’s best Masque, but this doesn’t stop her intimidating the other girls. I’ve heard she even bleeds herself to keep a pale complexion like the ladies of the Royal Court a century ago. Her tactics are well known. Don’t let her bully you.’

‘She seems to hold a particular grudge against me.’

‘Nightingale will hook her nails into anyone who neglects to pay her the attention she believes she deserves. Take it as a compliment. A newcomer rarely finds herself so favoured.’

A sombre morning sky breaks up into patches of blue. Facing the mirror, Wasp peels off the dressing the Fixer applied the night before and feels the scab with the tip of her finger. Thanks to the laudanum she slept reasonably well and now there’s no pain to speak of.

‘Doesn’t look very fetching,’ she remarks.

Hummingbird splashes water from the basin onto her face and pats both cheeks with a towel. ‘The dead skin will be gone within a week. You’ll get a paper one to cover it in the meantime. Not one of those monstrosities you’ve had to wear up ’til now but a proper one, nicely cut and drawn. We’ve a Sister who’s good at that sort of thing. She painted in watercolours before poisoning her local magistrate.’

Wasp turns away from the mirror. ‘Why would she do such a thing?’

‘Do what? Paint, or poison the magistrate?’

‘Don’t play games,
Sister.
’

‘Oh Wasp, if only you could see your face. ’Tis absolutely priceless. I’m sorry, but you are so easy to tease. Now if you’re finished preening I want to go and breakfast. A busy morning lies ahead.’

‘Cleaning hearths, I suppose?’

‘Your days of sticking your head into sooty fireplaces are over. Eloise will get someone else to help bag up her ashes. For you the real work is about to start. Not today though. Today you’ll join me in the dressing room sampling as many gowns and bonnets as you like, and afterwards we’ll take a coach ride around the park. We need to see what suits. Each of us is different. A girl can look a sow in a gown that turns another into a princess. The joy is in finding out.’

‘What about the dress I wore to the coffee shop?’

She grins. ‘That was merely skimming the top of the water. I’m sure we can do better. Have you seen yourself lately, Wasp? I mean really
looked,
not just peeked into a mirror? You’ve become quite the rosy apple and I unashamedly hate you for it. Now will you come to breakfast and allow that lovely waist to gain even more curves?’

Wasp nods. ‘I have appetite enough to eat my shoes.’

‘Good. No Kittens’ table for you. No more oak trenchers and wooden knives. Now it’s silver cutlery and a proper chair. Only the best. The Abbess always insists on it. Those wasp stings bought more than you bargained for.’

Dining at the top tables proves a whole new experience. Conversation ripples around the room. Wasp watches the busy hands of her new Sisters. A few wear gloves: white, pink, kid leather or satin. What secrets did they hide? Nightingale’s hands are encased in embroidered velvet that stretches to her elbows. She concentrates on her food, her forehead pinched.

If she glances up and catches me staring at her I shan’t look away,
Wasp promises herself.