Wasp (36 page)

During the bumpy journey back, Wasp huddles in her seat, hands wrapped around her knees, staring at the flickering lights beyond the window.

I haven’t heard the last of this.
The thought wasn’t welcome, but even in the shadows of the park she’d seen enough on Richard’s face to recognise the truth of it.

A coach is drawn up at the steps when Wasp’s chair delivers her to the House. Stepping into the halo of light thrown out by the carriage lantern is a breathtakingly beautiful creature in white gown and wide, silvery cape. Her face is hidden but that gliding walk, that
attitude
, is unmistakable.

Wasp chases her into the hall. ‘Nightingale.’

She turns in one fluid movement. Astonishing how she does that, as though running on silent wheels. Her eyebrows raise and her head inclines.
Already putting me in my place,
Wasp thinks.

‘What do you want, Sister?’ Nightingale’s voice seems to freeze the air between them. ‘It has been a long evening and the hour is late.’

‘What has become of Moth? Don’t pretend you don’t know.’ Nightingale’s mouth purses. ‘Our former Kitten is safe in one of the House’s tucked-away places. The Fixer stalks her bed, not resting until she is soundly asleep. And she does sleep, Wasp. The draught she drinks each evening makes sure of that.’

‘Has she been given food? She was half starved in that jail.’

‘Moth is persuaded to eat.’

‘Why such treatment? Does fleeing the House warrant torture?’

‘She’s reluctant to take meals, Sister. She’s trying to run away again. Trying to be free in the only way she knows how. But the House won’t let her go. You should see how slender she has become. Before long you will be able to cup her waist in both hands. I’ve heard that’s how they like them in the Cellar.’

‘Cellar? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t you know? You seem proficient at thrusting your nose into everything else. After tonight our runaway is going to embark on a new career. It appears she won’t be getting her Emblem after all.’

Wasp throws the mask across the room. It strikes the edge of the dresser and clatters onto the floor. She kicks over a chair, tears off her wig in a flurry of powder and throws her gloves onto the floor.

‘If you are going to throw a tantrum,
chérie,
’ Eloise observes, ‘then you’d do better to take it out on the pillows or upholstery Bruises will only spoil your pretty skin.’

‘Take that food out. I don’t want any supper. It turns my stomach.’

‘As you wish,
chérie,
but you had better return your garments to the dressing room. Such fine things to be so poorly treated.’

‘I don’t care about them.’

Eloise puts the supper tray back down on the fireside table. ‘I think we need to have a chat,
oui?
’

‘A chat? Yes, we need to have a chat, but no more
chérie
this or
enfant
that. I want to know what’s to become of Moth. She was terrified, and kept talking about another side to the House. Don’t feign ignorance. I can stand here all night. No secrets, remember? So what will it be? Prison? A parish poorhouse? Will she spend the rest of her days at a bench seaming dresses, or touting for business round the back of a coaching inn?’

‘I think,’ Eloise says, ‘you had better go to bed.’

‘And I think you had better get that tongue of yours working. It’s busy enough most other times.’

‘Such impudence is not becoming. Don’t think I shall not take my hand to you, high and mighty Masque or not.’

‘And don’t think I shan’t pull your hair out by the roots. If there’s one thing my time in the Comfort Home taught me it’s how to fight like a bitch defending her pups. Moth was branded because of me.’

Eloise clicks her tongue. ‘You should not have become so involved with her. Remember if one girl spoils something it is spoiled for all of us. If you won’t take supper then may I pour myself some tea? This
contretemps
has given me a dry mouth.’

Hot liquid sloshes into a cup. Eloise takes a sip and turns back to face Wasp. ‘Look at this scar on my cheek. I am allowed to remain in the House because I persuaded the Abbess I make a good maid. My labours help pay for this pretty bedchamber, that gown, the sumptuous breakfast you will no doubt eat tomorrow. Moth will not be cast into the streets. A use will be found for her.’

‘She can’t take any more punishment. It will kill her.’

Eloise shrugged. ‘That may be,
chérie
, but there are always other girls to take her place.’

Pleasures and Punishments

Morning dissolves into a sluggardly afternoon. A French lesson with a singsong tutor brought in especially from London. An evening of rich food and a fire that spits flaming hate into the iron guard. Night. Fidgeting in Moth’s haunted bed. Mind filling the dark with faces.

Daybreak. Gritty eyes and cold water. Breakfast conjures smoked trout and an Assignment. Some lonely painter boy with indulgent parents. He mutters to himself throughout the course of their riverside walk, stopping only to declare that he’d love to paint her, but it will take a thousand Assignments and more money than his purse can stretch to in order to capture her perfection on canvas. Wasp, who has given him no more than half her attention the entire time, nods sympathetically. Then, at the end of it all, he surprises her.

‘May I have a souvenir?’

‘A what?’

‘A memento of an enchanting evening,’ he elaborates. ‘Something modest. Perhaps a glove? The one with which you have so delicately touched my cheek?’

She thinks about it for a moment. No rule she’s aware of forbids such a thing. ‘This one,’ she says, tugging off her left glove. ‘The other has touched many faces. It would not be unique to you.’ He thanks her and cradles it like a treasure as he escorts her back to the hire carriage.

In the House, the Abbess calls Wasp over to her desk, gesturing at the bare hand.

‘A glove? You handed him your glove?’ she remarks once Wasp has explained.

‘Was that wrong?’

The Abbess grins, a horribly out-of-place expression on her usually dignified face. ‘They are welcome to their petty trophies. Kingfisher will add ten guineas to his account.’

‘Ten guineas for a strip of cloth?’

‘Chances are he’d come up with double if pressed. What he obtained was more than a glove. It was part of a Masque. Part of you. And if he wants it, he has to pay.’

She reaches beneath the lip of the desk and produces a letter. ‘Joan Slocombe has written to express her satisfaction with your services and has offered to pay extra for the continued pleasure of your company. This is not the first good word I’ve heard concerning you. The Fixer said you were a natural the first night you stumbled through our door. You could become a Harlequin in two years, perhaps less.’

Standing in that candle-flicker hall with the deep drapes and hidden doors, Wasp grasps an opportunity.

‘I would ask something.’

‘And what would that be?’

Wasp opens her hand. Mother Joan’s necklace spills across the top of the desk. ‘This belongs to me. A client’s gift.’

The Abbess glances at the string of sparkling jewels. She makes no move to touch it. ‘Why do you show me this trinket?’

‘I wish to engage a Masque for one night.’

The older woman’s gaze remains even. ‘It is not unknown. Masques occasionally find comfort in one another’s private company. Do you have someone in mind?’

‘Nightingale.’

A heartbeat. Two. The pupils of the Abbess’s eyes widen into pitch pools. ‘Nightingale is a Harlequin. She has dented the pockets of dukes and princes.’

‘You don’t need to look closely at the necklace to know it’s worth ten of her.’

‘Whatever game you are playing, my dear, ruffling the feathers of Nightingale is not lightly done. I won’t tolerate a storm in the House.’

‘There will be no trouble, I promise.’

A smile spreads across the Abbess’s withered lips. ‘She is beautiful, is she not? You wish to learn from her, perhaps?’

Wasp swallows. ‘Yes, she’s beautiful, but my reasons are my own.’

Tuesday morning. The Abbess hands out the day’s Assignments. Scrolls for Dragonfly, Swallow and Hummingbird. Deportment practice for most of the others. Wasp stares at the remains of her meal. On the edge of her vision, the Abbess hands Nightingale a scroll tied with red ribbon. ‘A special client for you.’

Nightingale catches Wasp outside her bedchamber. ‘What is the meaning of this, Sister?’ She waves the opened scroll under Wasp’s nose. ‘A jest? You seek to play games with me?’

She’s not angry. She is too confident in her own power for that. But Wasp has gone too far to become intimidated. ‘Tonight your life is mine, bought and paid for. You will give me your best, Nightingale, your very best, or you are not a Harlequin.’

‘My best for what exactly?’

Wasp shakes her head. ‘Later.’

Wasp finds Hummingbird in the maids’ parlour, buried in an armchair in the corner nearest the window.

‘Unusual place for you to spend your time,’ Wasp observes.

‘I’m ducking my new Kitten. She’s an absolute shrew and keeps beating my ears about everything. Practically expects her meals brought up on a silver trencher.’

‘I didn’t see her at breakfast.’

‘This one needs work before she can be allowed near the Kittens’ table.’ Hummingbird shifts in the chair. ‘I hear you’ve hired Nightingale for an evening. Where do you propose to take someone like her? She flies higher than any of us.’

‘Then it’s time her wings were tied. Buying her was easy enough.’

‘The Abbess herself would go on Assignment with you for the right price. How did you pay for it? Put on a highwayman’s mask and hold up a coach?’

‘I had something valuable I could barter. ’

‘The Crown Jewels?’

Wasp laughs. ‘Not even Nightingale is worth that. It’s no use giving me that puppy-dog look, Hummingbird, I shan’t tell you a thing. Not until later anyway. I’ve a feeling this evening is going to prove dramatic enough.’