Wilful Impropriety (50 page)

When he staggered back she kicked again, this time low and at the knees, and when he hit the floor she stomped his wrist with her boot until his writhing hand let free the bottle, which Sam snatched up and handed to her with a henchman’s loyal reflex, this same quality leading her to keep a grip on the rock with her other hand until the tussle had been decided.

“Jyoti wouldn’t care for the mess,” Ingrid said after a moment’s reflection, during which she regarded the bottle as if it were a brush she was considering applying to a canvas, though she didn’t sound entirely sure of what she might do next.

Then the moment instead of the bottle was broken as Tristan finally appeared, rushing in with his toolbox clutched to his chest.

“They’re coming,” he said. “Antoine, we can’t. We mustn’t. What we’ve made happen out there—it’s better. It’s enough. No,” he finished, holding up a hand as Antoine started to protest. “We’re just having an exhibition to open our gallery, that’s all. Sam said it—why shouldn’t we? I know what to do. It’s not too late, and we don’t need you, but if you don’t come with us, then I don’t need you either.”

For all the times they’d hollered similar threats at one another, perhaps it was the simple, flat way in which Tristan delivered this threat which made Antoine sag in defeat, and leave his little pile of inanimate troublemakers behind to follow where his man led them all.

•   •   •

Outside, between Our Gallery and the Absolute, the massive crowd was waiting, shuffling down the cobblestones in groups of three and five and ten. The word had gone round quickly, and an angry tone was buzzing through them now, as their delight in the festivities turned sour in the knowledge that the law was approaching with all the weight of the elite behind it.

Sam followed, with Antoine between herself and Ingrid, and realized at some point Jyoti had appeared trailing behind them as well, until they were standing at her carriage just outside the gallery. Tristan ascended, pulling himself up on its step to rise just a bit above the crowd, cupped his hands, and yelled, “Barricade! Barricade now, do you hear me? Anyone with strong arms, follow me, and the rest of you stay back out of our way!”

For a moment, Sam didn’t understand. But then she saw Jyoti smiling, and rushed after Tristan, whose kit of tools was again clutched to his chest protectively, feeling Ingrid beside her and at least thirty pairs of strong arms pushing behind them.

•   •   •

Disassembling and removing the panels took less time than she’d thought it would, and Sam quickly realized this was because Tristan must have been at work on them already, loosening bolts here and there in the night, having seen even further ahead than Sam had earlier given him credit for. It still took all the might of what seemed like half the crowd, but working together, they somehow pulled the panels free and maneuvered them down the street, each borne up by several shoulders, until they were arranged in an arc cutting off the intersection neatly in a glistening crescent of magnificently shining metalwork, brass and silver and gold all entwined and alive under the sunlight, as if it had meant to be brought here all along.

They propped each panel up until it leaned on crates and overturned tables and stacks of broken cobblestones, some freshly freed from the street and others retrieved from Antoine’s various stashes, which turned out to be tucked away in at least five different places, along with more bottles and other projectiles for the riot he’d so desperately wanted to produce. They finished just as what looked like the full police force of the City of Manchester reached them, marching in form with truncheons in hand.

And they stopped, finding their progress blocked by the fantastic barricade and all the people standing fiercely behind it, transformed by their united effort from a milling crowd of spectators to a silent force of human bodies as impassable as the barricade itself.

One of the officers seemed to be attempting to read out a list of charges, but every time he spoke the crowd hissed and booed and drowned out his attempt, to his clear frustration and confusion.

At this moment, Jyoti broke free of their huddle, and Sam watched in blinking wonder as she walked calmly to the barricade and stood just a little bit back from it, hands at her sides.

“I’m sure there has been some misunderstanding,” she said calmly to the man who appeared to be leading this collection of Peelies. “There’s no trouble here, sir, just a little celebration of the gifts which God Himself has bestowed upon us.” She smiled in her special way, and though most of the crowd couldn’t hear what she was saying, they raised up a great cheer regardless. When it had died down, she called to the men who had clearly been sent to shut all this nonsense down. “Why don’t you come and join us?”

A laugh rippled through them, and the crowd became lively again, splitting from its unified state once more into growingly separate conversations, though for once, most followed the same general theme. Somehow they had triumphed without fighting the battle, and somehow, in ways they were beginning to understand, this meant they were more free than they had ever known before.

•   •   •

It was perhaps the strangest standoff in the history of riots that never happened, Sam thought later, as slowly the festivities got back underway and the gallery began to fill again, slightly bigger now inside. People rotated in and out of it, and all around the carriage, as the police fell back in an attempt to determine exactly what procedure to follow against what appeared to be not an armed resistance or general strike, but simply some strange kind of street fair in progress.

After a few hours of waiting on further orders and seeming to receive none, and knowing that while they could themselves remove the barricade but able to see that what lay behind it would only become a serious criminal situation if they actually did so, they seemed to slowly evaporate. Some time later, Sam was sure she saw Jyoti helping a few sneak over the far sides of the barricade to join the fun, their truncheons and helmets left tucked out of sight on the other side.

Distracted by this, standing beside Ingrid with their hands secretly entwined, she didn’t notice Antoine’s approach, and only knew he was there when Ingrid’s hand dropped from her own.

“You’ve always turned my stomach, you know,
Samantha
,” Antoine hissed and spat. “Whatever it is you think you are, parading around however you please, all you do is make life harder for good,
real
men like Tristan and myself, who have no need of your circus freakery cluttering up people’s minds even more than they already are.”

Sam looked at Ingrid, whose mouth was set firmly. Her dress felt heavy and useless, and all at once she knew she would still be Sam in this moment without it—or with the trousers, or perhaps, unthinkable as it was, wearing nothing at all.

There was no word for Sam, because Sam couldn’t be confined by a dictionary or placed neatly on a map. As Jyoti had seemed to understand, Sam was a dynamic force, all woman when she was woman, all man when he was man.

She
knew
it now, believed it now, and yet still needed this woman she loved, her beautiful friend called Ingrid, who’d chosen the name because the one her parents had chosen instead could never suit her—still needed the only one who could understand at all to hold her up in asserting it—to stand with her, and unmake the secret binding them both with the hands of the truth.

Tell them your secret too
, she thought at her beloved, meeting her eyes.
Stand with me.

For a moment, it seemed as if Ingrid heard Sam’s mental pleas, and was about to meet them with mercy. Instead, she turned on one perfect heel and walked away, leaving Sam and Antoine both watching to see if she would look back before she vanished out of sight.

And she did, but only at the last, and then the happy masses closed over her like a curtain, hiding her expression from their view.

“A friendly sprite whispered in his ear, and saved him from too utter folly. The sprite had not yet forsaken him; woe to him if ever it should!”

—George Gissing,
Thyrza

Winter 1884

Atop the cold, bronze shoulder of his favorite statue in Hyde Park, a sprite watched the sun die across the sky. He had spent the day tallying the debts still owed on twelve fingers and toes, and the result saddened him. Freedom was an illusion—what he owed to the other Folk who were insane enough to make sick London their home would keep him bound to the city for years. The Folk had a code—nothing could be freely given or expected, and words had to be measured, worried over. Tupp Smatterpit envied humans, and had grown fond of mortal pubs where he saw drinks bought because one man’s fortune inclined him to generosity, a word the Folk had forgotten. Or maybe his kith were unable to share true goodwill and affection.

Thoughts of debts and affections made him envision Lind. Tupp wondered why he found the human lad’s foolhardiness so appealing.

Tupp tossed his hat, aiming for the bronze sword. It landed at the base of the statue’s stone pedestal. He held his breath, expecting a late carriage to come along and trample the hat beneath iron-shod hooves.

Addressing the statue, “What binds you, friend? Poured and cast aside . . . Where’s my luck, why only this folly?” Tupp stroked the handsome metal face. He had come to admire a few man-made works about London, especially this statue in the park, an ancient warrior, bared muscular arms and torso that required the severity and strength of metal as their form. Perhaps this was modeled after another creature of legend. Tupp often daydreamed atop the statue that such men still walked secret lands.

But now his fancy was confined to his partner in crime. Tupp closed his eyes and envisioned Lind’s features cast in bronze, that sharp nose and small eyes so quick to hide beneath greasy locks. A bit of hair on his chin. No sculptor ever let a masterpiece wear such a wide grin. No, statues are solemn, a word that Tupp doubted Lind even knew.

And how would Lind react if he ever discovered Tupp’s idle longing? If only affection could be freely given, freely returned between Folk and man.

Tupp’s ears picked up the sound of footfalls on the icy grass. He looked down to see a small figure wearing so long a scarred leather vest that it threatened to trip him. A cobbler to the Folk. A leprechaun with tufts of white hair growing long from his ears.

“You’re the one they says is payin’ for that rapparee’s deeds.”

Tupp sighed and nodded. Just how many of the Folk had Lind robbed? Tupp leaped down from the statue and picked up his hat.

“Then you’re a gowl to be handin’ out glamour to save a human’s hide.”

Tupp reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a snuffbox. Once it had been full of glittering, golden powder—glamour, what kept iron sickness at bay and allowed the Folk to disguise themselves. He opened the lid. Barely more than two pinches remained. He offered one to the leprechaun.

He harrumphed as he took his due. “In my day, any mortal so bold as to steal from our kind, we’d make him dance till his soles bled. I could make him a pair of brogues that would clench his feet like a dog’s jaw.”

“No,” Tupp said. “He’s mine. So his debts are mine to pay.”

•   •   •

Though he had no watch, Lind knew he was late in meeting his partner in crime, Tupp. As he lost his last farthing the bell of some nearby church had tolled five o’clock. The winter sun set, and Lind stood among grimy boys—costers and shoeblacks, broomers and runners, poor streetlarks all—huddled beside an old coal barge. Though stuck fast for years in the Thames mud, the barge offered protection from both the brutal wind and the wandering eyes of any constable.

Lind shuddered beneath his greatcoat. He should never have spent the day gambling. First, the worst of luck at cards, then wagering over how many chops a man could eat, then this, the lowest, emptying his pockets at three-up—a child’s game tossing pennies high and wagering on whether they came down heads or tails.

Thirteen shillings gone. Thirteen shillings, yesterday’s take from selling a hob’s loot to Kapel. Lind could suffer the pain of losing his own coin—it happened often enough—but to gamble away Tupp’s share? He worried how the sprite would react. Would his customary cheer falter? Would he curse Lind?

A sliver of a boy dashed from the direction of the docks and yelled out, “Traps comin’!”, and the crowd scattered fast. Lind climbed the derelict barge. Coal dust from the old wood rubbed off on his palms, reminding him of a childhood spent with soot covering every inch of him. He should be running off, but he dawdled, wondering if time spent in prison would be a safer life. The Folk hated iron. Bars might keep them away.

But no constable came. Lind realized that it had all been a cheat, that one or more of the streetlarks must have pocketed the brass and run while the others fled. He looked out at the shoreline, lit by fading sunlight, and spotted three figures running together. One carried a broom—a sweep who’d collected the wagers.

He could follow them. Demand a share of the take. He jumped down onto the shore. The river’s muck tried to steal his shoes. He felt the chill reach his stockings as he pried his feet loose and ran after them. Pale faces turned back. With a cry, the three splintered. Lind followed the one with the broom.