A Face Like Glass (36 page)

The guest room was small, round and slightly domed, with a little postless bed in the middle, and a cut-glass lantern on the side table. Remembering Zouelle’s
instructions, Neverfell bolted the door behind her, then put a chair against it. Was it really necessary? She did not know.

Neverfell did not even bother kicking off her shoes. The bed was soft and forgiving, and for once it scarcely mattered that it was not a hammock. Her mind slipped gratefully out of wakefulness
like a fish from a net.

Afterwards, trying to remember the dream was like wandering in the dark, and feeling ribbons of a tattered curtain trailing across one’s face. There were pieces, hints,
nothing more.

She was climbing a ladder made of black vines up to a golden balcony, looking for a hidden door. Although she was frightened, at least she had a monkey with her who knew the way and would guide
her.

Her companion opened a door, and suddenly Neverfell was alone in a darkened hall, facing a single white mask with green eyes. Neverfell reached towards it, but as her fingers touched the mask it
began to quiver and crack, the expression changing to one of pain and terror.

‘What did you do to her?’ it screamed as its lips shattered and its mouth became a ragged hole. ‘Why did nobody tell me what would happen?’ It was a young voice, younger
than the face. Its eyes became cobwebbed with fine cracks, then crumbled away leaving dark sockets. ‘If I had known, I would never . . . I would never . . .’

At first she tried to hold the mask together, but that only crushed it further, and the screaming took on a horrible ragged sound. In the end, mad with terror and pity, she started flailing at
it, beating it to powder with her fists and forearms, anything to make the screaming stop. At last the voice died with a croak, and there was nothing but loose china dust leaking between her
fingers.

A violent sneeze shook Neverfell awake, and left her flailing, bewildered, in the strange bed for a few seconds. Even after her heartbeat slowed, it still seemed to her that
her fists and forearms were tender from pounding on the terrible mask.

Somebody was banging on the door. Neverfell raked her fingers through her hair, managed to find all but one of her thimbles and pulled her shoes back on. Unbolting the door she found a Putty
Girl outside, wearing a Face of polite concern.

‘Madame Appeline will be very glad to hear that you are awake! Please, follow me – quickly!’

In the grove, a veritable clan of Putty Girls was waiting. At the heart of the group stood Madame Appeline, wasp-waisted and perfectly coiffured, with not a hint of dismay or discomposure. A
yard or two from them sat Zouelle, her eyes remaining downcast even as Neverfell approached.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Madame Appeline. ‘Neverfell, settle yourself in this chair. Now, we do not have a great deal of time, so we shall have to try all these methods quickly. Poppya!
The signature points, if you please.’

Neverfell tried not to flinch as a girl set about gently tapping places on her face with an extremely delicate silver hammer, and regarding the results intensely. Next there was a girl with a
bowl of unguent, who rubbed something into Neverfell’s brow that smelt like horseradish. Then there was a velvet-lined metal headband that strapped round the head and pulled the skin of the
forehead up slightly ‘to tug against the frown’. To judge by the haste with which each of these was abandoned, none of them were achieving the desired effects.

‘The problem is internal, as we feared.’ Madame Appeline sighed. ‘Let us return to the mind.’

Half a dozen books were hastily opened. Neverfell listened baffled as she was read stories and poems, some fanciful, some mournful, many joyful. Some of them were quite pretty and probably very
good, but it was hard to concentrate on them and Neverfell could not see what they had to do with anything.

‘Perhaps a more cheerful ambience. Solphe, Merrimam, Jebeleth – the light in here is dimming. Perhaps you could go up and help the others breathe on the traps?’

Just for a moment, as she gave these instructions, Madame Appeline wore the motherly Face that Neverfell had first seen her wear in the cheese tunnels. Neverfell was not ready to see her
directing that look towards anyone else, and to her surprise she felt hot needles of true jealousy in her chest. Worse still, the sight seemed to put an eagerness into the Putty Girls’ step
as they disappeared up a wrought iron spiral staircase so delicate and spidery that she had not even noticed it among the false trees. After a while, the ‘heavens’ above started to glow
with a bit more vigour.

‘You’re going about it the wrong way, Madame Appeline,’ said Zouelle suddenly.

‘Really?’ The Facesmith’s voice dripped incredulity.

‘Yes.’ There was a long and hollow pause, during which Neverfell looked from countenance to countenance and could read neither of them. ‘I understand Neverfell, you see. For
Neverfell, it is as if other people are part of her. When she believes they are in pain, it hurts her, like a wound in a pretend limb. So right now she is in pain for all the people she saw in the
Undercity.’

There was a pause. The countenances of Madame Appeline and the Putty Girls moved smokily and uncertainly from one expression to another, as though they were turning over this unfamiliar
concept.

‘So . . . how do we remove this pretend limb?’ asked the Facesmith slowly. ‘How do we stop her feeling this?’

‘You can’t,’ Zouelle answered simply. ‘And she can’t shut it out. She, well, doesn’t seem to have any control over her own mind. So we have to cheer her up.
We have to make her feel better about the drudges.’

‘I see.’ Madame Appeline sighed. She reached over and took hold of Neverfell’s hands, and smiled sadly into her face. ‘Neverfell . . . I know that you were very upset by
everything you saw down there, but there are some things that you need to understand. Drudges are not
like
us. They thrive on routines and hard work, whereas luxuries and comforts do not
really mean much to them. They do not really feel pain or fear, any more than stone bleeds or trembles when you chip it. A few of them play at having simple personalities, but it is nothing more
than an act, like monkeys dancing.’

‘But . . . but that’s not true!’ Neverfell thought of Erstwhile’s mute, frustrated anger. ‘That’s what everybody wants to think. The drudges
do
feel
– they just don’t have the Faces to show it. I hate it, the way they can only look calm and eager and willing to please, even when they’re watching each other die. It’s
horrible. And I know why nobody teaches them more Faces. It’s just so that everybody else can pretend drudges aren’t real people. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘The Face training for the drudges is carefully considered,’ Madame Appeline answered swiftly. ‘What would happen if drudge children were taught unhappy Faces? They would grow
up considering that they might
be
unhappy. They might look around and see unhappiness on each other’s faces, and their own unhappiness would grow. If they wear a happy face for long
enough, on the other hand, they are much more likely to believe in the end that they really are happy. And there’s no real difference between being happy and believing you are happy, is
there?’

Neverfell tried to untangle this in her head, but it writhed in her grip like a fistful of glisserblinds.

‘Yes!’ she blurted out. ‘Yes, there is! It’s different! It just is!’

‘I know that all this is hard to accept, but I am afraid you must. The drudges themselves accept their situation entirely, you know. And there is nothing that can be done to change
it.’

‘You could change it,’ Zouelle announced, quite suddenly. ‘Couldn’t you, Madame Appeline? You could send down Putty Girls to give free Face training.’

There was a pause.

‘Pardon?’

‘You could, couldn’t you? And then if drudges could show their feelings better it would be harder for everybody else to treat them like moving dolls, wouldn’t it?’

Neverfell could feel her face brighten. Somewhere in her mind, the great, crushing waterwheel of despair slowed and shuddered, its blades gleaming with droplets in a newly dawning light.

‘Could you?’ she whispered. ‘Could you do that?’ It was small, but it was something. Zouelle was right. If everybody could be made to see the drudges as people, then
perhaps everything could change. Hope began its usual puppy-bounce in her chest.

‘Miss Childersin,’ Madame Appeline answered in tones of silky annoyance, ‘I know that you mean extremely well, but there are strict rules controlling the Faces that drudges can
be taught—’

‘Neverfell seems to like the idea,’ Zouelle interjected.

Madame Appeline glanced across at Neverfell, and performed a small double-take. Neverfell became aware that the eyes of everybody in the grove were now fixed on her face.

‘How long do we have to come up with a better solution?’ Zouelle asked in a tone of utter sweetness. There was a scuffle of hands reaching for pocket watches.

‘Half an hour,’ murmured Madame Appeline. The Facesmith gave Zouelle a glance which combined condescension, a touch of respect and the slenderest gleaming wire of annoyance, then strode
over to Neverfell, cupped her chin in one hand and examined her face minutely. ‘True – the blot is not quite gone, but it is certainly a good deal better.’ After a long pause she
closed her eyes and let out a sigh. ‘Very well. If that is what it takes, then I shall arrange these lessons somehow, but nothing must be said of this. Oh, Neverfell, what a strange child you
are! Fancy becoming so obsessed with the drudges!’

‘You’ll give them sad Faces, then? And angry Faces? And rude Faces?’

‘One step at a time!’ Madame Appeline laughed, all kindness, and squeezed Neverfell’s hands. ‘Let us start with discontent. If we do not keep it simple, they will get their
features in a knot and end up grimacing all day. Now, Neverfell, can I speak to you privately for a moment?’

Neverfell followed the Facesmith further into the grove and away from the others, among the glistening trees.

‘Neverfell . . . I wanted to apologize.’ Madame Appeline’s smile was sweet, rueful, and suddenly made her look a good deal younger. ‘I abandoned you in the exhibition
room. That was very rude of me.’

‘No – it’s all my fault. I upset you. I didn’t mean—’

‘There
was
a child.’ The words were very soft, little more than a murmur. ‘The memory of that child has always haunted me. She . . . died.’

‘Oh.’ Neverfell bowed as a little boat of hopes sank quietly and without any fuss. The Tragedy Range had been Madame Appeline’s mourning for a lost child. A dead child. A child
that was not Neverfell. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

‘You talked about sensing a connection between the two of us,’ the Facesmith went on. ‘Perhaps that connection is shared loss. I lost that child. And you have lost . . .
parents?’

‘Yes.’ Neverfell peeped shyly at Madame Appeline through her hair. ‘And I don’t even remember them. But when I look at the Faces from the Tragedy Range I feel like . . .
like my mother is looking back at me. If . . . if she did look at me that way, she must have loved me, mustn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ said Madame Appeline, her countenance still and pure as snow. ‘With a fire beyond description.’ Their steps had led them in a circle, and they were drawing near to
Zouelle and the others. ‘Well, perhaps it is good fortune that has brought us together, to be a comfort to each other. Would you like to visit again? We could talk sometimes, and play a game
where I have found a long-lost daughter and you have discovered a secret mother . . .’

‘Yes – yes! I’d love that!’ Neverfell would have thrown her arms around the Facesmith if Zouelle had not commandeered her arm suddenly, and with painful firmness.

‘I need to take Neverfell back to the palace now,’ she declared. There was a curious edge in Zouelle’s tone that Neverfell did not quite understand. ‘She has to get ready
for the great jelly-tasting.’

‘Of course. Goodbye, Neverfell. I’m sure I will see you again soon.’

Before Neverfell could say goodbye properly, she had been marched away by Zouelle, out of the grove and back into the reception room, and then the hallway beyond. The blonde girl’s fingers
dug deep into her arm, and Neverfell remembered the urgency of the situation.

Once outside the Facesmith’s front door, Zouelle took a moment to let out a long slow breath.

‘Zouelle, you’re brilliant! You persuaded her to help the drudges – I wish I could just make things happen the way you do!’ Neverfell bounced forward to hug the other
girl.

‘Stop it!’ To Neverfell’s shock, Zouelle shoved her away. The shrillness in her voice was almost panic.

‘What is it?’ Neverfell stared at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ The moment passed, and Zouelle donned a bright, gentle smile. No. 218, An Ode to Peppermint. ‘There’s nothing wrong. Sorry, Neverfell, Facesmiths just make me
tense.’

‘Something’s happened!’ Neverfell scanned her friend’s face in vain for clues. ‘Did you find out something else? Did they catch you looking for the door? Is that
it?’

‘No. Nothing like that. There’s nothing wrong. Can we just go? Please?’

Everything about the Face Zouelle was wearing told Neverfell that there was no problem, and that she herself was being silly in worrying.

She’s one of my best friends
, thought Neverfell,
and most of the time I don’t know what is going on in her head at all.