The Crimson Shard (8 page)

“Boy,” said Fleet. “What do they call you?”

Do I tell them the truth?
Under the men’s scrutiny, she lost her nerve.

“Sunniver,” she murmured.

“Singular name.” Sleek puffed his pipe.

“Which parish is you from?”

Panic slithered into Sunni’s stomach.
Parish — what’s that?
Hoping this was just an old-fashioned way of asking where she was from, she replied in her best imitation of an English accent, her tone lowered to sound more boylike. “Outside London.”

Sleek gave his companion a knowing look.

Fleet leaned forward on his bony knees, poised to ask more questions.

Mistress Biggins interrupted before they could continue. “This boy needs his bed. Come with me, Sunniver.”

She took a candlestick and bustled Sunni out of the kitchen to a nearby door in the dingy corridor. They entered a cavelike room, the single flame barely illuminating a couple of rickety cots and a cold hearth. As in the kitchen, the bottom half of its window was below ground level and dankness hovered in the air.

“That’s your bed, the far one. Mary sleeps in the other.”

“Where do you sleep?” Sunni asked, hoping this hearty, rosy-cheeked woman would be nearby.

Mistress Biggins laughed. “There is no room for me in this crowded house. I lodge but a few streets away.”

She set the candle down on an upturned crate next to Sunni’s cot and plumped the bedding. “I’m to wake you before I leave. Mr. Starling’s orders.”

Sunni hesitantly sat down. Dampness wafted up from the covers and made her want to gag. From under the bed Mistress Biggins pulled out a chipped china pot that would serve as her toilet.

“Thank you,” said Sunni miserably.

“Pleasant dreams, Sunniver.” The cook pulled the door shut, and Sunni was left in the dim light of the sputtering candle.

She yanked the bedding off and shook it till her arms ached. If any vermin were hiding in the mattress, they’d soon be squashed; she went over every inch, top and bottom, holding the candle close to the stained fabric. Last, she peered under the bed and, finding nothing but torn spiderwebs in the corner, she remade the bed and lay down on it, fully clothed. Hot tears came, and she punched the rancid pillow.

All trace of tiredness was gone, replaced by anger and a need to do
something
to get home.

She sat up. The dampness tickled at her throat, and the food smells from the kitchen teased her half-empty belly.

The two men and Mistress Biggins were having a lively conversation in the kitchen. Sunni wiped her face and crept out of the room, inching along the wall of the corridor till she came to the open doorway.

“Sleekie and I work for her father,” she heard Fleet say, “not for her.”

“Little madam,” added Sleek.

“My word,” said Mistress Biggins. “You do not know the half of it. A more spoiled creature than Miss Livia you have never met.”

“Impertinent,” said Sleek.

“Precisely,” said Fleet. “Do you know, she scolded us for appearing in this house today?”

“But why?” asked the cook. “You come here to do business.”

“I imagine she didn’t want them dinner guests to see us. We nightsneaks is of such low status, and they is Persons of Quality.” Sunni could hear the sneer in Fleet’s voice. “Though nobody’d ever heard of Mr. Throgmorton and Miss Livia before they turned up.”

“And they appeared with no warning,” said Mistress Biggins. “I found them at the breakfast table with Mr. Starling one morning. No explanation then, and none since. I do wonder where they came from so suddenly.”

“And Starling took them in!”

“’Twas money,” Sleek said.

“Aye, Sleekie. Throgmorton had ready money. Where from, you and I may both wonder.”

Mistress Biggins agreed with a long “
Mmm.
”

Fleet went on, “Why, if them Persons of Quality had an inkling of our business with the gentlemen in this establishment, they’d never be seen here again.”

Sunni’s ears pricked up, but Fleet changed the subject, so she sneaked back into her room and blew out the lonely candle by her bed. Desperately hoping that Biggins, Fleet, and Sleek would stay in the kitchen and that she would not bump head-on into Mary, Sunni tiptoed upstairs. The hall was empty. She hurried to the front door and pulled on it, but it was locked. She put her head to the dining parlor door, but when guests began getting up from the table with a scraping of chairs, she sprang away.

Sunni ran up the stairs just as the dining parlor door opened. She dived out of sight on the landing and darted to the top floor as silently as she could.

The boys were tidying up and extinguishing candles in the workshop before going to their beds in the next room. Blaise flexed his drawing hand and rubbed his eyes.

“Blaise.” Sunni hurried in and dragged him to the painted door. “Come on.” She ran her hands over the wall, as he had, and pounded on it in frustration when she could find no way to pry it open.

“I told you it was closed.” He touched the wall once more just in case.

Sunni faced the other boys. “You all know how this works, don’t you? You must! And you know we don’t belong here either. Blaise and I have to go back through that door, and you have to help us.”

“Keep your voice down. They won’t tell you, because they don’t know,” said Blaise. “Besides, they’re scared to talk.”

“Scared? Of what?” Sunni threw her arms out wide. “Go on, why don’t you run away from the Academy then, if you’re scared?”

Robert murmured something, and though the other boys shushed him, he kept talking. “We can’t go. Mr. Throgmorton’s paid the parish for us.”

“He’s put a roof over our heads and food in our bellies,” said Toby, giving Robert a warning look.

“What’s the parish?” asked Sunni.

“The poorhouse,” said Samuel. “Where we was all raised from babies. Mr. Throgmorton came looking for boys who was good at drawing, and he chose each of us.”

“If we is clever at our work, we can stay here,” said Jacob.

Toby’s eyes flashed. “Instead of rag picking or sifting the Thames mud for lost coins.”

“But he paid
money
for you. That’s wrong!” said Sunni. “You’re human beings.”

The boys said nothing until Toby murmured, “It’s the way of things. You do not understand.”

“I understand that you all have to draw night and day. You never seem to stop working.”

They all shrugged.

“Do you ever leave this house?”

Silence.

Sunni wrenched one of her sleeves up to show her tanned arm. “You never feel the sun or the rain? Or run about outdoors?”

One or two heads shook.

“We still have much to learn,” Toby insisted. “Mr. Starling has taught me everything, but there is always more to do here.”

“Copying artwork that Mr. Fleet and Mr. Sleek bring in.” She pointed at the newly arrived painting of the musketeer. “Do you know where they got that from?”

More silence.

“How do they get these paintings?” asked Sunni. “Fleet and Sleek seem to be able to supply them with no problem.”

The boys hung their heads and Blaise said, “Like the Flemish angel painting. It’s
famous.
”

Will, who had never spoken up before, raised his head. “I am copying the angel. But Mr. Fleet and Mr. Sleek will take it back where it come from, like all the others. They says so. We just borrows ’em to copy for our learnin’.”

“Borrow them from where? You don’t just ‘borrow’ well-known artwork,” said Sunni.

Will shrugged, shrinking away from her furious questions.

“It’s okay, Will. You’re not to blame,” said Blaise. “We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

“Do not ask questions,” said Toby.

But Sunni ignored him and picked up the copy one of the younger boys was making. “Are you allowed to keep the copies you make? Do they belong to you?”

“Nay, we do not keep them,” said Will earnestly.

“Will!” Toby hissed.

“Let him talk,” said Blaise. “What happens to your copies when you’re done?”

“There’s nothing wrong in saying it, Toby,” said Will. “Mr. Throgmorton takes the copies. He takes ’em away.” His eyes darted momentarily toward the painted door.

Toby grabbed his arm. “Are you mad? Say nothing more, Will!”

“He doesn’t need to.” Sunni tapped the wall. “You all slave away making drawings and Mr. Throgmorton takes them away through this door, doesn’t he?”

There was rustling behind them, and everyone turned, startled.

Livia stepped from the shadowy hallway, regal in a deep rose–colored gown. “Jack Sunniver, what are you doing here?”

Sunni’s lip twisted. “Nothing.”

“Come away from that wall. Your bed is below, and you are nowhere near it.”

“I was just going.”

“That is a lie. I spied you running up the stairs.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Sunni stormed past her and ran down the stairs.

“What were you telling Jack Sunniver, William?” asked Livia, her expression mild.

“Nothing, Miss Livia.” Will’s eyes were huge in his thin face.

Livia’s short laugh was like a windowpane shattering. “Never lie, William. Dishonesty always hurts someone in the end.”

T
he stale-smelling bed was too short for his lanky frame, and the mattress sagged in the middle, but Blaise fell asleep almost immediately. For a brief, anguished moment, he wondered again about the boy whose bed this had been and if he and Sunni would ever escape, but, with the urge to sleep so great, his questions just drifted away.

The painted door kept appearing in his dreams, opening and closing for everyone else, but never for him. Just as he thought it was about to allow him through, he felt a hand shake his shoulder.

“Blaise, it’s midnight,” whispered Jacob, his fair hair shining in the lantern light. “We rise now.”

Blaise rolled over and looked around the dark room. It smelled of sleep and unwashed bodies. No light came in from the small windows. The night sky was solid black, with no electric street lights to tinge it amber.

The other boys were already up and filing out of the bedroom. He could hear them beginning work in the Academy on the other side of the wall.

Jacob lingered by Blaise’s cot. “You are truly allowed to sleep all night where you are from?”

“Yeah.”

“Does everyone sleep so much?”

“No,” said Blaise, thinking of his dad, who got up early to go running every morning, and feeling another twist of sickness in his stomach. He’d hardly thought of his dad with everything that had happened. By now, he would have reported them missing, after having waited for hours on Tottenham Court Road.

“What is it like where you are from?” Jacob asked as Blaise pulled off his nightshirt and dragged the breeches, shirt, and horrible stockings back on.

“Oh.” Blaise half smiled. “Where would I start? There’s too much to tell.”

“Mr. Throgmorton found you there?”

Blaise tied his hair back into a short ponytail with a bit of string. “Yes, unfortunately.”

The boy looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “I wonder what he does with our copies after he takes them through the door.”

“I have no idea. He didn’t have any with him when we met him.”

Jacob sighed. “We work so hard to make the copies well, and as soon as they are finished, they are taken away.”

“I know. I would hate that.” Blaise sensed an opportunity. He lowered his voice. “You were the one who said Throgmorton makes the painted door come alive. You’ve seen him do it, haven’t you, Jacob?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy nodded. “Once only.”

Blaise’s heart jumped. “How did he open the door?”

“H-he drew on it,” Jacob whispered. “With red.”

“What did he draw?” Blaise tried to keep his voice calm.

Jacob drew an arc in the air. “I know not. Just a shape — like this.”

Blaise remembered the curved scratches in the painted door’s surface. “What did he use to draw? A paintbrush?”

“A stone knife, I think,” said Jacob, “It was reddish and there was something crimson he dipped it in.”

Cold spread through Blaise, as if he had been dipped in an icy sea. “Did he say anything while he was drawing?”

“No.”

“Where did the red liquid come from? The workshop?”

“From a vial under his shirt.”

Blaise’s heart sank. How would they ever get this red substance, whatever it was, from Throgmorton? “Do any of the other boys know more than you do?”

“No, only what I told you.” Jacob took a backward step toward the door, his face creasing with worry.

“It’s all right.” Blaise held the boy’s elbow and said earnestly, “I will
not
tell anyone, especially Toby.”

Jacob relaxed at this, and they hurried into the workshop together. The boys were lighting lanterns and sitting down to their work.

“Strewth!” came a familiar curse from a far corner of the room. “Toby, is it midnight already?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeremiah lay fully clothed in a corner, half covered by dusty bedding and sprawled across a pile of lumpy-looking sacks.

“Egad,” he muttered, and sat up. The candlelight seemed to bother him, and he shielded his eyes. “’Tis as if I left Throgmorton’s dinner table only a moment ago.”