Authors: Ian R MacLeod
By now, I had some rudimentary grasp of the house’s layout, or at least of some of the floors of its east wing. The Bowdly-Smarts were staying on the level below me, around a further couple of turns. The corridors here, I couldn’t help noticing, were higher and wider than my own. The carpets were patterned with leaves and flowers, the archways were carved in the form of trees which sprouted in goldleaf across the ceilings. I found the Bowdly-Smarts’ doorway, but the handle held uselessly in its sleeve. For lack of any better idea, I attempted to murmur the phrase Sadie had used to open my own door. I didn’t hold out any serious hopes, but tonight the wishfish was in me. There was a beat of silence, then I felt, heard, something within the lock engage. The door swung open.
The Bowdly-Smarts’ suite—I still couldn’t really think of them as the Stropcocks—was much larger and more impressive than my own. They had a private balcony giving a view of the sea, twin four-poster double beds—and their bathroom made mine look like a closet. I turned up a gaslamp. Everything was floral, coloured in vividly unnatural lime greens, strawberry reds, lemon yellows. I was more attuned to the ways of Walcote House now and I wondered if this gaudy over-statement was intended as a subtle dig. The air smelled faintly sour, and there were signs of recent occupancy. One of the bed covers was rucked, with scraps of wimple and broken bits of tiara scattered across it. I was touching the fallen jewels when I heard a splash in the bathroom. I froze—for I’d already checked that I was alone …
I pushed back the door. Empty convolutions of tile and porcelain. Yet the muffled splashing continued. And the sour smell was stronger in here, too. It came, I decided, from beneath the seat of the one of the two toilets. Slowly, I raised it. A wishfish was flapping in the bowl as it died amid flecks of vomit. Clearly, it had rebelled against the near-impossible labour of making Grandmistress Bowdly-Smart seem queenly. My own gorge started to rise in sympathy. I swallowed hard and flushed. Back in the bedroom, though, there was still much to admire about the Bowdly-Smarts’ trunks and cases. How long were they staying here? Shirts, slips and dresses sluiced through my fingers. From Bracebridge—to this. On top of the bureau, beside the sand and ink, Mistress Bowdly-Smart was in the throes of writing a letter. It was filled with empty exclamations.
I slid open the empty drawers of the bureau. These pieces of carpentry were intricately worked, and many had catches which would cause a hidden drawer to spring open. I felt around underneath. There. On oiled runners, a shallow drawer slid out. Rolling around inside it were what I took at first to be boiled sweets. But they were too large, and the one I lifted felt too heavy. I unravelled its screw of paper and spilled it cautiously into an ashtray. A softly glittering stone, holed like a necklace bead in the middle, and marked with a glowing hieroglyph. I’d seen smaller versions of such things strung in abacus lines in the offices of cashiers and storekeepers. I had an idea that they were called numberbeads, and were used in the storage of records and accounts. But I’d never touched one before, and had little idea what to expect. A dim, half-made landscape of figures came and retreated before my eyes; a numinous sea of budgets and balances, manifests and invoices. I unwrapped another of the numberbeads, and felt the names of ships—
Saucy Lass, Dawn Maid, Blessed Damozel.
I was blown on the ghost breezes of bills of lading and import duty. What guild exactly did Bowdly-Smart belong to? It plainly had something to do with trade. Another numberbead, and I saw the laddering timetables of goods trains, arrivals at Stepney Sidings, the capacities of Tidesmeet’s quays and warehouses. The information was dizzying, hard to retain. Another numberbead detailed goods, and distant ports of departure, Africa and Thule. I caught the scents of raw cotton, dried fruits, salt meats, skins and teas.
Carefully re-wrapping the numberbeads, I placed them back in their hidden drawer, then extracted a sheet of paper from the scented pad on which Grandmistress Bowdly-Smart had been writing and tried to note down what I could remember. Already, the figures were receding like memories in a dream. But the name of a ship, the
Blessed Damozel,
that at least was something. Balling the paper in my pocket, I left the Bowdly-Smarts’ suite. Everything was quiet in this part of Walcote House. A clock chimed midnight, but that was far too early for any glass-slippered princesses to rush home. Back in the ballroom the scenes had grown more boisterous. Flocks of young men and women were wheeling and shrieking in their stupid costumes. The wishfish ballerinas looked like pink rag dolls now, oozing stuffing as they lounged and smoked in a corner. The pirates had turned into tramps. I glanced at an arrangement of flowers. Huge dark velvet petals were dancing to and fro, and I saw that their crystal bowl was filled with a sour froth of undigested bits of food within which, tugging at the stalks, several wishfish were slowly expiring. Needing fresh air, I went outside.
The stars were still blissfully bright, casting their feathery shadows, black on grey on grey. Greatmaster Porrett staggered past, his borrowed violin still cradled in his arms. As he brushed its strings with his bow, it gave an agonised shriek. The upper terrace where Anna and George had stood was now empty. I touched the cold stone where she had leaned. The perilinden trees shifted faintly, their leaves tinkling in the breeze like silver change.
Away from the smell of vomit and the dying wishfish, the dark-bright gardens expanded. Looking back, Walcote House was hazy, scarcely there. I let the paths lead me. The way Sadie spoke, you could carry on forever through these grounds, perhaps reach London without seeing a single object which wasn’t expensive and beautiful and of no practical use. This realm of the rich truly was another England, threaded deep within our own, yet totally invisible until you stepped through the right door, found the right key, the right spell, the right bank account. The tall white trees parted. Another house lay ahead. My heart paused. Just how far had I come? It was a greyly beautiful structure, propped on the spreading arms of a pale sea-froth of rococo masonry, smaller than Walcote House, but still huge. Slowly, I passed into the vast shadow of its door. Starlight fell from barred windows on heaps of gold; fresh straw, and the air had a pungent, cleanly sweet smell. As my eyes grew accustomed to the shadowswept darkness, I made out the flanks of great beasts. One snorted, its hooves thundering the walls of a stall. Another thrust its head out and down towards me, snorting a warm gale. I reached to stroke its muzzle. Even in this light, the creature was totally white. It was like the horses which had pulled Sadie’s carriage, but much bigger and even more beautiful, and from the centre of its forehead, far too high for me to reach and spiralling like a glistening candystick, projected a tapering horn. The unicorn sighed and nudged me.
Most of the great animals were sleeping. Some were grey—or jet black. Some, I could have sworn, had wings, and golden hooves, and eyes like blazing lanterns. In my dreams, and perhaps in their own, I was clinging to their manes as landscapes fled far beneath me. I wandered on through the barred light, and saw, in the far end of one of the long stable avenues, a place where brighter flecks of starlight had fallen. It had a redder glint, which grew and faded until I caught the unmistakable scent of Sadie’s cigarettes, the rustle of silk and muslin.
‘There
you are. Somehow I thought you’d find me.’ Her voice was slurred. She offered me a cigarette from her case. ‘So.’ Her lighter flared. ‘How’s it going back at the house?’
I took a drag. ‘I’m not really the person to ask. You know what they call me back there-
OneofSadiesdiscoveries …’
‘One of … ?’ But for once, I’d done a good impression of the way these people spoke. She could hardly pretend not to understand me.
‘That
old joke. Here’s a tip, Master Robert. You should never believe the things that people say out of the corners of their mouths.’
‘I’m not exactly the first, though, am I?’ My gesture made a comet of my cigarette. ‘You’ve dragged other people here to Walcote House. People like me.’
I felt the pressure of her hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s no one like
you,
Robert. Look at yourself—how could there be? Oh no no no.’ She fell back against the stall. ‘I know you think I’m being glib. But I’m not being glib at all. You
are
different. And I don’t say that to everyone … Well, I do, actually. But what I mean is that this time I really mean it.’ She stifled a burp. ‘And here’s another tip. You should believe people far more when they make a mess of what they’re trying to say. Just like I did then.’
‘I still don’t understand why you brought me here.’
‘Haven’t you enjoyed yourself?’
‘It’s been … interesting.’
She gave a soft chuckle, and drew on her cigarette. ‘You’d do it all differently, wouldn’t you, if you were me?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘And so would I. If I had the chance—d’you know what I’m going to say next?’
‘That it’s not easy being rich.’
‘Bang on the money! But we both know life’s not simple or easy, don’t we? We wouldn’t be standing here talking in the dark like idiots if it was. We’re young enough still, both of us—we should be dancing and getting fiddled while we can.’
She lit a fresh cigarette from the one she’d been smoking. Sparks sprayed as she squashed out the stub. ‘This has always been my hidey-hole. No one can smell my little vice this far away from the house. Not even Daddy.’
‘You’re afraid of him?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I don’t belong to any guild—why should I be?’
‘Haven’t you heard, darling?’ Sadie leaned forward, pouted, then fell back against the stable door again. ‘We’re all in the guilds these days …’ She made a cooing, clicking sound in the back of her throat. In response, the creature in the stall behind us moved forward. It was immense. The blood-heat of its body warmed the air.
‘He’s mine,’ she murmured. ‘Daddy gave him to me on one of my birthdays when he wasn’t handing out whisperjewels.’ Her hand swept the giant flanks. ‘Beautiful, aren’t you, Starlight?’ The unicorn’s coat was mostly black, but flecked with silver like the veins in fine dark marble. His horn was the same.
‘Is there anything
you don’t
have, Sadie?’
‘Star’s the only thing that’s really mine. Aren’t you, darling?’ Her voice was muffled by his mane.
There was a long pause, filled only by the unicorn’s breathing. I knew little of the making of these creatures, other than that they took a lot of aether, and had to be re-made generation on generation for the delectation of the rich because they were sterile. I glanced back along Starlight’s massive flank; there were no wings.
‘I take him out hunting here in the winter. Don’t like the summer heat, do you, Star? And the beastmaster who made you said you were
too
beautiful,
too
big … But can you imagine anything more delicate?’ She kissed his pelt. Her hand passed and re-passed across the pillar of his neck.
‘Does that horn have any use?’
‘Why, Robbie …’ Sadie disentangled herself from her unicorn. She lit another cigarette. Red and silver sparks caught in her pale hair. Drunk and tousled though she was, she looked different here tonight, and quite beautiful. I reminded myself that she, too, had swallowed a wishfish. I still hadn’t worked out what it was that she’d come as, but it had filled her tonight with something that wasn’t Sadie. ‘And I thought you were a dreamer like me.’
‘Dreams are just dreams.’
‘I know you don’t believe that, otherwise you and your kind wouldn’t be publishing those horrible grubby newspapers which are always going on about destroying the guilds.’
With a raise of his magnificent head, a rumbling sigh, Starlight backed into the shadows.
‘Have you heard of the Bowdly-Smarts?’ I asked.
‘The woman with the terrible voice? Wasn’t she at the thingy with the sad old changeling at Tamsen House? Of course, we didn’t speak. I spend a lot of my life avoiding the likes of her.’
‘And her husband?’
She shrugged.
‘You don’t know what he does?’
‘Why don’t you ask him? He’s here, isn’t he? Of course, I do know they’re
terribly
rich.’
From Sadie, such a comment was an insult. No one she knew was supposed to be
rich
in that obvious and shameful sense. ‘Why do you ask, Robbie? Is this another of your mysteries?’
‘I don’t have any mysteries.’
‘Well, you still haven’t given me the low-down on Anna.’
‘You know Anna Winters far better than I do, Sadie.’ I paused. ‘Although you’d probably find out more if you asked Highermaster George.’
‘Him?’
She chuckled. ‘Master Bohemian Revolt? You don’t
think,
do you … ?’
‘I saw them kissing on a terrace just a few hours ago …’
Sadie surprised me by flouncing off between the stalls. She stopped in the huge atrium, her dress rustling, her shoulders shaking.
‘One last tip, Robbie,’ she sniffed. ‘The high guilded also have feelings.’ She fished for a handkerchief amid the dress’s folds. ‘Oh, it’s not
you.
And it’s certainly not Anna and George. It’s just—well …’ She gazed out at the trees beyond the archway; still ribboned and made up to be whatever she was, her hair bleached or powdered, her whole body had somehow thinned and paled. ‘You can come here to Walcote, then you can go away and get back to plotting to destroy us all. And I bet you’ve got somebody waiting for you back in London—somebody sweet and uncomplicated.’
I said nothing.
‘But I haven’t pressed you about your personal life, have I? And I’m not asking now. I don’t want your secrets. Days like this are so disposable—I’ve already thrown thousands of them away.’ She stamped a slippered foot. ‘I mean, look at me! Another few years, and I’ll be like Mama, shaving my eyebrows and painting them on again.’
‘You’re young, Sadie.’
‘You saw those creatures in the ballroom! The debutantes are like little girls to me now, tottering around the playroom in their mothers’ old gowns and heels. I can remember when that was
me,
and now it’s gone. Even Anna’s found somebody. And I—I’m going to have to get married.’