The Crimson Shard (6 page)

“Do not ask. The less you ask, the better for you.”

Raised voices and a clattering of shoes pulled their attention away.

“Strewth!” cursed Jeremiah. He burst angrily into the workshop and flung his arms in the air. “Blaise, you are one of us for now. I shall not pollute the air with any useful advice except this. Keep your mouth and ears closed to anything but artistic instruction. Draw when I say, eat when I say, sleep when I say, and not before.”

He stormed out again. There was banging and scraping from next door.

“The Master is making you a sleeping place with us,” Toby murmured, clearing broken bits of charcoal and chalks away with his arm. “Here, this will be your table and stool.”

Jeremiah blustered back into the workshop. “Follow me, Blaise.”

The room next door was a maze of small, narrow cots with little space between them. Jeremiah yanked a wooden chest from under one bed and pulled its contents out. Two rough white shirts, two pairs of breeches, and a few pairs of dirty, once-white stockings lay there, along with a nightshirt and three scrunched-up undergarments.

“Wear these clothes. They belonged to a boy who is gone away now,” said Jeremiah. “And do not pass judgment upon their fit or fashion. We have no use for such nonsense.”

“Mr. Starling, I am not supposed to be here,” Blaise pleaded. “I need to get home.”

“It is not for me to say.”

“You must realize we don’t belong here! Throgmorton’s put us in your Academy against our will.”

“Your will has no importance here,” said Jeremiah gruffly. “You are to be a pupil of this Academy in accordance with Throgmorton’s wishes for as long as he requires it.”

“But this is
your
art school!”

“I instruct whomever is placed in front of me.” Jeremiah scooped up the clothes and thrust them into Blaise’s arms. “Unless they prove to be incompetent at learning and are taken back from whence they came.”

“So if we’re terrible students, he might let us go.”

“Do not contemplate it!” Jeremiah gave a short laugh. “Throgmorton wants you here for his own reasons and will not release you until he is satisfied.”

Blaise picked up a stocking that had slipped to the floor. It was stretched into the shape of its previous owner’s foot, dark with grime at the heel and toe. “I’m supposed to wear this?”

“The dirt will hardly be noticed once the shoe is upon your foot.” Jeremiah nudged a pair of worn shoes from under the bed. “Place your belongings in that trunk.”

“Whose clothes were these?”

“A boy who is no longer with us,” said Jeremiah, unable to look Blaise in the eye. “Or so I presume.”

“You don’t know where he went?” Blaise was appalled that he could smell the departed boy on the clothing he held. “Was it because he was ‘incompetent at learning’?”

“No on both counts,” muttered Jeremiah, growing visibly agitated. He dug around in his vest and coat pockets till he found a pewter snuffbox.

“What do you mean?”

Jeremiah gave the snuffbox’s lid a few taps, opened it, and sniffed a pinch of tobacco into both nostrils. His face relaxed somewhat. “Questions draw unwanted attention, Blaise. I have already given you my humble advice, but I think you have need of more. So hear this: do what you can in this house to extend your life rather than shorten it.”

S
unni’s sundress and sandals lay in a pile on the floor of Livia’s bedroom.

“I think you make an excellent boy, Sunni,” said Livia. “Your face has a plainness to it that works very well for this purpose. But what shall we name you?”

A servant, Mary, was trying to tie a bit of fabric around Sunni’s waist to make the breeches fit better, but Sunni clawed at the fabric. “You think your father is right to keep us here? Why don’t you say something to him?”

“I will not.” Livia reclined on her four-poster canopy bed. “He is my father.”

“I wish I could see
my
father, but I can’t, because
yours
is keeping me here. Please, Livia, you must know how the door works. Help us go home.”

Livia gazed at herself in a silver hand-mirror. “You will become used to it here.”

Sunni cried out in frustration. “Don’t you have any feelings at all? Do you ever think about other people?”

“Forgive me, Sunniva, but I am trying to help you.”

“Really. How?”

“By helping you to fit in. Did you not notice how the Master’s pupils stared at your bare shoulders and legs? It was not because your features are particularly good, but because they were on show for all to see. This cannot be the sort of attention a proper young lady would wish for.”

Sunni’s mouth hung open. “Are you joking? You’re thinking of my clothes, and I’m thinking of my life!”

“Clothes are important.” Livia pursed her lips. “Young ladies do not attend boys’ art academies. You must impersonate a boy so you do not call attention to yourself. Gossip might spread, and then what might happen?”

Yeah, someone might realize your father has prisoners in his special Academy.
Sunni glared down at her drooping stockings and scuffed shoes with one buckle missing. Mary had rolled up the sleeves of the man’s white linen shirt and tucked in its long tail, but it was still too big, especially after she had bound Sunni’s chest in a tightly wound piece of muslin to make her as flat as a boy. Angry tears filled Sunni’s eyes, but Livia took no notice and prattled on.

“You must practice walking and talking like a boy. Your voice is already deep for a girl, but you should lower it even more,” said Livia. “A lady’s voice should be high and light, like a tinkling bell. Yours is neither, but it will be suitable for a boy’s voice.”

Sunni wiped her eyes and said nothing. She would get nowhere with this girl, so what was the point of even trying? Better to find out how to open that painted door and get away from these people on her own.

At last, Mary stopped fiddling with the breeches’ waistband and anchored Sunni’s wavy hair at the nape of her neck with a scraggly bit of ribbon.

Livia dismissed the servant with a wave and smirked. “What a fine fellow you are.”

Disgusted, Sunni picked up her dress and sandals from the floor. She slung her bag across her chest and said, “I’m keeping my clothes because I
will
be going home.”

Livia shrugged. “Let us go and see how handsome Blaise looks in proper boys’ clothing.”

Blaise’s head was splitting. He couldn’t get enough air, and his skin was slick with sweat.
How are we going to get out of here?

He took a breath.
You can handle it. You got out of Corvo’s painting when you never thought you would. You fought off plenty of enemies there and figured out the way home.

But fighting Throgmorton won’t open the painted door.
He cradled his head in his hands.

Jeremiah Starling appeared at his side with a jar full of long goose feathers.

“Choose one,” he said quietly. “They are all good.”

Blaise stared, dull-eyed, at the feathers.

“By doing something useful, you will chase melancholy away.” Jeremiah thrust the jar into Blaise’s face.

He pulled a feather out and shrugged.

“Very well,” said Jeremiah. “Now we strip off the barbs and shorten the shaft.” He laid the feather down on a wooden board, and with a small, sharp penknife, the Master sliced and nipped it into shape. A few deft cuts later, he had carved an angled drawing tip, ready to receive ink.

“The goose’s loss is our gain,” he said. “Now choose another feather and make one yourself, as I have.”

The pounding in Blaise’s head started to recede, and his panicky feelings moved out of focus. Somehow, watching Jeremiah work brought him a moment of calmness. He went at his own feather with care, teasing the downy feathers from the shaft and excising them with the knife.

“Mr. Starling,” said Livia, standing with Sunni at the workshop door. “This is Jack, your new pupil.”

Sunni’s face went pink at this. “What?”

“Jack Sunniver.”

Blaise’s small shoot of tranquillity withered. Seeing Sunni, rumpled in her sagging breeches, with her missing shoe buckle, made him curse himself for dragging her to Starling House and going through the painted door without question. Livia was gazing at him, approving of his eighteenth-century outfit, and he cursed himself again for following her.

The Academy boys gaped at Sunni’s transformation. But none of them was bold enough to point or titter. Instead, they turned to see what the Master would make of this.

“Jack Sunniver, you say?” Jeremiah crossed his arms over his chest. “A
boy
like yourself probably prefers to be called by his surname, eh? Shall we call you Sunniver then?”

“He is called Jack,” Livia protested.

“Madam, you may call him Jack when he is outside my domain,” said Jeremiah. “When he eats his gruel or sleeps in his quarters, you may feel free to interrupt him. By the way, where are
his
quarters? For there is no room with the others.”

“The servant’s room by the kitchen, Mr. Starling.”

“Lucky lad, Sunniver. Mistress Biggins shall look after you.” Jeremiah ushered Sunni toward the goose feathers. “And your friend Blaise shall now instruct you on how best to cut a quill pen.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Good-bye to you, miss.”

With a toss of her head, Livia vanished downstairs.

“Welcome, Blaise and Sunniver,” said Jeremiah. “You are Academicians now, and as far as it is any outsider’s business, you have both been with us for some time. You are orphans of the parish, found by Mr. Throgmorton, just like the other boys. No outsider shall know any other details but this.” He swiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Gentlemen, we make nine altogether. A fine number. Now let me hear the sound of nine at their work.”

The boys settled down, and Jeremiah began sketching out a painting on a large easel in a corner.

“Take a feather,” Blaise said to Sunni. “And watch what I do.”

She plucked the first one she saw and sat down next to him, her back rigid. The feather fell from her grasp and landed on the floor, but she made no move to retrieve it.

“I know, I don’t feel like doing this either.” Blaise picked up her feather and asked in a gentle voice, “Are you okay?”

“Not really. I can’t see how we’re going to get out of here. Livia won’t help us. I pleaded, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I tried the door, but I don’t have any idea how to open it, and none of the boys knows exactly how Throgmorton goes through it,” he murmured.

“Your dad will be out of his mind worrying, let alone my dad and Rhona.
Again.
”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe this.” Her voice rose. “Why are we here? Doesn’t he have enough boys to choose from in his own century?”

“Sunniver!” Jeremiah interrupted, with a pointed look.

“Sorry, Mr. Starling.” She began whispering. “Why would Throgmorton bother to kidnap two random kids that wandered into a museum? None of this makes sense.”

Blaise laid his hand protectively on his sketchbook, which never left his side. “If I hadn’t shown him this, he never would have invited me in here. He was pretty interested in some of my sketches from Arcadia.”

“You’re right.” Sunni sat up. “He was.”

“You think that means anything?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “And I haven’t got a clue how we’re going to get away from him either.”

Blaise looked around. Starling was busy, and the boys were hard at work. “So what do we do?”

“Play along with this Academy stuff and find out how the door works.”

“Yeah, and fast.” Blaise scratched one of his filthy stockings.

“You don’t look too bad in those clothes,” muttered Sunni.

“You don’t either,” he said. “You wear pants most of the time anyway.”

“Huh?”

“I mean —”

“So you think I look like a guy even when I’m not trying to.”

Blaise put his hands up. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Just show me how to make that stupid feather into a pen,” said Sunni, fidgeting in her makeshift muslin corset and itchy breeches, “and don’t you ever dare call me Jack.”

“Yeah, right.” Blaise picked up her feather and began slicing into it.

“Blaise.” Jeremiah’s voice boomed. “Show me that quill.”

“It’s not done yet, sir.”

“That is because your mouth is working harder than your hands. Quiet labor, Blaise and Sunniver, at all times!”