The Mourning Emporium (23 page)

“And now look, what helegance!” Pylorus Salt hastily held up his arms for a general inspection of his clothing, revealing quite a deal of flesh through various apertures that did not figure in the original construction of those garments. “ ’Strue, they’s all a bit bald where they rub, but at least they’s warm, an’ they’s ours, an’ we dint ’ave to beg for ’em at the Old Clothes Exchange in Houndsditch, an’ we doan has to rent ’em out by night for others to wear while we is sleeping.”

“Before we met Turtledove,” said Greasy, “our lives was pitiful. They called us Ravens or Nobody’s Children. When we couldn’t turn a penny on our reg’lar doings, we had to hide in grand doorways so’s we could leap out to open cab doors for a tip. We turned somersaults in the mud on the hope of a half-penny. We even dived into the stinkin’ river for sixpences that the nobs throwed.

“Sometimes we had to walk all night because the bobbies wunt let the likes of us sleep in doorways. We couldn’t hardly ever afford the three-penny lodgin’ houses. We dozed all day on park benches. Now we gets decent grub, we sleeps in comfort, and we got an income time to time wiv the funerals.” He looked hard at Renzo. “I hain’t goin’ to have any jumped-up sorts from Venice tell me we’s not in the pink.”

“Of course not,” agreed Teo hastily. “And yes, we’d be grateful if you’d permit us to share your lodgings.”

Renzo opened his mouth. Teo kicked his ankle, adding, “Abjectly grateful.”

“ ’S our cunning secret entrance, innit, to the Mansion Dolorous.”

Greasy lifted a flap to a letterbox and turned a lever in the aperture. In the middle of an ivy-covered wall, a previously invisible door swung aside. Greasy parted the tendrils of ivy whitened with ice. The Londoners filed in, beckoning Teo and Renzo to follow. Thrasher struck a flint to a lantern on a hook by the door. Tig pulled aside a velvet curtain and they were plunged into a delightfully warm darkness, except for the wavering light of the lantern.

“What the bucket …!” exclaimed Teo, and then she too was silenced by the prospect that began to emerge in front of them as the Londoners darted about like fireflies, lighting ornamented gas-lamps.

“A warehouse full of mourning vestments” did not even begin to describe this Aladdin’s cave of jet-black merchandise. The walls of the Mansion Dolorous undulated into towering riches warmed by glowing grates at regular intervals. Racks of dresses stretched into the distance until they congealed into a slew of blackness. There were solidly packed shelves of black-edged stationery, visiting cards and envelopes. Teo glimpsed a card that read, You are desired to accompany the corpse of …, with a blank left for a name. There were perfume bottles bedecked with black ribbons. Black gloves were neatly folded on trolleys next to rolls of black braiding trimmed with beads and sequins, black fringes, silk and jet drops. There were crisply pleated silk mourning fans mounted on ebonized sticks, black feather boas coiled in rustling black nests, and white mourning handkerchiefs embroidered with black teardrops. There were mourning cockades for coachmen’s hats. An immense haberdashery cupboard was honeycombed with compartments for black hairpins, black rosettes and black armbands.

Mourning jewelry winked somberly from glass-topped cases. Renzo and Teo bent over a display of brooches made of human hair plaited and shaped into patterns and set behind glass. Other brooches showed dim daguerreotypes of sad faces. There were gold mourning rings inset with black enamel, gray and black pearls, shiny jet bracelets, scarf pins, tiaras, jeweled and feathered hair combs, lockets, pendants and cameos with white profiles etched on onyx backgrounds. There were mourning lampshades in Chinese pongee silk and mourning bookmarks embroidered with forget-me-nots and doleful poems. There were black funeral teapots and associated tea plates, and even a mourning ear trumpet in vulcanite, horribly reminiscent of a black bat. And immortal wreaths of flowers fashioned from parian and silk stood stiff and white under glass domes.

“How the English love death!” marveled Teo. “They seem to enjoy dying more than living. They must spend more money on it, anyway.”

“You hain’t wrong,” affirmed Hyrum Hoxton. “And this hain’t even the biggest mournin’ emporium in London Town. You should see Jay’s in Regent Street. They is our deadly rivals. We hates em loik poison.”

Even the white baby clothes stocked by Tristesse & Ganorus featured smocking threaded through with stark black ribbon.

“Poor babies,” thought Teo. She might have worn one of those herself when she attended her real parents’ funeral in Venice, yet she had been too young to have any memory of it now. Renzo, she suddenly remembered, had not even been allowed to attend his mother’s funeral. The Mayor had been in such a hurry to get rid of him. A glance at Renzo’s grief-stricken face told her he was thinking the same thing.

A pure white dress of lace and satin-scalloped ribbon caught her eye, reminding her unwelcomely of Sibella. Then she noticed the dress had no back.

“Burial gown,” explained Bits briefly. “The dead doan need to cover their behinds when they’s lyin’ in their coffins.”

A whole rack of mourning capes stretched back into the dark recesses of the warehouse. Teo ran her hands down one that was studded with black beads.

“Quality jet, you know, from Whitby,” Bits informed her. “None o’ that cheap French himitation stuff here!”

There were even mourning sweetmeats in miniature coffers. “That’s the best mourning licorice from Knaresborough.” Greasy opened a box and offered it round. The Venetians also sampled some delicious aniseed comfits and dark purple crystallized mourning grapes.

Teo walked wonderingly through rows of hats, all neatly labeled and then placed according to the size of head.

Then came the mourning underwear, carefully folded elaborate black nothings all discreetly labeled: Cambric combinations, Trimmed with Torchon Lace Insertion; Ladies’ Longcloth Mourning Knickers, Superfine Cambric, Nottingham Lace; Ladies’ Mourning Knickers, Plain Featherstitched, Trimmed Embroidery and Insertion, Plain; Shrewsbury Flannels; Mourning Camisoles; Black Melton Gaiters. A flash of bright purple caught Teo’s attention.

“What’s that?” she asked. “I thought I saw a bit of color?”

“After a widder’s done a year an’ a day in total crepe, that’s deepest mourning, and then she do nine month wiv only half the crepe, but always black,” intoned Greasy. “However, she may add some velvet ribbons an’ jet, if she loiks, doan ye know?”

Thrasher took up the account. “Then she do six months o’ half-mourning, which means as she’s ’lowed to wear a bit of trimmings in gray, white or purple or heliotrope. Then, gradual-loik, the amount of color grows, till she’s wearing almost ordinary clothes, but she has trimmings of mourning loik these”—he held up some jet buttons—“and these”—some black belts set with glittering eyes of jet. “It’s the same rules for hats an’ bonnets.”

He was interrupted by a cry of pleasure from Renzo: “Look, a book department!”

“It’s the Improving Tomes Library,” said Greasy. “Not so very cheerful readin’, I’s afraid.”

Renzo ran an expert finger down the black morocco spines, reading aloud in mocking wonder: “Our Childrens’ Rest, or Comfort for Bereaved Mothers by Anonymous; Cometh Up as a Flower by Rhoda Broughton; Why Weepest Thou?—A Book for Mourners; The Death and Burial of Three Little Kittens; Dead Men’s Shoes by Mrs. Braddon … oh, and here’s Mr. Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice! But Teo,” Renzo moaned, “the pages have all gone black!”

“Like the postcards,” whispered Teo. “Images of Venice. He wants to destroy them all.”

Replacing the blackened book, Renzo now lifted a slim volume weighed down with the title A Token for Children: Being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children, by the Rev. J. Janeway.

“Look at this, Teo. What tosh!” Renzo did not notice the expressions of the Londoners hardening as they gathered around him in silence.

He was still leafing through A Token for Children when a large, hairy paw landed with a thump on his shoulder, pushing him, then pinning him to the ground on his belly.

“Yew’d trespass then, would yew, boy?” growled a voice behind Renzo’s ear. “Yew’d touch what ain’t yourn, ye vagabone?”

Renzo’s mouth fell open, but no words came out.

“We doan take kindly to snootified trespassers at the Mansion Dolorous,” snarled the voice, which was perfumed with a strong smell of raw meat. “In fact, we tends to bile ’em up and eat ’em wiv custard. Wot yew got to say for yerself, boy?”

Turtledove was built more for inspiring awe than for speed. However, it was a speedy cuff that the brindled bulldog administered to the side of Renzo’s head now, and a speedy blow with which he rolled Renzo on his back, holding him down by a paw to the throat. The fob-watch from the dog’s black sateen waistcoat dangled above Renzo’s terrified eyes.

“Wot we got here, me lovelies?” The dog thrust his massive muzzle into Renzo’s face, his jowls visibly shaking with outrage.

“We are exceedingly sorry, we didn’t intend … please forgive the intrusion,” gabbled Renzo.

“Speak plain, boy, do. I hates an oily tongue. Shows me a slimy heart.”

Despite the fury of the dog’s growl, Teo was reassured by the open, generous style of the writing visible only to her above Turtledove’s head.

She spoke rapidly. “We’re Venetians. We’ve come on the floating orphanage, the Scilla, to escape the ice in Venice, and to look for my parents, who’ve been kidnapped. They may be in London. And we believe that Venice’s deadly enemy—he’s a ghost called Bajamonte Tiepolo—is here or on his way here too. He killed your Melusine and Sea-Bishops—those poor creatures that were found floating dead in the Thames a few weeks ago.”

“A dirty shame!” exclaimed Turtledove, removing his paw from Renzo’s throat. “ ’Twere all over the papers, an’ none of it were kind, wot they sayed about the poor beasties. Old Queen Victoria dint approve of ’em one bit. But wot’s this Venetian Bajaminty thingy got to do wiv us in London, then?”

Renzo, still flat on his back, answered, “He’s in league with the Pretender to the British throne, Lord Harold Hoskins. They’re planning something terrible.…”

“You doan mean that jumped-up nob wot were sent to Orstralia?” asked Turtledove disbelievingly.

“How come you never menshoned any of this ’mazing stuff before?” Pylorus Salt interrupted. “Sounds ’ighly unloikly to me! London’s the greatest city in the world. How can some old Venetian ghosty hurt us?”

Teo explained, “Baddened magic. That’s what brought the ice storm to Venice. And our boat was taken over by a terrible woman who whipped and starved us. And now she’s with some awful Ghost-Convicts on the Bad Ship Bombazine, which will doubtless shortly arrive in London and start the attack … just when London is at her most vulnerable, with Queen Victoria dead.”

Renzo rose to his feet. “Bajamonte Tiepolo is a coward who preys only on the weakened. His friend Miss Uish is just the same. That’s why we urgently need to find Venetian Incogniti—who are disguised as pumpkin-sellers. They’ll take us to the mermaids who’ve swum here from Venice.”

The boys and girls of the Mansion Dolorous stood openmouthed.

“A female child-hurter?” A deep, dreadful growl vibrated in Turtledove’s throat. The glimmer of a tear appeared in the corner of one fierce eye. “Yew two mites is been through all that? Yew is all on yer alonesome in London Town? In them thin clothes? And the snow’s a-lyin’ thick as Irish linen over the whole city? Look at the ribs stickin’ out of yew! Feelin’ numblish, is yew? When did yew last git somethin’ good to eat?”

The kindness of his tone undid Teo. “Ages ago,” she sobbed.

“And it wasn’t very good either,” moaned Renzo. A bit of sympathy had unbuttoned all his bravery too.

Turtledove winked. “I thought as much. Yew have that air about yew. Of childer wot needs takin’ in kindness an’ lovin’ up a bit.”

That dog had the most expressive wink Teo had ever seen. Perhaps it was because his large eyes were so wide apart above his huge snout. And now she was made to realize why the Mansion Dolorous boys and girls all had such clean faces: Turtledove proceeded to lick her face industriously, removing every trace of tears.

“Childer,” he barked at the Londoners, “bring food for these little ones, do. I has been to Butcher Brown’s an’ me satchel’s full o’ goodness.”

A platter of broken pie was placed in front of Teo and Renzo.

“Gie it a chew!” urged Ann Picklefinch.

“Steak an’ kidney!” shouted Tobias Putrid. “Superb!”

“I’m sorry,” snuffled Teo, feeling very small indeed, “I’m a vegetarian.”

“A wot?” boomed Turtledove.

“I don’t eat meat. I don’t like animals being killed.”

Given that Turtledove was, while a figure of authority, clearly an animal, Teo hoped her opinion might be received with approval.

But the dog growled angrily again, jutting out his fearsome jaw. “For why’ve yew got the teef, then? I doan hold wiv that kind of unnatural doings, girlie. Look at poor Fossy here. She’d love to chew a cutlet, but she hain’t got the ’quipment ’cos o’ that cursed match factory where she worked. Marg’rit’s gotta soupify everythin’ for her. Turnin’ down good food ’cos yew’s too squeamish! I doan hold wiv it.”

Turtledove cocked his leg. Teo stared up at him in horror.

Pylorus Salt whispered, “He do that on things he doan approve of.”

The leg inched higher as Turtledove knitted his fantastically heavy brows. But the Mansion Dolorous gang seemed to know just what to do. They clustered around the dog, speaking very fast, changing the subject, even daring to thump his broad back affectionately. Turtledove’s ferocity was soon tamed to gruffness. His leg returned by quarter-inches to the floor.

“I likes yew a heap, girlie, but I still doan hold wiv that vegetatin’ lark,” he muttered, staring hard at Teo. “Childer need victuallin’.” Now put the kettle on, Tig. We’ll bile up some o’ that Benger’s food wot Her Late Majesty favored, for the little Eyetalian girlie.”

The Londoners screwed up their faces with distaste.

“Unpalatable, ain’t it? Well, skilly, then.”

Skilly proved to be a kind of porridge made from Indian corn and hot water. It wasn’t tasty, yet it was filling. Teo scooped up two bowlfuls, only stopping when she felt as if a warm feather quilt had taken up residence inside her. Meanwhile, Renzo helped himself to a substantial portion of pie.