The Story of Cirrus Flux (14 page)

He sat up. A light was growing steadily bigger and brighter in the adjoining lane.

“Oi! You there!” shouted a watchman, holding up a lantern. “This ground is no place for the living. Off with ye, boy!”

Cirrus staggered to his feet. The night had seeped into his bones and he was shivering with cold. His jacket and breeches were filthy. He moved stiffly away from the churchyard, onto the road.

The watchman shoved him rudely on with his cudgel.

Even now, in the middle of the night, Cirrus was aware of other people shuffling beside him in the dark. Night-soil men
removed cartloads of excrement from the yards of the houses, while boys with sputtering torches lounged in doorways, waiting for people to escort home. A church bell tolled the ungodly hour.

Cirrus stumbled blindly on. He had no idea where he was going. His only friend in the world was Bottle Top, but he could no longer remember the name of the gentleman who had apprenticed him or the location of his museum. And he had no way of finding the girl.

He had long since given up asking for assistance. “Out of my sight, boy!” and “Confound your stupid questions!” were just two of the replies he had received from passing strangers the day before. Several times he had even been given a clap on the ear for no reason at all. Finally, exhausted, he had fallen asleep in a churchyard not far from the river.

And now here he was, on the march again.

As soon as he could, he gave the night watchman the slip and disappeared down a side alley. The dome of St. Paul’s, which he had been using to navigate his way, was no longer visible, hidden behind a warren of tall buildings.

He kept going.

Gradually, the darkness lifted and people began to file through the streets. Carts and carriages clattered everywhere. So many people. How could he possibly hope to find Bottle Top or the girl in this crowd?

Eventually, he sat down in a sheltered courtyard to rest his weary feet. His head was aching and his stomach panged with hunger. Grocers and merchants were plying their trade in the
surrounding streets. He took out his sphere, wishing again that it could show him the right way to go, but all it seemed to do was point at the other side of the world. How had his father come by it? What was it for?

He must have drifted off to sleep, for when he next looked up a gang of boys had crowded round him. Their faces were lean and hungry, and there was a dangerous glint in their eyes.

Cirrus jumped to his feet, but they immediately knocked him down again.

“ ’Ere, what’s that round ’is neck?” asked the boy nearest him. His coat was riddled with holes, and a sooty neckerchief was knotted round his throat.

“A jewel of some sort,” said one.

“A locket, I think,” said another.

The first boy, obviously the leader, took a step closer. Cirrus could see a livid scar across his cheek.

The boy caught him staring. “I’m Cut Throat Charlie,” he said. “This ’ere’s Glass Eye, that’s Half Thumb, and over there is Nell. Now, don’t be affrighted. We ain’t gonna hurt ye. All we want is that sphere.”

A hand shot out from beneath the boy’s jacket and Cirrus suddenly felt a knife at his throat. He swallowed as its icy edge bit into his skin.

“Move, mind,” said Cut Throat Charlie, “and my knife’ll slip and take off your ear. Scream”—and his voice was now as sharp as his blade—“and I’ll rob you of your tongue.”

Cirrus was breathing hard, his heart pounding. He looked
from one boy to the other, wondering if he could escape, but the other boys all looked keen for a fight. They had boxed him in, keeping him out of sight of passersby. The one called Glass Eye was built like an ox, and the boy next to him, though small, had a devious squint. And Nell … Cirrus only now realized that she was a girl. A strong, fierce-looking girl with a mop of black hair.

His eyes shifted back to the smaller boy, who held up his hand, a fingerless stump.

Cirrus gulped and was about to plead for mercy when there was a sudden crash from the neighboring road. A horse whinnied, someone shrieked and a thunderous explosion shook the air.

Cut Throat Charlie turned to see what had caused the commotion and Cirrus darted to his feet. He slid out from beneath the blade, which glanced across his cheek, and then dodged sharply as Glass Eye aimed a mistimed blow at his head. The boy’s fist connected with Half Thumb instead, who went reeling into the path of Nell.

Cirrus had no time to think. He dashed out of the courtyard and into the street. A cart had collided with a grocer’s stall; Cirrus leapt over the carnage and made a hasty retreat.

A cry rose up from behind him.

“Stop! Thief!”

Horrified, he turned to see that his would-be attackers had raised the alarm and were racing after him. They were getting nearer. People were suddenly reaching out for him from all directions, trying to hold him back.

“It’s not me!” he cried. “I’m innocent!” But no one seemed to listen and he had to duck and weave to avoid their clutches.

Desperately, he sprinted to the end of the street and raced blindly round the corner … right into the path of an oncoming carriage.

As the horse reared above him, Cirrus dropped to the ground and rolled clear under its belly. The horse’s hooves came crashing down just inches from his head.

He glanced back. His pursuers were now blocked by the horse and driver, who was unleashing his fury at anyone who came near, lashing at them with his whip. Heart pounding, Cirrus charged up the adjoining street. His lungs were on fire and a great gash of pain was tearing across his side, making it difficult to breathe.

There! Up ahead! He spotted a thin alley between two tottering buildings and raced toward it, forcing himself into the narrow gap, just as another horse and carriage clattered by.

A sour, gassy smell rose from the ground and he cupped his hands over his nose and mouth as he waded further into the gully. Something wet and furry slithered across his foot and he shrank back, disgusted. Still he did not stop until he was well out of sight of the road. He pressed himself against the wall. The buildings were so close together here they almost touched.

He waited. Slime trickled down the wall and oozed beneath the collar of his jacket.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, he began to relax. He could hear nothing of Cut Throat Charlie and decided to follow the passage through to its other end.

Minutes later, he emerged in another street, almost identical to the one he had left behind. He looked around nervously, ready to bolt the instant he saw an unfriendly face, but the shopkeepers were all too busy with customers to notice a wretched waif. He was covered from head to toe in filth.

Further down the street he spotted a large open area. A warm, savory aroma filled his nose and he limped toward it. His ankle was throbbing painfully and he had cuts on his feet.

The market was bustling with people and he searched it hungrily, trying to detect the source of the smell. On a low wooden platform near him stood a man with his head and hands slung through some holes in a post. His body had been pelted with rancid tomatoes. Children were picking whatever edible scraps they could find from the ground.

The smell of gravy tugged at his nose. He turned. A woman with scabby cheeks was selling Bow Wow Pies from a stall.

He moved closer.

All of a sudden a musical voice lifted above the crowd.

“Fireball over London! Earthquake in Devon! Parishioners fall down on their knees and pray!”

Cirrus was sure he recognized the voice. He searched the square and then blinked in amazement as he saw Jonas standing on the opposite street corner, calling out to passersby. He was weighed down with ballads and broadsheets, and was sporting a fresh black eye.

Cirrus rushed over to him.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Jonas, catching sight of him. “I never expected to see the likes of you again.” Then he took another look at Cirrus and shook his head. “What’s happened to you, Flux? Run away?”

Cirrus was unsure what to say. Luckily, his stomach chose to intervene. It rumbled loudly.

Jonas heard it, too. “When did you last eat?” he said.

Cirrus shrugged. He had lost all sense of time. He felt dizzy with exhaustion.

Jonas looked around the square. “Wait here,” he said, stacking his ballads on the ground, and slipped through the throng.

He returned moments later with two pies.

“Here, sink your teeth into this,” he said, handing Cirrus one of them. “Can’t tell you what’s in ’em, but they’re a darn sight better than Mrs. Kickshaw’s grub, I daresay.”

Cirrus bit into his pie greedily, scooping up every last dribble of gravy with the spoon of his thumb and sucking the crumbs from his fingers long after the pie had disappeared. It was mostly crust and gristle, with a few stringy bits of meat mixed in, but his belly purred with satisfaction.

“Now tell me what’s happened,” said Jonas, suddenly serious.

Cirrus looked away. He considered telling Jonas everything about the sphere, but then remembered how Jonas had teased him about what he and Bottle Top had seen in the Gallows Tree. He doubted Jonas would believe him.

Jonas was regarding him curiously. “Look. I don’t know what made you run away,” he said, “but, if you want my opinion, you’d best go back. Life outside the hospital is hard. I’ve got a good master, but not everyone is so lucky. Trust me. The Governor always liked you. He’ll take you back.”

Something stirred inside Cirrus—a bitter, resentful feeling—as he remembered how Mr. Chalfont had agreed to hand over his sphere to the man from Black Mary’s Hole.

“No, I can’t go back,” he said firmly. “I need to find Bottle Top. Can you tell me where he is?”

Jonas remained silent and thoughtful for a while, then jumped to his feet. “I can do better than that,” he said, dusting off his breeches and collecting his things. “I’ll take you there myself.”

The Scioptric Eye

F
or the second time in as many days Pandora found herself in a horse and carriage. Only this time she was not crouched on the back, clinging on, but was squeezed next to Madame Orrery in the richly upholstered compartment.

She felt like a prisoner in the hot, airless cell. The streets were thick with traffic and carts kicked up dust all around them. A confusion of cries tugged at her ears.

Beside her, Madame Orrery sat still and statuesque, a fan pressed to her nose. This close up Pandora could see fine cracks in the woman’s face-paint and faint tea-colored stains under the arms of her dress. She remembered what Mr. Sorrel had told her—how Madame Orrery had once been the most admired woman in France, until her husband had broken her heart—but any sympathy she might have felt immediately evaporated when she recalled how the woman had threatened to burn her mother’s token the night before.

The carriage rocked and juddered as it passed through the crowds and Pandora scanned the faces that lined the roads, hoping for a glimpse of the boy. She didn’t really expect to see him in this moving mass, but she wanted to know that he was safe.

Could the man with the all-seeing eye really find him?

Wharves and warehouses flanked the river to her right, and boats and barges were just visible on the water. Men rolled barrels back and forth along the quays. She thought of the man who had briefly appeared outside her window and wondered again who he was. How did he know Cirrus Flux? And how was he able to hover above the ground?

They continued east, toward St. Paul’s.

At last they came to a halt outside an impressive stone building in the heart of the city. It looked more like a temple than a house. Thick columns supported a massive pediment on which sculpted figures reclined, and the roof was surmounted by a vast structure with long windows and an extremely tall lightning rod.

“Mr. Sidereal’s observatory,” remarked Madame Orrery, following her gaze. “Where he keeps his Scioptric Eye.”

Pandora had no idea what this meant, but she imagined a monstrous individual with an eye in the center of his forehead, and a shiver rippled down her spine.

Madame Orrery grabbed her by the arm and forced her up the steps.

A footman answered the door and escorted them into a corridor with pillars on either side. Peculiar jets of flame
flickered in glass spheres attached to brackets along the walls.

“What an unexpected surprise,” said a thin, fluty voice from somewhere up ahead.

Pandora could not tell at first where it had come from—it seemed to descend from the heights—but then, as Madame Orrery guided her past a row of metal urns, she realized that it belonged to a tiny figure seated on a thronelike chair at the far end of the hall. His chair, Pandora noticed, was set on wheels.

“Hortense,” said the little man as they stepped nearer. He reached out to kiss her hand. “What brings you so far from Midas Row?”

“You must know,” said Madame Orrery coldly, withdrawing her hand. “I can feel your Eye on me wherever I go.”

The man’s lips curled in a smile, but there was no trace of humor in his eyes. His face was smooth and delicate, like a child’s, and without a single strand of hair.

“Pleasantries aside,” he said, “what is the purpose of your visit?”