The Story of Cirrus Flux (20 page)

“A hundred pounds,” said Cirrus very softly.

Bottle Top’s face was suddenly alive with excitement. “A hundred pounds! You know what this means, don’t you?” He grabbed Cirrus by the arm. “You’re from a wealthy family, Cirrus! Gentry, even! Only a rich gentleman could afford a sum like that.”

Cirrus stopped rubbing the glass jar and frowned at his reflection. “It doesn’t mean that at all,” he said. “It means I weren’t wanted. I weren’t wanted so much, my father paid to get rid of me. I must have been a great disappointment to him.”

“Nonsense,” said Bottle Top. “It means you’re special, Cirrus! You was always the Governor’s favorite for a reason.”

Cirrus whipped his hand away and stared at his friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

“Just what I told you,” said Bottle Top. “The Governor always treated you special. Like you was royalty or something.”

“Well, you don’t know anything,” said Cirrus bitterly, and jumped down from the ladder. “Your mam probably dropped you off at the hospital the moment she laid eyes on you.”

Cirrus stormed to the other side of the room and climbed another ladder to hide his emotions. He was annoyed with Bottle Top for not sympathizing with his situation, but he was also hurt and angered by his father for abandoning him at the hospital all those years ago. Besides, Bottle Top was wrong: Mr. Chalfont couldn’t have cared about him that much; he
had been willing to give the man from Black Mary’s Hole his token, after all.

Breathing heavily, Cirrus set to work on the remaining jars. Some of them looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned in ages, and he flicked his rag at them angrily, expelling little clouds of dust in the air.

Suddenly, he stopped.

One of the jars contained a pile of feathers that looked nearly identical to the ones he had seen below the Gallows Tree only a few weeks before. A heap of light gray ashes, streaked here and there with orange and crimson. He found a label near the bottom of the jar, written in a spidery hand:

Cirrus creased his brow, struggling to make sense of the words, and was just about to check the sphere round his neck, to see where Tierra del Fuego might be, when he caught Bottle Top watching him from the other side of the room.

“What you got there, Cirrus?” asked Bottle Top moodily.

“Nothing,” said Cirrus, returning the sphere to its hiding place.

“You’re lying. I saw it. There’s something round your neck.”

Bottle Top got down from his ladder and moved toward him, but then a bell shrilled somewhere in the museum and he turned to the door.

“What’s happening?” asked Cirrus, dismounting more slowly.

“It’s time for the evening performance,” said Bottle Top quickly. “I’ve got to prepare.”

He scurried back through the museum. Silently, Cirrus put down his rag and followed.

Upstairs, the other boys were hurriedly pulling on their jackets and dabbing rouge on their cheeks. The air swam with perfume and powder. Bottle Top was seated before a tarnished mirror on the wall, checking his reflection.

“Pass me that bottle of ceruse, will you?” he demanded, as Cirrus walked past.

Cirrus looked around, found a bottle of smelly white powder and handed it to Bottle Top, who smeared it all over his face.

Cirrus watched him in the glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“What for?” said Bottle Top, averting his eyes.

“For what I said earlier,” said Cirrus. “About your mam. I didn’t mean it. I know she would’ve cared.” He hesitated. “As do I.”

Bottle Top tilted his face and applied some more powder to the base of his chin. Then he smacked his lips together and opened his mouth.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said finally, inspecting his teeth. “Now pass me my wings.”

Cirrus glanced around the room, confused, and then saw a silver jacket with two surprisingly heavy wings, made from goose feathers, protruding from the back of it.

“You look just like an angel,” said Cirrus aloud as Bottle Top slid his arms into the sleeves.

Bottle Top took one more look at himself in the mirror and grinned. “I’m Cupid with the Sparkling Kiss,” he said.

Another bell rang and the boys promptly grabbed their wigs from the wooden bedposts, where they had impaled them, and tramped down the stairs. Bottle Top followed more slowly, taking care not to damage his wings, while Cirrus lagged a few steps behind.

Two flights down, he noticed that one of the doors was ajar and peeked in to see Mr. Leechcraft seated behind a worn wooden desk. The man’s head was wigless and bare, in need of a shave, and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, which looked grubby and soiled.

Mr. Leechcraft caught him watching and rose from the chair. He took his wig from its stand, grabbed his amber cane and quickly advanced toward the door, donning his frock coat as he came. By the time he reached the landing he was a new man.

“Are you ready, my boy?” he said to Bottle Top, who was waiting nearby.

Bottle Top nodded and a halo of powder drifted down to the ground.

“Good. Perform well tonight,” said Mr. Leechcraft, “and there’ll be a shilling in it for you. I am expecting a special guest. A gentleman from the Guild.”

“The Guild?” asked Cirrus, convinced he had heard the word somewhere before.

Mr. Leechcraft regarded him curiously. “The Guild of Empirical Science,” he said, arching a brow. “The foremost body of natural philosophers in the land. Impress upon them the importance of our work here and our fortunes will be assured. I trust you will not let me down, Abraham?”

Bottle Top straightened. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sir. I’ll make the audience scream!”

“Good,” said Mr. Leechcraft, tapping him on the shoulder with his cane. Then he turned to Cirrus and his expression changed. “As for you,” he said, running his eyes over the boy’s unruly hair, “watch everything closely and keep out of sight. Do I make myself clear? I have not decided what to do with you yet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cirrus.

“Now come along. We haven’t much time.”

Swinging his amber cane, he led the pair down the steps and through the darkening hall, full of shadowy exhibits, to a special auditorium at the back of the museum. Cirrus felt a vague sense of apprehension creep over him as they approached the black curtain he had seen before.

“Welcome to my Electrical Chamber,” said Mr. Leechcraft, sweeping the curtain aside. “Where I perform my investigations into Aethereal fire!”

They entered a small amphitheater, lit with flickering candles. Tiers of gold-backed chairs surrounded a stage, on which various pieces of equipment had been arranged. Cirrus was immediately struck by a lethal-looking machine with two glass disks, the size of cartwheels, suspended vertically within a tall wooden frame. This was attached to a long metal rod that extended halfway across the stage.

Mr. Leechcraft snatched a candelabrum from a passing boy and led them down the aisle.

“This is my electrostatic machine,” he said, stroking the gleaming gun barrel with his hand. “When I turn the handle here”—he indicated a crank behind the glass wheels—“sparks of Aethereal fire rush out of the other end. It is most extraordinary.”

Cirrus, however, was momentarily distracted by a flat wooden swing that Micah was lowering from the ceiling. It came to rest just a few inches away from the nose of the machine.

“Ah, the highlight of the performance,” said Mr. Leechcraft, looking at Bottle Top expectantly. “The Hanging Boy.”

As Cirrus watched, Bottle Top slipped off his shoes and wriggled into position on the swing. He lay lengthwise, so that his chest and stomach were pressed against the board, but his arms and legs were free to dangle from either end. It looked just as if he were swimming in midair.

Mr. Leechcraft adjusted one of the straps round the boy’s
waist, binding him to the swing, and then, with a final word of warning—“Remember, Abraham: Mr. Sidereal will be watching and so, my boy, shall I”—stepped back into the shadows and disappeared, leaving the boys alone together on the stage.

Micah sidled up to Bottle Top as soon as Mr. Leechcraft had gone.

“Anything the Leech offers you tonight is mine, got it?” he said, further tightening the straps that bound Bottle Top to the swing.

Bottle Top winced. “Careful! You’re hurting me. They’re too tight. I can’t hardly move or breathe!”

Micah eyed the fragile-looking pulley in the rafters holding everything in place. “That’s the idea,” he said. “Now keep still and be quiet. And remember who’s in charge of the ropes. You don’t want to meet with a nasty accident, do you? I’ll expect my nightly fee when I let you down.”

Bottle Top fell silent and eventually stopped wriggling, as Micah began heaving on the ropes, hoisting him into the air.

Within moments Bottle Top was hanging high above the stage, near the rafters, surrounded by clouds of billowy black material that Cirrus supposed were meant to hide him from view. Sequins glittered on the fabric like stars.

All around him the other boys were making final preparations for the performance. They rolled heavy gray cylinders, the size of milk churns, across the stage and sprinkled the floor with cloves and dried orange peel, trying to mask the
unpleasant stench in the air. Cirrus finally recognized the smell: it reminded him of the times Mrs. Kickshaw left her meat pies in the oven too long. The stink of charred flesh.

Cirrus ran his fingers along the electrostatic machine. “What exactly does it do?” he asked, glancing up at his friend. Just the sight of the glass wheels made his heart race faster.

Bottle Top shrugged. “Sends lightning through my body, I suppose.”

Cirrus gasped. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really,” said Bottle Top. “Just takes some getting used to is all. Starts off as a slight tingle, then sharpens into a sting. Only the end is painful—like a million hot needles piercing your skin all at once.”

Cirrus’s eyes widened, but Bottle Top reassured him with a smile. “It’s worth it, though, for the coin at the end.”

Cirrus looked around him. “What about Micah?” he said.

Bottle Top smirked. “Micah don’t always get what he wants.”

Mr. Leechcraft now reappeared onstage and clapped his hands. “Boys, boys! It’s time to greet our guests. The carriages are arriving.”

Immediately the other boys grabbed their candles and filed from the room. Cirrus found a quiet place behind the stage to sit and wait, and watched as Bottle Top swayed back and forth in the gloom.

A short while later people began to take their seats.

Cirrus, concealed in the shadows, stared from face to face. He had never seen such well-dressed people. There were
elegant ladies with bows in their hair, shriveled old women with jewels round their throats, and stiff, military-looking gentlemen.

Mr. Leechcraft entered behind them.

“Esteemed and honored guests,” he said, stepping onto the stage and greeting the audience with a low bow, “I take great pleasure in welcoming you to my humble establishment, the Hall of Wonders.”

One or two of the ladies yawned, someone coughed and fans began to flutter in mute applause. Mr. Leechcraft, however, seemed undaunted.

“Aether,” he said, letting the word hang in the air like a puff of smoke. “Invisible, weightless, it binds all things together, holds everything in its place. Like the breath breathed into Adam, it is the key to our existence.…”

From his vantage point behind the stage, Cirrus could see Micah, Daniel, Ezekiel and Job strapping themselves into special thronelike chairs around the edges of the auditorium. One by one, they extinguished their candle flames and lowered what looked like large transparent crowns onto their heads. Soon, only a few small moths of light were wriggling onstage, next to Mr. Leechcraft, who had lowered his voice to a near-whisper.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, so softly that Cirrus, like the rest of the audience, had to lean forward to hear, “prepare to be astounded, amazed. For tonight, before your very eyes, I shall endeavor to make the unknown known … and DARKNESS VISIBLE!”

His voice built to a sudden crescendo and, with a final, dramatic gesture, he quenched the remaining flames onstage, plunging the room into shadow.

And then, very eerily, the edges of the auditorium began to glow.…

Someone shrieked and another person hollered. Even Cirrus let out a frightened gasp. For the specially constructed spheres that the boys had lowered onto their heads had, like halos, started to shine. Miniature firestorms crackled and sputtered inside the globes while the boys themselves sat as still as saints.

“Behold,” said Mr. Leechcraft, “the wonder of my Beatified Boys!”

Soon the entire audience was twisting round to stare in astonishment at the strangely glowing boys. Applause filled the room.

A vicious
snap
tore across the stage, and each and every head whipped round. Cirrus clapped a hand to his heart, afraid. For, while everyone had been distracted, Mr. Leechcraft had cranked the handle of his machine and summoned a stroke of lightning from the air!

“Aether,” said Mr. Leechcraft, once all eyes were fixed again on him. “It is in the air we breathe, the matter we touch. It can be used to nurture and to destroy.…”