The Story of Cirrus Flux (22 page)

“Yes, yes. Just remember to bring the boy,” said Mr. Sidereal.

“Do not worry, sir. I shall not let him out of my sight.”

She glanced once more at Mr. Hardy, wondering if he would spring into action and save the boy, but his face was dark and inscrutable, and his spyglass did not stray from the door. By the time she turned round, the man and the boy had gone back into the museum.

Mr. Sidereal was just on the other side of the railing now, less than a stone’s throw away, and she could hear the boys’
labored breathing as they carried him across the paving stones. She crouched even lower and watched as the driver got down from his seat and opened the door for the gentleman, who was lifted inside. An oil lamp, fitted into the compartment, jeweled the interior with light.

The four boys, relieved of their duty, stepped back and, with a brief bow to Mr. Sidereal, scuttled away. Only the boy with the crumpled angel wings remained. He lingered a moment, inspecting the carriage, and then he, too, turned away.

Mr. Sidereal called him back.

The boy hesitated.

“Yes, you,” said Mr. Sidereal in a high-pitched voice. “I’d like a word in your ear.” The boy moved closer.

Pandora, crouched next to the iron railing, watched as the boy glanced nervously from side to side and then approached the golden carriage. At the man’s behest, he climbed inside and closed the door. Cocooned in silence, they started to talk.

Pandora leaned closer, straining to overhear what was said, but the driver was standing next to the carriage and she could not creep any nearer without being caught. Through the window of the carriage, however, she could see the man motioning to his neck. The little boy nodded and pointed to his chest.

A nasty smile crept over Mr. Sidereal’s lips.

They continued to talk.

Judging from the way the boy kept glancing at the museum, Pandora guessed their discussion must have something to do with Cirrus Flux.

Finally, Mr. Sidereal reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather purse. He withdrew several gold coins that glittered in his hand.

The boy’s eyes widened and his fingers wrestled in his lap. He stared at the money and then at the man. Eventually, he nodded.

Another smile crept over Mr. Sidereal’s lips.

Pandora ducked into hiding as the carriage door opened and the boy got out.

“Tomorrow night, at the Guild,” she heard Mr. Sidereal say. “You know where to find me.”

The boy turned and nodded, then cautiously extended his hand.

Mr. Sidereal frowned.

“Of course,” he said, pressing a few coins into the boy’s palm. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled him even closer. “Do not try to deceive me,” he hissed. “You will receive the remainder when I have what I seek.”

He let go of the boy’s hand and the driver immediately shut the door and leapt up onto his seat. The carriage bounded forward.

The boy paused for a moment, fingering his wrist, and then headed slowly back to the museum.

Pandora hurried over to Mr. Hardy. “I do not trust them,”
she said, brooding over everything she had seen. “I think they’re planning something. The boy in the carriage—I think Mr. Sidereal was asking him about the sphere.”

Mr. Hardy nodded, but did not reply. He was taking long marching strides across the square.

“I heard them mention the Guild,” she added. “Something about tomorrow night.”

Still Mr. Hardy said nothing.

Pandora struggled to keep up. “Mr. Hardy,” she said at last, “is there something wrong?”

Finally, he stopped. “Aye,” he said. “The owner of the museum. I’ve seen him before.”

“Who is he?”

Mr. Hardy glared. “Goes by the name of Leechcraft. He’s one of those who shot the birds for sport.”

Pandora thought again of Alerion waiting for them and went cold all over. A shiver rippled down her spine. “What are we going to do, Mr. Hardy?” she asked, worry creeping into her voice.

“We’re going to take to the skies,” he said, “and watch the Guild like a hawk.”

The Celestial Chamber

C
irrus stepped away from the small garret window at the top of the Hall of Wonders and checked his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Gone were his coarse brown foundling’s clothes and in their place he now wore an emerald-green jacket, fancy breeches and silver-buckled shoes. His hair had been carefully powdered and tied back with a bow. Mrs. Kickshaw, he thought gloomily, missing her all of a sudden, would be proud.

Behind him, the other boys were wrestling on the beds they shared in the corner. Only Bottle Top took no part. He was sitting on his own, picking feathers from the wings that lay discarded on his lap.

Cirrus walked over to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, for the hundredth time. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I promise. I wish I didn’t have to take part.”

Bottle Top glanced up at him with bruised-looking eyes,
but said nothing. Instead, he rose from his seat and crossed to the other side of the room. He was still nursing his arm, which was bound in a sling.

Cirrus sat on the edge of the bed. He was not certain what had caused the sphere round his neck to react as it had the night before, but he was glad that it had stopped glowing. He had not dared open it again, just in case the other boys were around to watch. He had even slept with it under his pillow, tucked in the palm of his hand. He wondered how he would be able to keep it a secret from the Guild.

His mind was full of unanswered questions. Where had his father found it? What was it for? One thing, however, was certain. Whatever it contained was powerful; it had blown Bottle Top clear off his swing, after all.

A bell rang from below and Cirrus followed the other boys down the steep wooden steps to the hall. He took them slowly, one at a time, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten the closer he got to the door.

“Boys, boys!” said Mr. Leechcraft, as they gathered round. “Tonight we are to perform at the Guild of Empirical Science. This is a tremendous honor for us, a rare privilege indeed, and it is of vital importance you do as you’re told.”

He outlined the performance—how Cirrus was to replace Bottle Top as the new Hanging Boy—and then escorted them out through the door, where a gilded carriage, driven by six white horses, had arrived.

“Ah, Mr. Sidereal has sent his finest carriage, I see,” said Mr. Leechcraft, with a satisfied smile.

Dark clouds had gathered overhead, trapping the light in a resinous haze. Dust hovered in the air.

Cirrus looked around him uneasily. “Where is Mr. Sidereal?” he asked, unable to forget the meaningful look the man had given him the night before. Once again he tapped the sphere under his shirt to make sure that it was safely hidden.

“Mr. Sidereal sends his apologies,” said Mr. Leechcraft. “He will meet us there.”

Cirrus climbed into the carriage, followed by the other boys. Mr. Leechcraft squeezed in beside them, a rich, musky odor emanating from his clothes. He had doused himself in ambergris in honor of the occasion tonight.

“Why, even the streets are paved with gold,” he remarked happily, observing the amber glow in the air.

The carriage started forward with a jolt.

Cirrus wanted to draw the curtains, to close himself off in the dark, but Mr. Leechcraft insisted on driving with the windows open, providing them with a view of the crowds. Mr. Leechcraft gave a regal salute as they passed. A smile seemed stitched to his lips.

Cirrus glanced at Bottle Top, who was sitting opposite, chewing on an angry muscle in his cheek. Gladly would he have swapped places with him, if only he could, but Mr. Leechcraft had clasped him by the elbow and wouldn’t let go. All day long he had been referring to him as “my new Golden Boy.” Cirrus squirmed in his seat.

A short while later they pulled up to a large building on the shore of the Thames. Already a multitude of people had
assembled on the steps: officers in dark blue uniforms and merchants in jewel-colored silks. Carriages plugged the lanes.

“Even the Astronomer Royal is here,” said Mr. Leechcraft in an excited whisper, looking around.

There was still no sign, however, of Mr. Sidereal himself.

Cirrus felt the queasy feeling in his stomach slide into his bowels as they crossed the square. Above them the sky was steadily darkening and he could feel the threat of thunder in the air. A storm was brewing.

He was grateful when, at last, they entered the cool quiet of the hall. A parade of marble busts lined the walls: old, venerable gentlemen, reminding him of the Governor at the hospital. Just for a moment he longed to feel Mr. Chalfont by his side, but Mr. Leechcraft was there instead. He hooked Cirrus by the elbow and steered him toward the stairs.

“Micah, Daniel, Ezekiel, Job,” said the gentleman, once the other boys had settled down; they had found a large globe in the corner, which they were spinning. “You will remain here and greet the guests. They are all educated men, well versed in the mysteries of science, so there is to be no foolishness, do you understand? Everything depends upon your good behavior tonight. Meanwhile, our Golden Boy here”—he patted Cirrus on the shoulder, making him blush—“shall perform in the Celestial Chamber upstairs.”

“Sir,” said Bottle Top suddenly, “may I help him prepare?”

Mr. Leechcraft regarded him with a look of surprise, as though he had forgotten his existence until now.

“Yes, yes. That will be fine, Abraham,” he said. “Go ahead.”

For a moment Cirrus wondered if their friendship had been restored, but then Bottle Top brushed past him and rushed up the stairs.

Cirrus followed more slowly, taking his time.

Tier upon tier of wooden balustrades overlooked the hall, which was decorated with oil paintings and lit by glittering chandeliers. Each floor appeared to be dedicated to a different branch of empirical science. Tall, ticking clocks and sophisticated pieces of equipment stood against the walls. The air had an ancient, dusty smell.

Finally they came to a pair of imposing doors with a godlike hand carved into the wood. The Celestial Chamber, Cirrus guessed. Bottle Top nudged a door open with his shoulder and went in.

Cirrus found himself looking into a vast chamber with a raised glass ceiling that provided a spectacular view of the sky. Clouds rolled overhead, pulling and tearing apart like waves. Cirrus thought he glimpsed a ball of lightning, but it promptly disappeared.

“You will descend from there,” said Mr. Leechcraft, entering behind them and indicating a swing that had been erected under the middle of the glass. “And I shall electrify you here.”

He pointed to a gleaming gun barrel that had been positioned next to a broad oak table and a row of chairs. It was
nearly twice as long as the one in the Hall of Wonders and attached to a bright metal sphere. Unlike the machine in the museum, however, it was connected to a number of tall, dark gray jars.

Mr. Leechcraft caught him looking.

“Mr. Sidereal has kindly provided us with his supply of Leyden jars,” he explained, “which, he assures me, contain a charge far superior to my own. Just imagine: soon lightning itself will be coursing through your veins! It will produce a most scintillating effect!”

Cirrus felt his mind go numb. All he could think of was what Bottle Top had told him before: being electrified felt like a million hot needles piercing your skin all at once.

“Will it hurt?” he asked, his voice sounding timid and small.

“Nonsense, my boy. A little discomfort never troubled a child,” said Mr. Leechcraft.

Cirrus glanced at Bottle Top, who was staring at the floor.

“There, you see?” said Mr. Leechcraft. “It will be a mild stabbing sensation, nothing more.”

At this moment Ezekiel burst into the room. “Mr. Leechcraft, you must come quick, sir,” he said. He was clutching his chest and panting. “There’s gentlemen arriving. They’re coming up the stairs.”

“Heavens!” said Mr. Leechcraft, consulting a pocket watch. “We must delay them at once.” He turned to Bottle Top. “Whatever are you waiting for? Help the boy into his harness and hoist him into the air.”

Without another word, he left.

Bottle Top moved toward the rope and started lowering the swing to the floor. “Take off your shoes and lie down,” he said to Cirrus finally, without looking up.

Cirrus did as he was told. Following Bottle Top’s example from the night before, he slid onto the swing, which rocked back and forth. The board pressed into his stomach, which was bubbling with nerves.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this,” he said again as Bottle Top adjusted the straps round his waist.

Bottle Top, however, said nothing and pulled the cords tight.

“Careful! They’re pinching me,” said Cirrus, reaching out behind him to loosen the straps.

Suddenly, Bottle Top grabbed hold of both his wrists and wrenched them behind his back. He forced them under the straps of the harness and bound them to the swing.

Cirrus grunted with surprise. “What are you doing?” he cried, desperately trying to wriggle free. “Are you mad?”

But Bottle Top ignored him and yanked on the straps.

Jagged pain tore across Cirrus’s shoulder blades, making him wince.