The Story of Cirrus Flux (25 page)

He gazed at it in wonder, lost for words.

Somehow the miraculous tide of light had washed the storm away. The rain had stopped and the thunder that still rumbled was faint and far away. Everything was calm, peaceful and still.

And then an anguished cry reached him from the ground.

The silver carriage had screeched to a halt outside the observatory and a woman in a long flowing gown had leapt out.
Her head was turned toward the sky and her features were contorted in a mask of rage. Cirrus, looking through the spyglass, recognized her as the woman who had hunted for him the other night at the hospital.

Beside him, Pandora had gone pale. “Madame Orrery,” she said.

“Why is she so upset?”

“Because she wanted the Breath of God all for herself,” said Pandora. “And now, I think, it’s gone for good.”

“The Breath of God?” asked Cirrus, staring again at the drifts of light.

“Aye,” said Mr. Hardy. “It’s what your father discovered at the edge of the world. The lightning that struck the observatory must have released it from the sphere.”

Cirrus suddenly noticed the scene of devastation below him and went cold. The observatory had been destroyed, its windows shattered, its roof blown away.

“Bottle Top!” he cried.

Mr. Hardy very lightly laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I doubt he will have survived, son,” he said.

Cirrus shook him off. He was trembling all over. “No!” he shouted. “Take me down! I need to find my friend!”

Pandora had turned away; there were tears in her eyes.

Mr. Hardy looked at the boy gravely and then, with a slight nod of his head, shifted his weight in the basket and steered them toward the ground.

The descent was infuriatingly slow. There was no wind to guide them and the vapor swirling above them cast a cold,
crystal light. Cirrus kept his eyes on the rooftop, searching for his friend, but there was no sign of movement within the observatory’s ruined shell.

He jumped down from the basket as soon as it came to a rest beside the remains of a shattered window. There was no need for an anchor; the air was perfectly still.

He entered what was left of the observatory and made his way through the debris, his footsteps crunching on the broken glass. Dust floated in the air and acrid twists of smoke curled from the ground. Tears pricked his eyes.

He found Mr. Sidereal first. The man was lying in the center of the room, not far from his chair, the remnants of the sphere still clutched in his hand. The last of its light had evaporated away. It was no good to anyone now.

Cirrus bent down and picked it up, twisting the halves together so that they formed a whole. The sphere felt strangely hollow. He draped it round his neck and then shakily continued his search for Bottle Top.

Finally, he spotted a thin white leg protruding from a bolt of black cloth, a heavy curtain that had fallen to the ground. Quietly, he crouched over it and took a deep breath. Then he pulled it back.

A sob rushed into his throat.

There, beneath, lay the body of his friend. Bottle Top, his wig singed by fire, his fine new clothes ragged and torn, his right arm twisted under him. His head was turned toward the sky, but his eyes were vacant and dull.

Cirrus stared for a moment and then a low, guttural moan
welled up inside him. It burst from his lungs and he rocked back and forth, cradling the lifeless form of his friend to his chest.

Pandora and Mr. Hardy stood a little way off, but did not come any closer. They left him to grieve on his own.

At last, Mr. Hardy put his arm round Pandora and led her gently away. “Come, let’s see to the moon-sail,” he said.

Eventually, Cirrus stumbled to his feet. His insides felt twisted and torn, just like the wreckage around him, and his eyes were brittle and sore. He could see Pandora and Mr. Hardy sitting by the edge of the rooftop and went over to join them.

Alerion fluttered down from a nearby perch and settled on the parapet beside him. She ruffled her wings and Cirrus could feel her hot fiery feathers drying the tears on his skin.

Below them the city was deserted. Even Madame Orrery, it seemed, had given up hope and driven away.

Cirrus looked at the light still sparkling and shimmering above them. It was fainter now, fading gradually.

“My father,” he said softly, touching his sphere. “Who was he?”

Mr. Hardy smiled sadly and stared into the distance. “James Flux was my friend. We were foundlings together and went to sea. We were virtually inseparable.”

Cirrus thought again of Bottle Top and the dreams they had shared. “What happened to him?” he asked, fighting to control his voice. “Why did he leave me?”

The man regarded him for a moment. “He had no choice,” he said at last. “Your mother died giving birth to you. He took you to the safest place he knew: the Foundling Hospital.” The ghost of a smile returned to his lips. “He always meant to take you back. He would have been proud to see you now.”

Cirrus felt a flicker inside him, but Mr. Hardy was rising to his feet and dusting off his breeches. “Come, I’ll tell you more about him when we get back to the hospital,” he said.

“The hospital?” said Cirrus.

He glanced at the girl. Judging from the wilted expression on her face, she shared his sentiments. He wasn’t certain where he belonged, but he did not feel ready yet to return to the hospital.

“Aye,” said Mr. Hardy. “The Governor will be mighty worried about you. Not to mention Mrs. Kickshaw …”

“Can’t you take us with you?” asked Pandora, her eager eyes aflame. “To the other side of the world?”

The man laughed uneasily, but shook his head. “What would I do with you, child?” he said. His voice, however, was tinged with regret. “I haven’t got no home of my own, either.”

“You could teach at the hospital,” said Cirrus, voicing a sudden thought aloud. He glanced at the man’s naval jacket and recalled how he had sailed them through the storm. “You could teach seamanship, perhaps.”

“Moon-sailing!” said Pandora.

Mr. Hardy chuckled. “Now where would be the sense in that?” he asked, but the suggestion seemed to linger in his
mind. “I’ll discuss it with the Governor,” he said as he led them back toward the basket.

Cirrus, however, glanced at the figure of Bottle Top behind them. “What about my friend?” he asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“Aye,” said Mr. Hardy. “We’ll take him with us. There’s a plot at the back of the hospital. We’ll give him a proper burial.”

The girl suddenly went pale and turned away. Cirrus looked at her, uncertain what to do. “Are you all right?” he asked her gently.

She wiped a tear from her eye. “I was just thinking of someone,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “He’s buried there, too.”

Cirrus stared at the shards of broken glass on the ground, but did not reply. He waited for a moment and then reached out tentatively to take her hand.

“Come, let’s go back,” he said.

Her face warmed into a smile, but she shook her head. “No, not yet,” she said. “There’s something else I must do.” She gazed into the distance, in the direction of Madame Orrery’s departed carriage. “Something I must get.”

H-O-P-E

P
andora eased herself onto the clothes chest below the window and jumped down, careful to avoid the glass that sprinkled the floor. She looked back and saw Mr. Hardy flying the moon-sail over the church tower opposite, preparing to tether the basket to the statue of St. George. Only a few days before, he had rescued her from this bedroom prison; now, in the middle of the night, she was sneaking back in.

“Be quick,” he had warned her. “We’ll be waiting outside if anything goes wrong.”

She had nodded and given a small smile. The boy had offered to come with her, but she needed to do this on her own. Back on the observatory rooftop, there had been an ache in her heart. She could not help thinking of her twin brother, buried at the hospital, and longed once more to feel her mother’s well-worn piece of fabric in her hands.

Her fingers traced the familiar letters in the air:
H-O-P-E
.

It was then she realized what she must do.

Taking a quick look around, she crossed the bedroom floor and passed through the open door into the dark, deserted corridor. Below her the house was quiet. It would be several hours, she knew, before Mr. Sorrel awoke.

Stepping lightly, she moved along the passage and felt her way down the stairs.

The kitchen, when she got there, was dark and cold. Ashes filled the grate. She lit a candle using the tinderbox Mr. Sorrel kept by the hearth and shaded the flame with her hand. Shaking a little, she grabbed a ring of keys from its hook beside the door and followed the trembling path of light back through the house to the hall.

The curtains to the Crisis Room were open and she could just make out the Mesmerism Tub within, sitting in a pool of darkness, surrounded by a ring of empty chairs. She thought briefly of the patients she had seen sprawled on the floor, purged of their painful memories, and quickly turned up the stairs.

She had never set foot inside Madame Orrery’s private apartment before and now that she was on the threshold she nearly lost her nerve. She listened closely and then, taking a deep breath, inserted the key in the lock and twisted it round.

The door inched open and she stepped in.

She gasped. A figure was watching her from an adjacent doorway, just visible in the gloom. A pale, headless figure,
dressed in one of Madame Orrery’s silver gowns. Pandora caught her breath. It was a dummy, nothing else. The woman’s bedchamber must lie beyond.

Clutching her candle, Pandora stepped nervously around the room, hunting for a sign of her mother’s cloth. Where would the woman keep it? Fearfully, she checked the hearth, but there was no indication that it had been burned.

She moved quietly toward the adjoining door.

In the next room she found a large four-poster bed, surrounded by damask curtains, all of which had been pulled back. Madame Orrery lay within, her hair draped across the pillow in a messy gossamer web. The shutters were open and, through the dark panes of glass, Pandora could see wisps of light shimmering back and forth—the Breath of God still just visible in the sky. Madame Orrery’s face was turned toward it, although Pandora could not tell from here whether she was awake.

She crept closer, as soft as a moth, anxious for the slightest movement.

Shadows crawled across the woman’s face, but her eyes were closed and there were faint flutters beneath the lids. Pandora was surprised by how old and tired Madame Orrery looked.

She froze.

Something shimmered on the pillow, next to Madame Orrery’s head. It was the silver timepiece, ticking ever so quietly in the dark. Just the sight of it sent a shudder down her neck and Pandora thought of turning back, terrified the
woman might roll over and fix her with one of her chilling looks.

And then she noticed the scrap of fabric, clutched like a petal, in the woman’s hand. She tiptoed toward it, her heart in her throat.

The floorboard creaked behind her and Pandora jumped. She spun round. Mr. Sorrel was watching her from the doorway.

For a moment she feared he was going to call out and wake Madame Orrery, but then his eyes passed from Pandora’s frightened face to the scrap of fabric in his mistress’s hand. He gave her an encouraging nod.

With the deftest of movements, Pandora plucked it from the sleeping woman’s grasp and followed Mr. Sorrel back into the adjoining room.

“I did not expect to see you again, my child,” he said, once they were safely out of earshot. He gazed thoughtfully at the piece of fabric in her hand.
“Hope,”
he said, and gave a little smile. “A quality I should have thought you already possessed in abundance.”

Pandora was conscious of the silver timepiece ticking in the darkness behind her and was tempted to run back and snatch it, so that Madame Orrery could never think of mesmerizing anyone again, but then she remembered how Mr. Sorrel seemed genuinely to believe in its power to cure people of their pasts. Once again she wondered how he had come to serve Madame Orrery.

“What will you do?” she asked at last. “The sphere
belonging to Cirrus Flux has been destroyed. Madame Orrery cannot have it.”

Mr. Sorrel was silent for a moment. “I shall continue to serve Madame Orrery as I always have done,” he said simply, and then paused, seeming to reconsider. “I am afraid, Pandora, that I am not able to remember much of my past, but I am certain that Madame Orrery must have saved me from a dire situation.” He seemed to read the doubtful expression on her face, for he stopped. “Please, Pandora, you must not judge her so harshly. She has overcome much hardship and suffering in her life. Yet while she can ease the pain of others, she has never been able to heal herself.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “And you, Pandora,” he said. “Where will you go?”

Pandora thought suddenly of Cirrus and Mr. Hardy waiting for her on the church tower opposite and her spirits lifted.

“I am going where I belong,” she said with a smile. And, clutching her mother’s keepsake, she moved toward the door.