The Wizard of London (14 page)

“Not
yet, Mem’sab—but I kind uv get ideers about what he
wants’t‘ tell me.” Nan knew that Mem’sab would know
exactly what she was talking about, and she was not disappointed.

“They
say that splitting a crow or raven’s tongue gives them clear speech, but
I am against anything that would cause Neville pain for so foolish a
reason,” Mem’sab said. “And it is excellent exercise for you
to understand what is in his mind without words.”

“Quork,”
said Neville, fairly radiating satisfaction.

***

After
that, Nan put her full attention on the task of “understanding what was
in Neville’s mind without words.” It proved to be a slippery eel to
catch. Sometimes it all seemed as clear as the thoughts in her own mind, and
sometimes he was as opaque to her as a brick.

“I
dunno how you do it,” she told Sarah one day, when both she and Neville
were frustrated by her inability to understand what he wanted. He’d been
reduced to flapping heavily across the room and actually pecking at the book he
wanted her to read, or rather, to open so that he could look at the pictures.
She’d have gone to Mem’sab with her problem, but their mentor was
out on errands of her own that day and was not expected back until very late.

Grey
cocked her head to one side, and made a little hissing sound that Nan had come
to recognize as her “sigh.” She regarded Nan first with one
grey-yellow eye, then with the other. It was obvious that she was working up to
saying something, and Nan waited, hoping it would be helpful.

“Ree,”
Grey said at last. “Lax.”

“She
means that you’re trying too hard, both of you,” Sarah added
thoughtfully. “That’s why Grey and I always know what the
other’s thinking—we don’t try, we don’t even think
about it really, we just do. And that’s because we’ve been together
for so long that it’s like—like knowing where your own hand is, you
see? We don’t have to think about it, we don’t even have to
try.”

Nan
and Neville turned their heads to meet each other’s eyes. Neville’s
eyes were like a pair of shiny jet beads, glittering and knowing.
“It’s—hard,” Nan said slowly.

Sarah
nodded; Grey’s head bobbed. “I don’t know, Nan. I guess
it’s just something you have to figure out for yourself.”

Nan
groaned, but she knew that Sarah was right. Neville sighed, sounding so exactly
like an exasperated person that both of them laughed.

It
wasn’t as if they didn’t have plenty of other things to occupy
their time—ordinary lessons, for one thing. Nan had a great deal of
catching up to do even to match Sarah. They bent their heads over their books,
Nan with grim determination to master the sums that tormented her so. It
wasn’t the simple addition and subtraction problems that had her baffled,
it was what Miss Bracey called “logic problems,” little stories in
which trains moved toward each other, boys did incomprehensible transactions
with each other involving trades of chestnuts and marbles and promised apple
tarts, and girls stitched miles of apron hems. Her comprehension was often
sidelined by the fact that all these activities seemed more than a little daft.
Sarah finished her own work, but bravely kept her company until teatime. By
that point, Nan knew she was going to be later than that in finishing.

“Go
get yer tea, lovey,” she told the younger child. “I’ll be
along in a bit.”

So
Sarah left, and she soldiered on past teatime, and finished her pages just when
it was beginning to get dark.

She
happened to be going downstairs to the kitchen, in search of that tea that she
had missed, when she heard the knock at the front door.

At
this hour, every single one of the servants was busy, so she answered it
herself. It might be something important, or perhaps someone with a message or
a parcel.

Somewhat
to her surprise, it was a London cabby, who touched his hat to her. “
‘Scuze me, miss, but is this the Harton School?” he asked.

Nan
nodded, getting over her surprise quickly. It must be a message then, either
from Mem’sab or Sahib Harton. They sometimes used cabbies as messengers,
particularly when they wanted someone from the school brought to them. Usually,
it was Sahib wanting Agansing, Selim, or Karamjit. But sometimes it was Nan and
Sarah who were wanted.

“Then
Oi’ve got a message, an Oi’ve come’t‘fetch a Miss Nan
an’ a Miss Sarah.“ He cleared his throat, ostentatiously, and
carried on as if he was reciting something he had memorized. “Missus
Harton sez to bring the gurrels to ‘er, for she’s got need of
‘em. That’s me—I’m‘t’bring ‘em
up’t‘ Number Ten, Berkeley Square.”

Nan
nodded, for this was not, by any means, the first time that Mem’sab had
sent for them. Although she was loath to make use of their talents, there were
times when she had felt the need to—for instance, when they had exposed
the woman who had been preying on one of Mem’sab’s old school
friends. London cabs were a safe way for the girls to join her; no one thought
anything of putting a child in a cab alone, for a tough London cabby was as
safe a protector as a mastiff for such a journey.

Nan,
however, had a routine on these cases that she never varied. “Come in,”
she said imperiously to the cabby. “You sits there. Oi’ll get the
gels.”

She
did not—yet—reveal that she was one of the “gels.”

The
cabby was not at all reluctant to take a seat in the relative warmth of the
hall while Nan scampered off.

Without
thinking about it—she suddenly knew exactly where Sarah and Grey and
Neville were; she knew, because Neville was in the kitchen with the other two,
and the moment she needed them, she’d felt the information, like a
memory, but different.

Stunned,
she stopped where she was for a moment. Without thinking about it—So that
was what Grey had meant!

But
if Mem’sab needed them, there was no time to stand about contemplating
this epiphany; she needed to intercept Karamjit on his rounds.

He
would be inspecting the cellar about now, making certain that no one had left
things open that should have been shut. As long as the weather wasn’t too
cold, Mem’sab liked to keep the cellar aired out during the day. After
all, it wasn’t as if there was fine wine in the old wine cellar anymore
that needed cool and damp. Karamjit, however, viewed this breech in the
security of the walls with utmost suspicion, and faithfully made certain that
all possible access into the house was buttoned up by dark.

So
down into the cellar Nan went, completely fearless about the possibility of
encountering rats or spiders. After all, where she had lived, rats, spiders,
and other vermin were abundant. And there she found Karamjit, lantern in hand,
examining the coal door. Not an easy task, since there was a pile of seacoal
between him and the door in the ceiling that allowed access to the cellar.

“Karamjit,
Mem’sab’s sent a cab’t’fetch me’n Sarah,”
she said. “Nummer Ten, Berkeley Square.”

Berkeley
Square was a perfectly respectable address, and Karamjit nodded his dark head
in simple acknowledgment as he repeated it. “I shall tell Sahib when he
returns from his warehouse,” Karamjit told her, turning his attention
back to the cellar door.

He
would; Karamjit never forgot anything. Selim might, if he was distracted or
concentrating on something else, but Karamjit, never. Satisfied, Nan ran back
up the stairs to collect Sarah, Grey, and Neville—and just for good
measure, inform the two cooks of their errand. In Nan’s mind, it never
hurt to make sure more than one person knew what was going on.

“Why
do you always do that?” Sarah asked, when they were both settled in the
closed cab, with Grey tucked under Sarah’s coat and Neville in his
hatbox.

“Do
what?” Nan asked, in surprise.

“Tell
everyone where we’re going,” Sarah replied, with just a touch of
exasperation. “It sounds like you’re boasting that Mem’sab
wants us, and we’re getting to do things nobody else in the school gets
to.”

“It
does?” Nan was even more surprised; that aspect simply hadn’t
occurred to her. “Well, that ain’t what I mean, and I ain’t
goin’ ter stop, ‘cause summun oughter know where we’re
goin’ ’sides us. What if Mem’sab got hurt or somethin’
else happened to ’er? Wouldn’ even hev’t’be anything
about spooks or whatnot—just summun decidin’ ‘t’cosh
‘er on account uv she’s alone an’ they figger on
robbin’ ’er. What’re we supposed ter do if that
‘appens? ‘Oo’s gonna lissen’t‘couple uv little
girls, eh? ’Ow long’ud it take us’t‘find a perleeceman?
So long’s summat else knows where we’ve gone, if there’s trouble,
Sahib’ll come lookin’ fer us. But ‘e can’t if ’e
don’t know where we are, see?”

“Oh.”
Sarah looked less annoyed. “I’m sorry, I thought you were
just—showing off.”

Nan
shook her head. “Nah. I show off plenty as ‘tis,” she added
cheerfully, “But—well, I figger around Mem’sab, there’s
plenty uv things’t’go wrong, an’ why make it worse by
bein’ stupid an’ not tellin’ where we’re
goin’?”

“Clever
bird,” Grey said, voice muffled by Sarah’s coat.

“Quork,”
Neville agreed from within his box.

Sarah
laughed. “I think they agree with you!” she admitted, and changed
the subject. “I wonder why Mem’sab sent for us.”

“Dunno.
Cabby didn’t say,” Nan admitted. “I don’ think ’e
knows. All I know’s that Berkeley Square’s a respect’ble
neighborhood, so it might be one of ‘er fancy friends again. Not,”
she added philosophically, “that ye cain’t get coshed at a
respect’ble place as easy as anywhere’s else. Plenty uv
light-fingered lads as works Ascot, fer instance.”

“Do
you always look on the bright side, Nan?” Sarah asked, in a teasing tone
of voice that told Nan she was being twitted for her pessimism.

Nan
was just about to let her feelings be hurt—after all, just how was
someone whose own mother tried to sell her to a brothel keeper supposed to
think?—when her natural good humor got the better of her.
“Nah,” she said dismissively. “Sometimes I get pretty
gloomy.”

Sarah
stared at her in surprise for a moment, then laughed.

It
was fully dark when they arrived, and the cabby dropped them off right at the
front door. “The lady sed’t‘go on in, an’
up’t‘ the room up there as is lit—” he told them,
pointing to an upper room. Light streamed from that window; very much more
welcoming than the rest of the darkened house. Before either girl could ask
anything further, he snapped the reins over the horse’s back, and drove
off, leaving them the choice of standing in the street or following his
directions.

Nan
frowned. “This don’t seem right—there aughter be servants
about—”

Sarah,
however, peered up at the window. “Mem’sab must be with someone
who’s hurt or ill,” she said decisively. “Someone she
doesn’t dare leave alone.” And before Nan could protest,
she’d run up to the door and pushed it open, disappearing inside.

Bloody
‘ell
. Nan hurried after her, with Neville croaking his disapproval
as his box swung beneath her hand. But she hadn’t a choice; Sarah was
already charging up the staircases ahead of her. Something was very wrong
here—where were the servants? No house in Berkeley Square would be
without a servant to answer the door! And as she rushed through the door, she
noticed something else. There wasn’t any furniture or pictures in the
front hall either—and that was just wrong all over.

She
raced up the stairs, with her feet thudding on the dusty carpet covering the
treads, aided only by the light from that single door at the top. She
wasn’t in time to prevent Sarah from dashing headlong into the lit
room—so she, perforce, had to follow, right in through that door left
invitingly half ajar. “Mem’sab!” she heard Sarah call.
“We’re here, Mem—”

Only
to stop dead in the middle of the room, as Sarah had, staring at the cluster of
paraffin lamps on the floor near the window, lamps which had given the illusion
that the otherwise empty room must be tenanted.

There
was nothing in that room but those four lamps. Nothing. And more
importantly—no one.

“It’s
a filthy trick!” Nan shouted indignantly, and turned to run out—

Only
to have the door slam in her face.

Before
she could get over her shock, there was the rattle of a key in the lock, and a
further sound as of bolts being thrown home. Then they heard the sound of
footsteps rapidly retreating down the stairs.

The
two girls looked at each other, aghast.

Nan
was the first to move, because her immediate thought was that the men
she’d been sold to had decided to collect their property and another girl
as well for their troubles. Anyone else might have run at the door, to kick and
pound on it, screaming at the top of her lungs. She put down the hatbox and
freed Neville. Even more than Grey, the raven, with his murderous claws and
beak, was a formidable defender in case of trouble.

And
Neville knew it; she felt his anger, and read it in his ruffled feathers and
the glint in his eye.

Grey
burst from the front of Sarah’s coat all by herself, growling in that
high-pitched, grating voice that she used only when she was at her angriest.
She stood on Sarah’s shoulder, every feather erect with aggression, and
wings half-spread.

Nan
growled under her breath, herself, and cast her eyes about, looking for something
in the empty room that she could use as a weapon. There was what was left of a
bed in one corner, and Nan went straight to it.

“Sarah,
get that winder open, if you can,” she said, wrenching loose a piece of
wood that made a fairly satisfactory club. “Mebbe we can yell fer
help.”

She
swung the bit of wood, feeling the heft of her improvised club. With that in
her hand, she felt a little better—and when whoever had locked them in
here came back—well—they’d get a surprise.