The Peculiar (9 page)

The bird! Where is the bird?
He stopped, panting, whirling to scan the rooftops.

There
. He was ahead of it. It was flying along the tops of the houses toward him, leisurely as could be. He dove into the cool shadow of an archway, sending a legless faery scrabbling for safety, and burst through a door. Up some stairs, down a hallway, up some more stairs that were so rickety he felt they might collapse under him at any moment.
Third floor, fourth floor . . .
He had to get to the top of the house, find a window, and snatch the bird right out of the air. It was the only way.

The stair ended at a low crooked door, painted with now-peeling whitewash. He hammered on it, and it was shaken off its bolt. It yawned open. A pretty room lay beyond. A tiny room under a sloping roof, clean and neat, with china in the cabinet and a snowy cloth on the table. An elderly woman sat in it, bent over an embroidery hoop. She looked up languidly when he burst in, as if his intrusion were the dullest thing in the world.

“Do forgive me, madam, I'll be along in a moment, this is most embarrassing, just one moment, may I open your window?”

He didn't wait for her answer. In two strides he had crossed the room and was flinging the window wide. Its panes shivered in the frame as it knocked against the wall of the gable. He thrust his head out.

There was the bird. It was coming, coming up the street. In three seconds it would be past, fluttering on over the smoking city. But he
could
reach it. If he leaned all the way out and stretched his fingers as far as they went, the bird would fly straight into his hands.

He flailed out over the sill, over the street below. Fifty feet down, people stopped and pointed. Someone screamed. Mr. Jelliby saw the bird approaching—it looked suddenly rather frightening up close—and then . . .
Ow!
It was strong. The wafer-thin metal of its feathers chopped at his fingers as the wings continued to flap. He jerked it toward him, throwing himself back into the old woman's garret. The bird wrenched itself from his grasp and flew across the room, harsh and foreign in the lavender softness of the flat. It smashed against the wall, was hurled to the floor, and there it lay, skittering frantically.

Mr. Jelliby watched it, wide-eyed, his breath scraping in his throat.

“Herald?” The old woman was at his side, her hand on his sleeve. “Herald, deary, you're very late,” she said. “It's time for tea.”

She led Mr. Jelliby to the table. He didn't resist. The tea things were all there, laid out and waiting—two cups, two saucers, a creamer, a sugar bowl, and a gooseberry tart, as if he had been expected all along.

And so they drank tea, side by side, watching silently as the metal bird convulsed to pieces at their feet.

When it could flap no more, it gave a pitiful mew, and its beak opened and it coughed up a drop of golden light that sputtered and spun, before winking out like a star being covered up.

“Oh.” The old lady said, setting down her cup. “It's dead now. Herald, be a sweet and take it outside in the dustpan. I'd want it didn't go bad on the rose-print rug.”

CHAPTER IX
In Ashes

C
ROUCHED
on the floor of his ruined sanctuary, Bartholomew Kettle made up his mind. That night he would catch his rebel faery. He would confront the little beast and whether it be good or bad,
force
it to do what he had called it to do. It didn't
want
to be his friend, and there was nothing he could do about that, but it thought it could play tricks on him. It thought it could break his treasures, and frighten Hettie, and Bartholomew wasn't going to stand for that anymore. At nightfall, when it came slipping in with the shadows and the moonlight, he would be ready.

But someone else came first that evening, and Bartholomew was forced to postpone his plans. Heavy boots shuffled in the stairwell, a lantern lit the edge of the door, and Agnes Skinner from the house down the way dropped in for a cup of tea. Bartholomew and Hettie were shooed into the tiny room Bartholomew slept in, and the door was locked behind them.

Settling against the clammy wall, Bartholomew waited for the voices in the kitchen to become louder. He dreaded company. He thought it was foolish, letting people in, like letting a wolf into a room full of birds. But wolves could be interesting, too. Sometimes he would hear a fragment, or a single word, and he would think about it for days. Sometimes he wished
he
could sit in the kitchen, listening and drinking tea.

As long as the wolf doesn't ask questions.

Only a few people knew of Betsy Kettle's two children, and Agnes Skinner was one of them.
Don't get yourself noticed, and you won't get yourself hanged.
It wouldn't take much to get noticed—a glimpse of too-white skin, or bad luck and a goose that didn't lay. Then people would stop bidding Mother good morning in the passage. They would creep past the Kettles' door like it was cursed.
And then . . .

Hettie was the worrisome one. It hurt her when Mother tried to clip the branches from her head, and nothing short of a blindfold could hide her black-glass stare. Mother had sewn her a deep green hood so that she could go into the courtyard to scratch for sand, but she was never allowed to speak to anyone, never allowed up the stairs or into the street.

It was a delicate balance Mother had to strike, and Bartholomew felt a little bit proud when he thought how well she managed it. Too open, and they would be discovered; too secret and people would start to talk, filling in all the things they didn't know with their own ugly suspicions. So she kept a few friends, gossiped with the neighbors, and brought violets to folks when there was a death in the family. Agnes Skinner was one of her oldest friends. She was a widow and a thief, with a hard staccato voice that pried and poked into everything. She did ask about the children now and then, sometimes so pointedly Bartholomew wondered if she suspected. And every time she came he sat in the dark and worried, a little bird, and the wolf just beyond the door.

The kitchen filled with talk as the women pattered about. The kettle began to whistle, and Bartholomew smelled brewed tea leaves. He heard a cork being pulled free with a wet
plop
.

That would be the spirits. A tall, cut-glass bottle of blackberry cordial sat on a high shelf in the kitchen. It was a relic from the time when Bartholomew's father still lived with them. He had gone away often, without warning, sometimes for months at a time, and then the door would open and he would be back. Sometimes he came back dirty and travel-stained, sometimes clean and polished, with lace at his cuffs. He always brought something when he returned. One time it was ribbons, one time cabbages. Once he had brought a ham and a string of pearls stuffed inside his shirt. The blackberry cordial was one of those fleeting gifts, the only one Mother hadn't sold or traded. Bartholomew didn't know why she kept it. Still, the only reasonable excuse to use it was for company, and so she had the habit of lacing the tea with it.

It was not very long before the two women were quite merry in the other room. Every so often, a burst of giggling would erupt, and the voices would become so loud that Bartholomew could hear every word.

“Did you see she's planted roses?” Mother was saying, and he heard wood straining as one of them leaned back in her chair. “Roses, Aggy! As if she wants to make that ugly yard all
beautified
.” She laughed, a trifle bitterly. “They won't grow, you know. The dirt's rotten out here with the factories going day and night, and even if it weren't, roses won't help that wretched house a bit. Not that one. She'd have been better off making jam out of the hips if she insists on buying such frivolousnesses in the first place. Or tea.” Her voice became wistful. “Rose-hip tea does taste lovely. . . .”

Mrs. Skinner made an incoherent sound of consolation. “I wouldn't know, Betsy, but I wager it doesn't even compare to yours. Why, it warms my bones, it does. Every time.”

Bartholomew could almost see Mother preening at the words, trying to be dainty, trying to be prim, flapping her work-worn hands as if they were the soft white fingers of a gentlewoman. “Nonsense, Aggy. But do have some more, won't you? There now, mind you don't snort it up when I tell you what Mr. Trimwick did last—”

The voices dropped low again. Bartholomew could hear nothing but a murmur through the wall. He sank to his knees and scooted silently across the floor, feeling in the dark for Hettie. He found her at the far end of the room. She was crouched under the window, playing silently with her doll. Its name was Pumpkin and it had a checkered handkerchief for a dress. It had a checkered handkerchief for a head, too, and handkerchief hands and feet. It was really nothing but checkered handkerchief.

“How does he look, Hettie?” Bartholomew's voice was the tiniest whisper. Mrs. Skinner mustn't hear them. Mother had probably told her they were asleep. “Hettie, what's the raggedy man like?”

“Raggedy,” she said, and danced her handkerchief into a different corner. Apparently she was not about to forgive him for leaving her under the stairs.

“
Shhh.
Keep quiet, will you? Look, Het, I'm sorry. I already said I was, and I shouldn't have run off like that. Please tell me?”

She eyed him from under her branches. He could practically hear the cogs whirring inside her head, debating whether to ignore him and give him what he deserved, or to enjoy the satisfaction of telling him something he desperately wanted to know.

“He doesn't stand straight,” she said after a while. “He's all crooked and dark, and he's got a hat on his head with a popped top. I can never see much of him, and it sounds like he has bugs in his throat when he breathes, and . . .” She was having trouble putting it into words. “And the shadows—they follow him about.”

No petal wings, then. Not nice at all.
What a fool he'd been. “Oh. All right. Did he tell you anything? What are his songs about?”

Even in the dark Bartholomew could see her gaze go hard and flat. “I'm not going to talk about those,” she said. She turned away again and hugged her doll to her cheek, rocking it like a baby.

Bartholomew felt a horrible guilt at that. This was his fault. The faery and all its tricks. And Hettie was the one suffering for it, more than him. The guilt turned to anger.

“Well, did he tell you who he was? Did the little beast tell you anything at all?”

Too late he realized he had said it louder than he had wanted to. It was quiet on the other side of the door. He heard Mother clear her throat.

Mrs. Skinner spoke. “How
are
your children, Betsy?” Was Bartholomew imagining it, or did her voice hold an unpleasant edge? “Mary says your boy's been up in the attic an awful lot lately. And nobody's seen nothin' of the girl all summer.”

“They've been ill,” Mother said sharply. For a long moment no one spoke. Then the cork popped again and there was a trickling sound, and Bartholomew could tell from Mother's voice that she was smiling. “But it's naught to fret about. They'll be up and running in no time. Now, let's hear about you. Business has been right fair lately, if I'm not mistaken?”

Bartholomew let his breath out slowly. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.
That was good,
he thought. Agnes Skinner loved nothing more than to talk about her “business.”

“Ah, one can't complain is all I say. Though there was a tender morsel slipped right through my fingers a few weeks back.” Mrs. Skinner sighed. “All in purple velvets she was, and weighted half to the ground with gemstones. I wanted to bag her on her way out, but she never came. I s'pose someone else got her first.”

Mother must have answered with something funny because the two women started laughing. Then the conversation was flowing again, drowning out all other sounds.

Hettie touched his arm. “He asked me a heap-load of questions,” she whispered. “The raggedy man did. About you and me and Mummy, and who our father was. And when I didn't want to answer him anymore and pretended to be asleep, he just stood there and watched me. He stands so still in the dark. He just stands and stands until I can't bear it.”

“And Het, he is a faery, isn't he?”

“Well, what d'you suppose he is! Mummy locks the door every night, and the hobgoblin downstairs bolts the door to the alley, but the raggedy man still gets in. He puts his finger into the keyholes, see, and the locks spring open, just like that.” Hettie wasn't playing with her doll anymore. She was sitting very still, staring at Bartholomew. “I don't like him, Barthy. I don't like the way he watches me, all bent over, and I don't like his songs. Last night I fell asleep while he sang, and I had the most frightfullest dream.” Her black eyes were glistening, wet.

“It's all right,” Bartholomew said gently, crawling next to her and putting his arm around her. “It was only a nightmare. You know I won't let anything happen to you.”

Hettie buried her head in his shirt. “It didn't feel like a nightmare, Barthy. It felt
real
. I dreamed I was lying all alone in the passage outside our door, and someone had nailed my branches to the floorboards. I called and called for Mummy and you, but no one heard. The house was empty. And then I saw that all the spiders were scurrying out of the walls, and the birds and bats were flying out, too. I couldn't see what they were running from, but I heard it, coming up through the house toward me with such an awful squeaking and chattering. I turned my head and asked a beetle that was racing by what everyone was running from. The beetle said, ‘The Rat King. The Rat King is coming.' And then it ran on and left me there.” Hettie took a breath. “You know the raggedy man goes to your room afterward. After he's sang to me.”

Bartholomew shivered. He hadn't known that. He waited for her to say more, but she only closed her eyes and nestled against him. He sat looking down at her for a few minutes. Then he too curled up, and pulling his old blanket around them both, tried to sleep.

It was very late by the time the sounds of departure came from the other room. The voices became firm and businesslike in farewell, the flat door slammed, and the treads groaned as Mrs. Skinner tramped back downstairs. For a few minutes Bartholomew was afraid Mother would forget to unlock the door and he would have to wait even longer to put his plan into action. But once Mrs. Skinner's footsteps had echoed down Old Crow Alley and another door had slammed in the night, Mother came and looked in on them.

Hettie had fallen asleep in Bartholomew's lap. She was rolled up in a ball. Her twiggy hair was all that showed, and it looked as if a clump of shrubbery had sprouted out of her clothes. Bartholomew pretended to be asleep, too. He heard Mother take a few steps into the room. He made his breathing low and regular, and wondered what sort of expression was on her face.

After a moment she lifted Hettie up in her arms and carried her out.

No sooner had the door closed than Bartholomew was moving, crouching on the cold floor next to the wall. He mustn't drift off. He mustn't be too comfortable. He had a faery to catch. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he waited for everything to go quiet in the other room.

It took an age. The bells of Bath tolled five minutes after five minutes, shouts echoed in the alleys nearby, and still he heard Mother in the kitchen, creaking over the floorboards, stowing the blackberry cordial in its cobwebby corner, wiping the tea mugs, and crushing leaves and flower petals for tomorrow's washing. Sometime later he heard her blow out the lamp. Then her first soft snores. Bartholomew pulled himself up and crept into the kitchen.

The weather was good, but Mother still had to build fires in the potbellied stove to boil water for washing. There was always a good heap of ashes in the coal scuttle. Bartholomew tiptoed across the room and heaved up the scuttle, careful not to make a sound. It was too heavy for him. He only managed a few steps before he had to set it down again. He took a handful of the fine ash and began tossing it on the floor. He put a lot in front of Hettie's cupboard. Then he wrestled the scuttle back to his room and did the same around his own cot. When there was a heavy layer of ash on the floor, he filled the dipper from the drinking bucket, and walking backward, dribbled water over it all. He heard it splash in the darkness, and trickle, and when he leaned down to touch the mixture it stuck firmly to his fingers. That would do. Leaving the dipper by the door so that he would not have to disturb the carpet of sludge, he climbed into bed.

He was fast asleep when the lock to the flat clicked open.

 

The light from the windows was dull as an old pot when Bartholomew woke. The house was quiet.

He sat up straight.
The ash.
If Mother saw the mess it would mean more than just a box to the ears. It would mean an immediate trip to the hack doctor in the court behind the Bag o' Nails public house, and any number of prods and nasty ingestions. There mustn't be a flake left by the time she woke up.