The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 12

  Pandora put them on and stared in amazement as figures appeared among the anthill of spires and buildings on the table. Miniature carriages scuttled back and forth through the crowded streets and tiny people went about their business. The figures were faint and fuzzy, but peering closer, using the different lenses, she could just make out their details. In the corner of one street a haberdasher was sweeping the doorway of his shop, while elsewhere a beggar was holding out a hand to passing strangers. A gang of boys streaked by and a flock of pigeons took to the air, circling the buildings like a cloud of midges. She felt like a bird poised above them here, all-seeing but invisible.

  Mr. Sidereal had strapped a similar pair of spectacles to his brow and was already scouring the city for a sign of the boy. Pandora focused her attention on the task at hand. If only she could spot Cirrus first, she thought, she might be able to draw attention away from his location.

  It was painstaking work. Slowly, parish by parish, they searched for the missing boy, occasionally following the wrong figure through the maze of twisting alleys. Every now and then Mr. Sidereal paused to call out instructions to his footmen, who brought different parts of the city into focus.

  The room was stiflingly hot, and her eyes began to tire from the strain of looking at the dusty image. All around the room small spheres of light flickered on the walls.

  Mr. Sidereal noticed her wandering eye. “Electrics,” he said, pointing to the jets of flame. “I harness the power of lightning from the sky and store its energy in special vials, using my conductors. They fuel the lamps you see before you.”

  Madame Orrery, meanwhile, was helping herself to a plate of refreshments in the corner. Pandora could see the exotic crown of an unusual spiky object poking out from a bowl of fruit. A pineapple, Mr. Sidereal had called it. Her mouth felt taut and dry, and she longed for a rest, but she could not abandon her post—not when Cirrus Flux might become visible at any moment.

  “Twenty degrees north,” Mr. Sidereal called up to one of his footmen, who was perched on a ladder high above them, rotating what appeared to be a giant windlass underneath the roof.

  Pandora peered up. She could just make out a pinhole of light pricking through the darkness—the source, it seemed, of the apparition on the table.

  The image shifted slightly and a new vista came into view. A crowded market full of moving people. They bobbed around like pigeons.

  Mr. Sidereal paused to wipe his brow and take a sip of sparkling water.

  Pandora studied the scene more carefully. A mob had surrounded a forlorn figure, whom children were pelting with flea-sized vegetables. A woman was selling pies nearby.

  Her gaze drifted down to the left-hand corner of the square, where things were quieter. Two boys were seated on the paving stones, deep in conversation.

  She leaned forward. One of them was dressed in a plain brown jacket—it could have been a foundling’s uniform—and had a mass of wavy hair; the other was holding a collection of broadsheets.

  “What is it, child? Have you found him?” said Mr. Sidereal, catching her sudden movement and rushing to her side.

  Instantly, Pandora backed away, but not before he had a chance to follow her gaze down toward the table.

  “A boy with unruly hair, you say?” he said, peering closer and adjusting a dial on the side of his glasses. Another lens slid into place. “How is he dressed?”

  Pandora did not respond. She was grasping the edge of the table with her fingers.

  Madame Orrery squeezed in beside her. She, alone, did not have a pair of spectacles. “Answer him, girl!”

  Pandora’s heart was pounding. Her head was spinning. “I do not know,” she confessed. “When I saw him last he was in a nightshirt.”

  A blush stole across her cheeks, but Mr. Sidereal did not seem in the least surprised by her remark. Against her will, she took another look at the table.

  The two boys had risen to their feet and were leaving the square by the northeast corner. To her horror, she saw that one of them had adjusted his jacket and exposed a long white shirt beneath. It might have been a nightshirt.

  “Have you found him?” asked Madame Orrery again, snapping her fan with excitement. “Is he there? Tell me what you see!”

  “Out of the way!” said Mr. Sidereal. “The girl must make absolutely certain.”

  To Pandora’s surprise, the woman stepped back and allowed Pandora to continue her inspection. She watched as the two figures worked their way across a busy intersection, full of moving carriages, and continued through a series of tightening lanes toward an unknown destination. Where were they going?

  They were still too small for her to make out clearly and kept flitting between buildings, but she was almost certain the boy in the brown jacket was Cirrus Flux.

  What should she do? Betray him? Or conceal the truth from Madame Orrery?

  She could sense Mr. Sidereal beside her, tracking their every movement.

  At last, the disheveled figures came to a stop outside an impressive garden. A golden statue stood on a plinth at the center of the square and gravel paths crisscrossed the lawn.

  “Is he there?” asked Madame Orrery again. “Can you see him? Is he carrying the sphere?”

  “Patience, Hortense,” said Mr. Sidereal, holding up his hand and peering at Pandora. “Only the girl can tell us.”

  Pandora held her breath. She could feel them both waiting for her response. She took another look at the table—the image of the square was firmly imprinted in her mind—and then removed her glasses and wiped her brow.

  “No,” she said at last. “I am sorry to disappoint you. It is a boy not unlike him, however.”

  Madame Orrery let out an audible groan and collapsed in a chair, but Mr. Sidereal regarded Pandora suspiciously, as if he didn’t quite believe her. He had become quiet and secretive all of a sudden. Once again, he looked at the square in which the two boys were standing and then, as if wearying of the enterprise, he wheeled away from the table and clapped his hands. “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Metcalfe!” he called. “The curtains!”

  The two footmen immediately swept back the swags of black material from the windows and light flooded into the room. Pandora had to blink away the tears that rushed to her eyes and she watched blurrily as the image on the table slowly dissolved and disappeared.

  “Perhaps we shall have more luck tomorrow,” said Mr. Sidereal.

  Pandora looked out through the tall, laddering windows at the surrounding city. The sky was full of turbulent clouds and had a strange brownish hue, like powdered rust. Thunder rumbled in the air.

  And then something caught her eye. A dull copper light rising above the fields, not far from the Foundling Hospital.

  Mr. Sidereal saw it, too.

  “Ho-ho, what is this?” he said, steering himself toward a telescope that looked out through the north-facing window. “A fireball?”

  Madame Orrery jumped to her feet and joined him.

  “Oh, this is most remarkable,” said Mr. Sidereal, fixing his eye to the telescope and aiming it at the moving target. “It appears to be a flying contraption!”

  Pandora did not need a special lens to know what it was. It was the man from last night. He was sailing across the sky!

  She stepped away from the window.

  Mr. Sidereal continued his inspection. “It appears, Hortense, that we are not alone in our search for the missing boy,” he said. “Our old friend the seaman is back in London. Apparently he has contrived an ingenious means of flight—most incredible—and is scouring the streets for him, too. How very, very interesting!”

  They were silent for a while, watching as the man drifted over the walls of the hospital and passed across the city, half hidden by the clouds of dust and smoke.

  And then, with a growing sense of alarm, Pandora realized where he was headed. She felt Madame Orrery beside her stiffen.

  “Why, Hortense,” said Mr. Sidereal, as the flying contraption moved steadily over an area of affluent house
s and circled a small white church, “I believe you have a visitor.”

  The Hall of Wonders

  Cirrus reached the southwest corner of Leicester Fields and came to an abrupt stop. Before him was a vast garden, interspersed with gravel paths and planted throughout with small trees. An enormous statue stood on a plinth where the paths converged: a magnificent horse and rider, made, it seemed, from pure gold.

  “See what I mean?” said Jonas, beside him. “Fancy, ain’t it?”

  Cirrus nodded. He was gazing up at the tall white houses that bordered the luxurious square. “Which of ’em is the museum?” he asked.

  Jonas pointed to a property on the north side of the square—a palatial residence surrounded by iron palings, with a tiny courtyard set back from the road. Cirrus sucked in his breath. Was Bottle Top really there? In that opulent mansion?

  “Are you coming, then?” said Jonas, leading the way.

  Cirrus hesitated. Now that he was nearing his destination, he was beginning to lose his nerve. He felt small and insignificant compared to the houses around him and glanced uneasily at his clothes. His jacket was torn and filthy; his legs were covered in slime. Suddenly Jonas grasped him by the elbow and pulled him across the road. A small handbill had been posted outside the museum.

  “Look here,” he said.

  Cirrus stared at the printed notice. He couldn’t make out many of the words, but he knew they must be important from the way they were written in impressive letters:

  Jonas read the sign aloud. “Seems like Mr. Leechcraft’s a bit of a swell in these parts,” he said, once he had finished.

  Cirrus said nothing. His heart had caved inside him. He turned out his pockets. “Have you any money?” he asked Jonas finally.

  Jonas shook his head. “Not enough for a ticket, no, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re on your own there, I’m afraid.”

  Cirrus glanced at the door of the museum, which was brilliantly lacquered and ornamented with bright gold.

  “P’rhaps you should try ringing the bell?” suggested Jonas.

  Cirrus shook his head. His fingers would only tarnish the bellpull, he thought wearily. He backed away from the museum and scanned the rows of windows, wondering what to do. The air was hot and dusty. Thunder rumbled overhead.

  “Well, I’d best be off,” said Jonas, after a while. “My master will skin me alive if I don’t sell a few of these broadsheets before dark.”

  He patted Cirrus on the shoulder and trotted off across the square. “Good luck, Cirrus,” he called out after him.

  Cirrus watched him go and then slumped against the garden gate, exhausted. All at once, his tiredness and wretchedness got the better of him and he rested his head in his hands. Fortunately, there were few people around to notice. A maid was dimly visible, polishing the upper windows of a house, and two footmen were attending to a horse and carriage nearby.

  Idly, Cirrus fingered the sphere round his neck, wondering what it was for. Why were so many people after it? He thought of the girl who had come to warn him. What had happened to her?

  Some of the countries on the globe didn’t quite line up—their coastlines bent and snagged along the equator—and he was just about to twist the halves together when he spotted a gentleman rounding the corner of the square in the company of a small boy. The gentleman was unmistakably the philosopher who had visited the hospital a few weeks before. He was wearing the same purple frock coat and swinging an amber cane. Cirrus did not recognize the boy.

  He staggered to his feet.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, intercepting them as they headed toward the museum, “but—”

  Immediately, the man raised his cane and swept it through the air.

  “Out of my way, boy, lest you wish to incur the wrath of my stick!”

  “Please, sir,” said Cirrus, taking a step back, as the cane narrowly missed his ear. “I don’t mean you no harm. I’m looking for my friend is all.”

  “Cirrus?” a voice piped up beside him.

  Cirrus spun round.

  The boy was roughly the same size as Bottle Top, but dressed in a lily-white jacket with pearl buttons, silk breeches and silver-buckled shoes. A plump wig nestled on his head.

  “Bottle Top?” asked Cirrus, unable to believe his eyes. “Is that you?”

  Bottle Top smiled—a smile, Cirrus noticed, filled with other people’s teeth. They were gleaming white and new.

  “Do you know this waif?” asked Mr. Leechcraft, stepping in between them.

  Cirrus saw Bottle Top hesitate and drag his foot across the ground. “ ’E’s my friend, sir,” said Bottle Top softly, without looking up.

  “Well, kindly tell your friend to make himself scarce,” said Mr. Leechcraft. “He is soiling my doorstep.”

  “Please, sir, I got nowhere else to go,” said Cirrus.

  “Is that so? Well, I can count plenty of other places for you to be,” said the gentleman. “The workhouse, the jail and the gallows are chief among them. Now, out of my way, boy, before I call the magistrate!”

  “Please, sir,” said Cirrus. “Allow me to speak to Bottle Top—Abraham—awhile. I need his help.”

  “Ho-ho!” said Mr. Leechcraft, without much mirth. “And what do you expect my young charge to do? Provide you with employment?”

  Cirrus looked at Bottle Top, who had averted his eyes.

  “No, sir, but—”

  “No buts here, boy. There are to be no charity cases in my presence, do you understand? If you wish to partake of the manifold mysteries of the Hall of Wonders, I beg you to return during opening hours and pay the full admission. If you cannot, then I have nothing more to say to you. Good day!”

  He began to move away.

  “Please, sir—” said Cirrus, reaching for his arm.

  “I said, be off!” snapped Mr. Leechcraft, batting him aside with his cane.

  Suddenly another voice spoke up.

  “I’ll pay,” said Bottle Top unexpectedly.

  Both Mr. Leechcraft and Cirrus turned round.

  “I’ll pay,” said Bottle Top again, more confidently this time. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a silver coin. “It’s all I got, Mr. Leechcraft, but he’s my friend, sir. Only let him stay awhile. Please. ’E ain’t no trouble, really.”

  Cirrus stared at Bottle Top in astonishment, wondering where he had got the money. Mr. Leechcraft, however, scooped the coin into his fist and pocketed it for himself.

  “Hmm,” he said, considering Cirrus under heavy eyebrows. Finally, he prodded the boy on the chest with his cane. “A foundling, are you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cirrus, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  “Run away, did you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Speak up, boy. I can hardly hear you.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Cirrus, almost shouting the words.

  “And why, pray, did you run away?” asked Mr. Leechcraft.

  Cirrus ransacked his thoughts for an explanation, but couldn’t find one. He glanced at Bottle Top, who was looking concerned.

  “I weren’t wanted is all,” he said eventually, touching the buttons of his grubby jacket, each of which was embossed with the hospital’s insignia of a lamb.

  “And pray tell me,” said Mr. Leechcraft, “does anyone know where you are?”

  “No, sir,” said Cirrus, and then thought back to his escape from the hospital. Very discreetly, he tapped the token under his nightshirt to make sure it was safely hidden. “At least, I don’t think so, sir,” he added.

  “Hmm,” said Mr. Leechcraft again. He scratched his chin. “I reckon the Governor will be mighty interested to learn of your whereabouts,” he said at last. “Might even pay a reward for your return, I wager.”

  “No, sir,” said Cirrus quickly, remembering how Mr. Chalfont had conspired with the man from Black Mary’s Hole. “Please don’t tell Mr. Chalfont, sir. Let me work for you instead.”

  “Work for
me?” said Mr. Leechcraft, aghast. “And what use is a bedraggled boy to me?”

  “Please, sir,” said Cirrus, rubbing some of the mud from his shins. “There’s plenty I can do.” He thought of all the things he had been taught to do at the hospital—chores that had seemed so tedious, routine and dull. “I can sew and clean and garden,” he said, listing them off on his hands. “I know some words and numbers, even. I can recite whole passages from the Bible—”

  “And do you suppose I have need of the Bible?” asked Mr. Leechcraft.

  “Yes, sir … I mean, no, sir … I mean, I dunno, sir,” said Cirrus, suspecting a trick in the question.

  Bottle Top now took up his cause. “Please, sir. Allow Cirrus to stay awhile. He’s a hard worker, sir, just like me. ’E can earn his keep, maybe.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cirrus, brushing some more of the dirt from his skin.

  “Hmm,” said Mr. Leechcraft yet again. He ran his tongue along the edges of his teeth and glanced over the boy’s shoulder at a wealthy-looking gentleman who was passing by in a gilded carriage. His mouth widened in a smile—and then sprang shut like a trap.

  “Very well,” he said finally, climbing the steps to the museum. “Come inside, if you must, but do not trail any dirt on the floor of my establishment. Otherwise, I shall have you mopping it up with your tongue.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Cirrus, skipping up the stone steps behind him. “I promise I won’t let you down, sir. I’ll do anything you like.”

  The man’s smile returned to his face. “Oh, I have no fear of that,” he said.

  The large door opened to reveal a hall crammed with curiosities. Strange animals stood on plinths and pedestals, while masks and totem poles leered at Cirrus from the walls. The ceiling, too, was covered with a miscellany of objects: an overturned canoe, a galaxy of starfish and even a long, leathery crocodile, suspended from invisible wires.

  “See that?” said Bottle Top, standing beside him. “That’s a Greenland bear. There’s only a few of them in existence. And that,” he added, pointing to a gray wrinkled beast, “that’s half an elephant.”