The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 8

  His eyes flitted to the dark wooden door the Governor always took care to lock with his key. A square of light was slowly seeping round its edges, squeezing in through the cracks.

  The girl beside him stiffened. “I forgot to lock it,” she whispered, as two pegs of shadow grew in the hollow at its base.

  The handle began to turn.

  Unable to resist, he watched as the door inched open and a woman in a long silver gown looked in. One of the shutters was partially open and moonlight dusted her skin.

  Cirrus sucked in his breath; the girl’s fear was contagious.

  Slowly, carrying an oil lamp, the woman entered the room and moved from cot to cot, occasionally stooping to examine the tags the boys wore round their necks. Instinctively, Cirrus fingered his own metal disk. He was the boy without a number, the boy who did not exist.… A few of the other boys mumbled in their sleep, but none of them awoke.

  The girl’s fingers tightened round Cirrus’s wrist. She pulled him even lower to the floor. They were out of range of the woman’s light here, hidden behind his bed. Then, as the woman drifted closer, the girl tapped him on the shoulder and started creeping toward the door, round the perimeter of the room.

  Cirrus followed, careful not to make a sound, but then looked up as a small figure in one of the beds sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  Cirrus’s heart leapt into his throat. It was Tobias!

  “Are you a ghost?” said the little boy in a voice that was still half asleep.

  The woman stopped and turned toward Tobias, devouring him with her shadow. “No,” she said. “I am not a ghost. I am perfectly real.”

  She placed her oil lamp on the ground and pulled a silver object from her gown. She opened it. The instrument made a soft ticking noise that seemed to fill the air.

  “Would you like to see it?” she asked the boy.

  Tobias nodded.

  The girl tapped Cirrus on the elbow, urging him not to listen. She had cupped her hands over her ears and then continued creeping along the floor. She was heading for the windows, which would give them a clear run at the door.

  Cirrus followed, but then, unable to bear the suspense, looked up once more.

  Tobias was staring deep into the woman’s eyes. His breathing had slowed, his eyelids had sagged and then his head drooped back onto his pillow. The woman gave a little smile and pulled the sheet up over him, then folded it back in a strange maternal gesture. Cirrus shivered.

  The girl was urging him to hurry. He started creeping after her once again.

  A voice halted him in his tracks.

  “I can hear you,” it said.

  Cirrus froze.

  The woman was standing in the middle of the dormitory, surrounded by rows of matching beds.

  Instantly, the girl raced back, seized Cirrus by the arm and propelled him toward the doorway. Before the woman could gather up the folds of her gown and give chase, they were hurtling down the staircase.

  Cirrus peered madly all around him. Where was the Governor? Why was no one coming to assist them? They were taking the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping in their haste. He clutched the wooden banister to his left, trying to keep from falling down, dimly aware of the light from the woman’s oil lamp scratching the walls behind them.

  At last they spilled out into the hall and the girl rushed toward the front door. Barely pausing for breath, she flung it open and then, just as quickly, whisked him back.

  “What’re you doing?” he gasped, as she pulled him into a nook of shadow behind the staircase.

  She clamped her hand over his mouth and, moments later, he saw the woman step right past them. She strode out into the darkness. They heard her footsteps peck at the paving stones and then recede into the distance.

  Finally, the girl released him and motioned him toward a tiny closet beneath the stairs. Cirrus had never noticed it before. How had she known it was there?

  “Quick! Inside!” she said, bundling him into the narrow space.

  The closet was cold and dirty, barely large enough for him alone, but she squeezed in beside him and closed the door, sealing them in total darkness. He could feel her breath, hot on his cheek, and the tickle of her hair.

  “Stop fidgeting!” she hissed, as something small and spidery crawled across his foot. “Madame Orrery must not find us.”

  “Madame who?” said Cirrus, not understanding, but the girl simply pressed her hand to his mouth and continued listening to the silence.

  And then he felt her give a little shudder. Footsteps were scrunching back toward the hospital. The girl leaned even closer—so close he could smell the tang of sweat on her clothes.

  Moments later, a light drifted back into the hall and he heard the woman pacing back and forth, just outside their hidden doorway.

  Lamplight sifted through the crack under the door and he stiffened. His heart was battering against his ribs and he wondered if the girl could feel it. Cirrus held his breath and kept very still, afraid that any movement might betray them. Then the floorboard shifted slightly and he was relieved to see the light fading once more to blackness.

  A short while later the stairs above them creaked, one at a time, as the woman climbed to the next landing. They waited until the steps had completely withdrawn and then slowly, gradually, relaxed.

  Only now did Cirrus allow himself to speak.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he gasped, the questions tumbling out of him. He was embarrassed to find that his voice was shaking. “Why is that scary lady after us? And what did she do to Tobias?”

  The girl was quiet for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. Then she said, “My name is Pandora. I used to be a foundling. I’ve come to warn you.”

  Cirrus frowned. “Warn me? Of what?”

  “Madame Orrery,” she said, her voice dying to a whisper. “My employer. I think she’s after your token.”

  “My what?”

  “Your token,” said the girl. “It’s something your mother or father left you when they gave you to the hospital. Your father, I think. I heard Madame Orrery mention him once before.”

  Cirrus suddenly felt very dizzy. “My father?” he said. Even in the darkness he could sense her eyes burning into his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said eventually, pushing the thought away. “I haven’t got a father. Or a token, either.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Pandora. “I’m sure of it. It must be important, because Madame Orrery wants it. I think it’s a sphere. The Governor may have hidden it in his study upstairs.”

  She gave a little gasp. “The Governor,” she said. “I forgot about him!”

  Before he knew what she was doing, she had pressed something hard and jagged into his hand—a bunch of keys—and started wriggling back through the door to the hall.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  “To wake the Governor. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Wait! I’ll come with you,” he said, and made as if to follow, but she pushed him back into the closet.

  “No. Stay here,” she said. “There’s no telling what Madame Orrery might do if she finds you.”

  She shut the door behind her. Reluctantly, Cirrus did as he was told. He closed his eyes and sank to the floor. His mind was teeming with questions. His father? A token? And now a strange woman was looking for him, too—and possibly the man from Black Mary’s Hole.…

  He sat back, hunched in thought, waiting for the girl to return.

  Only, she didn’t.

  The Silver Timepiece

  Gripping the banister, Pandora started up the staircase, guided only by the slivers of moonlight shining through the windows. Everything was black or tinged with silver. She could barely see without a candle.

  She listened carefully. The clock on the landing was ticking above her. But where was Madame Orrery? Was she still hunting for them? Or had she returned to the Governor?

  The stairs suddenly gave way to smooth grou
nd and she stumbled across the landing. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she found the door to the gallery and sneaked inside. Light flickered from the adjoining study and she tiptoed toward it. Cautiously, she tilted her head and peered in.

  The Governor was seated just as before, in an armchair before the fire. He had not moved. His hands were neatly folded in his lap and his short legs barely touched the floor. There was no sign of Madame Orrery.

  Pandora rushed over to him and waved her hands in front of his eyes. “Mr. Chalfont! Wake up,” she said, as loudly as she dared. “I need to speak to you. It’s important.”

  His eyes were open, but if he saw her he gave no indication.

  She shook him by the arm.

  “Mr. Chalfont, please,” she said again. “It’s Madame Orrery. She’s after a token. I think you know where it is.”

  Still, he did not respond. His breathing was slow and quiet; in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing at all.

  “Can you hear me?” she cried, in despair.

  This time, he blinked.

  Her heart gave a little leap of joy.

  But instead of looking at her directly, Mr. Chalfont seemed to focus on something just above her head. She spun round and saw the portrait of his wife hanging on the wall.

  “Elizabeth?” he said in a distant voice. “Is that you?” Like a blind man, he reached out to touch her face.

  She jumped backward. “No, Mr. Chalfont. It’s Pandora,” she said. “Child number four thousand and two.”

  He showed no sign of comprehension.

  “Elizabeth?” he said again, his voice rising now like a frightened child’s. “Are you there? Oh, Elizabeth, how I’ve missed you!”

  Pandora glanced around her, afraid the sound would attract attention.

  “Mr. Chalfont, please,” she said, fighting to control her voice. “Madame Orrery is looking for a token. I think it belongs to Cirrus Flux. I need you to help me find it.”

  But Mr. Chalfont seemed to sink into desolation. “Gone,” he said sadly. “Gone, my Elizabeth, gone.”

  Pandora groaned. And then suddenly a thought occurred to her. What did Mr. Sorrel use to revive Madame Orrery’s patients?

  She looked round the room for a glass of water and her eyes alighted on the tin of ginger. “There is no ill that cannot be cured by ginger,” she remembered the Governor saying. She leapt to the desk and was just about to open the tin when she became aware of another presence in the room.

  A sigh of silk behind her.

  Slowly, fearfully, Pandora turned round and saw Madame Orrery watching her from the doorway. The silver timepiece glinted in her hand.

  Pandora almost collapsed; her legs buckled under her. There was no escape this time. She was well and truly trapped.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Madame Orrery. “I was wondering where you had got to. What, I wonder, have you done with the boy?” Her eyes searched the room. “I saw you with him earlier. Is he near?”

  Pandora shook her head, trying to think of something to say, something that might deter her. “I told him to run away,” she said quickly. “He jumped over the wall and escaped.”

  Madame Orrery studied her closely, her brow wrinkled with suspicion. Pandora realized to her horror that the woman’s fingers were reaching for her silver timepiece.

  Just then Mr. Chalfont started to stir. He was making a soft moaning noise like some of the patients in the Crisis Room. Was he waking up?

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Pandora, hoping to distract the woman.

  Madame Orrery’s eyes flitted to the Governor.

  “He will wake,” she said, apparently unconcerned. “In time. But he will not remember any of what you have told him. He will only marvel that his gout is better.”

  “And me?” said Pandora nervously. “What will you do with me?”

  Madame Orrery returned her gaze to the girl’s frightened face and her expression hardened. “That depends,” said Madame Orrery, “on whether you help me now. Where is the boy?”

  Pandora put down the tin of ginger.

  “I told you,” she said, taking a step backward. “He—”

  Suddenly, she stopped. For the first time she noticed how cold the woman’s eyes were: a cruel, malicious blue. Like ice, they seemed to trap her in their stare. Madame Orrery was waving a finger in the air. Pandora could not break its spell. Fear flickered in her chest.

  The silver timepiece had started ticking and Pandora could hear its slow, suggestive rhythm.

  “Where is the boy?” asked Madame Orrery again.

  The voice seemed to come from far away. Pandora was having difficulty concentrating. Her thoughts were muddled and confused. A numbing whiteness was seeping into her mind like mist, making her feel sleepy and light-headed. And still the silver timepiece went on ticking.…

  “Where is the boy?”

  The image of Cirrus Flux, hidden beneath the stairs, flashed into her mind and she was about to respond, but then she saw a different face, a younger boy. Her dead twin brother. She saw him with such startling clarity, it took her breath away.

  “What boy?” she muttered feebly.

  “The one you are protecting.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Where is he?”

  The memory came flooding back. Hopegood following her through the country lanes. Only, she was lost and it was dark and she could not find her way to the next farmhouse. The boy would not stop whimpering; he was shivering with cold. Finally, she had to leave him against a drystone wall while she went to look for help, trudging up and down the muddy lanes.

  Pandora wanted to run back and rescue him, to tell him that she had not forgotten, but she felt so tired and her legs would not move.

  “He’s gone,” she said faintly.

  “And does he have the sphere?”

  All Pandora wanted was to sleep. The mist was spreading all around her, sapping her of energy. Her eyelids were closing, her head was drooping.

  Before she could answer, it had rolled forward in a nod.

  The figure staggers down the twilit street, barely conscious of where he is going. Coaches and carriages rumble past, kicking up a filthy spray, but he carries on through the driving rain, willing himself away from the scene he has just witnessed.

  “Is ’e ill, d’you reckon?” says a woman from the doorway of a nearby shop.

  “Nah. Drunk, more like,” says her companion, a red-haired woman in tattered lace. “Either way, ’e don’t look long for this world, now do ’e? Pity, seein’ as ’e’s so young and ’and-some and all.”

  The two women turn their attention to the other figures passing up and down the crowded street. The man could be fatally wounded for all they know, but neither can guess at the extent of his injury. There is a scared, haunted look in his eyes, as if Death is just around the corner.

  A few minutes later, a boy detaches himself from the shelter of a ledge, under which he has been keeping dry, and falls into step beside him.

  “Need a light, sir?” he says, blowing on a torch to keep it aflame. The light gleams on his hopeful face, washed clean in places by the rain.

  The man shakes his head and moves on.

  “You all right, sir?” says the boy. “I can guide you anywhere you need to go. From Holborn to Shoreditch, Marylebone to Chelsea …”

  “No,” says the man. “Leave me be.”

  “Honest, sir—”

  “I told you. Leave me be!”

  The boy stops. His torch sinks slowly to his side.

  Relenting a little, the man glances back, digs out a coin and tosses it to the child. The boy palms it hungrily and speeds off down a neighboring alley.

  The streets are slick with mud and the man slips on the paving stones, nearly falling, but he manages to right himself and keeps going, stumbling toward the outskirts of the city.

  Finally, he rounds the corner of Red Lyon Street, the dimly lit thoroughfare leading up to the gates of the Foundling H
ospital. He can see it in the distance, a boundary against the fields. Two brick buildings stand inside the gates, edged by covered walkways. He scans the row of windows, searching for the room in which he used to sleep, but his mind is a blur of memory and he cannot find it.

  An iron railing runs across the front of the hospital, lit by a solitary lantern. The flame is barely bright enough to illumine the crest beneath: a woolly lamb standing on top of a shield in which a naked child reaches out for help. A bell hangs nearby and the man grabs it, clanging it more forcefully than intended. The noise rends the silence and a dog barks somewhere in the distance, chasing echoes through the night.

  A wedge of light appears from the doorway of a lodge inside. A man with stippled gray hair appears. He is dressed in a wrinkled nightshirt. He shuffles across the rain-soaked drive, looking like a grumpy hedgehog.

  “Will ye be quiet, for heaven’s sake?” he hisses, as the man continues to ring the bell. “Ye’ll wake the children if ye’re not careful.”

  The porter holds up his lantern and inspects the young man on the other side. He is a naval officer, by the looks of it, in a sodden blue uniform. Abundant curls are plastered to his brow.

  “Sorry, sir, but there ain’t no room,” he says finally, motioning toward the little bundle the man cradles under his coat, the precious cargo he has been carrying across the city. “We’ve too many mouths to feed as it is.”

  “Please,” says the officer. “You must help me. My wife. She’s—she’s—” He cannot bring himself to say the word.

  “Ye’d best come back when we’ve got a place,” says the porter sadly. “We’ll post a sign as soon as we are able.”

  The officer’s heart sinks. He knows all too well about the hospital’s system of admissions. It is a lottery. He has seen mothers lining up to pull colored balls from a sack, each deciding the fate of a newborn child. A white ball means the child can be admitted, subject to a medical examination; a red ball means the child is put on a waiting list; a black ball, and the child is turned away. There are far more babies than places available.