A Clockwork Fairytale (7 page)

Master Turk must have left the soap during the night. She grinned, her melancholy forgotten. She’d never had anything that smelled this good. She carefully wrapped her new treasure in the cloth and sniffed it again before putting it in her jacket pocket.

If Master Turk expected her to bathe and smell of roses, he couldn’t be going to toss her out. Today she would persuade him to start teaching her stuff. She rubbed her soapy spit into the carpet with her boot heel and headed for the door.

As she was about to walk out she saw black trousers and a matching jacket on the chair beside the door. Melba held them up against herself. They were so neat they must be girl’s trousers, although she’d never seen a girl wearing trousers. She didn’t like them.

She bundled the clothes under her arm and clomped downstairs, hoping Master Turk would hear her so she didn’t have to go to the kitchen and speak with Gwinnie. As if thinking of the old woman summoned her, she opened a door off the hall and beckoned Melba. “Go in there. Turk wants to see you.”

Master Turk sat at the head of a dining table big enough to seat the whole crew of a Royal Barge. He pointed at the clothes beneath her arm. “You’re supposed to be wearing those.”

Melba held them up. “Are these girl’s trousers?”

Master Turk choked on his mouthful of coffee. While he spluttered, he beckoned her to sit on his left. “They most certainly are not. They’re the same cut as my own trousers.” He looked down at his lap. “Only smaller,” he added as an afterthought.

Melba peered over the corner of the table at Master Turk’s lap and frowned. “I suppose they look different on you ’cause they have to fit around your male bits.”

“Great Earth Jinn, Melba, that’s not an appropriate comment for a young lady.”

She shrugged, not understanding what the fuss was about. She’d lived with boys all her life and was used to a lot coarser talk than that. “I ain’t a young lady.”

“Perhaps not yet, but you
are
female and wanting to be otherwise will not change your biology. Did you find your soap?”

Melba fished the pink lump out of her pocket and sniffed it. “I love this smell.”

“Good, because after breakfast you’ll bathe again and this time you’ll wash properly.”

Melba put the bar of soap on the table beside her white plate. She didn’t mind bathing again if she would smell of roses.

“Help yourself to breakfast. Take plenty; we need to get some meat on your bones.”

Once she’d loaded her plate with eggs, bacon, and toast, she tucked in. “Old Maddox didn’t let me eat like this,” she spluttered between chews. “Said I mustn’t get fat.”

“You’re far from fat, Melba. You’re so skinny you look as though you’re about to return to the Earth.”

She nodded toward the clothes on the chair beside her. “So if I wear them togs you’ll teach me to spy?”

“Aye.”

Her mouth fell open and bit of toast dropped out onto the table. “You said yes.”

Turk placed his knife and fork together on his plate, pushed his chair away from the table, and crossed his legs. “I’ve decided I can use your services after all.”

Excitement surged through Melba and she wanted to lean across and hug him. She grinned until her face ached. “I’ll be the best spy you ever had.”

“The job I have in mind for you is something only a girl can do.”

Her elation faded. “You want me to be a girl spy?”

He nodded. “You must keep yourself clean, wear a dress, and comport yourself in a ladylike manner—or you’re no use to me.”

“Oh.” Melba looked at her plate. Her appetite waned for a second; then she stuffed another piece of toast in her mouth. “Can I just be a girl when I spy and keep me other clothes for the rest of the time?”

Master Turk shook his head slowly. “Part of the deal is that you learn to be a young lady.”

She scratched her ear. “So I’m pledged to you forever, right. If you make me be a girl and then don’t want me no more, I’ll be right up the river without a paddle.”

“The job I have in mind for you is a job for life,” he said in a strange tight voice that left her uneasy.

“So what is this lifelong spy job?”

He held her gaze, his dark eyes intense, his expression unreadable. “When you’re ready, I’ll tell you.”

“Hmm.” Something about this sounded fishy, but she wasn’t about to turn down spy training with Master Turk, even if she did have to wear a dress.

She poked her thumb toward the jacket and trousers. “So when do I wear them?”

“You’ll need to wear boy’s clothes when we take to the skyways. But we must remember you’re a girl underneath, Melba.”

She hauled in a breath and released it slowly. If her belly was full and she was walking the skyways and wearing trousers, what difference did it make if he called her Melba or Mel? At least Master Turk wanted her to work for him because he thought she’d be a good spy and not just for coin like Master Maddox.

She spat on her palm and held out her hand. “We have a deal, Master Turk.”

His shoulders relaxed and his lips spread in a smile of approval that sent a tingle of pleasure through her. He spat on his palm and they shook on her new life.

Chapter Four

A good spy sees everything but remains unnoticed
.

—Master Turk

Gwinnie was a crabby old cow, but she cooked food fit for the Great Earth Jinn himself. Melba couldn’t decide what she liked best—sticky toffee pudding and custard or chocolate ice cream. Master Turk said she had a sweet tooth, but it wasn’t her teeth that liked the grub—it was her belly.

After luncheon she’d found a brown suit on the chair outside her bedroom. It fit perfectly even though it was two sizes bigger than the clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived six weeks ago. Once she had changed into the suit, she examined herself in her bedroom mirror. Her chest had swollen as if every mouthful of pud and ice cream went straight there. Luckily, the thick brown woolen fabric hid the bumps. “Please, Great Earth Jinn, don’t let me bubbies grow any bigger,” she whispered, prodding herself. She didn’t want to end up top-heavy with a huge wobbly bosom like Gwinnie.

She clumped down the stairs to the entrance hall of Master Turk’s palace. He stood waiting for her by the front door with his shoulder rested against the wall, reading a newssheet. She paused and gripped the handrail as a strange tremor of weakness passed through her at the sight of him. He cut a very fine figure in his black frock coat and striped gold waistcoat with matching amber gems in his ears and on the Earth Blessing in his neck cloth. Over the last six weeks, they had spent a lot of time together. During her reading and writing lessons in the library, he was serious and strict. But at night when he taught her the skyways routes, jumping streets and skylarking, he relaxed and became more like a friend than a master. She enjoyed being with him, liked the deep tone of his voice and his lemon-spice smell. She even dreamed about him at night.

“So why’re you dressed up all la-di-da?” Melba asked breezily, trying to sound casual.

Master Turk glanced up, his gaze traveling over her curiously. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment and she pulled down the hem of her jacket, hoping her bumps didn’t show. She decided to distract him. She’d quickly learned what type of comments he considered unladylike, and she loved baiting him. “I’m getting a big arse with all the grub you’re feeding me.”

He’d just as quickly grown wise to her teasing. He tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Melba’s heart jigged with pleasure. When he smiled, he looked younger and even more attractive.

“Today you’ll be my box boy,” he said, setting aside his newssheet.

“What’s a box boy?”

“Would you believe that it’s a boy who carries boxes?” Master Turk picked up a flat brown box big enough to hold a folded suit of clothes and held it out.

Melba pulled down the peak of the cap hiding her burgeoning blonde curls and saluted like the bluejackets, clicking her boot heels together. “Right you are, sir.”

Master Turk shook his head, fighting his smile as she took the empty box. “We’re going to Sugar Street Market,” he said turning toward the front door.

“Golly, that’s the nob’s market. Won’t no one rumble I’m a girl?”

“‘Won’t no one’ is a double negative, Mel. You should say ‘won’t anyone’… and you’re safe. The wealthy don’t notice servants. Just don’t talk too much and you’ll be fine.”

He grabbed his top hat and cane and led her out of the door to the small private quay on the canal. A flat wooden punt was moored outside, the punter in his traditional red jacket and cap standing in the stern, leaning on his pole.

Turk sat on the padded bench to the fore of the craft and Melba took the seat behind him and rested the box on her knees. The punter pushed off with his pole and the boat joined the throng of crafts navigating the canal around the inner circle.

For a few minutes, Melba watched the tall palaces with their shuttered windows and ornate balconies slide past, then her attention wandered back to Master Turk. His black silk top hat gleamed in the sun and the amber gems in his ears sparkled. Gwinnie had cut his hair a few days ago, but a tiny bunch of strands on the back of his neck curled in defiance of the tidiness. Melba grinned at the secret curl and decided she wouldn’t tell him about it because he’d only cut it off.

The muted chatter of people in the other boats drifted across the water and she was lulled into a sleepy haze by the warm sun and the gentle swishing against the hull. After ten minutes, the cries of market vendors grew louder as the buildings on the left of the canal gave way to an open area full of multicolor striped canopies.

Master Turk angled around on his seat to face her. “Your instructions for today are twofold: I want you to keep your eyes peeled for anything you think is interesting and you’re also to watch the young ladies and note how they comport themselves. When we get home, I’ll expect a report on the first and a demonstration of the second.”

“What does ‘comport’ mean?”

“I want you to watch how they behave; notice how they move and how they interact with each other and with the gentlemen. There are social rules and etiquette you need to learn if you’re going to fit in well enough to be a spy.”

Melba groaned and rolled her eyes. She’d worn trousers while Master Turk took her all over the city at dusk and nighttime learning the skyways. She’d even got away with wearing trousers during most of her reading and writing lessons so far. Until her own body had started to betray her by changing shape, she’d managed to forget about being a girl.

The punt drew up alongside a busy quay and the punter steadied the craft with his pole as Master Turk paid him and stepped out. Master Turk straightened his top hat and rested his cane over his shoulder while he glanced around the market. Melba hopped out behind him, balancing the box on top of her head like the foreign sailors she used to watch unloading the merchant brigs up from the exotic southern lands.

The delicious smell of roasting chestnuts and hot meat pies filled the air. Melba’s mouth watered even though she hadn’t long since finished lunch. All this eating she was doing seemed to be making her hungrier than ever.

Turk dipped his head to her. “Amongst the nobs I’m known as Mister Turquin. Remember to keep your wits about you, Mel,” he said softly. “A good spy sees everything but remains unnoticed.”

She nodded vigorously, her body tingling with excitement. This was her first real spying test and she couldn’t wait to look around. She’d sneaked through Potter’s Square Market in the second circle and picked pockets, but people like her from the outer circles weren’t allowed over the canal into the inner circle, so she’d never been to Sugar Street Market before.

Turk wandered among the crowd, stopping to examine the tiny clockwork doodads and gadgets on a clockmaker’s stall. Among the timepieces, tiny windup mechanical bugs with colored seashells or polished beach pebbles for backs marched across the stall, their small jointed legs clicking. Melba watched curiously, desperate for the chance to pick one up and see how it worked. They were all the rage among the nobs, but folks in the outer circles didn’t have coin to waste on toys. As Master Turk made his way on between the stalls, the vendors all tipped their caps to him and Melba glowed with pride to be working for such a handsome gentleman.

Her eyes widened at the range of fancy goods for sale: curios, clothes, jewelry, bags and belts, colored silks, spices and dried fruits from the south. There was far more choice than in Potter’s Square Market. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the twittering voices of tiny birds. She narrowed her eyes and stared around, but it wasn’t a sound so much as a feeling tickling the edges of her mind. Her gaze settled on a stall a few rows across bursting with a profusion of flowers. Her feet stopped moving and she stared.

“Mel! What’s the matter?” Master Turk’s voice held an edge of concern and his hand touched her sleeve.

“Look at the flowers,” she said in an appreciative whisper.

“Ah.” The amusement in his voice made her gaze jump back to him in the hope of catching a smile on his face. “You and your flowers,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor. “Would you like to take a look at the florist’s stall?”