Noir (4 page)

Five

Eyelet

Sadness draws like a curtain around me as I work to dismantle Urlick’s lovely mechanical flowers—but we need the metal for the wings. I promise myself I’ll help Urlick re-create each and every one of these once he’s safely home.

As well as replicate Bertie.

I sigh and wipe a stray lock of hair from my eyes, drinking in the bareness of Urlick’s laboratory, now that the flowers and Bertie are gone. Everything is gone. There’s so much empty space. The basement looks more ominous than ever. Flickering gaslights dance the walls, haunting reminders of Urlick’s absence.
Oh
,
how I miss him.

“That should just about do it,” C.L. shouts over the hiss of Urlick’s lamplight-slash-welding-torch. He retracts the headlight and steers the kerosene burner away from his face, aglow in its diminishing flame. “Now for the mechanical bits.”

“I’m just about there.” I whirl around, astonished by the amount of work he’s accomplished already. A set of giant flower petals forms the basis of the new Pegasus wings. They rest, draped across wooden sawhorses set metres apart, their span filling most of the centre of Urlick’s forbidden laboratory. Several more petals lean against the structure, waiting their turn to be applied.

“Not bad, eh?” C.L. flips up his welding mask and smiles. “Should look spectacular when I’m done.”

“No, not bad at all.” I step closer, dragging a hand over its scalloped edges. He’s curled the outer tufts this way and that, to catch the wind’s currents. “Amazing.” I admire the nickel-plated air flaps and horizontal stabilizer, grinning at his choice to use the flower’s stamen as a winglet.

“I think this might make a good rudder, whadya think?” He holds up a piece of the flower’s broken stem.

“I think that’ll be excellent,” I say. “But don’t forget, Clementine’s going to be doing most of the work. So we needn’t worry too much about balance.”

“Yeah.” C.L. scratches his head with a greasy toe. “’Ow
is
that going to work? Exactly?”

I lift up the pair of odd-looking leather knee socks and adjoining straps, like a racehorse might wear. “We suit Clementine up in these fancy new horse socks I’ve been constructing.” I wag them in the air. “When she gallops, the socks will pull on these straps, here”—I tug—“creating tension, which in turn rotates the bicycle-wheel chain assembly under here.” I point to the undercarriage of the saddle. “The turning wheel then activates these accordion folds, which crank the wings up and down, and she’ll be flying in the air . . . hopefully. The tough part’s going to be getting her off the ground.” I frown at the assembly. “Not sure how we’re going to make that happen. It’s going to take a good bit of luck and a whole lot of wind. Or a whole lot of momentum.”

“I’m thinkin’ a generous ’elpin’ of all three,” C.L. adds.

“At any rate, I’ve designed the socks to slip over her hooves, up her fetlocks to her knees, where they’ll tighten with a twist of this clasp.” I demonstrate on my arm. I turn the notch, and the material sucks in and shrinks, pinching rather nastily. “That way they won’t come off, no matter how hard she kicks.” I look up, release the tension cord. “The good bit is keeping her galloping in the air.”

“’Ow are you gonna get ’er to do that, mum?”

I turn, swinging back around with an armoured metal facepiece attached to a halter, mounted with an extendable fishing rod dangling a carrot from the end of its line. “What do you think?”

C.L. laughs. “Well, carrots are ’er favourite.”

“Yeah. I figure this way she’ll have something to focus on, should she become afraid, you know, midair . . . midway through the forest.” I gulp.

Just thinking about it gives me the shivers. At least with Bertie we could switch on the engine to control him. Not so with Clementine.

“I think it’s brilliant,” C.L. says. “Absolutely brilliant. A mite smarter than what I woulda done, I’ll tell yuh that! Urlick would be so proud.” He smiles his tooth-spare smile. “I can see now why Urlick did a turn for yuh. Beautiful and smart. What more can a chap ask for?”

I blush and then it fades.

“I’ve made a breast-and-belly plate of armour for her, too.” I turn, lifting another piece of Clementine’s gear to show him. “Just in case,
you know
, someone was to shoot upward.” I tap my knuckles on its undercarriage. It clangs hollow and loud.

C.L. tottles over and knocks it himself. “Again, brilliant.”

I spin around and back. “And I made a little something for each of us, as well.” I hand him his ensemble—a helmet, chinstrap, breastplate, and back protector, and a pair of scaled metal leggings. “I stretched the breastplate and back protector out a bit longer than normal, you know, to cover the spleen and the kidneys. Oh, and instead of a shirt, I made you this to wear underneath.” I hand him his chain-mail sleeveless shirt.

“My, yuh’ve thought of everything.”

“I would have made you gloves for your feet, but—”

“This is perfect.” C.L. stops me short. “Are we done, then?” he says, having a look around.

“We just might be,” I say.

Evening is upon us. The room is dark, save for the flicker of the gaslight sconces that line the room. A faint cone of light seeps down from the tunnel that leads to the main house above the retractable mechanical stairs.

“I’ll ’urry and finish with this,” he says, raising the broken metal flower stem in his hand. “Apply the rest of the feathers and secure the bone straps, and then I’d say we can leave at first light.”

I wipe my greasy hands on my apron and take a big breath. “Yes, I suppose we can.” I stare off across the room, thinking of Urlick sitting in his cell, waiting to be rescued. And then the thought presses in on me that he might not be there when we arrive . . . but rather hanging, strung up in the gallows, ravens circling, already succumbed to his fate, as my mother had . . . when I arrived . . . too late.

My shoulders hunch.

“What is it?” C.L. says.

“Nothing.”

I turn my back, thinking about what I just demanded of Cordelia.

I will not give the thought air.

I pick up the socks and finish knotting the ties, using the handheld steam-powered stud-rivet to force grommets through the material. The crunch of the metal ring chewing through the flesh of the leather brings back memories of the woods—the gnashing teeth of hungry criminals and the whooping howls of lunatic spirits. Fear balls up in my throat. As I fell through the door of the Compound yesterday, I swore I’d never willingly return to the woods again. But in order to save Urlick, there’ll be no avoiding it. In my heart I know that. I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, and I lean again on the rivet plunger, intent on keeping my mind on the positive.

“Yuh sure yer all right?” C.L. lowers his chin and tries to catch my gaze.

I snap my head up. “Yes, I’m fine.”

I set the last grommet, rub the remainder of the grease off my hands, and manage a smile. “I’ll go see about gas masks.”

God knows we’re going to need them.

I dart for the mechanical stairs and leap to the landing, activate the button on the handrail, and brace myself as it rises. I’m not even sure we have enough oxygen packs left in cold storage to make it to Brethren, and we certainly won’t be stopping at Mercantile to purchase more. Not with every Brigsman in the county searching for me.

I swallow. Not to mention the ticking clock on Urlick’s life.

The stairs creakily retract back up to the top of the room, toward the entrance to the main tunnel halls. The mechanism jerks, squeaking to a stop against the lip of the opening, revealing the darkness of the caverns beyond. I exit, swipe a torch from the sidewall, about to duck out into the passageway that leads to the kitchen, when I hear Iris scream.

“What is it?” C.L.’s head snaps up.

“Iris,” I confirm. “Something’s wrong!”

C.L. drops the lamplight torch and starts running.

I trigger the switch to lower the mechanical stairs for C.L., then rocket out into the corridor alone, bolting the few feet to the sealed vault-like door that stands between here and the main house. Triggering the lock, I push through the surge of steam that follows, race the length of the dark stone passageways back to the main house, up the back stairs, taking them two at a time up, and burst for the kitchen. C.L. bolts past me at the last second, beating me through the door. He flies to a stop next to Iris in the middle of the room.

“It’s Cordelia!” he turns to me, shouting. “She’s not breathing!”

I scramble over. Cordelia lies at Iris’s feet. Her skin is blue.

“What happened?” I fall to my knees beside the two of them.

An episode
, Iris signs.
But worse than ever before.

“Oh, good God!” I drop my mouth over Cordelia’s, forcing puffs of air into her chest. It rises temporarily, then falls again the second I stop. Locking my fingers, I leap forward, pumping her chest with my palms. I drop my ear to her mouth, hearing a weak release of air. “Quickly,” I say, “Iris, take my place. Keep doing exactly what I’ve done.”

I rise to my feet and run.

“Wait! Where are you going?” C.L. calls after me as I scramble down the back stairs, into the corridors beneath the house.

“I’ll be right back!” I say, leaping into a run, the clap of my boots echoing off the walls of the underground cavern. “Just keep doing as I said!”

I get to the forks and turn toward the terrarium room. Hurtling down the corridor, I throw back the doors.

A pulse of steam coats me, rendering me damp from head to toe. I push through the heat and white mist, through the trees to the sycamore at the back of the room.
Where is it? Where were they?
Frantically I bat back the leaves of the ground foliage, searching.
Ginseng. Fennel. Hawthorn.
I clip through them.
Think, where was it?

I turn, and the elephant-ear-like petals of the giant hostas catch my eye. The delicate leaves of
Chemodendryum charcoalreous
peek out from under their skirts.
There it is! It was close to the
charcoalreous
!
I rush forward and fall to my knees at the plant’s base, lifting the leaves of the ones around it and tearing others.
The scent. The scent. I’ll know the scent when I smell it.
I lower my head and breathe deep. At first I smell nothing but sheep shite and dirt, and then . . .

My nose finds it: a sharp, musky scent, like the vinegar-mustard poultices my mother used to mix for my chest when I was young and sick—only this one’s gone rancid.
That’s it!
My gaze locks on to the spidery plant with fluffy, oak-shaped leaves growing in a spiral around the stems of a heavy hosta, in a living circular staircase. I bat the big dog-ear hostas aside, snatch a handful of greyish-white leaves, and curl them into my palm.

Funny, I remember them being darker than this, a greyish-brown. I stare down at them, my heart pounding, and within seconds they begin to crumple and turn colour, affirming what I remember. “These are right.” I leap to my feet and race to the door.

Please, Lord, don’t let me be too late . . .

Bolting back through the kitchen door, I dash over the threshold a sweaty mess, my dress clinging to me. Perspiration rims my hair.

“Where have you been?” C.L. turns and scowls at me, his chin wagging.

“To get these!” I hold out my hand.

His pupils flash at the sight of the leaves. He didn’t know I knew about the terrarium room, neither of them did. The shock on their faces confirms that.

I drop to my knees beside Cordelia and wave the withering leaves past her face . . . but nothing. She doesn’t respond. My already-galloping heart races up my throat. If this is just a severe seizure, the leaves should have done something. Perhaps I’ve taken too long. Perhaps she’s too far into the seizure. If she is, just smelling the leaves won’t bring her out of it. I’ve got to get them into her system—
into her bloodstream
—quickly.

“Go and get more of these!” I bark at Iris, tipping Cordelia’s head back and blowing into her mouth, taking over her duties.

Iris sits back and stares at me, bewildered.

“From the garden!” I shout, threading my fingers and pouncing on Cordelia’s chest, pumping up and down briskly. “Hurry!”

Iris jolts into motion.

“It’s near the
Chemodendryum charcoalreous
plant,” I shout after her. “At the back of the room under the hosta leaves! They’re grey and white in colour before you pick them!”

Iris’s shoes hit the stairs at incredible speed.

“Boil some water.” I turn my head toward C.L. “And find me some woodworm and aloini tincture—”

“But that has belladonna and strychni—”

“I’m well aware what it has in it! Now, just go!” I’m going to do something I’ve never done before. I’m going to draw Cordelia’s blood out and infuse it with serum, and then send it back in her body to battle the attack right in her veins. The strychnine should shock her pulmonary system while the belladonna opens up her airways—if it doesn’t stop her heart first. Belladonna is known to make the heart race at inhuman speeds and, if overdosed, can be a killer. It’s risky, I know, but I don’t know what else to do to stop it. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say to a still-stunned-looking C.L. “I know you know where to find them!”

C.L. closes his gaping mouth and sets off for the stairs, clearing two at a time, heading off to the forbidden laboratory of Urlick’s father.

“It’s going to be all right, Cordelia,” I say between breaths. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

I hope . . .

Iris appears in the doorway behind me, three different plants in her hands, roots and all. She’s yanked them right out of the ground. She looks frazzled, her hair unpinned, holding the plants out in front of her like a frightened child. “That one,” I say, nodding at the fuzzy, dreary-grey plant in her left hand.

She drops the others and runs at the sink.

I keep pumping Cordelia’s chest. “Chop it very fine,
very
fine, then put it in the boiling pot of water on the stove.” She pulls out a knife.