A Clockwork Fairytale (8 page)

At Melba’s nod, Master Turk threaded his way between the stalls, Melba tight on his heels. The twittering in her head grew louder as she approached the flowers, like a chorus of caged birds crying out to be freed. She breathed in deeply through her nose. The mixed fragrance of so many blooms drugged her with bliss. She traced her fingers over the silky petals, ignoring the critical gaze of the vendor who would have cuffed her if Master Turk hadn’t been at her side. “You buying or just looking with your fingers?” he asked tetchily.

“We’ll have…” Master Turk selected a yellow rose and a pink one plus a spray of tiny white flowers that looked like fluffy balls of cloud on stalks.

At Master Turk’s bidding, the vendor clipped the stems short on the roses and handed them across while he wrapped the rest of the purchase. Master Turk pinned the yellow rose to the lapel of his frock coat and the pink one to the front of Melba’s brown jacket. “Thank you,” she whispered, fingering the silky petals. The rose’s fragrance flowed around her and its tiny voice teased at her mind. She visited the flowers in Master Turk’s roof garden whenever she had the chance, but she hadn’t yet told him she could hear their voices.

Carrying the wrapped spray of flowers in the crook of his arm, Master Turk continued at a leisurely pace, examining the goods on offer. A group of young ladies eyed him, whispering to each other, and giggling behind their frilly parasols. He stopped and bowed, kissing each lady on her lace-gloved hand. A young lady with dark ringlets engaged him in conversation. She looked up from beneath the brim of her blue bonnet while silky ribbons fluttered against her cheeks. Her lips shone pearly pink and the silver-dusted skin of her bosom bulged out from the lace bodice of her dress. Melba wrinkled her nose in disgust. These fine ladies were no better than the tarts in the outer circles, the way they thrust out their chests and fluttered their eyelashes at Master Turk.

He gave the women a roguish smile, his eyes sparkling. So he
could
smile properly when he wanted to. Melba was always trying to make him smile but he usually ignored her jokes or pretended he wasn’t amused. But all these bobtails had to do was flutter their eyelashes at him and he grinned like a fool. Angry heat exploded inside Melba’s chest and burned into her cheeks. She felt like telling him to carry his own stupid box. She wasn’t going to stand there and watch the tarts fawn over him.

Hugging the box tightly to her chest, Melba ducked into the throng of swishing silk dresses and frock coats of fine wool. She lifted a shiny gold pocket watch from a gentleman’s waistcoat, which was just begging to be thieved. Then she unclipped a beetle-shaped doodad set with a pearl from a ribbon around a lady’s wrist. The stupid nobs deserved to be robbed if they waved their riches under her nose. Master Maddox always said that if something was asking to be thieved, then she should take it before someone else did.

She was about to swipe a juicy ripe peach from a stall and scarper when a hand gripped the back of her jacket collar and hauled her onto her toes. “What in the name of the Great Earth Jinn do you think you’re doing?” Master Turk whispered angrily.

“I’m spying like you said.”

“We need to have words.” He propelled her through the crowd by her collar, her feet barely touching the ground, and pushed her into the narrow alley between a tailor’s shop and a barber’s. The sunlight struggled to penetrate into the narrow gap. He released her collar and pushed her back into the shadows against the wall, leaning in angrily. “I told you to spy and watch the ladies, not to thieve. What do you think would happen if
my
box boy were caught with his hand in another nob’s pocket? My whole spying operation could be at risk.”

She swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought of that. Heat flared up her neck into her cheeks, part anger, and part humiliation. “You was
busy
so I thought I’d do me own thing.”

“You didn’t think at all!” Master Turk slapped his gloved hand flat against the wall beside her head. She closed her eyes and cringed away, expecting him to cuff her. A moment passed when nothing happened. “Melba,” he said more gently, “you’ve no need to fear me. I won’t ever hit you.”

She opened her eyes warily and met the rich brown of his gaze. For long tense moments, they stared at each other and the world around her stopped. The brim of his top hat shadowed his face, but a single sunbeam painted a golden line across his cheek to his lips. Instinctively, she raised a hand to touch. Before her fingers reached their target, he pushed away from the wall and stepped back. He brushed brick dust from his glove and sighed. “What’s the point of me engaging those empty-headed ninnies in conversation so you can observe them if you’re not paying attention.”

“Oh.” He’d only talked with the young ladies so
she
could watch them.

“Oh, indeed.” Master Turk’s gaze flicked across her face, a hint of a frown creasing his brow. “You must watch them if you’re to learn how to behave like a young lady, Melba. I surely cannot explain or demonstrate how they go about. They’re as much a mystery to me as they seem to be to you.”

He straightened and held out a demanding hand. Melba dug the stolen timepiece and doodad from her pocket and passed them over. Master Turk examined them and shook his head. “What a waste.” He tossed both items among the bundles of frayed fabric in the tailor’s trash barrel. “Don’t jeopardize your future and mine by being thoughtless.”

“Sorry. I won’t do it again.” Melba hugged the box, which had somehow got squashed, and stared at her feet. She inhaled deeply, catching the addictive tang of his lemon-spice smell. A worm of pain wriggled through her at the thought she’d let him down.

A musical chime cut through the background murmur of voices coming from the market square. “On the first Tuesday of every month the Royal Victualler gives alms to the poor,” Master Turk said, tapping his cane on the ground. “I want you to watch him carefully, watch the bluejackets in his guard, and watch the poor in need of charity. This is a good test of your observation skills, as things are not what they appear to be. Later we’ll discuss what you notice.”

He strode back toward the square. Melba pulled the front of her hat down and hurried after him. The crowds between the stalls had thinned and everyone was heading for the shrine to the Great Earth Jinn at the eastern side of the marketplace.

Master Turk directed Melba toward a shuttered shop, where she scrambled up some steps for a view over the crowd. Bluejackets lined each side of the narrow lane leading from the marketplace to Nob Hill. But these weren’t the scruffy bluejackets she’d seen in the taverns and brothels of the outer circle. These men wore clean jackets, their buttons gleaming gold, their boots polished.

Then her eyes widened in amazement at the strangest sight she had ever beheld. She had seen nobs traveling in sedan chairs down to the docks, but never one like this. Instead of men carrying the conveyance, it was automated with a wooden wheel attached to each corner and metal arms that pumped back and forth, turning the wheels as if by magic. It must be driven by an engine, but not a dirty, belching steam engine like the ones that drove the heavy lifting gear at the docks. This engine made no noise.

Once the conveyance stopped and the bluejackets stood to attention, a man who must be the Royal Victualler emerged from the curtained interior. His golden hair shone in the sun, bright blue gems the color of a summer sky sparkled at his ears, and a huge blue jewel set in a heavy gold chain hung around his neck. He wore black pants, tall black boots, and a blue jacket trimmed with gold, and most impressive of all, a pair of shiny brass aeronaut’s goggles that sat on his head like a crown. Melba’s breath caught in shocked disbelief that anyone could be so beautiful.

He strode to the shrine and mounted the four steps to its array of sacred clay tubular bells. Stooping, he lifted a wooden hammer from its rest. With the light touch of an adept, he tapped out a traditional chime in honor of the Great Earth Jinn. “In the name of the Great Earth Jinn, the birther of all life, I humbly offer these alms to the poor and needy,” he intoned in a regal voice.

Melba had been so entranced by the hypnotic melody and the fluid grace of the Royal Victualler as he moved to and fro before the tubular bells, she had failed to notice two handcarts loaded with baskets of fruit and vegetables arrive.

Master Turk grumbled a few words under his breath that Melba didn’t catch. She glanced at him to find his jaw set hard, his expression stony with disapproval. Then his warning came back to her: Things are not what they appear to be.

Melba frowned in concentration. As alms were being distributed in the name of the Great Earth Jinn, she’d expect monks of the Shining Brotherhood to attend, but there wasn’t a golden robe in sight. And the really strange thing was that people from the outer circles were banned from the inner circle, so why would the Royal Victualler distribute alms here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to do it in Potter’s Square Market where the poor people could go? She’d lived in the third circle all her life and never heard of anybody receiving a gift basket from the Royal Victualler.

A few plainly dressed individuals appeared from behind the shrine and the Royal Victualler started handing out baskets with a smile.

“Take a good look at the produce in the baskets,” Master Turk said softly, giving her a sideways glance.

Melba tried to concentrate on the fruit and vegetables, but every time she looked at the Royal Victualler, she forgot what she was doing and her heart beat faster. A tiny sigh escaped her, but she jerked back to awareness when Master Turk poked her in the ribs. He glared at her. “Don’t you fall under his thrall.”

“His what?”

“Never mind.” Master Turk rapped his cane on the ground. “You’ve seen enough of this nonsense. Come.” He waited for her to scramble down the steps before threading his way through the people toward the shops on the north side of the marketplace. The bell above the door of a dressmaker’s shop dinged as he pushed inside, Melba close behind. The shop seemed unnaturally quiet after the press of people and noise of the market. The air smelled of scorched fabric, and tiny particles of dust from the tailor’s chalk danced in a shaft of sunlight.

A young woman with her hair in a tight bun and fingers red and sore from needlework bustled out from behind a curtain at the back of the shop. “Ah, Mister Turquin, a pleasure to see you, sir. Your order is ready.” She lifted something wrapped in tissue paper from a shelf behind the counter and her eyebrows rose as Turk took the crushed box from Melba and placed it on the counter. “Perhaps we should use a new box, sir.” She whisked away the offending object, placed a new gilt box on the counter, and put her tissue-wrapped bundle inside. Melba stared at the far side of the shop where multicolored bolts of shiny fabric stood like soldiers against the wall. She tried to imagine the exotic southern lands where the silks had come from and what the people must be like.

“Time to go, Mel,” Turk said. She expected him to pass her the box but he held it under his arm as they walked back to the quay to find their punt.

“What’s in the box?” she asked.

“If you satisfy me with your observations from today’s mission, it’s a new dress for you.”

“For me? Oh.” Her heart dropped like a stone plopping into the cold harbor. She wanted to please Master Turk, but why did he have to reward her with a wretched dress?

Chapter Five

Frivolity is the thin end of the wedge that a woman drives between a man and his good sense
.—Gregorio, Primate of the Shining Brotherhood

Melba wanted to discuss what she’d seen at Sugar Street Market, but Master Turk made her write a report. It took her three days to fill five pages of her notebook and then she ran out of ideas.

She sat across from him at his desk in the library, her chin propped on her hand, watching him work. He was always reading, taking notes, and working on mathematical formulae. He told her it would sharpen her wits and make her a better spy if she learned her letters and numbers, so she studied hard to please him.

He was so handsome; she could sit and watch him for hours. Everything about him fascinated her. Tiny gold Earth Blessings gleamed in his earlobes and on his black neck cloth. His eyelashes were like thick fringes of black silk and his eyes were the richest, darkest brown she’d ever seen. As it was late in the day, the tawny skin of his jaw was shadowed with stubble. His elegant, lean hand guided his gold pen across the page, inscribing neat lines and curls. She’d never noticed anyone’s hands before, but watching Master Turk’s lithe fingers dance across the page mesmerized her.

“Your hand is beautiful,” she said wistfully.

Master Turk stopped writing, lifted his pen, and examined the page. “One tries to keep one’s penmanship neat.”

“Not your writing, your hand,” Melba clarified.

Lines gathered between his eyebrows. He put down his pen and stared at his hand as if he’d never seen it before.

“Why do gentlemen kiss ladies’ hands,” Melba asked, thinking back over what she’d recorded in her notes.

“It’s a social convention.” Master Turk folded his hands together on the desk, eyeing them as though they might misbehave. “You’ll need to learn many social conventions before you can spy among the nobs.”

“Why don’t ladies kiss gentleman’s hands?”

“That’s another social convention. Anyway, I’m sure ladies would object if they had to kiss gentleman’s hands.”