The Peculiar Pets of Miss Pleasance (2 page)

3

Frannie sold the kitten for a tidy price, of course. She pressed a pamphlet on care and feeding into the nanny’s hands in exchange for a heavy purse that still wasn’t heavy enough. Before they left, she made the little girls promise not to tease the creature too badly.

Her next customer was a daimon fetching his monthly bag of seed for the crow she’d sold him years ago. They chatted politely about the new tricks and phrases the canny bird had mastered. Of all the daimons she dealt with, this gentleman was one of her favorites, a puppeteer from Paris who ran a popular show in Piccadilly Circus. The daimons of Franchia were known for their strangely colored skin, waving tails, and peculiar magic, but they were good customers. Frannie vastly preferred dealing with the ones who fed on happy energy and laughter, and even Maisie, the innkeep next door, refused to offer lodging to the dark daimons who fed on pain and worse things.

“
Au revoir, chérie
,” the daimon said, doffing his tall hat and bowing. “You must come see the show again soon.”

“One day,” she murmured.

She hadn’t been since Bertram’s passing, of course, and her heart felt heavy as she locked the barrel of seed and rolled it back into place. Bertram had loved Piccadilly.

When she pushed past the curtain to the parlor, she found Casper asleep on her couch, his untouched tea growing cold on the table. After sneaking upstairs, she hid the velvet bag of silvers and changed into an uglier hat. She couldn’t turn Casper out, but she wouldn’t give him reason to eye her like a pastry, either.

Her new lodger slept the day away, and she was free to go about her regular, boring routine. In the past few years, since she had been forced to cut expenses and let her assistant go, she had developed a certain way of doing things. It was almost like being a spinster at twenty-four, but she didn’t mind.

When she went out to her tiny courtyard to hang up the wet towels she’d just washed, a familiar, battered top hat and cunning pair of eyes watched her over the brick wall. She smiled to herself, knowing exactly what would come next.

“You sure you’re ready to have another lodger?” a gravelly voice muttered.

“I couldn’t turn him away, Maisie. He looks like—”

“Any fool can see that. But he ain’t Bertie.”

“I’m not wiping his arse. And he’s not staying forever.”

The old woman harrumphed and shook her head. “Be careful. Reve said he smells like trouble.”

It was Frannie’s turn to harrumph. “Daimon magic. Tell me you don’t believe in that folderol?”

Maisie’s boots shuffled slowly to her back door. “I been running this lodging house since your papa was in a pinafore. Kept just as many daimon lodgers as Pinkies, and I tell you now that when a daimon gives a warning, I take it. Remember what happened last time somebody told you to be careful around a man?”

Frannie dropped her towel on the ground with a splatter of mud as Maisie’s door slammed shut.

“I remember,” she whispered in the silence.

Casper slept until evening. He sprang up from the couch as Frannie was placing a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit on the table by a fresh cup of hot tea.

“Simmer down, duck,” she said. “Did you have sweet dreams?”

“Not in years. What time is it?”

“Dinnertime. Sit. Eat.”

He made a grouchy face that reminded her more than ever of her indignant younger brother.

“For a pretty little thing, you act like an old lady. And what’s with the ‘duck’ thing?”

He didn’t touch the food, but she sat down in her favorite chair and began eating anyway. She was always starving after a day on her feet among the animals, and business had been brisk.

“When my parents passed on in a conveyance accident, I was only seventeen. I became my younger brother’s guardian, and he followed me about like a duckling. Old Maisie next door told me I had to treat him just like a troublesome creature—with unconditional love and complete dominance.”

“What happened to him?”

She dropped the piece of bread that she’d been unconsciously shredding. “He died.”

No matter how many times she said it or thought it, it was never any easier. The silence deepened, and she looked up at him, eyes pricking, daring him to say something sappy so she could tear him apart as easily as the bread.

“That sucks” was all he said, and although she was unfamiliar with the phrase, it rang terribly true.

“It does suck, yes. It . . . sucks very much.”

“You should probably eat,” he said softly, and in response, she threw the bit of bread at him, smacking him right in the face.

“You first.”

His mouth quirked up, and he rolled the bread between his fingers as if he had forgotten how to eat. “Not hungry. And I have to get to the Vauxhall before dark.”

“You’d best run, then,” she said, staring at the clock on the mantel.

When he saw the time, he leaped to his feet and ran off without a word—or his spoiled waistcoat and fancy jacket. He wasn’t wearing nearly enough clothes to be on the street after dark, but he was already gone, and she wasn’t about to chase after the fool.

Frannie stared at her dinner for a moment, finding loneliness in the silence for the first time in a long while. Her eyes started to tear. Being with Casper was . . . so very strange. She wanted to help him, order him around, keep him safe. But he wasn’t Bertram, and the way he looked at her made her all skittery.

With a determined nod, she marched into the pet shop to a chorus of creature greetings, plucked her favorite kitten from the abandoned litter, and carried the little ball of white and gray fluff back into her parlor. Her parents had warned her from a very young age never to get attached to the animals. They were things to be bought and sold, not kept and cosseted. Love them and let them go. But she had been drawn from the start to the wide green eyes and folded-over ears of the runty orphan.

“Your name is Filbert,” she said. “And your job is to keep me from crying.”

Filbert batted at a loose string in her skirt and set to purring, and she ate her cheese, determined to kick Casper out the next morning. She’d given him a key earlier, which she now regretted. Despite what she’d said to Maisie, she was starting to take Reve’s warning to heart.

Casper Sterling was definitely trouble.

4

Frannie’s dreams were unsettled and muddled, punctuated by the rumbling purr of her first actual pet. But when Filbert’s tiny claws dug into her neck, she woke up in a sweat. Bolting upright, she knew something was deeply wrong. The wee cat was terrified, and it was easy enough to see why. The curtains were on fire and belching smoke.

The ruckus from downstairs was deafening, and fear choked her when she realized how frantic the trapped animals must be. She lurched out of bed and tossed the contents of her ewer at the flames, then a vase of flowers, but the water wasn’t nearly enough. She next yanked the curtains to the floor and tossed her thick blanket on top of them, trying to stanch the flames. But the blasted fire leaped to the carpet and licked at her stockinged feet, and she cast about for some other way to stanch the blaze before it ate up her entire life and legacy. Although the outside of the building was stone and brick, there was plenty of wood inside. Most of the things she valued were flammable, and she was only one person, a small woman clutching a blanket riddled with smoking holes.

The kitten mewed hysterically on the bed as Frannie’s eyes began to tear up from the smoke. One sleeve over her nose, she threw open the closet door. She put one hand on the back wall, considering, but she wasn’t enough of a coward to give up and take the easy way out. No, she would have to fight. The breath stopped in her chest when she realized there was nothing in the closet that didn’t have deep sentimental attachment, that anything she chose would be a beloved memory lost forever. Damn it all. She yanked out her mother’s winter coat, a thick wool thing that looked like a bear’s carcass, and threw it over the rug, grinding her foot over it. Stubborn and quick, as if it had a mind of its own, the fire danced out from under the coat and caught her shawl where it hung from the bed. She grabbed Filbert, stuffed him into her nightshirt’s pocket, and slammed the door on her way to the landing.

“Casper? Wake up!” she yelled, banging a fist against his locked door, but all she heard within was a tired mumble and the creak of bedsprings as he rolled over.

“There’s a fire, you dolt! Get up or die in your damned bed!”

Frannie heard his feet hit the floor, and that was enough. She ran down the stairs, grateful that smoke wasn’t barreling up the narrow staircase. But why would the fire have started in her room, of all places? It didn’t matter now. If it spread, she would have to set the animals free. They wouldn’t have much of a chance on the London streets, but maybe some of them would fly over the walls or escape the bludrats long enough to find a home. Anything was better than hearing their screams of death in a smoky inferno.

The shop was a raging storm of feathers and screeches and cawing. Wide wings flapped, small birds fluttered, and the pups barked like mad. She spun in the middle of her domain, her brain a snarl of smoke and flame and horrible possibilities, trying to figure out which creatures would have the best chance on the streets.

With a deep breath, she flung open the front door of the shop and ran to the birdcages, opening the doors for the parakeets, canaries, and finches. The tiny, stupid birds would fly fast and high, none of them loyal enough to look back. A few of them flitted past, while most were too silly to find the door.

“Idjits,” she muttered, moving on to the larger birds.

She opened the doors to the larger cages of the mynah birds and a few pet crows she’d raised from eggs. It hurt her heart to watch them hop on top of their cages as they were accustomed to at mealtime and stare at her with intelligent eyes, but she shooed them out the door one by one, hoping their natural instincts would kick in and keep them from harm’s way.

“Good morning!” one called as it flapped into the night, and she stared at the parrot cages with growing anxiety. The poor things were too brightly colored to blend in with their surroundings, and while the mynahs and crows were just a few generations from the wild, the parrots hadn’t seen true jungles in decades.

She chose the biggest, meanest one first, but the olive macaw wouldn’t be coaxed out. Clicking its beak, it muttered, “It looks like rain,” and stepped back into the corner of its cage. She left the door open and moved to the next one as she heard a thump and a howl behind her. One of the corgi pups had managed to leap from the deep bin in which they slept and had landed badly. She scooped it up and dumped it back in with its littermates, hoping the little fool hadn’t broken a leg. The puppies wouldn’t last five minutes in London, and therefore, they would be going with her in a grain sack. Along with her kittens, of course, which would all fit in one basket. No matter how bad the fire got, even if it devoured the entire shop, she would save the pups and kittens.

Frannie had gathered the giant iguana in her arms and was hefting it toward the door when a siren pierced the night outside. Instead of dropping the nasty beast on the cobblestones, she stuffed it back in its terrarium and took a deep breath, waiting. If the Metropolitan Fire Brigade made it in time, perhaps there was hope. The elite but underpaid gentlemen of the Brigade were known all over London as heroes, saving the mostly wooden buildings from igniting the entire city when they inevitably caught fire. Although electricity was becoming more popular, there were still plenty of gaslights and even old women taking candles upstairs in their shaky hands. But her father had wired the house himself, and there was no way her curtains could have caught fire from her own folly. Still, she tried to calm her heart and be patient, putting a hand in her pocket to check on Filbert. The little scamp had gone back to sleep.

A huge machine rumbled to a stop beyond her open door. Men in uniforms and tall helmets dropped to the cobblestones and burst into action. Frannie was rooted in place as she watched the firemen unroll their heavy hoses and begin manually pumping water that slammed into the house and splattered around the open door. She heard the upstairs window shatter as murky water seeped onto the carefully swept wooden floors of the shop. A confused parakeet fluttered back in, cocking its striped head at her. It had the good sense to scuttle under a seed bin after a rubber boot nearly squashed it.

Frannie was struck by the strangeness of the fellow attached to the battered footwear. A Copper’s uniform clashed with a plumed helmet, dusty goggles, and the newfangled breathing apparatus that kept London’s firemen from dying of smoke inhalation. Her heart stuttered in her chest for several reasons.

“May we go upstairs?” he asked, and Frannie nodded dumbly at the impersonal, mechanical sound of his voice through the mask. He clomped past her and up the stairs. Two more identical men followed, and she couldn’t imagine how they managed to carry the huge cylindrical tanks that held a mixture of water and the secret fire-suppressant chemical for which they were famous. While she waited, Frannie bundled the kittens into a basket and stroked the yipping puppies, preparing for the worst. From the top of his tank, the iguana stared at her like some strange, alien god who knew the time of judgment was nigh.

It was both moments and eons later that the three men tromped heavily back downstairs, their uniforms streaked in soot. Two of them went outside to the truck, but the biggest one, the leader, stopped before Frannie. After withdrawing his thick, rubberized gloves, he unlatched his breathing mask with broad, sweaty hands and shoved the goggles back onto his head.

“It’s out, miss,” the man said, his voice deep but soft and carrying a slight burr, infinitely more human without the helmet.

Frannie didn’t realize she was holding out a handkerchief until he took it gently from her to mop off his grime- and sweat-streaked face. He was a sturdy-looking man, with bluff hazel eyes and a determined jaw speckled with stubble that matched the sun-bleached hair pulled back in a rough tail. He looked as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors, gazing at the horizon, and she wondered for a moment if he had once been a sailor.

“Mask gets a bit mucky,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

When he held the limp, grimy fabric out to her, she shook her head. “Keep it, please. It’s the least I can do. I can’t thank you enough, Mr. . . . ?”

“Maccallan. Thom Maccallan.” He glanced down at her, flushed, and looked uneasily around the pet shop instead. Frannie realized she was wearing only her night shift, with no shawl close at hand, and she swung the basket of kittens around to cover her bosom as much as possible. He cleared his throat. “Not much damage upstairs. Curtains, rug, bit of the bed. Some sort of bearskin.”

“I’m Frannie Pleasance. And that was my mother’s coat.”

“Sorry about that. Do you know if anyone has a grudge against you, Miss Pleasance?”

“A grudge?”

He dragged a finger down the glass of his goggles and held it out to her. A smattering of glittering grains sparkled among the soot.

“Some sort of magic about the fire. Came through the window. Are ye harmed?”

Frannie shook her head. The shock was finally getting to her, and her teeth were glued together. She felt as if she would fly apart if she tried to open her mouth. Thom nodded in understanding.

“It takes ye like that sometimes, the fire. Too big to handle, aye?”

She nodded again.

He held out a hand as if to pat her shoulder, then realized how grimy he was and withdrew it. Instead, he jerked his head at the vacated birdcages.

“Ye were letting them out?”

She nodded.

“Think they’ll come back?”

She shrugged.

“Ye got anyone to help ye round them up?”

She shook her head no.

His eyebrows drew down. “Not to tell ye your business, miss, but ye ought to have someone around, at least.”

As if on cue, Casper stumbled down the stairs in nothing but breeches, lipstick smeared all over his bare chest.

“Bit noisy and watery up there, isn’t it?” he slurred. He put one hand on a cage and leaned, making the parrot inside squawk indignantly when he nearly knocked it over.

Thom’s eyes rolled to Frannie. Her mouth finally came unstuck, and she muttered, “My good-for-nothing lodger. I assure you, the rouge ain’t mine, and neither is he.” She waved a hand at Casper. “Go back to bed, fool.”

Thom sized Casper up and made a Scottish sort of noise way back in his throat as the smaller man staggered up the stairs. The fireman rubbed the handkerchief over his forehead again, spreading more soot around. “I see. Well. If ye need help a-gathering the creatures you’ve let out, I’ll offer my services. Did a bit of hunting, back home and aboard ship. Have ye some nets?”

Frannie pointed to a bouquet of bird and insect nets she kept in a corner, most of them antiques. “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Maccallan,” she said, her voice rough with smoke.

His eyes caught hers, and she felt warmth bloom in her belly. His eyes were like a deep puddle in the sunshine, like a pond in a far-off forest. She was about to mumble something completely incoherent when the basket rocked against her, followed by a splat and an indignant mew. One of the kittens had climbed out and fallen onto Thom’s heavy boot. With a chuckle, he bent to scoop up the little fluffball and drop it gently back into the basket.

“That one’s going to be a bounder,” he said.

She couldn’t help smiling in agreement.

“C’mon, Mac. There’s a call ’cross town!” someone called from outside. The siren pealed, and the fire rig churned to life with a rumble she felt in her feet.

“Be careful, lass,” Thom said. With a last long look, he pulled his mask and goggles into place before turning to go.

She followed him to the door, not minding the dirty water splattering her bare feet. “Mr. Maccallan?”

He turned, and she saw her reflection in the glass of his goggles, lit up by the first streaks of dawn. Her coppery hair was tousled, limned in gold, her skin pale except where a blush rode her cheeks. She looked like the heroine of some romance novel, an orphan lost on the moors. She shook off the fancy.

“Thank you. Ever so much.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she sensed that he smiled, although his voice was metallic and impersonal again.

“It’s my job, miss.”

She watched him climb up onto the rig, holding on confidently with one hand as it lumbered off into the morning. He didn’t wave, didn’t turn, and she couldn’t help wondering if he was just being polite, offering to help her find her lost creatures, or if maybe he was hoping for coin she didn’t have. As the fire engine rumbled away on heavy treads, Frannie’s eye was caught by something white and stark. It was her handkerchief still clutched in his hand, fluttering in the wind as he rode off into the sunrise.