Read Online A Face Like Glass by Frances Hardinge - Free Book Online
Authors: Frances Hardinge
Tags: General, Juvenile Fiction
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meanwhile tethered the horse to the cart once more, and began leading it at a gentle amble towards Neverfell’s passage . . . only to pass it and disappear into the next passage
along.
Close, so close! Neverfell had seen enough to be fascinated. The blonde girl had star-shaped spangles on her sleeves. The pony-boy had a toffee-coloured mole on his neck. The little fat girl had
short, pink, bitten nails. They were all new and large and real, and Neverfell felt sick at the idea of letting them pass out of her life and vanish.
Peering round the corner after the little cart, however, Neverfell noticed one other detail that made her feel yet more sick. At the back of the cart was a low-lipped trolley put aside for
luggage, and poking up among the chests and boxes she could just make out the tips of two white rabbit ears.
She had a mission, of course, but sooner or later she had to return to Master Grandible. She did not think she could face him without the rabbit.
The three travellers did not notice as a dark-clad figure emerged from the shadowy rubble, and edged down the path after them, nothing visible behind its black mask but a fog of red
pigtails.
The little cart rumbled down a series of broad passageways, and at last vanished into a narrow, rough-hewn tunnel, where the only light was the trap-lantern dangling from the boy’s staff.
Here the cart’s progress slowed, and Neverfell could just see the pony-boy stooping now and then to clear fallen rocks so that the cart could pass. Under cover of the darkness, Neverfell
dared draw closer, and despite the echo was able to make out some of the travellers’ conversation.
‘Borcas, do you have to keep making those strange Faces while we talk?’ the older girl was asking. ‘It’s very distracting.’
‘Yes – I have an audition today, remember? I have to exercise my muscles!’ exclaimed the smaller girl. At least, that was what Neverfell guessed she was trying to say. Her
words were a little too slurred and misshapen to be certain, perhaps because of the way one corner of her mouth was tugged down. It sounded a lot more like: ‘Yesh – I ha’ un
ardishun today, renenber? I ha’ to eckshershishe ny nushulsh.’
‘Right now, dear, it’s your brain you should be exercising!’ retorted the taller girl. Somehow, her expression and tone remained kindly, if impatient. ‘Have you forgotten
how much trouble we will be in if nothing is done? Madame Appeline caught me looking through her case. Once she finds out that we are close friends she will work out who smuggled me into that party
in the first place. Borcas, Madame Appeline only picks one girl a year from the academy to train as a Putty Girl, and it is hardly likely to be you if she decides she cannot trust you, is it? It
won’t matter how well you do in the audition.’
Borcas, the younger girl, gave a small snuffle of what sounded like concern.
‘You ’romished you ’ould take care o’ it,’ she answered reproachfully. ‘You shaid you could nake her ’orget it all—’
‘And I would have done,’ the blonde girl interrupted smoothly. ‘I had just the Wine for it and everything. But that plan only works if she is ordering Wine from my family, and
she isn’t so I can’t. So you have to give it to her when you do the audition. All the girls give presents to the Facesmith judging, don’t they?’
By now Neverfell was listening intently. She knew that every Facesmith employed a number of ‘Putty Girls’ whom they used to display Faces to potential customers. They were so called
because they were trained to keep their faces flexible, like modelling clay. The lucky ones eventually became Facesmiths themselves.
More importantly, it was clear that the two girls knew Madame Appeline. Perhaps they could help her, show her where the Facesmith could be found. Of course, that would mean actually having to talk to the two girls.
Heart in mouth, Neverfell crept closer to the cart. She tried
along.
Close, so close! Neverfell had seen enough to be fascinated. The blonde girl had star-shaped spangles on her sleeves. The pony-boy had a toffee-coloured mole on his neck. The little fat girl had
short, pink, bitten nails. They were all new and large and real, and Neverfell felt sick at the idea of letting them pass out of her life and vanish.
Peering round the corner after the little cart, however, Neverfell noticed one other detail that made her feel yet more sick. At the back of the cart was a low-lipped trolley put aside for
luggage, and poking up among the chests and boxes she could just make out the tips of two white rabbit ears.
She had a mission, of course, but sooner or later she had to return to Master Grandible. She did not think she could face him without the rabbit.
The three travellers did not notice as a dark-clad figure emerged from the shadowy rubble, and edged down the path after them, nothing visible behind its black mask but a fog of red
pigtails.
The little cart rumbled down a series of broad passageways, and at last vanished into a narrow, rough-hewn tunnel, where the only light was the trap-lantern dangling from the boy’s staff.
Here the cart’s progress slowed, and Neverfell could just see the pony-boy stooping now and then to clear fallen rocks so that the cart could pass. Under cover of the darkness, Neverfell
dared draw closer, and despite the echo was able to make out some of the travellers’ conversation.
‘Borcas, do you have to keep making those strange Faces while we talk?’ the older girl was asking. ‘It’s very distracting.’
‘Yes – I have an audition today, remember? I have to exercise my muscles!’ exclaimed the smaller girl. At least, that was what Neverfell guessed she was trying to say. Her
words were a little too slurred and misshapen to be certain, perhaps because of the way one corner of her mouth was tugged down. It sounded a lot more like: ‘Yesh – I ha’ un
ardishun today, renenber? I ha’ to eckshershishe ny nushulsh.’
‘Right now, dear, it’s your brain you should be exercising!’ retorted the taller girl. Somehow, her expression and tone remained kindly, if impatient. ‘Have you forgotten
how much trouble we will be in if nothing is done? Madame Appeline caught me looking through her case. Once she finds out that we are close friends she will work out who smuggled me into that party
in the first place. Borcas, Madame Appeline only picks one girl a year from the academy to train as a Putty Girl, and it is hardly likely to be you if she decides she cannot trust you, is it? It
won’t matter how well you do in the audition.’
Borcas, the younger girl, gave a small snuffle of what sounded like concern.
‘You ’romished you ’ould take care o’ it,’ she answered reproachfully. ‘You shaid you could nake her ’orget it all—’
‘And I would have done,’ the blonde girl interrupted smoothly. ‘I had just the Wine for it and everything. But that plan only works if she is ordering Wine from my family, and
she isn’t so I can’t. So you have to give it to her when you do the audition. All the girls give presents to the Facesmith judging, don’t they?’
By now Neverfell was listening intently. She knew that every Facesmith employed a number of ‘Putty Girls’ whom they used to display Faces to potential customers. They were so called
because they were trained to keep their faces flexible, like modelling clay. The lucky ones eventually became Facesmiths themselves.
More importantly, it was clear that the two girls knew Madame Appeline. Perhaps they could help her, show her where the Facesmith could be found. Of course, that would mean actually having to talk to the two girls.
Heart in mouth, Neverfell crept closer to the cart. She tried
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