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Authors: Matthew Skelton
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finished your duties, you may take the rest of the day off.”
Pandora glanced up. “The hospital?” she said, her mind flashing back to the scene in the Governor’s study a few weeks before.
A hesitant smile worked its way onto Mr. Sorrel’s lips. “Madame Orrery has convinced the Governor to seek a private treatment,” he said. “The strange weather, it appears, is playing havoc with his gout. She is to mesmerize him tonight at the hospital.”
Pandora’s fingers rushed to the bunch of keys in her pocket, the keys she had failed to return to the Governor, but before she could ask any more questions a bell clattered against the wall. Mr. Sorrel jumped to his feet. He grabbed a tray of sugared dates—Madame Orrery’s breakfast—and promptly left the room.
Itching with curiosity, Pandora lugged the heavy bottles of magnetized water to the Crisis Room and slowly got to work. Her mind was buzzing. What was Madame Orrery planning? Only a few weeks before, she had told Mr. Sorrel that she must find her way back to the hospital because the Governor was protecting more than just the boy, Cirrus Flux. She obviously wasn’t interested in the Governor’s welfare. Was there something else?
The Crisis Room was dark and stuffy, and Pandora opened the shutters to let in more light. Once again her eyes took in the peculiar objects around the room. Her gaze alighted on the glass harmonica in the corner. Only the other day Mr. Sorrel had shown her how it worked. Seating himself on a low wooden stool, he had started tapping a melody on a pedal with his foot, causing the rainbow-colored bowls on top of the instrument to spin. Then, to Pandora’s astonishment, he had dipped his fingers in a watery solution and passed themback and forth across the whirling mouths of glass. The most excruciating sound had issued forth, a symphony of wails, like yowling cats. It was the most agonizing thing she had ever heard.
“Ah, the music of the spheres,” Mr. Sorrel had said, impervious to the racket he was making. “Some say it induces madness in those who hear it, but I think it transports one to a higher realm.”
She had just finished replacing the rancid-smelling water in the tub when the first clients arrived. She quickly closed the shutters, scooped up her things and rushed out of the door. From a distance she watched as Mr. Sorrel escorted a stream of fashionable young ladies across the hall. Their beautifully colored dresses trailed behind them like peacock tails on the floor.
A swish of silk made her spin round.
Madame Orrery had emerged from her private chamber upstairs and was descending the marble steps. Pandora ducked into hiding and watched as the woman swept aside the curtains of the Crisis Room and went in. Then, as if sensing the girl’s eyes on her, she turned and gave Pandora a hard, icy stare.
Pandora remembered what Mr. Sorrel had told her: on no account were the patients to be disturbed.
At once Pandora retreated to the kitchen and disposed of the water in the yard. From the hallway beyond came the sounds of Madame Orrery’s treatment. A mixture of sobs and sighs, pierced every now and then by a scream. This wasfollowed by a shrill, tortured music. Mr. Sorrel was playing his glass harmonica once again.
Listening now, she was overtaken by a sudden desire to know more. Tiptoeing back to the hall, she crept closer to the curtains and peered in.
She stifled a frightened gasp. The women were sprawled on the floor! They were barely moving, barely breathing, as if dead. Madame Orrery stood above them, her silver timepiece in her hand.
Mr. Sorrel rushed out of the room, nearly knocking her off her feet.
“Pandora!” he cried. “Whatever are you doing here? Quick! Get back to work!”
Pandora took another frightened look at the ladies on the floor. “Are they all right?” she asked, following him back to the kitchen.
“Yes, yes. It is all part of the treatment,” he said. Beads of perspiration showed on
Pandora glanced up. “The hospital?” she said, her mind flashing back to the scene in the Governor’s study a few weeks before.
A hesitant smile worked its way onto Mr. Sorrel’s lips. “Madame Orrery has convinced the Governor to seek a private treatment,” he said. “The strange weather, it appears, is playing havoc with his gout. She is to mesmerize him tonight at the hospital.”
Pandora’s fingers rushed to the bunch of keys in her pocket, the keys she had failed to return to the Governor, but before she could ask any more questions a bell clattered against the wall. Mr. Sorrel jumped to his feet. He grabbed a tray of sugared dates—Madame Orrery’s breakfast—and promptly left the room.
Itching with curiosity, Pandora lugged the heavy bottles of magnetized water to the Crisis Room and slowly got to work. Her mind was buzzing. What was Madame Orrery planning? Only a few weeks before, she had told Mr. Sorrel that she must find her way back to the hospital because the Governor was protecting more than just the boy, Cirrus Flux. She obviously wasn’t interested in the Governor’s welfare. Was there something else?
The Crisis Room was dark and stuffy, and Pandora opened the shutters to let in more light. Once again her eyes took in the peculiar objects around the room. Her gaze alighted on the glass harmonica in the corner. Only the other day Mr. Sorrel had shown her how it worked. Seating himself on a low wooden stool, he had started tapping a melody on a pedal with his foot, causing the rainbow-colored bowls on top of the instrument to spin. Then, to Pandora’s astonishment, he had dipped his fingers in a watery solution and passed themback and forth across the whirling mouths of glass. The most excruciating sound had issued forth, a symphony of wails, like yowling cats. It was the most agonizing thing she had ever heard.
“Ah, the music of the spheres,” Mr. Sorrel had said, impervious to the racket he was making. “Some say it induces madness in those who hear it, but I think it transports one to a higher realm.”
She had just finished replacing the rancid-smelling water in the tub when the first clients arrived. She quickly closed the shutters, scooped up her things and rushed out of the door. From a distance she watched as Mr. Sorrel escorted a stream of fashionable young ladies across the hall. Their beautifully colored dresses trailed behind them like peacock tails on the floor.
A swish of silk made her spin round.
Madame Orrery had emerged from her private chamber upstairs and was descending the marble steps. Pandora ducked into hiding and watched as the woman swept aside the curtains of the Crisis Room and went in. Then, as if sensing the girl’s eyes on her, she turned and gave Pandora a hard, icy stare.
Pandora remembered what Mr. Sorrel had told her: on no account were the patients to be disturbed.
At once Pandora retreated to the kitchen and disposed of the water in the yard. From the hallway beyond came the sounds of Madame Orrery’s treatment. A mixture of sobs and sighs, pierced every now and then by a scream. This wasfollowed by a shrill, tortured music. Mr. Sorrel was playing his glass harmonica once again.
Listening now, she was overtaken by a sudden desire to know more. Tiptoeing back to the hall, she crept closer to the curtains and peered in.
She stifled a frightened gasp. The women were sprawled on the floor! They were barely moving, barely breathing, as if dead. Madame Orrery stood above them, her silver timepiece in her hand.
Mr. Sorrel rushed out of the room, nearly knocking her off her feet.
“Pandora!” he cried. “Whatever are you doing here? Quick! Get back to work!”
Pandora took another frightened look at the ladies on the floor. “Are they all right?” she asked, following him back to the kitchen.
“Yes, yes. It is all part of the treatment,” he said. Beads of perspiration showed on
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