Read Online The Story of Cirrus Flux by Matthew Skelton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Skelton
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his brow. “We must induce a fever if we are to purge their minds. Madame Orrery will soon revive them.”
He grabbed an earthenware bottle from the larder and brought it to the table. He flicked back the stopper and poured a clear liquid into a number of long fluted glasses, which he set on a tray. The fluid popped and fizzed before her eyes.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Medicated water,” said Mr. Sorrel. “It acts as a tonic. Do not fear. The patients will recover—and, once they do, theywill remember nothing of what has happened. It will feel as if a great weight has been lifted from their minds. All of their painful thoughts and memories will have been wiped clean.”
He heaped some sugared dates onto a plate, set it next to the glasses and then rushed back with the tray to the hall. Pandora was about to follow, but Mr. Sorrel gave her a stern, warning look and she fell back.
She examined the bottle on the table more closely. It looked like water, it smelled like water, but a bubble pricked her nose and she jumped back, startled.
A short while later a chorus of voices filled the hall. The women had recovered their wits and were beginning to take their leave.
Mr. Sorrel reappeared. “You are fortunate Madame Orrery did not catch you,” he said. “Mesmerism is a subtle art. It does not do to interfere.” His eyes swept the floor. “Now, do as you’re told and scrub the hall. Madame Orrery’s hairdresser will be here shortly.”
“Yes, Mr. Sorrel.”
Cheeks flaming, Pandora filled a copper kettle and set it over the fire to boil. As soon as it had heated, she poured the scalding water into a bucket, sprinkled it with herbs and sand, and marched with it to the hall. She knelt down in a pool of steaming water and started to clean the floor.
It was hard, backbreaking work. Her fingers were sore and blistered, and the brush left painful splinters in her hand.
She had almost reached the top of the staircase when a carriage drew up to the house. A bell clattered in the air.Before she could gather her things, Mr. Sorrel had padded over to the door and admitted a plump, middle-aged gentleman in a powdered wig. A boy entered behind him, carrying a box of brushes and loops of hair.
Pandora kept her head low as the entourage passed by, climbing the steps to Madame Orrery’s chamber. The gentleman gave her a wide berth, as though skirting a puddle, but the boy seemed to linger. She risked a glance up and caught him staring at the scarlet trim on her foundling’s uniform. There was something in his eyes she recognized—a sad, haunted look.
The twin doors opened and Madame Orrery appeared, dressed as usual in her silver gown. “Ah, Mr. Fopmantle,” she said. “How good it is to see you. Horrendous weather, is it not?”
The gentleman stooped to kiss her hand. “Indeed it is, madam, indeed it is. Why, it’s as hot as Hades outside and just as smelly, I wager.” He paused to sniff a perfumed handkerchief he carried with him and turned to the boy. “Now then, Aaron, don’t be shy. Bring my brushes. We must make madam even more ravishing than usual.”
A smile lifted the edges of Madame Orrery’s lips. “And you have brought your new apprentice again, I see,” she said, reaching out to stroke the young boy’s cheek. “I did so enjoy his tales of the Foundling Hospital the last time we met. I hope to hear more of them now. Come inside.”
Pandora, who had lowered her eyes as soon as Madame Orrery appeared, looked up, surprised by the friendliness inher voice. So the boy was a foundling like herself. But what stories did he have to tell?
She watched as the boy followed his master into the lady’s boudoir. The door closed behind them. Mr. Sorrel immediately made his way back down the stairs, urging Pandora not to dally.
As soon as he was gone, she rose to her feet and stretched the stiffness from her limbs. Then, hearing voices on the other side of the door, she moved her bucket closer and
He grabbed an earthenware bottle from the larder and brought it to the table. He flicked back the stopper and poured a clear liquid into a number of long fluted glasses, which he set on a tray. The fluid popped and fizzed before her eyes.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Medicated water,” said Mr. Sorrel. “It acts as a tonic. Do not fear. The patients will recover—and, once they do, theywill remember nothing of what has happened. It will feel as if a great weight has been lifted from their minds. All of their painful thoughts and memories will have been wiped clean.”
He heaped some sugared dates onto a plate, set it next to the glasses and then rushed back with the tray to the hall. Pandora was about to follow, but Mr. Sorrel gave her a stern, warning look and she fell back.
She examined the bottle on the table more closely. It looked like water, it smelled like water, but a bubble pricked her nose and she jumped back, startled.
A short while later a chorus of voices filled the hall. The women had recovered their wits and were beginning to take their leave.
Mr. Sorrel reappeared. “You are fortunate Madame Orrery did not catch you,” he said. “Mesmerism is a subtle art. It does not do to interfere.” His eyes swept the floor. “Now, do as you’re told and scrub the hall. Madame Orrery’s hairdresser will be here shortly.”
“Yes, Mr. Sorrel.”
Cheeks flaming, Pandora filled a copper kettle and set it over the fire to boil. As soon as it had heated, she poured the scalding water into a bucket, sprinkled it with herbs and sand, and marched with it to the hall. She knelt down in a pool of steaming water and started to clean the floor.
It was hard, backbreaking work. Her fingers were sore and blistered, and the brush left painful splinters in her hand.
She had almost reached the top of the staircase when a carriage drew up to the house. A bell clattered in the air.Before she could gather her things, Mr. Sorrel had padded over to the door and admitted a plump, middle-aged gentleman in a powdered wig. A boy entered behind him, carrying a box of brushes and loops of hair.
Pandora kept her head low as the entourage passed by, climbing the steps to Madame Orrery’s chamber. The gentleman gave her a wide berth, as though skirting a puddle, but the boy seemed to linger. She risked a glance up and caught him staring at the scarlet trim on her foundling’s uniform. There was something in his eyes she recognized—a sad, haunted look.
The twin doors opened and Madame Orrery appeared, dressed as usual in her silver gown. “Ah, Mr. Fopmantle,” she said. “How good it is to see you. Horrendous weather, is it not?”
The gentleman stooped to kiss her hand. “Indeed it is, madam, indeed it is. Why, it’s as hot as Hades outside and just as smelly, I wager.” He paused to sniff a perfumed handkerchief he carried with him and turned to the boy. “Now then, Aaron, don’t be shy. Bring my brushes. We must make madam even more ravishing than usual.”
A smile lifted the edges of Madame Orrery’s lips. “And you have brought your new apprentice again, I see,” she said, reaching out to stroke the young boy’s cheek. “I did so enjoy his tales of the Foundling Hospital the last time we met. I hope to hear more of them now. Come inside.”
Pandora, who had lowered her eyes as soon as Madame Orrery appeared, looked up, surprised by the friendliness inher voice. So the boy was a foundling like herself. But what stories did he have to tell?
She watched as the boy followed his master into the lady’s boudoir. The door closed behind them. Mr. Sorrel immediately made his way back down the stairs, urging Pandora not to dally.
As soon as he was gone, she rose to her feet and stretched the stiffness from her limbs. Then, hearing voices on the other side of the door, she moved her bucket closer and
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