but wary of making a mistake. He took sips of stale rainwater from a barrel in the alley.
That evening, he crept in, around the gate and into the weed-strangled garden, and through a window at the back. The Moon’s downstairs bar, stripped of its former furnishings, sunken slightly below the road, was full of children sleeping in corners on stolen rags, or on the bare boards. The windows were broken but sealed with newspaper or blankets. There was a weak fire in the corner, crawling around a couple of old chair legs in a pile of ash.
The place was cold, and it smelled, but it was sheltered from the rain. Jack sat himself in an empty corner.
A dozen pairs of distrustful eyes were looking at him. Jack looked around, and met the eyes of what he judged to be the oldest boy, a tall, slim, blond-haired creature, with a spark of curiosity in his gaze.
“I’m staying for the night,” Jack said. “I’m not going to be any trouble, but I’m staying.”
A smaller boy, his face scarred by some sort of pox, hooted out, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jack kept his bloodshot eyes fixed on the blond boy. Hungry and weak though he was, he steadied his gaze.
“Ah, leave it,” the blond boy said. “Look at him. He’s too tired to do any harm.”
A red-haired boy nodded. “Stay, then. Touch nothing and keep to your corner. We’ll see about you in the morning.”
I very much regret to…”
Arlandes stood stiff-backed in the drawing room of Mr. Hildebrand’s mansion, stuttering and staring down at his feet, at the shiny oily black of his boots and at the rug, which was the dusty green of mold or grave-moss. Mr. Hildebrand himself—Lucia’s father, and Arlandes’ own father-in-law, even still, death apparently not being enough in law to annul the relationship—sat in a red leather armchair, arms neatly folded in his lap, nodding his grey head solemnly. Arlandes had chosen to stand.
Both men wore black.
The mansion stood in the smog and noise and industrial reek of Agdon, and though the building was on a hill, and well-surrounded by trees and lawns, the curtains were drawn at midday to keep out bad airs.
“That is, sir, I regret that…”
He halted and his voice cracked and he began again.
The men of the Countess’s navy—Arlandes’ men—were mostly the scum of the city, press-ganged wharf-rats, and Arlandes typically mourned their deaths no more, at most, than one would mourn the loss of a well-trained dog; but the officers were of course drawn from the ranks of better men, from among young men of breeding, and sometimes in the course of events those young men met their deaths, and Arlandes had always made it his business to extend his condolences to their parents. The Countess encouraged the practice, on the grounds that the Captain’s noble grieving presence might nip bitterness and blood-feud in the bud.
But he had no language suitable for the occasion of dear Lucia’s death.
“Your daughter, sir…”
The old man continued to nod, apparently in time with the clock’s heavy tick. On the table between them the maid had placed a tea set on a silver tray. The tea smelled pungently of aniseed and wet moss; it was a concoction boiled up from some root dug up from damp roadside ditches in the northern district of Dog-Bellow, and it had recently come into fashion for occasions of mourning and grief.
“Sir, I regret the events of the funeral. I regret very much the events of the funeral.”
The old man raised his head and looked Arlandes in the eye. One of the old man’s eyes was blind and milky. The other was sharp—blue-green and bright and dry. The old man’s face was lined and pallid, spade-bearded. There was no trace of Lucia’s beauty or innocence in his face. He was every inch the man of business, every inch the stern overseer. He looked Arlandes in the eye and shrugged and offered an awkward stiff smile.
T he funeral had not been conducted with the dignity the girl
That evening, he crept in, around the gate and into the weed-strangled garden, and through a window at the back. The Moon’s downstairs bar, stripped of its former furnishings, sunken slightly below the road, was full of children sleeping in corners on stolen rags, or on the bare boards. The windows were broken but sealed with newspaper or blankets. There was a weak fire in the corner, crawling around a couple of old chair legs in a pile of ash.
The place was cold, and it smelled, but it was sheltered from the rain. Jack sat himself in an empty corner.
A dozen pairs of distrustful eyes were looking at him. Jack looked around, and met the eyes of what he judged to be the oldest boy, a tall, slim, blond-haired creature, with a spark of curiosity in his gaze.
“I’m staying for the night,” Jack said. “I’m not going to be any trouble, but I’m staying.”
A smaller boy, his face scarred by some sort of pox, hooted out, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jack kept his bloodshot eyes fixed on the blond boy. Hungry and weak though he was, he steadied his gaze.
“Ah, leave it,” the blond boy said. “Look at him. He’s too tired to do any harm.”
A red-haired boy nodded. “Stay, then. Touch nothing and keep to your corner. We’ll see about you in the morning.”
I very much regret to…”
Arlandes stood stiff-backed in the drawing room of Mr. Hildebrand’s mansion, stuttering and staring down at his feet, at the shiny oily black of his boots and at the rug, which was the dusty green of mold or grave-moss. Mr. Hildebrand himself—Lucia’s father, and Arlandes’ own father-in-law, even still, death apparently not being enough in law to annul the relationship—sat in a red leather armchair, arms neatly folded in his lap, nodding his grey head solemnly. Arlandes had chosen to stand.
Both men wore black.
The mansion stood in the smog and noise and industrial reek of Agdon, and though the building was on a hill, and well-surrounded by trees and lawns, the curtains were drawn at midday to keep out bad airs.
“That is, sir, I regret that…”
He halted and his voice cracked and he began again.
The men of the Countess’s navy—Arlandes’ men—were mostly the scum of the city, press-ganged wharf-rats, and Arlandes typically mourned their deaths no more, at most, than one would mourn the loss of a well-trained dog; but the officers were of course drawn from the ranks of better men, from among young men of breeding, and sometimes in the course of events those young men met their deaths, and Arlandes had always made it his business to extend his condolences to their parents. The Countess encouraged the practice, on the grounds that the Captain’s noble grieving presence might nip bitterness and blood-feud in the bud.
But he had no language suitable for the occasion of dear Lucia’s death.
“Your daughter, sir…”
The old man continued to nod, apparently in time with the clock’s heavy tick. On the table between them the maid had placed a tea set on a silver tray. The tea smelled pungently of aniseed and wet moss; it was a concoction boiled up from some root dug up from damp roadside ditches in the northern district of Dog-Bellow, and it had recently come into fashion for occasions of mourning and grief.
“Sir, I regret the events of the funeral. I regret very much the events of the funeral.”
The old man raised his head and looked Arlandes in the eye. One of the old man’s eyes was blind and milky. The other was sharp—blue-green and bright and dry. The old man’s face was lined and pallid, spade-bearded. There was no trace of Lucia’s beauty or innocence in his face. He was every inch the man of business, every inch the stern overseer. He looked Arlandes in the eye and shrugged and offered an awkward stiff smile.
T he funeral had not been conducted with the dignity the girl
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