Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

Fiona could see the pride in Claire’s face as she read the names of her ancestors, all marching side by side down the sturdy white fabric. How many generations of housekeepers had carefully washed the heirloom? And how long since it had been cleaned? A thought occurred to Fiona, and she smiled at Claire, her eyes wide.

“If your baby is a girl. .”

“It can’t happen.”

“Mr Day wants a boy?”

“No, no, I mean I’m rubbish at sewing. I could never ruin this old thing by stitching it up with some illegible clump of a name. Future generations would look at it and say, ‘What went wrong over here?’ And my great-great-great-granddaughter would say, ‘Oh, well, that’s where Claire Day, the infamously bad seamstress, destroyed everything.’ And besides, you’re avoiding the question about our dear Mr Hammersmith. I suppose he is rather handsome, isn’t he? Or he would be if you could somehow get him in a clean shirt every once in a while.”

“But you could hire someone to sew in the name,” Fiona said. “If it’s a girl, I mean. You mustn’t let the tradition die out.”

“Do you know that my mother has asked for it back? The coverlet, I mean. She’s decided I shouldn’t be the one to have it after all, and she’s going to give it to my cousin.”

“Oh, no.”

“But I won’t give it back. She gave it to me and it’s mine.”

“But why? Why would she take it back?”

“We differ in our opinions about Walter.”

“She doesn’t care for Mr Day?”

“It’s really my father, I suppose. She’s simply echoing his opinions like one of those nasty birds that speak.”

“A mynah bird, you mean.”

“One of those, with its croaking voice. Very like my mother, actually.”

“Oh, dear. But Mr Day is wonderful, isn’t he?”

“Yes. And therein lies the difference of our opinions on the matter. They had another boy all picked out for me, and I went and married a valet’s son.”

“I adore Mr Day, of course, but why did you choose him, if there was someone else?”

“Because he’s the kindest person I’ve ever known. Had I married the boy my father picked for me, I would have become tough and bitter and a little bit dead inside. But with Walter I can be the person I would like to be. He thinks I am already that person, that ideal person of my imagination. That is why I love him. He is gentle and good and thoughtful and he loves me for who he thinks I am. I would so like to be that person. And when he looks at me, I am.”

“How old were you? When you married?”

“Not much older than you, I suppose. But a handful of years makes all the difference at your age. You must be patient.”

“Have you noticed Mr Hammersmith’s hands? His fingers?”

“They’re long.”

“They’re delicate. I imagine him at a piano sometimes in a beautiful shiny black suit, and he’s playing something wonderful and moving, his fingers dancing to and fro over the keys.”

“I can’t imagine Mr Hammersmith playing a piano or wearing anything but a soiled police uniform.”

“You must use your imagination,” Fiona said.

“And you must be more careful about your imaginings. Men are not strong enough to endure our ideas. They are what and who they are, and they will always be that. Our imaginations betray us.”

“Do you feel betrayed?”

“Not in the least. But Mr Day is exactly what I thought he was and would be.”

“Well, anyway, you shouldn’t give this back. Not ever.” Fiona held the coverlet up to the light.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Fiona said. “I’ll help you hide it if they ever come visiting. Your family, I mean.”

“Let’s make a pact.”

“We should have a code. I love codes.”

“I don’t know any,” Claire said.

“We’ll think of one.”

Claire winced and Fiona leaned toward her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Claire said. “A cramp, is all.”

“That’s normal enough. My father says there should be some cramping this far along, but we need to fetch him round if they start coming regularly.”

“How regularly?”

“Ten minutes, I think. Every ten minutes or so.”

“Well, it’s not that. It’s only every so often. I’m sure I’m fine.”

“I could send for him now. Just to be safe.”

“No, I really am fine. Just tired. The sun will be up soon, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Fiona said. “You should try to sleep.”

“I think I’ll just rest a bit. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll be just down the hall. And Constable Winthrop is right downstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Fiona stood, and Claire stretched out under the coverlet and closed her eyes. Fiona leaned across her and blew out the candle. She picked up the water cup and carried it back to the washstand. She eyed the pail of dirty water suspiciously, then bent and grabbed it by its wire handle and took it to the door.

“Fiona?”

She stopped and looked back. “Yes?”

“Thank you. I mean, really. Thank you.”

Fiona smiled and said nothing. There was no way to respond that would adequately express how she felt. Language was often frustrating when it came to simple human emotions.

“And Fiona?”

“Yes?”

“Nevil Hammersmith has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a man. Have you told him how you think about him?”

Fiona nearly dropped the water pail. She hunched her shoulders and the water sloshed about, but none of it spilled.

“Good night, Claire,” she said.

“Good night.”

Fiona stepped into the hallway, pulled the door shut behind her, and let out a huge sigh. Then she went looking for a place to dump the dirty water.

A fter a long walk underground, Jack and Cinderhouse came up to the surface inside a small obelisk at the corner of the St John of God cemetery. The door that was set back in the obelisk was ancient oak banded with iron, and the hinges squeaked and stuck. They were only able to open it halfway, and they squeezed through the crack into the grey predawn. There was not a person in sight in any direction they looked. The sky was overcast and there was a cool spring breeze blowing through the grass and along the tops of the tombstones.

Jack swayed in the wind. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, bringing in the fresh moist air and blowing out the dust and blood that had filled his nostrils for so long. He felt the wind brush against his bare testicles and he opened his eyes. He gave Cinderhouse a quick glance, just to make sure he was still there, then walked away through the stones, letting the grass poke up between his toes and the first few drops of rain spatter against his face. His legs gave way and he fell and tumbled until he fetched up against the side of a stone. He looked up at the name engraved in the front of the stone, but he didn’t recognize it. It was not the name of anyone he had touched, and so he felt a mild disappointment. He knew that the odds were against the body under him being one of his own, but the entire day had felt so much like it belonged to him that he had half expected it to be a familiar corpse. It was his birthday all over again and everything ought to be his.

From that prone position, he looked around at the sea of stones and wondered at the number of graveyards in London, so many of them filled with people he had not managed to transform before they met their ends in other ways, at other hands. He silently apologized to them all for being so slow in his work. He wondered what would happen as the city continued to grow and lap over its current boundaries. Would the bodies beneath him be plowed into the soil and homes built atop their bones? Or would they sink farther under and join the forgotten dead in the catacombs beneath?