Stefan Bachman - The Peculiar

Much to Mr. Jelliby’s bewilderment, London looked the same on the eve of its destruction as it always had. He had expected to see some change on its last day as the greatest city on earth. People running in the streets, perhaps, dragging their trunks and silver plate. Flames pouring out of windows. Panic in the air so thick you could taste it. But as Bartholomew and Mr. Jelliby rode along the Strand in a carriage, the only thing in the air was the oily black smoke pouring out of the eye socket of a badly rusted cross-sweeper, and as for running people, there weren’t many of those, either. The sea of top hats bobbed along Fleet Street as unbroken as ever. Trams and omnibuses steamed just as grubbily toward the factories and quays. Coach-and-fours rumbled just as solemnly, letting off their well-dressed passengers just as steadily into the elegant cafes and shops. None of them knew how close it all was to ending, how soon the houses would be ruins, the streets empty, and the coaches on their sides, wheels turning in the wind.

Mr. Jelliby let the blind fall back over the window and slumped against the glossy leather headboard. He and Bartholomew had arrived in Leeds early that morning, wet and cold and very miserable. They had caught the seven o’clock train to London, and pulled into the capital just as their socks were beginning to dry. A carriage had been secured on the bustling curb at Paddington Station. Mr. Jelliby had discovered his pistols were gone, but he had greater worries just then. He ordered the driver to take them to Belgrave Square at once.

He hadn’t told Bartholomew where they were going, and he hadn’t wanted to. He was relieved when the first slow breaths of sleep sounded from the corner of the carriage.

At the very edge of the square Mr. Jelliby signaled a stop. He peeked out again. There was his house-tall, grand, and white, only thirty feet away. The heavy winter drapes had been drawn across the windows. The first-floor shutters were closed. And parked at the gate for all the world to see was a shiny black steam carriage, its door emblazoned with the silver markings of the London police.

One of the curtains stirred in an upstairs window. A face appeared at it-Ophelia’s, looking out. Her skin was very pale. Her hand was at her throat. The last time Mr. Jelliby had seen her doing this was when the letter had come that told her her father was dead.

Mr. Jelliby swore and buried his head in his hands. She hadn’t gone. She must be so angry at him, sick with worry and confused. Everyone in Belgrave Square would be making up their own reasons why the police were at the Jellibys’ doorstep, and none of them would be right.

What do you suppose Mr. Jelliby has done this time, dear Jemima? I think he’s probably murdered someone. With a knife.

Well, they could think of him what they wanted, but not Ophelia. He wanted to leap out of the carriage, run to the house and tell her that it was all lies, that she must flee the city, and that whatever the police had told her was not the case. The front door was only a short dash away. But they would catch him if he did. The house, or the police. And who was to say Ophelia would even believe him now, raving about murderous Lord Chancellors and magical portals and the doom of London? The officers would drag him away, perhaps to an asylum. Ophelia would watch him go with sad and serious eyes. No, Mr. Jelliby could not go home. Not until he found a way to stop Mr. Lickerish.

With a long sigh, Mr. Jelliby extended his hand out the coach window and waved the driver on. The carriage pulled away toward Bishopsgate and the river. They would go to the last of the coordinates now. Tomorrow no one would even care about gossip and scandal. Either he would expose Mr. Lickerish for what he truly was and become the hero of the age, or the faery door would open. And if the faery door opened, that meant Mr. Jelliby was dead. That meant Ophelia was dead, and Bartholomew was dead, and his little changeling sister as well. That meant most of London was dead.

Mr. Jelliby pushed those thoughts away and set to studying his map.

In the corner of the carriage, Bartholomew began to stir. His limbs felt heavy, solid like the boughs of a tree. He sat up and stole a look out the window.

London. His mother had told him about this city. That huge, faraway place where laws were made, and money was made, and where the most dazzling shows were, and the gaudiest music halls. It was the place where the roads were so wide and yet the people had to fly in balloons to get any air.

It was a very different sort of city than Bath, that much was clear, but Bartholomew didn’t think it looked too jolly. Mother probably only liked it because there weren’t so many faeries here. A few were about-the ones in the streetlamps, a goblin herding a flock of goats, and a handful of spriggan housemaids hurrying across the pavement with tired eyes and cloth-covered baskets. Bartholomew thought he saw one or two magical walking sticks of the sort that sing in sweet voices. But that was all. There were no dancing roots, or faces in the doors, and no trees. Not even any vines to climb up the sooty stone walls. The city seemed to be made entirely of smoke and clockwork.

“Will we be there soon?” he asked, turning to Mr. Jelliby. The map was spread out in front of the gentleman, taking up half the carriage. He was frowning at it, his brows pinching over his nose.

“Mr. Jelliby?” Bartholomew’s voice was quiet, insistent. How much time did they have? The Lord Chancellor had Hettie, those black-winged sylphs, and probably the greenwitch’s potion. They couldn’t have much time at all.

Mr. Jelliby glanced up. “Oh. Good morning. I took a slight detour, but have no fear. We’re on our way. All dead in their beds, the greenwitch said. Mr. Lickerish is going to open the door in the night and it’s not gone four o’clock.”

A detour? The door might only open in the night, but that doesn’t mean Hettie is safe.

“Well, how long till we get there?”

“An hour. Perhaps two, depending on the traffic. And depending on whether I can understand this. So far I’ve been not at all successful.” His frown deepened as he peered at the map. “Longitude and latitude would place our destination in Wapping, in the Docklands, but the altitude! Three hundred feet in the air! It makes no sense.”

“Perhaps it’s a tower,” Bartholomew said, stretching his sore legs out slowly in front of him. “They build very tall towers nowadays.”

He was beginning to feel dreadful. His joints ached, and he felt tired and very grubby. He wanted to be home again. Not the empty, sleeping place he had left, but the home from before all that. Mother would let him wash in the old laundry water while it was still warm. It always smelled of lavender, and since Hettie got it first, it would have pieces of bark and twigs floating in it. He used to set up such a fuss about that. It had made Hettie cry once, and she had hid her branchy hair under a sheet for a week. He had felt awful for that afterward, but he felt even worse now. Once he got back to Bath, back with Hettie and Mother, he would never make Hettie cry. He would never let anything bad happen to her again.

“But not three hundred feet tall,” Mr. Jelliby said matter-of-factly. “Mr. Zerubbabel mentioned it, I believe. Something about the address being up in the air, and a faery named Boniface and. . Oh, I can’t remember!” He made an angry noise with his tongue and began folding up the map. “There’s nothing to do but go to Wapping and see what’s there.”

Bartholomew looked over at him. “Hettie’ll be there.”

Mr. Jelliby paused crumpling with the map and looked back at him. He smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Hettie’ll be there.” And that was all.