Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

Gasping for breath, Trista risked a glance through the glass of the nearby door, into the lower saloon of the trailer car.

She was confronted with a suspiciously innocent scene. Electric light poured from small round lamps in the ceiling. Above them, pink and green posters advertised ‘Shrike’s Removal Services’ and ‘Ellchester, Your Home from Home!’ Every seat was full, the passengers well-dressed and silent, most staring down into their laps, or across at each other with mute serenity. All wore grey-brown coats, grey-brown shawls, grey-brown hats. Some were reading, but the lettering on their books and newspapers swarmed and seethed. Trista could make out the drowned-looking Besider woman from the tea room discreetly powdering her nose with the aid of a compact.

At the far end of the carriage sat the Shrike, licking butter from his silver box.

She could not risk walking through the compartment. Perhaps the newly arrived refugees did not know who she was, but the Shrike would. The only way to get past without him seeing her was to climb to the upper level.

Just as Trista ducked back out of sight, she had an impression that one of the other figures had moved, that a head had raised, that a pale face had turned to look at her.

Legs shaking, she scaled the spiral steps while snow blew into her eyes and her clothes whipped in the wind. At the top, the racing air grew fiercer still. The roofless ‘balcony’ was covered in rows of hard wooden benches, slick with meltwater. Clinging to these were a handful of smokily indistinct figures, who were thrown to and fro as the car veered and bucked. Sometimes they lost their grip and were flung clear, beating desperate wings in their attempts to catch up and recover their seat. None paid any attention to Trista.

Dropping to all fours to escape the worst of the snow-filled wind, Trista crawled forward past the benches, snow thickening in her hair and burning her ears. When she reached the front, she quickly clambered on to the safety rail, gripping it tightly with her fingers and toes, and prepared to leap to the next trailer car.

The gap was not large, but it opened and closed unpredictably as the cars tilted and swerved, and she hesitated, trying to judge the jump. At that moment, the trailer cars sheared through a thick column of chimney smoke, blinding her and making her splutter. For a short while she could only cling to the rail, eyes clenched, trying to stifle her coughs.

As she blinked the cobweb tears from her eyes, she heard a faint clatter of footfalls from the spiral steps behind her. She turned in panic, fearing that she might see the Shrike coming after her.

Somebody was indeed edging towards her along the roof, one arm shielding his face, his stolen coat flapping, his hair ruffled by the unforgiving wind.

It was Mr Grace.

No! There must be fifty Besiders here – why is he still chasing me ?

With the energy of desperation Trista leaped, and landed safely on the balcony of the next trailer car. She crawled to the front, not daring to look around, then darted for the spiral stairway back down to the lower level. She half slid, half jumped down, then leaped across the shifting gap to the rear platform of the leading tram itself.

She heard a rattle of steps, and then Mr Grace came into view, slithering down the stairs she had just descended, blinking as snow buffeted his face, his teeth bared in a wince.

‘Stop it!’ she entreated him, under her breath, as he clattered his way down the steps. ‘Stop it, Mr Grace! You’ll spoil everything!’

There was a small grim pucker of humour at the corner of the tailor’s mouth.

‘That is rather the plan,’ he said, and launched himself towards the platform where Trista was standing.

An idea streaked through Trista’s mind, even as he jumped. One well-timed kick, or swipe with her claws, and he would be knocked back and fall. He would drop to the street, and lie there broken like Angelina. And nobody would know she had done it, just as they had never found out about Angelina.

But she did not let the thought lead her limbs. Instead she froze, and next moment Mr Grace was landing with a clang on the metal platform beside her. All too fast, and everything changed. He was huge now, and she was the small, frail doll.

‘Don’t!’ she squeaked and ducked his attempt to grapple her.

Shunk . The long black scissors were out and in his hands. He was the nightmare again now, the red-legged tailor from the nursery-book of horrors.

He lunged, and she dodged but too slowly. One point of his scissors pierced the cloth of her collar, pinning it to the wooden frame of the tram door. The other blade the tailor held poised, ready to cut horizontally towards her neck.

‘Listen, please!’ Once again she was the miserable child-monster begging, cobweb tears clouding her eyes. ‘I’m on your side! I’m trying to save Triss too! If you only listen, we can defeat the Architect together!’

Mr Grace looked at her carefully for a second, his eyebrows rising slightly. He was out of breath from the chase, his fingers blue with cold. His hair was thick with snow, and trickles of meltwater ran down his face like tears.

‘You creatures really will say anything to save your own twisted lives, won’t you?’ he murmured softly. His eyes were as dark as a thousand years of rain.

The death of his wife and the loss of his child . That was the crevasse of bottomless grief that stretched between them. With despair Trista realized that, for all her changeling agility, this was one abyss that she could not jump.

‘Architect!’ shouted the tailor at the top of his lungs. ‘I have your—’

Your daughter? Your servant?

Trista did not wait to discover the end of the sentence. With a strength born of panic she yanked herself to one side, rending her collar and leaving only a rag of dress fabric pinned by the scissors. Before the tailor could react she leaped upward on to the smooth, closed roof of the tram car and scrabbled away on all fours, out of sight and reach.

Behind her, she heard the tram door thrown open, perhaps by the tailor, perhaps by somebody inside. She had no idea what was happening below her. All she knew was that, for the moment, it was no longer happening to her.

The air smelt damp. Looking over the side, Trista realized with a shock that the tram was skimming over the river, above its own blotchy and surprised-looking reflection. A flock of gulls split giddily before the tram and veered away in panic, the wings of one grazing Trista’s cheek.

Buffeted by the rush of air, Trista slithered forwards along the roof, then clambered down the front of the tram, using the destination panel and trimmings for footholds. She landed softly next to the empty driver’s cab, then peered in through the window of the door, into the tram-car’s lower saloon.

The tram car was more lavish than the trailer cars, the seats covered in what looked like green velvet, the windows set in frames of golden-brown wood, the lights hooded with little green shades. It was empty, but for three figures.

At the far end of the carriage was Mr Grace the tailor, with the open door behind him. He still wore his dripping feather-coat, though it was fluttering madly as if trying to tear itself away from him. His hair was plastered to his face, which bore a look of ice-cold determination. In his hands he held the great black pair of iron scissors.

Mere yards from the dripping tailor, standing as if to confront him, was a taller figure. Even from behind, Trista recognized the smooth, honey-blond hair, the debonairly cut coat, the Oxford bags and the blinding, sunbeam aura of nonchalant panache. It was the Architect.