Free The Peculiar by Stefan Bachmann Page B

mechanics. A clockwork sparrow. It rose out of Mr. Lickerish’s palm, fluttering for an instant in the air. Mr. Jelliby saw a brass capsule catch the sunlight and glint from one brass leg. Then the bird shot away across the river and was lost in the ribbons of smoke rising from the city’s roofs.
    Mr. Jelliby took a very small, very careful breath. A capsule. It was carrying a message. The bird was a messenger bird, like the sort his grandparents had used when there were no such things as speaking-machines and telegraphs. Only the ones his grandparents had used had pumping hearts and soft feathers. A contraption of the sort the faery had just launched did not come cheaply. Mr. Jelliby’s own household didn’t have any. Ophelia wasn’t taken with such things, being sophisticated, and far more interested in magic than in machinery. But he had seen them often while promenading: automatons shaped like dogs, like crows and spiders and even people, staring with beady eyes from the windows of the fine mechanicalchemist’s shops on Jermyn Street. Clockwork horses were the newest craze. They were hideous and loud, shot steam from every joint, and looked rather more like rhinoceroses than horses, but the king of France owned a stableful, and the Queen of England, not to be outdone, had purchased a fieldful, and soon every duke and minor noble owned at least one mechanically drawn coach.
    The faery refastened the window and turned to go, again casting a wary look around the room. He was only steps from the door to the hallway when it was thrown open again. It only barely missed knocking out a few sharp faery teeth.
    Mr. Jelliby couldn’t see the visitor from his hiding place in the cabinet, but he did see the Lord Chancellor’s face go sharp, saw his eyes harden and his hands grasp at the fabric of his coat. It was someone the faery knew, then. Someone he didn’t want to see.
    â€œYou stinking candle,” Mr. Lickerish hissed. “What are you doing here? Melusine, we must not be seen together! Not in public!”
    It was the lady. The lady Mr. Jelliby had seen rushing down the brilliant passage in Nonsuch House. Mr. Lickerish pulled her into the room and shut the door behind her, drawing the bolt with a sharp clank.
    She stepped into the middle of the room. “We are not in public,” she said, turning to face the faery.
    Mr. Jelliby stared. Her lips, bright red in the powder of her face, had not moved. The voice had come from somewhere in her vicinity, but it was not the voice of a lady. It was not even the voice of a man. It was a thin, cold, lazy-sounding voice that made Mr. Jelliby think of frosty leaves against stone. And it was unmistakably the voice of a faery.
    Mr. Lickerish stamped his foot. “Melusine, we—”
    â€œ Don’t call me that,” the voice snapped. Again the red lips were motionless.
    Mr. Lickerish’s eyes went wide, expanding into two black moons. With savage suddenness, he lifted his walking stick and struck it hard across the back of the lady’s head. There was a yelp. The lady bent forward under the force of the blow, but her face remained stiff.
    â€œNever are you to give me orders,” Mr. Lickerish said, lowering the walking stick. “Melusine .” He spat the name.
    â€œForgive me, Sathir .” The voice was subdued again. “That is her name. It is not mine. It brings back memories to her. Ones I do not wish her to recall.”
    Mr. Lickerish began to pace to and fro behind the lady’s back. She remained still as waxwork, a shadowy statue in the center of the room. With a start, Mr. Jelliby realized her face was directed straight at his hiding place. She wore a little top hat that hid her eyes, but was she watching him? Right that very moment? He stared at her, wondering who she was. Her clothes had been sumptuous once, all those yards of velvet, the seed buttons and swirling stitchery. They weren’t