Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
A short stroll across the grassland took them to a dirt road, which led past a scattering of houses and then, a mile or so later, to what passed for the high street of a village. Crow took in the sights, swiveling his head so much that Simeon feared it might fall off. “Do you recognize this place?” Crow asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“No. I never left London until I joined the carnival, and this is definitely not London.” In fact, the village was almost as alien to him as it was to Crow. As a boy, he’d imagined country life, and he’d occasionally seen the countryside depicted in drawings, but he hadn’t seen it personally. Really, despite the time difference, this place bore a closer resemblance to Crow’s hometown than it did to Simeon’s.
“I suppose we should go to London, but I’ve no idea where we are right now,” Simeon said, searching for some clue. No signs announced the name of the town. Presumably most people who came here didn’t need to be told where they were. “What should we do?”
Crow shrugged. “This is your show. I’m just along for the ride. ”
Fair enough. Crow had led the way during their cross-country adventures in the United States, where so many things had been entirely new to Simeon. Now it was his turn.
There were a few shops and a nameless public house, but Simeon didn’t fancy asking inside those establishments for the location and date. They’d think him a lunatic. The village was far too small to have anyone selling newspapers on the street. He was still considering his options when a pair of boys appeared from behind one of the buildings. They were nine or ten, he reckoned, and grubby in a way that suggested they’d been playing in the mud instead of doing chores. They both strolled boldly over to stare at Simeon and Crow.
“You don’t live here,” accused the slightly taller one, whose hair might have been blond beneath the dirt.
“No, we’re passing through.”
That earned him suspicious looks. Then a notion seemed to dawn and the boy’s eyes widened. “Are you with the carnival then?”
“Aye.”
Well, that was clearly exciting. The boys’ mouths dropped open and the shorter one spoke. “What can you do? Can you throw knives in the air and catch ’em? Do you have tigers? Do you live in a tent? Can you do… those swing things, way up in the air?” He moved his hand as if it were a trapeze, bonking into his companion in the process. The taller boy gave him a slight shove.
Simeon was grinning. “We’re just roustabouts. We build the carnival and take it down again.”
That seemed to disappoint the boys, but only a little. They turned their attention to Crow instead. “What about you?” asked the blond.
“I’m a roustabout too.”
“You talk funny. Where’re you from?”
“America. ”
Judging from the reaction, Crow’s origin made up for the lack of tigers and flying knives. They barraged him with questions—faster than he could possibly answer—and hooted over his accent as he tried to respond. Crow had probably never thought of himself as exotic in this particular way and looked amused by the entire episode.
Finally Simeon was able to get a word in edgewise. “Lads, we’ve need for some information. Shall you fetch someone to help or do you reckon you’re up for it?”
The boys exchanged a glance and then puffed up their chests. “We know loads of things,” boasted the taller one.
“Lovely. What’s the name of this village?”
That brought some laughter—and a mutter that this fellow was clearly very stupid because even their little sister knew that —but it also brought an answer: Cuthinham. Simeon had never heard of it, but then, he wasn’t exactly an expert on rural parts.
“All right,” said Simeon. “And what is the date?”
“You don’t know when you are?” said the shorter one in disbelief.
“Humor me.”
“Well… I’m not certain of the day. But it’s July.”
Crow made a slightly impatient noise. “But what year?”
The shorter one laughed but was hushed by the other boy, who insisted that the date might be entirely different in America, so of course the American was confused. “It’s 1883,” said the taller one—slowly, since Crow was obviously quite dim.
That was the year after Simeon originally joined the carnival. Perhaps that was good, since it meant he wouldn’t run into his younger self in London, which would surely create all sorts of problems. But it also meant that thirteen years had passed since he was at the Frugis’s house. They might be long gone .
Well, nothing to be done about that.
Simeon interrupted another round of interrogation about America. “Where’s the nearest railway station, lads?”
“Cambridge,” answered the shorter one with great certainty. “Our father went on a train last year. When I grow up, I’ll travel on trains all the time.”
Simeon wished he could inform the boy that, within his lifetime, he’d be riding in motor cars. But automobiles hadn’t yet been invented, so best to not mention them. Oh, but airplanes! Someday this boy would see those as well. If a stranger had told Simeon about cars and airplanes when he was a child, he wouldn’t have believed a word.
“How did your father get to Cambridge?”
“Molly, of course.” The taller boy rolled his eyes and added, by way of explanation, “Our horse.”
Well, Simeon and Crow didn’t have a horse, and in any case, neither of them knew how to ride. “Is there someone you reckon could take us there in a coach? Or….” He gave the village a narrow-eyed look. No coaches in sight. “Or a wagon?”
The boys conferred before agreeing that a certain Mr. Birtwistle—a brewer—might be agreeable, for the right price.
So while Crow continued to entertain the boys with his American accent and twentieth-century words, Simeon went in search of the brewer.
“This is not comfortable,” Crow said for the third or fourth time as the dray bounced down the road to Cambridge. There were a few empty burlap sacks, which he’d attempted to form into a sort of cushion, without much success .
Simeon, who lay flat on his back on the dusty boards, chuckled. “The wagon was meant to carry barrels, Your Highness, not people. Be grateful we don’t have to walk. Anyhow, it’s a glorious day, innit?”
Now that he’d finally made up his mind about a course of action and had taken the irrevocable step of leaving the carnival, Simeon’s mood had lifted considerably. Perhaps he wasn’t suited for indecision. It also helped, of course, that the sun was out. And that he was returning to London— his London, during his time—but now with money in his pockets and Crow at his side.
Crow, on the other hand, was testy. He’d begun the journey contentedly enough, eyeing the passing farms and commenting on the similarities and differences compared to what he was used to. But he grew bored with that soon enough, and then unhappy with the way the cart bumped and jostled. Now he muttered curses against nineteenth-century transportation and, every now and then, complained aloud.
At least Mr. Birtwistle couldn’t hear them. He might have sampled some of his own wares before they began this trip, though it was hard to tell since the scent of ale permeated his clothing. He was in a jolly mood, perched up high on his seat and singing off-key to his enormous Shire horse. He was no doubt pleased with the rather generous fee that Simeon had provided for conveyance to Cambridge.
Suddenly Crow perked up. “Hey, Simeon? Are those rooks?”
Simeon sat up very fast and looked where Crow was pointing. Sure enough, a dozen or so black birds were perched on a nearby hedgerow, regarding the dray with sharp eyes. “Aye.”
“I’ve never seen a rook before. Except for you, I mean.”
“I’ve seen only a few myself. They don’t fancy big cities. ”
A few of the birds made their raspy calls as the dray passed. It wasn’t clear whether they intended them as a greeting or a warning. In any case, the rooks didn’t fly away.
“I don’t suppose all rooks can be people too,” Crow mused. “And what are the details of that process anyway? When you become bird-shaped, where does all your mass go? And how do you get it back when you want to be a man again?”
“All excellent questions, but I haven’t any answers. Same as when you heal in minutes from wounds that would kill anyone else. How do you manage that?”
“But that’s just me doing what everyone does, only faster and better. I’m not violating the laws of physics to—” He sighed. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. I guess it is what it is.”
Simeon toed gently at Crow’s outstretched leg. “I expect it’s just magic, innit?”
Crow didn’t have a response to that.
It was early evening when they arrived in Cambridge, although the sun was still fairly high. Mr. Birtwistle dropped them off at the station and cheerfully bid them good travels before rattling away.
The railway station was a long building of yellow brick, its front lined with arched windows. It was much smaller and less grand than the London stations where Simeon had sometimes picked pockets or lifted anything he could get his fingers on. He inquired at the desk, found that the next train would leave in half an hour, and bought a pair of third-class tickets for five shillings each. He could have afforded a better class, but what was the point? Third class would get to London as quickly as first.
They were both hungry, so they went to the station’s refreshment room, where stale ham sandwiches and lumpy pork pies were the only choices. Although Crow didn’t complain, he looked as if he wanted to. Simeon couldn’t blame him; the food wasn’t good. It certainly didn’t hold a candle to the carnival’s delicious fare, and it was more expensive to boot. But it filled their bellies. Simeon recalled all the times that his younger self would have been deeply thankful for a meal like this.
Finally they boarded the train. Their carriage had hard wooden benches and the mingled odors of grease, coal dust, and sweat. But at least it wasn’t crowded, and both of the nearby babies stopped crying shortly after the train began to move.
“It’s faster than I expected,” remarked Crow, gazing out the window.
“We’ll be there in not much more than an hour.”
“You told me once that you never took trains when you lived here.”
“Rarely had the dosh. Besides, where would I go? London had all I needed.” Well, not everything . It hadn’t had Crow, for instance.
Ten minutes later, Crow was fast asleep, his head resting on Simeon’s shoulder. The other passengers didn’t seem to mind. They had their own lives to worry about.
The train took them to Liverpool Street Station, a vast and soaring structure that had been under construction when Simeon was a boy. It was located not far from his old haunts in Bethnal Green and Spitalfields, and sometimes he’d wandered over to watch the workmen.
He gently shook Crow awake, and after shouldering their bags, they disembarked and walked into the great hall. Although Crow still looked sleepy, he goggled at the ceiling’s vaulted arches and expansive skylights. “Wow,” he said through a yawn.
“’T’s nicer during the day, when the sun sends rays through the glass. Like a church, almost. ”
“Did you spend much time here?”
Simeon shook his head. “Nah. The bobbies would chase me out, which was a shame. It was a nice place to get out of the rain and cold, and I could have made a fortune vamping here.”
“Vamping?” Now Crow looked sleepy and confused.
“Stealing, love.”
“Ah.” Crow gave a wry little smile. “I should’ve known. Did you live near here?”
“Aye.”
Now Crow watched him closely. “Do you want to go visit your old home?”
“Didn’t really have a home, did I? Not for more than a few days at a time. But if you mean my neighborhood, no. It’s… not very nice.”
“I haven’t exactly spent my life in the lap of luxury.”
Simeon was aware that in the decade between their first meeting and their last, Crow had moved often and subsisted on very little money. But however bad his housing situation had sometimes been, it probably didn’t rival the slum that Simeon had inhabited. Simeon wasn’t precisely ashamed of where he’d come from, but from his perspective, he’d left those squalid conditions less than three years ago and the memories were still too raw.
As he considered how to explain this, he watched a man, woman, and child stroll by. The ginger-haired girl, who looked to be about six or seven, walked between them, holding their hands. She chattered excitedly—undoubtedly bound for adventure—while her parents smiled fondly. Simeon attempted to quell a stupid stab of envy.
“Simeon?” Crow’s gentle voice drew his attention. “It’s been a long day. Do you want to get a hotel room? Do they even have hotels here and now?”
“Of course. But they’re for nobs, not for—” He stopped himself, remembering the amount of push he and Crow had stashed away in purses and pockets. Then he sighed. “If you don’t mind, let’s go to see whether the Frugises are at home. We can find a nice bed after.”
“Sounds good to me.”
There were some moments when Simeon loved Crow so hard that it hurt, that it felt as if his heart was too tight and far too small for the task. He wished he could kiss Crow now, hard and fierce, but they were in the middle of a train station in Victorian London, so all he could do was flash his beloved a grateful smile.
When they emerged from the station onto the street, Simeon took a moment to get his bearings. The warm summer air was filled with familiar sounds and smells, and he half expected to find familiar faces among the passersby. “It’s three miles or more to Mayfair. I know you’d fancy a tour, but perhaps instead of walking we could hire a cab.”
“I’m yours to lead, Simeon. Whatever you want.”
At the first possible opportunity, Simeon was going to shag Crow so hard that they’d both forget their names. “I want to snog you silly right now, but that could get us both thrown in the jug.”
“I’m guessing that’s not a pleasant place to be?”
“Prison, love.” Simeon sighed at the unfairness of it all. In his time—where they were now—a man who loved another man faced harsh rejection and incarceration. In Crow’s time, men were freer to show love for each other, but they had to fear a cruel disease that would most likely end their lives.
But more pressing, more personal issues weighed on Simeon right now. He shot Crow a smile that contained promises for later and then led them to a horse-drawn cab—a growler—that waited nearby. “Berkeley Square,” he said to the driver, who looked slightly skeptical at the mismatch between his passengers’ clothing and the neighborhood they sought. But apparently deciding that it wasn’t his problem, he gave a sharp nod and they set off.
“It’s better than the brewer’s cart,” Crow observed as they bounced along.
“I used to consider a cab like this unutterable luxury. Swanking a bit, we are.”
“Have you missed your London?”
Simeon had to think about that for a while. “In some ways, yeah. Used to be all I knew. And it wasn’t easy, wasn’t pretty, but… it’s home, innit?”
Crow nodded. “I feel the same about Chinkapin Grove. I’ll always carry some of my grandparents’ farm in me, you know?”
“Aye.” Simeon imagined drops of the dirty Thames flowing through him like blood, the ever-present soot embedded in his bones, the stink and the crowds and the grand scale of the old city all tucked away inside his body like coins in a purse. He didn’t mind the notion. In fact, it was a little comforting to know that no matter when or where or who he was, he’d still be an East End lad.
The cab let them out on Bruton Street just across from the square, and the cabbie seemed pleasantly surprised when Simeon not only paid the full fare but also a generous tip. After watching the growler clatter away, Simeon looked around. Although the hour had grown late, fashionable people strolled the pavement, gas streetlamps illuminating the women’s brightly colored dresses and complicated hats. Nobody seemed in any hurry. No doubt the evening air was more comfortable than their stuffy houses, and if any chore needed seeing to, the servants would take care of it. None of these men and women fretted about empty stomachs or where they would sleep tonight.
“Where to?” Crow’s voice was gentle.
“Erm… dunno.” Simeon hadn’t been forthcoming about th is bit. When he’d been taken to the Frugis house as a boy, the growler curtains had been shut and so he hadn’t been able to see their route. When he’d escaped the house the next day, he’d been in a blind panic and had paid little attention to his surroundings. A somewhat morbid curiosity had brought him back to the neighborhood a few times as he grew older, but all he’d managed was meandering the streets, ignoring the suspicious glares of the locals, and half hoping yet half fearing he’d stumble across the Frugises again.
Crow had allowed himself to become stranded here together, and now Simeon had no idea where to go. They couldn’t simply knock on every door in Mayfair; someone would fetch a constable quickly if they tried.
“I dragged you all over the United States without much of a clue where we were going,” Crow reminded him.
“And some of your crows led us to your people by the ocean. It’s night now, though.” Simeon waved vaguely at the nearby trees, where any self-respecting birds would have already roosted for the evening.
“Hmm.” Crow frowned thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure birds have excellent memories for places they’ve been. And you’re, well, sort of a bird. I’ve never seen you get lost.”
“I’m not a homing pigeon, love.”
Crow shrugged and looked at him expectantly.
In the time that Simeon had spent with Crow, he’d learned something interesting: it was easier to accomplish tasks if someone else had confidence that you’d succeed.
Right, then. Simeon was good at thieving, sang passably well, was skilled at mimicry, and tended to be sociable. All of these might or might not have been talents he possessed on account of being a rook. But he could also change into a bird and fly, and that was very clearly due to his mysterious ancestry. He didn’t know what else he might be capable of. In fact, he hadn’t been at all aware that he could become a rook until he was forced to do so in order to survive. A demon-sent ocean wave had washed him to an island off the coast of Oregon, and his only means of escape had been to sprout wings… so he had.
Not that he intended to do so here and now, with Mayfair’s finest residents eyeing him as they passed by.
And although he hadn’t been able to see the mainland from that little scrap of wave-washed rock, he’d known which way to fly. He’d unerringly found his way back to Portland, to the precise location where he’d lost Crow. And discovering that Crow wasn’t there, Simeon had acquired the deep conviction that Crow had returned to Chinkapin Grove, and so Simeon had flown hundreds and hundreds of miles across the continent to Crow’s family farm. Until now, it had never even occurred to him to wonder how he’d known the way.
He took a few deep breaths and hoped he hadn’t traveled through self-delusion into lunacy. “Follow me.”
It was an odd sensation. If Simeon paused and asked himself where he was headed, he had no idea. But once he began walking, he went in what he was certain was the right direction. It was as if his legs were far wiser than his head.
In any case, his legs didn’t need to take him very far. Less than three blocks from where the cab had let them off, Simeon halted in front of a white terraced house. Nothing in particular set it apart from its neighbors; all were of equal size, with narrow columns flanking the front doors and small balconies on some of the upper floors. This one had lights glowing in a few windows, which he found vaguely heartening.
“Dunno what I’m going to say,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Crow patted his shoulder. “You’ll come up with something. You always do. ”
More of that confidence. It was a lovely thing.
Ignoring the way his heart was attempting to escape from his chest, Simeon knocked on the door. It was opened a few moments later by an aproned maid with graying hair tucked into a careful bun. She didn’t look pleased to see them. “Servants’ entrance is in back,” she announced, “and the mister and missus aren’t looking to hire anyone.”
Simeon attempted his most charming smile. “We’re not delivering anything or looking for a position, ma’am. We’re… we’re here to see the Frugises. Could you tell them that Simeon Bell is here?” He held his breath while she stared at him expressionlessly.
Finally, she blinked. “Wait here.” She closed the door firmly.
“Do you reckon that means they’re still living here?” Simeon asked.
Crow shrugged. “I guess so. If they aren’t, she probably would have said so.”
True enough. Simeon bounced anxiously on his toes, not sure whether he was more worried that the Frugises wouldn’t show up or that they would. He very nearly turned tail and ran, but then he never would have been able to face Crow again.
The door swung open suddenly and Simeon stumbled back a step, nearly knocking Crow over in the process. Mrs. Frugis stood in the doorway, dressed all in black except for white lace cuffs. Just as when Simeon had seen her before, she was tall and muscular, her pale face handsome, her eyes as dark as his. Now, however, her black hair had a few streaks of white.
She regarded him for a long time and then the corners of her mouth tightened. “You have stolen from us a spoon and a book.”