Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
H is old haunts were the same as always. Same streets crowded with carts and wagons and people and refuse. Same skinny children in rags. Same adults with rage in their eyes or, more often and much worse, with defeat. What was different was him; Simeon was now an outsider.
People stared at the two of them, and although many of the stares were hostile, nobody approached. This was probably due mostly to Crow, who could look terrifying when he set his jaw a certain way. Most people didn’t want to borrow trouble, and predators would choose easier prey.
“It’s not pretty, is it?” Simeon said quietly after they’d walked past a woman slumped against a brick wall, an infant in her arms and a half-naked toddler huddled against her.
“I thought I knew poverty. I lived it. Not like this, though.”
When Simeon had lived here, he’d known that not everyone lived as he did—that elsewhere children had families and homes and full bellies—but those other lives had seemed like fairy tales. He couldn’t truly imagine anything different from what he had, which he supposed made it easier to bear.
“It wasn’t all terrible.” It was important to him that Crow understand this. “There were lovely moments as well, yeah? A hot potato and pea soup and coffee with sugar when I’d a few coins to my name. A friendly grope with someone like-minded, perhaps even sharing a bed for a few hours and waking up warm with another body’s heat. Nicking a fogle and someone chasing me, but I ran faster, and even after they’d given up I still kept running because I could , and it felt as if nobody in the world could stop me. It felt like flying.”
“Your moments of joy,” said Crow, clearly remembering conversations they’d had in the past.
“If I’d grown up under different circumstances, I wouldn’t be the man I am. Dunno if that would be for the better?—”
“I like the man you are.”
Simeon led Crow to a relatively quiet spot on Old Nichol Street, between a crumbling brick wall and the recessed entrance to a half-cellar flat. While Crow stood, keeping guard with a delightfully belligerent expression, Simeon closed his eyes and tried to get some sense of where Bran Frugis might be. After all, Simeon had been able to find land, to find Crow in Illinois, to find the Frugis house in Mayfair. Why couldn’t he find his brother?
He concentrated hard, like trying to flex a muscle he couldn’t quite feel, but nothing happened.
When he opened his eyes, all of the rotting tenements were gone, replaced by flower-dotted grass and, in the distance, small fields of some sort of grain and a handful of stone huts with thatched roofs. He blinked. Now brick buildings loomed nearby again, but although they were marred with graffiti here and there, they looked sound overall. The muddy cobbles had been replaced by asphalt. A small red car with a black roof was parked a few yards away, and a siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
“What the fuck!” Crow shouted.
Simeon blinked again, feeling dizzy, and discovered Crow gaping at him. “What the fuck ?” Crow repeated, this time more quietly.
“Wh-what?”
“Did you see that?” Crow reached over and tapped the nearest wall as if to make sure it was truly there. To make sure they’d returned to Victorian-era London.
Although Simeon blinked a few times, his vision remained stable. “Everything… shifted?”
They stared at each other for a few moments.
“That… that was weird, right?” asked Crow, shaking his head. “Even for us?”
“That was weird. So now I’m even more confused, and I’ve no idea where Bran is. If he’s anywhere. I tried to locate him and it didn’t work.”
The rain had stopped, although the air was still damp. He was damp too, and Crow must have been as well. “Let’s go to the foundling home, yeah?” He didn’t expect to find any information there, but at least it was a destination, and that seemed better than skulking here and waiting for his vision to tilt again.
The structure that had been the foundling home was still there, hulking and dark, as if it were immune to the day’s weak sunlight. Part of the roof had collapsed, the windows gaped without glass, and the door was boarded over with planks, now half-rotted.
“It was meant as a kindness,” said Simeon, staring up at where his dormitory had once been. “Better than letting babies simply die. I reckon the staff did the best they could by us, most of the time. But there were so many of us, and….” He stopped, his throat thick .
He remembered rooms full of infants wailing—and then not wailing anymore because they fell ill or learned that there was no use in it. He remembered vast halls with shuffling feet and constant coughing, a chapel with hard wooden pews, narrow cots that smelled of urine. He remembered being cold and alone even though he was always surrounded by countless other children. He remembered no hope except for the vague dream of a decent apprenticeship.
“Bells,” he said. “I fancied the church bells when I could hear them. I felt as if they were speaking to me on account of my name. Sometimes I’d sing back to them.”
Crow stood close but not quite touching.
“It was better than the workhouses; children simply died in those hells. And it was easier, I expect, for those of us who never knew our parents. Some of the others were given up later, you see, and to go from a home—any kind of home—to this….” He waved his hand toward the building.
“You survived this,” Crow said. “You became a good, strong man. A remarkable man. And a rook.”
Fortified by these words, Simeon turned to look at him. “I escaped my cage.” He nodded to himself. “There’s nothing for me here. Let’s go find some lunch, yeah?”
They walked some distance to a slightly nicer part of the city, where they bought meat pies and beer, and Simeon played tour guide while they ate. Crow was curious about everything—the unfamiliar foods, the shops, the clothing, the vehicles. He shuddered at dead animals lying in the gutters and grinned at women’s fanciful hats. When they strolled all the way down to the river, Crow gawked at the small bit of the Tower that was visible behind the walls .
“We could pay to look inside,” Simeon offered. “I’ve never been.”
“Do you want to?”
Simeon considered, but when he looked at the entrance, he saw a raven perched there, seemingly watching them. “Not today.”
They walked down to the river itself, and Simeon had another brief spell of dizziness. He saw a tall bridge with two towers, spanning the river where no bridge ought to be. Beside him, Crow made a strangled sound. Then the bridge disappeared and several small boats sailed past as if it had never been there.
“I think,” Simeon said, as if nothing unusual had happened, “that if we’re going to be walking about in the rain, we ought to have better coats and hats. I spent enough years in this city sopping wet.”
“Sounds good to me.”
But since they didn’t have enough money to throw it around blindly, they rode the Underground to Covent Garden—a journey that Crow seemed to enjoy very much—and from there walked to Monmouth Street, where dusty-looking shops crowded on either side of the narrow brick pavement. In the windows, clothing hung on racks and hooks while jewelry, shoes, and household items had been arranged on shelves.
“Broker’s shops,” Simeon explained. “Secondhand goods for sale. I came here now and then when I was especially flush.”
“Yeah, I get it. I’ve done my share of shopping in thrift stores.”
Another thing that Simeon admired about Crow was that he wasn’t repulsed by poverty and didn’t think any less of Simeon just because he’d grown up poor. Crow’s family had been quite hardscrabble by twentieth-century American standards and, according to the tales he’d told, he’d spent most of his adult life with his pockets empty.
They strolled for a few minutes, dodging pedestrians and peering into windows, until Simeon chose one shop simply because the door was painted bright violet, which he found amusing. The interior was almost uncomfortably warm, the close air smelling of wool and dust, the floor creaking under their tread. If there was any organizational scheme for the racks and piles of clothing, Simeon couldn’t discern it. After a few minutes spent looking helplessly for what he and Crow needed, he nearly gave up.
“May I help you?” A woman’s voice, with an American accent, came from the back of the shop.
Simeon couldn’t see the speaker. Couldn’t see anyone else in the shop at all except for Crow, who was currently poking, with a bemused expression, at a feathered hat.
He called back. “We’re looking for coats for each of us, ma’am. For the rain. And hats.”
“Of course you are. Wouldn’t want you to catch your death.” The unseen woman cackled.
“Could you, erm, help us find something suitable?”
“You two. Always wanting help finding things.”
Simeon and Crow exchanged puzzled looks. Then footsteps approached and the woman appeared from behind two towering shelves, causing them to gasp in unison.
“You!” Crow exclaimed.
“I think it’s the educational system nowadays. It doesn’t teach anything useful and then you end up needing assistance for even the simplest tasks. You’re lucky that the two of you are so interesting nonetheless.”
The woman appeared to be barely in her twenties. Her dark, curly hair was arranged in elaborate twists around her head, and she wore a blackberry-colored dress of satin and velvet with lace trim in a paler hue. “Oh, I know it’s too fancy for tending a broker’s shop,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “But I’m very fond of it. Not so much the bustle, though. I keep bumping into things, and it’s not very comfortable when I sit.”
The last time they’d seen her had been in the 1980s at a very strange library in Oregon, where she’d led Crow to a helpful book and then fed them hot drinks and snacks in her kitchen. She’d been dressed very differently then, but Simeon was positive it was the same person. Judging from the way Crow was gaping, he thought the same.
“But you’re….” Simeon wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.
“You can call me, oh, how about Clara? Yes, I like that. And let me tell you, after a while a girl gets bored of the same-old same-old. But then you guys came along and you’re something entirely different, and isn’t that fun? So maybe I get a little more involved than usual. Or maybe way more involved than usual.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.
A realization hit Simeon. “Did you drop that box at the carnival?”
Clara laughed. “You caught me!”
“But why? And where did you get it? And what am I to do with it?”
She rolled her eyes. “Already told you why. Entertainment value. Where? I found it around. I’m good at that.” She lifted her arms to indicate the entirety of the store’s stock. “And as for what you’re supposed to do with it, that’s for you to figure out, not me. I just kinda moved things along a little bit.”
“What things ?”
“All the things. The interesting things. The important things.”
Crow growled softly, clearly sharing Simeon’s frustration. But it was no use pressing her for information she didn’t want to give, and Simeon had the distinct impression that making her angry would be a very bad idea.
Still, he couldn’t do nothing . “There’s a prediction that I might destroy my people. Or perhaps my brother might. If he’s still alive.”
“Might, might, if,” she sang. “Possibilities cubed. Hard to make any plans if you worry too much about that. You should listen to what your pal Walt has to say about it all: What will be will be well, for what is is well, To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well .”
“That’s awfully fatalistic,” said Crow, and when Clara grinned and raised her eyebrows at him, he sighed and shook his head. “Right,” he muttered.
Clara came closer, grabbing an overcoat from a rack along the way. “You want some good advice? Listen to Horace. Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint…. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero .”
“I don’t speak Latin,” Simeon said patiently. “Wasn’t posh enough to learn it in school.”
“Just as well, seeing the ways you people have twisted and bent the poor old thing. It means don’t try to figure out the future. Instead, focus on the present and do your best to improve what comes.”
That was, he thought, not so different from what Lydia had said shortly before he and Crow left. She claimed that she and Edwin had decided to ignore the bloody prophecy and do what they thought was right instead.
While Simeon considered this, Clara shoved the coat into Crow’s arms. Then she briefly disappeared behind a shelving unit before reappearing with another coat, which she gave to Simeon.
“Crow, yours is old-fashioned but it used to belong to Shelley—don’t worry, he didn’t drown in it—and it’ll be a good fit. Simeon, yours came from someone you’re acquainted with, sort of. And hmmm…. Yes, he’s still a young man right now. He manages the Lyceum Theatre. Anyway, these will keep you dry.”
Before Simeon could manage a response—and he honestly didn’t know what that response might be—she vanished again into the depths of the shop. After exchanging a bewildered look with Crow, Simeon shrugged and put on the coat. It was good quality lightweight wool, perfect for the season, and it fit well. The cuffs were a little worn and one button was missing, but neither of those things concerned him.
As it turned out, Clara had been right about Crow’s coat as well, and although the cut was antique, the item had clearly been very expensive at one time. Crow looked very nice in it too, which Simeon demonstrated with a leer.
Clara came back with a pair of homburgs, one in each hand. “These are brand new!” she announced brightly.
Crow looked slightly horrified. “Oh, no. No way.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Clara said. “You’d look really weird around here with a John Deere baseball cap. Although Deere himself is still kicking, back in your home state.”
Simeon plunked one of the homburgs onto his head. “Would you rather a top hat, love?” he teased.
Clara reached up to straighten Simeon’s hat. “Nah, rain’s no good for top hats. They’re usually made of silk. You know, I can picture your man in a nice Stetson, but that’s going to get you stared at.”
Apparently feeling ganged up on, Crow frowned and wore his homburg with poor grace. He did look lovely nonetheless.
“How much do we owe you, miss?” Simeon asked. They needed to get out of here before Clara sold them things they didn’t need or Crow threw a tantrum. Besides, he was footsore and tired. As far as he could tell, he was no closer to finding his brother and doubted he’d get more aid from this quarter.
“It’s a gift. Because you two are entertaining. Oh, but hang on. I have one more thing for you.” This time she reappeared with a cloth satchel, which she handed to Simeon. Whatever was inside was solid and a little heavy. “When you get a chance, make sure you take a really close look at those.” She winked.
She walked them to the exit, her skirts whispering secrets as she moved, and opened the door for them. “Good luck, boys. I mean it. Beware the Jubjub bird.”
“The what?” Simeon asked.
Clara just laughed and ushered them outside.
It was raining again, this time harder, and although the coats and hats helped a lot, they did nothing to relieve Simeon’s exhaustion. When they walked down the street to Seven Dials, a tall white pillar stood in the middle of the circular junction, and the whole area suddenly looked nicer than he was used to; even the pubs seemed more respectable. He blinked and everything was back to normal: no pillar, shabby buildings, shabbier people. But when he blinked again, the pillar was back, the surroundings were cleaner and less crowded, and a small silver car idled alongside a theatre advertising something called “Matilda: The Musical.”
“Simeon,” Crow hissed.
“I know.”
The pillar, theatre, and car disappeared, leaving a grubby man and woman quarreling a few feet away. Simeon staggered and would have fallen if Crow hadn’t caught him. “Let’s go find a room,” said Simeon, knowing he sounded a bit desperate.
“Do you want to go back to the Frugises?”
“No.”
Simeon thought for a moment, not an easy task with his head feeling fuzzy. There were cheap rooms for let near his old neighborhood. He’d stayed in them now and then when he could afford to. But even back then he’d realized how squalid they were, and he didn’t want to subject Crow to that. He didn’t want to subject himself, for that matter. And today he and Crow were relatively wealthy, especially since they hadn’t needed to pay for their coats and hats. Besides, hadn’t Clara advised them to focus on the present? Well, at present he wanted something posh.
He steadied himself and tried on a grin. “Off to Regent Street, love.”