Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
I t was another warm day, and damned if Simeon was going to spend it cooped up indoors, waiting for Bran to return just so they could fight again. He did argue with Crow, though, because Crow wanted him to stay put in case he started disintegrating again. But Simeon argued that remaining in their room wouldn’t stop that. And if he was going to fall apart, he’d rather do it under the London sky than in Mrs. Plank’s lodging house.
Crow did give in eventually, but of course he glowered mightily as they made their way down the pavement. Which wasn’t such a bad thing, really, since it discouraged people from bothering them.
They wandered as if Crow were a tourist and Simeon his guide. Simeon showed him some of the places from his own history: buildings where he’d lodged, pubs where he’d drunk, alleys where he’d snuck away with a willing partner for a quick grope-and-suck. Crow didn’t seem put off by any of it.
They snacked as they went: oysters, hot eels, meat pies. They even came upon a man selling ices from a cart and they each had one. “I never feasted this well when I lived here before.” Simeon patted his stomach. “What would you fancy now, love? We could visit a molly house. Nobody there would mind if you and I sat close.”
“Is a molly house a gay bar? You have those?”
“I’ve told you before: your century didn’t invent queers.”
“I guess not. But anyway, I don’t think I’m in the mood for that.”
Simeon wasn’t surprised. Crow preferred to do his drinking and wooing more privately. “Culture then? We could take the tube to the British Museum.”
Crow looked horrified. “What happens if we’re riding underground and you flash back to before they built the tunnels?”
Oh. Simeon shuddered at the idea. “We could take a cab then.”
But just as he finished speaking, one of his spells hit. This time he saw low, grassy swells with a rough timber structure in the distance. Some figures were moving, and he thought they might be human, but before he could tell for sure Crow shook him and they were back on Whitechapel Road. Simeon collapsed, landing hard on his arse.
For once, Crow didn’t say anything. He merely stood there, on guard, until Simeon felt well enough to ask for a hand up. “That was a long time ago,” Simeon managed.
“I keep waiting for you to take us far into the future where we see something horrible. Like the Statue of Liberty wrecked on a beach.”
Simeon gave his head a shake. “What are you on about?”
“The Statue of Liberty. It’s this huge thing in New York—or, um, maybe will be a thing. I’m not sure when it was built. Anyway, they made a movie about these astronauts who crash, and they think they’re on a distant planet, but really—” Likely noticing Simeon’s confusion, Crow stopped. “Never mind. ”
They slowly made their way back to Mrs. Plank’s. Along the way Simeon shifted in time again—back only fifty years or so, based on the clothing—and although it was only a flicker lasting a few seconds, he could barely stand afterward. “I feel as if I’m being eaten from within,” he said plaintively, leaning on Crow’s arm.
Grim-faced, Crow led him back to the rooming house.
Once inside their room, Crow insisted on stripping Simeon and tucking him into bed. “You feel sort of feverish,” he said, holding a palm to Simeon’s forehead.
“Like when I had consumption,” Simeon agreed. “Can’t hold on to a solid thought.”
Crow smoothed Simeon’s hair. “Don’t try. Just rest. When you feel better, we’re going to come up with a plan to fix this.”
Simeon thought there was something fundamentally American in the conviction that all problems could be solved if one simply applied ingenuity and sheer will.
Although there were plenty of machines now, in 1883, it was nothing like what it would be in a century. Simeon had seen them, machines for everything: To transport you faster. To build things without human labor. To cook your food, wash your clothes, clean your floors. To entertain you. Simeon didn’t disapprove of any of these things; he simply wished he had a machine as well. To travel in time. If he used a device to travel—instead of the powers he’d inherited from his parents—he could turn the bloody thing off and get some peace.
A device.
“Love?”
Crow had been sitting on the edge of the mattress, combing fingers through Simeon’s hair, a habit they both enjoyed. But now he paused. “Yes?”
“The box that Clara dropped at the carnival—could you fetch it for me? It’s in that hidden pocket in my trousers.” Simeon had almost forgotten about the box, which was stupid, considering that was what had started this entire adventure.
Crow must have decided it would be quicker to comply and see what Simeon wanted with the thing rather than interrogate him. He rooted around in the trousers for a few moments before making a small triumphant noise and delivering the box to Simeon.
Nestled in his palm, it seemed small and insignificant. It weighed almost nothing, and the engraved F and feather image were nearly worn away. If he’d stolen this from someone, he would have taken it to Mrs. Leonard’s dolly-shop but would have been pleasantly surprised had she given him even a ha’penny for the thing.
He was older now, wiser to the ways of the world, but he still sensed nothing special about it. No mystical aura. He couldn’t even open it.
Disappointed, Simeon let the box drop onto the mattress. “I had a notion that perhaps this was responsible for my time travel.”
“That would make sense. You discovered your power around the same time you found the box.”
“Aye, but just because two things occur together doesn’t mean one caused the other.”
Crow snorted. “You sound like Miss Kovac.”
“And who was that, love?”
“My high school science teacher. She was good. I even sorta paid attention in her class sometimes. She’d do experiments that made things blow up, or she’d have us figure out our horsepower by running up and down the hallways. Once she did a laser light show.”
Simeon, loathe to interrupt what seemed to be a fond memory, didn’t ask what that meant .
Still smiling, Crow continued. “She taught us about the scientific method. I, uh, don’t really remember much of it. Except she used to repeat a phrase: correlation does not mean causation.”
Of course Simeon had never had a science teacher, but after a moment of puzzling out the meaning of Miss Kovac’s motto, he nodded. “Exactly. So perhaps the box has nothing whatsoever to do with time travel. Or perhaps both the box and the time travel are related to some third thing. Which isn’t at all what I’d hoped.”
There was a sudden sound of flapping wings as a rook landed on the floor close to the open window. He changed to his human shape, gathered his clothes, and started to put them on. “What box?” he asked as he buttoned his trousers.
Crow answered first. “None of your business.”
“I do believe it is my business, seeing as how I’m mixed up in it. Through no fault of my own, I should note.” He sounded smug and widened his eyes in false innocence as he fastened his shirt. But he did have a point.
“It’s this,” said Simeon, holding up the box.
Bran couldn’t see it well from across the room—although he might have, had he remained in bird form—so he came over to peer at it. As he reached for it, Simeon pulled it away.
“That’s Mother’s!” Bran exclaimed.
Not exactly shocked by this news, Simeon struggled into a seated position, Crow adjusting the pillow behind him. “You recognize it?”
Bran’s gaze was far away. “I… yes. She would sit me on her lap before bedtime and let me hold it while she sang to me.”
Trying to ignore a bitter stab of envy, Simeon said, “What is it, then?”
“I don’t… don’t know. I was so young. But I know the so ng.” He paused a moment, cleared his throat, and began in a clear sweet voice:
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
When he finished, they all remained silent for a bit, until Bran sighed. “I learned much later that it’s in fact a poem, written by Longfellow. She might have made up the tune herself. She liked to sing.” He looked down and away.
“You have a really nice voice,” said Crow, who didn’t often give compliments. “So does Simeon.”
Bran stared at Simeon as if noticing him for the first time. Perhaps he was surprised to learn they had this thing in common. Simeon suspected that skilled singing might be a consequence of being two-natured, but he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked the Frugises about it.
“She sang to you as well,” Bran said very quietly. “We all did. You… when it was time for you to sleep, you never wanted to. Father said you didn’t want to miss out on anything. They would put you in the cradle and you’d scream so loudly! We’d sing until you fell asleep.”
Simeon was not going to cry. He’d done enough of that lately. It didn’t help that Crow was blinking rapidly, his eyes shiny. “Are those good memories for you, Bran?” asked Simeon, his throat raspy.
“Yes.”
“I believe that those things—Crow calls them my moments of joy, yeah?—they sustain us. When life is unpleasant they feed our souls.”
Bran nodded slowly, and for the first time Simeon felt the connection, the kinship, he’d been hoping for. He gave Crow a quick apologetic glance because they hadn’t discussed this. And then Simeon held out the box. “If she let you play with it, it’s yours, I expect.”
“Thank you,” croaked Bran, who had tears tracking down his cheeks. He took the box gingerly and laid it on his palm.
And the box opened.