Chapter 28
CHAPTER 28
S imeon slept well and awoke with pleasure to another mountain of food and a fresh opportunity to wash up. But after he’d attended to both of those matters, he began to feel restless, and the book, although interesting, didn’t help. He wasn’t accustomed to so much idleness. When he wasn’t working a regular job, he generally prowled the city in search of any opportunity to earn—or steal—enough to buy his next meal or a bed for the night.
This morning, though, he gazed out the little round window at the gray sky and the garden below, feeling exactly like a bird stuffed into a tiny cage. He couldn’t hear anything through the glass—or within the house itself—so to break the weight of the silence, he hummed to himself: hymns he’d been taught in the foundling home, songs he’d heard women singing while they worked, ballads belted out by men in the public houses, tunes he’d caught while loitering outside music halls. He was midway through a bawdy number about an oyster-seller when the door to the room was unlocked and opened .
“They’re ready for you downstairs,” said the maid. She looked nervous.
“The Frugises?”
“Yes.”
As usual, she refused to give him more information, but he supposed he’d find out as soon as he went down. He took a moment to make sure his hair was neatly tied back and his jacket straight, and then he followed her down the stairs.
He heard the sound almost immediately, first as a soft cloud of whispers like pigeons rustling in an attic, then louder as he descended, like a high wind rushing past buildings. What they never sounded like was voices, but that was what they must have been, because the maid took him to the open doorway of a large parlor stuffed with twenty or more people. They all turned to stare at Simeon.
He wasn’t normally a shy person, and his years in the foundling home had accustomed him to crowds. But this group made him pause and gnaw on his lip.
There were both men and women, and they all resembled the Frugises: tall, muscular, and handsome, with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes that shone in the lamplight. Every one of them wore black clothing with a touch of white: a ribbon, a lace edging, a shirt cuff, or a cravat. They weren’t smiling, but they appeared curious more than hostile.
One of them in particular caught Simeon’s attention—a young man, dressed like the others but with a particularly intense stare. Simeon was certain that he knew this man from somewhere, but he couldn’t place him at all, which was a bit maddening. Usually he was good at remembering people.
“Come here, boy.” Mrs. Frugis gestured to him from a small open space near the unlit fireplace.
Hoping that he looked more courageous than he felt, Simeon made his way to her and then stood as the crowd scrutinized him.
Finally, an older man standing close to Simeon cleared his throat. “He has the right look to him.”
“And he’s the right age,” added Mrs. Frugis.
But this didn’t seem to settle whatever matter was in question, because the staring continued. Sometimes someone would resettle their arms a bit or someone would cock their head, so that the entire assemblage reminded Simeon of a flock of very large, intelligent birds.
Simeon was at the end of his patience. “Would someone please explain? What is it you’re looking for?”
The young man stood abruptly, which seemed to startle the people sitting near him. “Why can’t you all just be straightforward for once? He’s just a boy and you’re confusing him. Simeon, my name is Bran. Do you know me?”
After a pause, Simeon shrugged.
This seemed to encourage Bran, who walked over to him. “Do you know the name Lewis?”
“There was a boy named that at the foundling home. I think they sent him off to the navy.” He’d been a quiet boy, prone to nosebleeds, and with mousy hair always in disarray.
“No, no. Never mind that. Look.” Bran took something from his pocket and held it out for Simeon to see. It was a small wooden box, entirely unremarkable. If Simeon nicked it, he wouldn’t get more than a penny for it from Mrs. Leonard. “Do you recognize this?”
Apparently the Frugises did, and they looked as if they very much wanted to snatch the thing away from Bran. But he held it out of reach of both Simeon and the Frugises.
“What is it?” Simeon asked.
Bran looked disappointed. “Never mind. Look, Simeon. There are so many things you must know. I am your brother, you see, and you are a rook. We all are, and that means?— ”
“You’re lying.” For some reason Simeon didn’t understand, he felt perilously close to tears. And he certainly didn’t want to cry in front of this lot. He backed away and would have run off if Mrs. Frugis hadn’t caught his arm.
“You’re far too old to be the other one,” said Mrs. Frugis sternly to Bran. “Who are you and how did you get here?”
“None of your business, you old bat.”
That wasn’t fair, Simeon thought. Mrs. Frugis wasn’t old and she was quite attractive, and besides, this was her house. She was also gripping his arm hard enough to hurt. He was bloody tired of being captured and dragged about, and he tried to break free but couldn’t.
Bran, meanwhile, was focused on Simeon. “Come away with me. We can go live in the countryside and I’ll show you how to fly. And you can help me before I disappear. Please, Simeon.”
The man was drunk or off his onion, possibly both. But then again, this entire lot seemed as if they’d stepped out of the Alice book. Nothing they did or said made any sense, including everyone’s interest in him, an East End boy of no account. Maybe he was imagining the whole thing. One of the older boys at the foundling home used to cower in the corners sometimes and claim that he heard voices yelling at him, and other times he told everyone that he was Jesus or the King of England. He’d disappeared suddenly, and rumors were that he’d run off and drowned in the Thames. Perhaps Simeon was like that now, with a mind as unreliable as the weather and as untrustworthy as a card sharp. The idea terrified him.
“Let me go!” Although he meant it as a demand, it came out as a plea. But that didn’t really matter because Mrs. Frugis ignored him. A lot of shouting and jostling had broken out between Bran and the other guests .
“Enough of this!” hissed Mrs. Frugis. “Edwin, help me with him. We’ll test him now and settle this for good.”
Mr. Frugis grabbed Simeon’s other arm. They dragged him toward the stairs, and although he struggled in earnest, they were far too strong. A torrent of words poured from him—threats, entreaties, pure nonsense—none of it having the slightest effect on his captors, who pulled him all the way to the top floor’s cramped and narrow hallway. The others followed behind. Bran seemed to be among them, but his protesting voice came from a distance, as if he were at the back of the crowd.
They reached a room with a single tall window. One of the guests rushed forward to fling the glass open and the Frugises propelled Simeon to the ledge, which was only shin-high. He was above the garden, which seemed impossibly far down. “No!” he wailed. “Please! Why are you doing this to me?”
Then, to his mortification, some of the guests stripped away his coat and shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. “This will make it easier for you,” hissed Mrs. Frugis, but Simeon didn’t understand that either. He was now too scared to speak; his throat felt so closed up that he could barely breathe; his heart was trying to escape the cage of his ribs.
Crow , he thought. But before he could try to understand what that meant, several hands hit his back hard, propelling him out the window.
For one split second, he felt free. As if all he had to do was stretch out his arms and they’d become wings, and he would fly away from all this madness.
Then he fell.
He felt his body break as he hit the ground, a pain so complete that the world ended. Except the world didn’t end, quite, because now he felt nothing at all. He stared up at the woolen sky, unable to move .
Bran appeared shortly after, kneeling beside him and sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You are a rook but you were too frightened, too surprised….”
Simeon struggled to fill his lungs. “Who’s… Crow?” he rasped. It seemed important. And somehow knowing that Crow wasn’t there with him and never would be was worse than knowing he was dying.
“I’m sorry,” Bran repeated.
Then Bran closed his eyes and