Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
I t was a foul morning, with icy droplets spitting out of a smothering sky and the air so thick that breathing was like inhaling cold porridge. Nonetheless, the older boys were marching in circles around the foundling home’s brick courtyard, and if one of them stopped, an attendant would step out from the sheltered overhang at the door and clout the boy until he resumed. Few of the boys bothered to resist.
In theory, the marching was meant to improve their health, but none of them believed that. There was nothing healthy about trudging in circles, cold and damp, with ragged clothes clinging to your body and your toes going numb. In truth, the exercise was meant to exhaust the boys so they wouldn’t create trouble, and it also prepared them for the military, where most of them would be sent when they were of age.
Simeon kept his eyes fixed on the narrow back of the boy in front of him and tried to think about better things. For example, yesterday had been Sunday and two posh women had come to teach the children hymns. Simeon didn’t care much for prayer, but he enjoyed the singing, and the women had given each child a boiled sweet. Simeon’s had tasted of strawberries, which had put him in mind of warm summer days and sticky-sweet fingers. Then he thought of other treats: candy apples and candy floss, fried dough covered in cinnamon sugar, fizzy drinks slurped through a straw. He was quite certain he’d never had any of these things, but he knew just how they would taste.
Eventually thoughts of food made his stomach growl, so he instead remembered the time last winter when a cough and fever had sent him to the infirmary. The nurse had given him a cot very near the coal stove, tucked him in with extra blankets, and ladled out cups of warm broth. Compared to the rest of the foundling home, the infirmary was clean and quiet. He’d prolonged his symptoms as long as possible and worked hard to charm the nurse, who had let him stay longer than necessary.
Then he thought of an even cozier place: a caravan painted bright colors inside and out, furnished with polished wood and silky fabric, and with a mattress tucked up into a loft where he could recline like a necklace tucked into a jewel box. The caravan smelled of tea. If he listened closely, he could hear music playing far away. This was a fantasy, not a memory, and it was a lovely one.
Then the boy in front of him stumbled and nearly fell, and Simeon almost tripped over him. One of the attendants yelled irritably from the doorway. Simeon fantasized an escape instead. He would sprout wings and fly away from this place. He’d go to the countryside and breathe clean air. He’d soar above fields and trees, and?—
“Bell! Simeon Bell! Come here.”
His first thought was that he was going to be punished. Then he saw a woman in a gray shawl talking to the attendant, and Simeon recognized her as Mrs. Deering, the director’ s secretary. Simeon had encountered her—or the director himself—only rarely and couldn’t imagine what she’d want from him. But he obediently trotted over, and the attendant gruffly said he should follow her.
“What’s this about, missus?” Simeon found it hard to keep up with her swift pace.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Why couldn’t adults simply explain themselves? He pictured pale people dressed all in black save for splashes of white, and women wearing purple dresses, and none of them being clear about anything—but he didn’t know where those images came from. His head was surely a mess, perhaps because he was so hungry.
They marched down an endless hall and then up a set of narrow stairs and down another hall that smelled of cigars. Finally Mrs. Deering opened the big double doors to the director’s suite. Simeon thought she would deposit him in the outer office where her desk was, but she brought him right through to the inner sanctum.
Mr. Thompsett sat in his big chair behind his massive desk. A flowing pewter-colored beard made up for the few strands of hair on his head. His ears were so remarkably huge that Simeon had been fascinated by them ever since he was very young.
“Here he is.” Mr. Thompsett addressed not Simeon but the man seated with his back to the door. The man twisted around to look, and Simeon gasped. He was young with a pale complexion and dark eyes and hair, and although Simeon had never met him before, he looked familiar. He also looked dreadful, as if he were suffering from some sickness. There was a fuzziness to his edges that made Simeon blink and feel dizzy.
“Well?” said Mr. Thompsett. “Is this the one? ”
The other man frowned. “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since he was an infant.”
“There is a notable resemblance between you. Boy, tell this gentleman your name and age.”
“I-I’m Simeon Bell, sir, and I’m eight years old.” He made an effort to speak like the director and the rich people who sometimes visited. The man spoke like that too.
“Do you know me, Simeon?”
The answer should be no. But instead of saying so, Simeon frowned. “You have the box.” He didn’t know what he meant by that. Then—again for no reason he could discern—he quoted a brief Bible passage that he didn’t recall learning. “My times are in your hands; deliver me from the hands of my enemies, from those who pursue me.”
The man inhaled sharply, then briefly closed his eyes as if in prayer. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “My name is Bran Frugis. I am your brother.”
And somehow, perhaps because the day had already been so odd, this didn’t surprise Simeon. “Oh,” was all he said.
Mr. Thompsett cleared his throat. “Normally we would require paperwork. But we are quite overcrowded at the moment, and I do see the family resemblance. Nobody else is likely to claim him, so you may take him home if you please.”
Simeon felt rather like a stray kitten or even a misplaced glove. But he was eager for any opportunity to escape this place, so he kept his mouth shut and tried to look humble and compliant.
“Collect your belongings,” said Mr. Frugis. Or Bran, he supposed.
“I haven’t any.”
“Very well.”
Mr. Thompsett walked them all the way to the home’s creaky front door. A few other children watched them pass, their eyes shining with envy because this was every foundling’s dream: the long-lost relative appearing and sweeping one away to a real home. To Simeon, the entire scenario felt unreal. There was something strange about this man, about… everything. Nevertheless, when they reached the door, Simeon took Bran’s offered hand and they walked out onto the street together.
“Where are we going?” Simeon asked after a few minutes. “Do you have a home somewhere? Is it nice? Is there food there? Are there other brothers and sisters? Parents?” He wanted to know everything instantly and the possibilities overwhelmed him. He was frightened and excited and confused all at once, which made his stomach feel funny. He wanted to yell out to all the people they passed: Look! I have a family! I’m not a foundling any longer.
Bran remained silent, his brow drawn in concentration, although Simeon didn’t know what he was concentrating on. Perhaps simply navigating through the crowded streets.
They’d gone perhaps half a mile when Bran came to a sudden stop, and since they were still holding hands, Simeon nearly fell. “Oh no,” Bran moaned.
Simeon couldn’t see what the problem was, but before he could ask, his vision shimmered and… the world changed. The street was still there but covered in a hard black substance, and odd-looking carriages rolled by without benefit of horses. There were shops now on the ground floor of buildings, the signs nearly incomprehensible and the windows displaying mysterious goods. And the people! None of them had hats, and men and women alike wore trousers made of a dark blue material. Their shirts—most of them with sleeves that ended above the elbows—were all sorts of colors, some with writing or pictures.
“Bran?” Simeon bleated, panic on its way to the surface. He tried to run away, but Bran held him fast.
“Just a moment,” said Bran. But his voice was thin, and he was… nearly transparent. Simeon saw the shapes of buildings behind him, the images hazy as if through dirty glass.
Then everything shimmered again and the street was back to normal, tiny droplets of rain stinging Simeon’s eyes and making pedestrians hunch their shoulders. Bran collapsed.
Simeon, terrified nearly out of his wits, considered running back to the foundling home—or simply running away. He could try to survive on his own somehow. But that would mean abandoning Bran, and while Simeon wasn’t at all certain who this man was, it didn’t seem right to leave him here. Besides, if Simeon ran now, he might never learn the truth of what was going on.
“Bran?” Simeon poked his shoulder and, when that brought no response, did it again, harder. Nothing. He was afraid that a carriage might come along and run them over, but Simeon was scrawny and undersized, and Bran was far too heavy for him to budge. He leapt in front of a passing man who was dusty despite the rain and who carried a heavy spade.
“Help me move my brother, please, guv,” Simeon pleaded.
“Your brother shouldn’t drink so much.”
“He ain’t swizzled. He has spells, you see. Ain’t his fault.”
The man looked dubious, but Simeon did his best to look pathetic, which wasn’t actually all that difficult. The man gave an aggrieved sigh and held out the spade. “Hold this. And if you run off with it, I’ll catch you and use it to clout you over the head.”
A part of Simeon wondered how much he could get for a spade at a dolly-shop and whether it would be enough to shelter and feed him for a bit. But he nodded at the man, watched him drag and prop Bran against the nearest wall, and then handed back the spade. “Thank you,” he said .
The man’s expression softened a bit. “You got parents, lad?”
“Just him.”
“Get him to a doctor. He don’t look well.” The man walked away at a brisk pace, likely on his way to work.
Simeon crouched, at a loss for what to do, until Bran’s eyes fluttered and then opened. “Simeon,” he croaked.
“What in bleeding hell was that?”
Bran blinked a few times before adjusting his posture so he was sitting more upright. He still looked dreadful, and the mud on his clothing didn’t help. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“I think I understand the problem. The gift is meant to be shared between us. If only one of us possesses it, he is tremendously powerful but the power drains him. So you must work with me, Simeon. Together we can accomplish so much.”
“You’re barmy,” Simeon said with a sigh. If this was his only family, he’d be better off in the foundling home.
“No, I’m not. If you’ll only let me explain.” Bran tried to stand but fell back with a moan. “Christ, you’re far too young, aren’t you? Perhaps I should fetch the other Bran instead. But… no. That was a disaster last time.”
“If you keep nattering on like this they’ll have you to Bedlam.”
Bran looked at him solemnly. “I’m sorry. I believe I shall need to try again.”
“Try what?”
“You know, I was envious of you. But now that I’ve seen what the foundling home is like, I realize I was relatively fortunate to be placed at the Castle. I wonder how you managed to survive so well.”
After that mysterious little speech, he closed his eyes.
Simeon, worried that Bran was having another fit, started to