Steadfast (26 page)

Katie could hardly believe the change in this place. The floor and walls must have
been scoured, because they were at least two shades lighter than she remembered, and
the colors of the striped wallpaper, though faded, were no longer shades of dull blue-gray.
There were a couple of homely braided rugs on the floor, and little bits of lace and
fabric hiding the battered surfaces of the tables and the worn upholstery of the chairs.
The gas stove gleamed. There were proper pans and dishes in the cupboard, and cans
and jars and paper packets of food stocked in the pantry. She peeped around the screen,
to see that the bed, which had not looked particularly inviting, had been made up
with pillows that had not been there before, and a pretty, faded counterpane.

“Mrs. Buckthorn!” she exclaimed. “This is
lovely!”

“Well, it was a mort’o work, but worth it, dearie,” the older woman said complacently.
“You just see that you keep it clean.”

“I will!” she promised, then listened carefully as Mrs. Buckthorn described the ways
and arrival of the milkman, what she was to pay him and how, and how to find the one,
lone little shop that supplied some of the basic needs of the men in the offices all
around her.

“There’s naught much choice, but if you forget something, at least you won’t be without
your tea for your egg-and-tea,” she said, and went on to show Katie where everything
was—and in the case of the boiler for the bath, how to use it. For water for washing
up, there was a teakettle; the sink would scarcely hold more than a pan, a dish, and
a teacup, after all.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” the housekeeper said, the look on her face showing
that she was satisfied with Katie’s gratitude. She let herself out, and Katie set
about putting her own few bits in place.

A fancy embroidered Chinese shawl went over one of the chairs to brighten it up. A
wooden stool was softened with a cushion. She got out her gown for tomorrow and hung
it up to hang out any wrinkles, and put her nightdress on the bed. Then she went about
the room, placing some of the little things that she had somehow acquired since she
had arrived in Brighton. Lionel had given her a little china Turk with a sword as
big as he was, and a pretty glass lamp that burned scented oil. Suzie had given her
lace panels she draped over the curtain-rod and the privacy screen, and one of the
fancy “boudoir-dolls” that you threw coconuts to win down on the Boardwalk. Jack had
given her a stone incense burner and a little iron pot she could keep a coal in for
a salamander to curl up around—and just today, several prints to hang on the wall,
of fanciful creatures and ladies in long, strange dresses, and a set of embroidered
silk scrolls from Japan and China of dragons and phoenixes.

For all that this was a little house, it was not as comfortable as Mrs. Baird’s boarding
house. And if it had been safe to stay there, she never would have left. There were
only four windows in the entire cottage, two at the front, and two at the back, at
either side of the front and back doors. She already knew how overshadowed the place
was.

But it was nice.

There was one place she hadn’t explored yet, and now that she had light and had found
the candles, she lit one and pulled a rag rug away from the middle of the floor. There
was a hatch there, with a recessed iron ring in it, and she pulled that up.

Why a former carriage house would have a cellar, she didn’t know. Maybe it had been
dug when the carriage house had been converted to a cottage. She probably wouldn’t
have known it was there if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Buckthorn, nor would she have had
an inkling of what to do with a cellar. But Mrs. Buckthorn said that, in lieu of an
ice-chest, a nice cool cellar was the best place to keep milk, cream, cheese, butter,
and other things that tended to spoil. So down the set of stairs Katie went, to see
what a cellar looked like.

Although it was much cooler than the house, she felt immediately claustrophobic, as
most Travelers were when confined within four walls. It had walls and a floor made
of reused brick, and the only thing down here was a sort of larder-cupboard painted
cream and yellow, with doors that looked as if they sealed when you latched them down.
She went to it and opened one side. There was a jug of milk there, and a smaller jug
of cream, both covered with muslin tied down around the tops tightly. There was a
pat of butter in a covered glass butter dish. And there were four fresh eggs in a
bowl.

On the other side, there was a bowl with bunches of grapes in it, another with four
fresh plums and four apricots, a third with four fresh tomatoes, a water glass with
a bouquet of cress, and another covered glass dish with wedges of cheese.

She clearly wouldn’t have to ask Mrs. Buckthorn to shop for her for at least four
days.

As she went up the stairs and shut the trap door, she was already planning breakfast.
She had just dropped it in place when she heard a tap at the door.

As she had expected, it was Jack and Lionel, with a basket. She blew out the candle
and set it on a little table that was there, and let them in.

“This is vastly improved,” said Lionel, handing her the basket. “I told you Mrs. Buckthorn
would work wonders.”

“You were right.” The basket clinked and was quite heavy; peeking in, she found beer
and lemonade bottles. “I think you are pulling a deception on me, however,” she continued
sternly. “I think the rent for this cottage is
much
higher than my room and board at Mrs. Baird’s. I’m not that ignorant that you can
gull me.”

“I think you should open bottles for all three of us, and we’ll explain,” said Lionel,
not looking the least repentant for his deception.

Since she obviously was not going to get any satisfaction from him until she did,
she took the basket to the sideboard, got three bottles open, and brought them all
to where the two men had settled into the two chairs, leaving her the lounge. She
handed each of them a beer and settled in with her lemonade. She had opened the windows,
front and back, and a warm breeze wafted in through the gauze curtains. Unlike Mrs.
Baird’s, it was so quiet you might have been on a village street in the countryside.

“We were not exaggerating when we said that having your Elementals running about the
boarding house could be very dangerous,” Lionel said, leaning back in the chair after
rearranging the cushions a little. “There are people who have just enough magic that
they can see Elementals under certain conditions—as you discovered. The problem is
that the Elementals are used to thinking they are invisible unless they choose to
be seen. A startled sylph—not such a problem. A startled brownie—simply runs and hides
in a mousehole. A startled undine or other Water nymph just vanishes. But a startled
Fire Elemental . . . sometimes starts fires.”

Her eyes widened, and she forgot to drink for a moment. “Oh . . .”

“Clearly leaving you there was not a good idea. We know you are saving for your divorce . . .”
he shrugged, and took a long drink from his beer. “I can afford this. I’ll withhold
what you were paying Mrs. Baird from your pay packet from my act, if you wish. And
believe me, although I would not take it for myself, should supplying this house to
you prove to be too great a strain on my budget, there are very, very rich Elemental
Masters in London that I shall not hesitate to contact.”

He looked down at his beer bottle and laughed a little. “Mind you, these are men who
would look at me in horror if they saw me
drinking from the bottle
instead of a proper lager glass. But I will say this much for them; they’re prepared
to support mages who are less well off than they are, even if they would rather not
socialize with us.”

Jack snorted. “That’s what we were talking about the other day. Nobs. Titles and money
or just money alone. They’ll spend that money on us because if they didn’t, we might
not be around to back them up when they need it.”

“Oh . . .” Now she understood. Well, not the
Tommy go away
reference, but in general what they were getting at. “But . . . don’t they get resentful,
like? And don’t they get taken advantage of, or think they might be?”

“Magicians are an odd and independent lot,” Lionel told her. “I don’t know what it
is about us, but we don’t like to be beholden. Maybe it’s because the Elementals often
don’t like owing favors, and some of that rubs off on us. Personally, I know I don’t
like feeling
paid for,
if you get my meaning. But in this case, it would be worth it to minimize the danger
to you and those around you. They are well used to providing in cases like this, and
they can not only afford it, they probably spend more on picnic hampers from Fortnum
and Mason than we would spend on this cottage.”

She nodded, satisfied. She wouldn’t deprive Lionel for the world—but her people were
well used to helping themselves at the expense of those who could afford it. Despite
their reputation, most Travelers didn’t steal, but they took pleasure in taking advantage
of gorgers—what they called the settled folk—who scorned them, when the occasion was
given.

She’d never had the occasion to be around anyone who was wealthy, much less with a
title. From the sound of things, she probably wouldn’t want to.

“Oh, they’re not bad,” Jack admitted. “Some of them are all-right chaps. They’re just
used to thinking of anyone that ain’t
them
as being someone that don’t exactly count for much.”

“Feh, enough;” Lionel waved the subject away. “Did Mrs. Buckthorn tell you how to
get to the hall from here?”

Mrs. Buckthorn had given her very exact directions, but they were ridiculously easy.
“It’ll take me a bit longer, but we aren’t exactly early risers, are we?” she chuckled.
“And I’ll make that up at night, not having to queue for a bath, not having to go
up and down all them stairs. And not layin’ there, listening to the girls going up
and down and chattering in their rooms to each other!” She shook her head. “What on
earth
do they have to talk about at all hours of the night?”

“Same things they chatter on about at the hall,” said Jack. “What they had for tea
and how cheap or dear it was, men, whatever new and objectionable thing they’re being
asked to do, because even if all it is, is to add a time-step to a routine, it’ll
be new and objectionable. Who might be keeping time with whom. Who has a fancy admirer
and whether or not the gel in question is likely to share in the bounty. What outrageous
new act just got introduced . . . you’ve listened, you know.”

She did know, and aside from the fancy admirers—there were no such thing in the circus—it
wasn’t all that different from the gossip at the circus, or, indeed, at the Fairs
that travelers met up at. The Fairs had been a tricky business; before Mary Small,
she’d been shunned by the Traveler folks, just as the Traveler folks were shunned
by people in houses. Her mother had done the unthinkable twice over; by running away
with and marrying a gorger man, even if he was practicing the same sort of life as
a Traveler, and by doing so against the will of her father. She’d lost her good name
in the Traveler community, and no one wanted to know her. But Katie’d always been
able to be unobtrusive and overlooked, and of course she was wildly curious about
these people who pretended not to know her mother and father, so she’d done a lot
of eavesdropping.

At least she had until it got boring. Once she’d realized how repetitious the gossip
was, it had gotten boring quickly.

“I’ve just never been able to understand how any of that is so important it needs
to be brought up again and again like a cow chewing her cud,” she said. Both men shook
their heads.

“We are mere males,” Lionel intoned. “Don’t ask us.” And at that she had to laugh.

It was so pleasant, just sitting here, in her own place, no worry of interruption
or fear that someone might overhear something they shouldn’t. The warm breeze carried
no foul scents on it as it might in other parts of the city—here the renovations to
this cottage and the buildings around it had added all the plumbing into the city
sewer system. Suzie had carefully explained the city sewer system, and the flushing
loo, and what you could and could not put down there, when she’d first come to the
boarding house, and when Katie had been in the cellar she’d seen the great brown pipes
that carried away the water—and other things—going down the side of one of the cellar
walls. That was a decent, cleanly system. Travelers were fastidiously clean, though
they were called “dirty gypsies” by house-folk. They had to be; they’d be sick constantly
if they didn’t scrub and clean everything in their caravans until it was shining,
and keep waste far away. The idea of a chamber pot made her a little ill. Keeping
that nasty business
under your bed
until morning when—and she had seen this!—if you were slovenly you might just empty
it out a window!

That there literally was no one around at this hour to note that she was entertaining
two men without a chaperone—unless you counted one of them as a chaperone—was a not
inconsiderable advantage as well. She didn’t want to get a reputation . . . or someone
might turn up at the door looking for something she was
not
going to give him.

But someone would likely notice when she left for the day . . . and she wasn’t exactly
going to be dressed in the mode of a respectable businessman’s wife. Nor was she going
to look like the invalid she was supposed to be. That could be a problem . . .

“Did you say you were going to hire ‘your wife’ some help, Lionel?” she asked, an
idea forming in her mind.

“I didn’t exactly say as much, but I did carry away some cards, why?” Lionel replied,
looking at her with his head tilted a little.

“I’m not exactly an invalid,” she pointed out. “And my gowns aren’t—” She shrugged.
“I don’t look like I’m married, nor to a prosperous man. But I reckon I could pass
for a servant-girl.”