The Hunchback Assignments (17 page)

Prince Albert patted Oppie’s hand, gave him a conspiratorial wink, and turned to face the man. “Where are my companions?”

“They’ve been released into the wild.”

“Well, Mr. Fuhr, I demand, in the name of Queen Victoria, that you release me, and my acquaintance here, at once.”

Fuhr’s laugh made Oppie’s stomach turn. He yanked desperately on the remaining straps that held him down.

“You are not allowed to leave yet,” said Fuhr as he stepped nearer. The prince swung feebly, and Fuhr caught his hand mid-swing and squeezed. There was an audible
crack
and the prince dropped to his knees.

“Release me!” he exclaimed, in agony. “I’ll ask the authorities to be as lenient as possible with you.”

Fuhr lifted him up with one hand and set him on the table. The prince grimaced, holding his arm.

“Don’t you move, either, boy,” Fuhr said, glaring menacingly over at Oppie. “Or I’ll pluck both your arms off.”

Oppie stared wide-eyed. The doctor entered, holding calipers and two flasks, while peering through a thick monocle that magnified his eye.

“Oh, wakefulness in both of you. I must adjust the amount of chloroform,” he said, shaking his head.

“What have you done to us?” the prince demanded. “It’s abominable.”

“Tut-tut, you do not understand. You’ll soon be the heart of a giant.”

“Are you insane? I won’t drink that loathsome liquid again.”

“You will,” Fuhr said, seizing a flask and squeezing the prince’s wrist until he gasped with pain, and drank it, a little of the potion burbling down his chin. Prince Albert shook slightly and his eyes glazed over.

The doctor turned to Oppie with the second flask. “Ah, young master. You shall drink your share, too. But because you are not yet fully grown the potion shall change both your body and mind. Don’t look so afraid. As I recall, you liked my little sparrow. Well, you will become just like that sparrow, except you will be a little god who never tires. And all the little gods and the little prince will become one god. Do you see? It’s so simple.”

The words were gibberish to Oppie. Seeing he had no choice, he drank the liquid without a fight. It prickled his throat going down, yet it had a sweet aftertaste. Soon he felt himself floating, as though on a mound of cotton. In a short while he fell asleep.

Sometime later he awoke, throbbing everywhere. Try as he might, he could not move as much as his little toe.

“Sit up,” a woman said, sweetly. His body responded automatically. “Look at me,” she said, and he turned, first seeing that the prince was gone, then laid eyes on the red-haired woman who sat on a stool next to him. She offered a flask. “Drink this.” He didn’t want to reach for it, but his hand did anyway, and a moment later the liquid was hot in his throat. He trembled and tears formed. He writhed madly, all the while catching glimpses of his body. His muscles were beginning to bulge; his skin produced mottled, hairy patches. A controlled anger grew in his heart, making him stronger.

When he had stopped convulsing, the woman said, “Finally. You are the last one. We’ve saved a good compartment for you, near the heart. Follow me.”

He jumped off the table, unable to resist her instructions, and followed her into a larger room. As he passed the desk he noticed a clockwork sparrow among the papers. Its eyes seemed to mock him.

M
odo felt a poke on his shoulder and opened his crusty eyes to find Mr. Socrates standing next to the bed, impatiently tapping his walking stick. “Time to rise.”

“Did you bring me tea, toast, and boiled eggs?”

Mr. Socrates laughed. “I see your sense of humor has woken along with you. You’ll be on your own for breakfast.”

Modo read the clock on the desk. “It’s half-past six. I’ve hardly slept.”

“It’ll have to do. Two more members of the government have been attacked. One was killed.”

“I know. It’s awful.” He expected Mr. Socrates to blame him because he’d forgotten the names of some of the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. But instead, Mr. Socrates raised an eyebrow.

“You know?”

“Mr. Gibbons told me last night.”

“Do
not
talk to members of the association without me. You are my agent. Do you understand?”

Modo nodded, and then, as if to lighten the mood, Mr. Socrates smiled and gave him a friendly tap with his walking stick. “I know I’ve been pushing you these past few days, but we have to move quickly. The queen is sequestered in Buckingham Palace, under constant guard. She’s devastated that her grandchild, Prince Albert, is missing. The Parliamentarians are behaving like frightened rabbits. If the Clockwork Guild’s goal was to inspire terror, they’ve succeeded. With the names you’ve provided we should be able to prevent any further damage. We hope to discover where Hakkandottir and her accomplices have secluded themselves. Then they’ll feel our wrath.”

“I understand.”

“You and Octavia will explore the ruins of that burned-out house. I’ve read the chief officer’s report; it wasn’t thorough. Are you rested enough to transform?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do what you can with your appearance and get dressed. Octavia will arrive any minute.”

After his master left, Modo got up, his bones creaking. The bandages on his arm were dry, and when he peeked below he was pleased to discover that the scrapes had scabbed over. He willed his body to change, picturing the knight—the face he had put on around Octavia before. It took him a minute to straighten his eyes and lower his ears. Truthfully, he was too tired, but he imagined being able to laugh and talk freely with her. He concentrated until his
new face took shape. It was handsome enough, though his eye was still red where Hakkandottir had poked it.

Then he worked on the rest of his body, but the harder he tried to transform, the more his facial features would melt away. He gave up on his body, leaving himself only a little taller and less hunched over, preferring to keep his face perfect. Clothes had been left on a nearby dresser, so he pulled on a gray vest, jacket, pants, and gloves, choosing a camlet cloak to cover it all. He went downstairs.

In the kitchen, he found two peeled boiled eggs in the icebox and shoved them in his mouth, washing them down with a cup of cool tea. He made his way to the library, and looked up at the curved rows of books. If only there were time to read. He doubted he’d find any
Varney the Vampire
tales or other penny dreadfuls, but it would be fun to read Shakespeare again. After some searching, he found a row of Shakespeare’s plays and opened a copy of
Hamlet.

“Oh, you can read, can you?”

Octavia stood in the archway wearing a striped green dress. Modo needed his hearing checked; how had she crept in? The fabric of her long, full skirt shimmered, the light playing over it in such a way that she could have stepped out of a stereoscopic image. He couldn’t help staring.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “I can read.”

“Well, congratulations, Modo.” She floated over and grabbed the book from his hands. “Ah,
Hamlet.
He’s too much of a gabber, that boy. Wouldn’t survive a second in our world.”

“It’s Shakespeare!” He raised a hand as though on the
stage. “‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt/Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!’ See! It’s marvelous!”

“Marvelously boring. Though there is a good sword fight at the end.”

He snatched the book back and returned it to the shelf. “I see there’s no point in arguing,” he said, jokingly. It felt so good to have her eyes on him.

“Did you shrink in the wash? You look shorter.”

“Hardly!”

“Well, something’s changed about you. But we should go, our chariot awaits.” She gave Modo an appraising glance. “I do say, in that getup you look a little like you could be my servant. Will that be the game we play today?”

“Yes, my lady!” He gazed at her perfect face.

“Good.” She waltzed out of the house. Scampering after her, Modo grabbed one of Mr. Socrates’ walking sticks from the bin beside the door, deciding it would make him look more sophisticated.

Octavia climbed gracefully into the cab, despite her dress’s large bustle. It took up so much of the seat, however, that Modo had to squeeze against his armrest. He reveled in her flowery scent.

“We’re waiting,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the address of the house.”

“Oh, yes,” Modo said. “Twenty-two Balcombe Street.”

“Don’t tell me, tell the cabbie.”

“Twenty-two Balcombe Street, please!” he said a little louder.

“Righto!” The reins snapped and the horses cantered down the wide, curved driveway. When they reached the street, each stone and rut jarred Modo’s rib.

“We’re living in some very strange times,” Octavia said.

“I’ll say. The murders are terrible.”

“Oh, that, of course.” She waved her hand as though she encountered such intrigue every day. “I was referring to us meeting again. It’s a pleasure.”

“It is?”

“Yes, well, Mr. Socrates talks about this shadow organization we belong to as if there’s a great network of spies like us, but you’re the only agent I’ve ever met more than once. So that’s the pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“Of course it is.” Something about the tilt of her head made him blush. She was looking at his face and seemed to like it. “I do find it peculiar that Mr. Socrates is sharing so much information with us.”

“He has faith in our skills.”

She guffawed. “He only has faith in Queen and Country. I believe he’s become desperate.”

“He doesn’t get desperate. He’s acting with speed and good judgment.”

“Are you his agent or his parrot?”

“I’m not a parrot!” He gave her his best withering look and she responded with a grin.

“Well, any thoughts of your own?”

“Yes, of course. These … these young gentlemen have been poisoned with a tincture that makes them
automatons. That’s what I understand from speaking to Oscar Featherstone.”

“How exactly did you do that?”

“I walked into the Tower of London and interviewed him. In disguise, of course.”

She was silent for a moment. “That’s impressive.”

“You’ll find that I have many faces.” He couldn’t help chuckling at his own joke.

“So, you’re more than just a pretty face.” She paused. “I do wonder about these orphans, this business about them being larger, and stronger, and having bolts embedded into their shoulders. It’s so ghastly.”

“Why did you disobey Mr. Socrates’ order and try to take the girl to the hospital?”

“That sounds a little judgmental.”

“I’m just curious.”

“Truthfully, Modo? Because that girl was once me. She didn’t deserve to be part of such a cruel experiment. It’s happening because someone thinks she’s worthless. Being an orphan doesn’t make you worthless.”

You’re not worthless
, Modo wanted to say. He couldn’t imagine her ever being as sad and dreary as some of the poor children he’d seen. And Tharpa had once talked about how his father had been an untouchable. Never seen. Never missed. Was that what those children were?

“I want to bloody the nose of the person behind this,” Octavia said. “What’s the point of it?”

“Perhaps Mr. Socrates and his associates know. Last night I met several of them.”

“You did?” She patted Modo’s knee. “Tell me! Tell me!”

“Well, the men are all older than Moses.” She laughed and Modo grinned with delight. “There was a woman, too. Not a friendly sort.”

“Lady Artemis Burton, I’d wager. I met her once with Mr. Socrates. She’s a walking ice sculpture. Did you know they call themselves the Permanent Association?”

“How’d you discover that?”

“Oh, I keep my ears and eyes open. They chose their name because they want to bring order to the world and have Britannia rule it permanently. After all, the British way is the best way.”

“You sound doubtful.” He stroked the handle of the walking stick.

“Who am I to worry about that? Let the mucky-muck plutocracy stab one another in the backs. It’s richly entertaining!”

“What kind of attitude is that?”

“My own. You should try having your own.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, guvnuh.”

Modo snorted. She was the most exasperating person in the world! “Well, if you disdain them so much, why do you work for them?”

She gave a thin slice of a smile. “Because the job is a brilliant, exhilarating game.”

They passed near a park and Modo observed well-dressed boys and girls hitting a ball with a wooden mallet. One girl laughed with another and Modo felt envious. He’d never played games outdoors. “What are they playing?” he asked.

“Croquet,” Octavia said. “Haven’t you seen it before?”

“I’ve read about it.”

She went silent, so he turned his head to look at her and discovered that she was unabashedly staring at him. Panic struck his heart: Was his face changing? But then she said, “Only read about croquet in books? You’re an odd one, Modo.”

Before he could respond, the cab stopped with a jerk. “Here ye be!” shouted the cabbie. Modo climbed out and leapt from the last step to the street, getting a sharp twinge in his rib. Nonetheless, he offered a gloved hand to Octavia, who took it and elegantly descended from the cab. He liked how firmly she held his hand, and was sorry when she let it go. He dug in his pockets, but he had no money. Octavia smiled and paid the driver.

They walked through the front gate, which had been left ajar. The house was charred, and the lingering smell of smoke brought the events of two days earlier flooding back: the mad fear of being trapped in that chair like an animal; the flames leaping around his feet. The stone wall still stood, but the roof was gone. Judging by the scattered spoons, burned boxes, and broken chairs in the yard, scavengers had already been through the house.

“You’re stooping a bit, Modo. Are you unwell?” Octavia asked.

“It’s only an affectation.” He had been using the walking stick for support because his body was slowly twisting into its hunched shape. “People underestimate me, I find, if I behave like I’m crippled.” All the same, Modo straightened up.