‘You’re going about it the wrong way, Madame Appeline,’ said Zouelle suddenly.
‘Really?’ The Facesmith’s voice dripped incredulity.
‘Yes.’ There was a long and hollow pause, during which Neverfell looked from countenance to countenance and could read neither of them. ‘I understand Neverfell, you see. For Neverfell, it is as if other people are part of her. When she believes they are in pain, it hurts her, like a wound in a pretend limb. So right now she is in pain for all the people she saw in the Undercity.’
There was a pause. The countenances of Madame Appeline and the Putty Girls moved smokily and uncertainly from one expression to another, as though they were turning over this unfamiliar concept.
‘So . . . how do we remove this pretend limb?’ asked the Facesmith slowly. ‘How do we stop her feeling this?’
‘You can’t,’ Zouelle answered simply. ‘And she can’t shut it out. She, well, doesn’t seem to have any control over her own mind. So we have to cheer her up. We have to make her feel better about the drudges.’
‘I see.’ Madame Appeline sighed. She reached over and took hold of Neverfell’s hands, and smiled sadly into her face. ‘Neverfell . . . I know that you were very upset by everything you saw down there, but there are some things that you need to understand. Drudges are not like us. They thrive on routines and hard work, whereas luxuries and comforts do not really mean much to them. They do not really feel pain or fear, any more than stone bleeds or trembles when you chip it. A few of them play at having simple personalities, but it is nothing more than an act, like monkeys dancing.’
‘But . . . but that’s not true!’ Neverfell thought of Erstwhile’s mute, frustrated anger. ‘That’s what everybody wants to think. The drudges do feel – they just don’t have the Faces to show it. I hate it, the way they can only look calm and eager and willing to please, even when they’re watching each other die. It’s horrible. And I know why nobody teaches them more Faces. It’s just so that everybody else can pretend drudges aren’t real people. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘The Face training for the drudges is carefully considered,’ Madame Appeline answered swiftly. ‘What would happen if drudge children were taught unhappy Faces? They would grow up considering that they might be unhappy. They might look around and see unhappiness on each other’s faces, and their own unhappiness would grow. If they wear a happy face for long enough, on the other hand, they are much more likely to believe in the end that they really are happy. And there’s no real difference between being happy and believing you are happy, is there?’
Neverfell tried to untangle this in her head, but it writhed in her grip like a fistful of glisserblinds.
‘Yes!’ she blurted out. ‘Yes, there is! It’s different! It just is!’
‘I know that all this is hard to accept, but I am afraid you must. The drudges themselves accept their situation entirely, you know. And there is nothing that can be done to change it.’
‘You could change it,’ Zouelle announced, quite suddenly. ‘Couldn’t you, Madame Appeline? You could send down Putty Girls to give free Face training.’
There was a pause.
‘Pardon?’
‘You could, couldn’t you? And then if drudges could show their feelings better it would be harder for everybody else to treat them like moving dolls, wouldn’t it?’
Neverfell could feel her face brighten. Somewhere in her mind, the great, crushing waterwheel of despair slowed and shuddered, its blades gleaming with droplets in a newly dawning light.
‘Could you?’ she whispered. ‘Could you do that?’ It was small, but it was something. Zouelle was right. If everybody could be made to see the drudges as people, then perhaps everything could change. Hope began its usual puppy-bounce in her chest.
‘Miss Childersin,’ Madame Appeline answered in tones of silky annoyance, ‘I know that you mean extremely well, but there are strict rules controlling the Faces that drudges can be taught—’
‘Neverfell seems to like the idea,’ Zouelle interjected.
Madame Appeline glanced across at Neverfell, and performed a small double-take. Neverfell became aware that the eyes of everybody in the grove were now fixed on her face.
‘How long do we have to come up with a better solution?’ Zouelle asked in a tone of utter sweetness. There was a scuffle of hands reaching for pocket watches.
‘Half an hour,’ murmured Madame Appeline. The Facesmith gave Zouelle a glance which combined condescension, a touch of respect and the slenderest gleaming wire of annoyance, then strode over to Neverfell, cupped her chin in one hand and examined her face minutely. ‘True – the blot is not quite gone, but it is certainly a good deal better.’ After a long pause she closed her eyes and let out a sigh. ‘Very well. If that is what it takes, then I shall arrange these lessons somehow, but nothing must be said of this. Oh, Neverfell, what a strange child you are! Fancy becoming so obsessed with the drudges!’
‘You’ll give them sad Faces, then? And angry Faces? And rude Faces?’
‘One step at a time!’ Madame Appeline laughed, all kindness, and squeezed Neverfell’s hands. ‘Let us start with discontent. If we do not keep it simple, they will get their features in a knot and end up grimacing all day. Now, Neverfell, can I speak to you privately for a moment?’
Neverfell followed the Facesmith further into the grove and away from the others, among the glistening trees.
‘Neverfell . . . I wanted to apologize.’ Madame Appeline’s smile was sweet, rueful, and suddenly made her look a good deal younger. ‘I abandoned you in the exhibition room. That was very rude of me.’
‘No – it’s all my fault. I upset you. I didn’t mean—’
‘There was a child.’ The words were very soft, little more than a murmur. ‘The memory of that child has always haunted me. She . . . died.’
‘Oh.’ Neverfell bowed as a little boat of hopes sank quietly and without any fuss. The Tragedy Range had been Madame Appeline’s mourning for a lost child. A dead child. A child that was not Neverfell. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’
‘You talked about sensing a connection between the two of us,’ the Facesmith went on. ‘Perhaps that connection is shared loss. I lost that child. And you have lost . . . parents?’
‘Yes.’ Neverfell peeped shyly at Madame Appeline through her hair. ‘And I don’t even remember them. But when I look at the Faces from the Tragedy Range I feel like . . . like my mother is looking back at me. If . . . if she did look at me that way, she must have loved me, mustn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Madame Appeline, her countenance still and pure as snow. ‘With a fire beyond description.’ Their steps had led them in a circle, and they were drawing near to Zouelle and the others. ‘Well, perhaps it is good fortune that has brought us together, to be a comfort to each other. Would you like to visit again? We could talk sometimes, and play a game where I have found a long-lost daughter and you have discovered a secret mother . . .’
‘Yes – yes! I’d love that!’ Neverfell would have thrown her arms around the Facesmith if Zouelle had not commandeered her arm suddenly, and with painful firmness.
‘I need to take Neverfell back to the palace now,’ she declared. There was a curious edge in Zouelle’s tone that Neverfell did not quite understand. ‘She has to get ready for the great jelly-tasting.’
‘Of course. Goodbye, Neverfell. I’m sure I will see you again soon.’
Before Neverfell could say goodbye properly, she had been marched away by Zouelle, out of the grove and back into the reception room, and then the hallway beyond. The blonde girl’s fingers dug deep into her arm, and Neverfell remembered the urgency of the situation.
Once outside the Facesmith’s front door, Zouelle took a moment to let out a long slow breath.
‘Zouelle, you’re brilliant! You persuaded her to help the drudges – I wish I could just make things happen the way you do!’ Neverfell bounced forward to hug the other girl.
‘Stop it!’ To Ne
verfell’s shock, Zouelle shoved her away. The shrillness in her voice was almost panic.
‘What is it?’ Neverfell stared at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ The moment passed, and Zouelle donned a bright, gentle smile. No. 218, An Ode to Peppermint. ‘There’s nothing wrong. Sorry, Neverfell, Facesmiths just make me tense.’
‘Something’s happened!’ Neverfell scanned her friend’s face in vain for clues. ‘Did you find out something else? Did they catch you looking for the door? Is that it?’
‘No. Nothing like that. There’s nothing wrong. Can we just go? Please?’
Everything about the Face Zouelle was wearing told Neverfell that there was no problem, and that she herself was being silly in worrying.
She’s one of my best friends, thought Neverfell, and most of the time I don’t know what is going on in her head at all.
The Rending
During the carriage ride back, Neverfell was so tired, hungry and thirsty that she wanted to cry. She could feel her face crumpling with the exhaustion of it, in spite of all her efforts. When Zouelle spoke, her voice was a hum, a bumblebee mumble with the occasional word in it. Her mind kept flapping shut like a book.
‘Neverfell!’ She was jerked out of her stupor by her own name. ‘We’re back at the palace! Look – we’ve made good time. Go quickly and get some food before the Grand Steward calls you.’
‘Is my face—’
‘It’s fine. It really is. It’s much, much better. All mended. You don’t need to worry.’ Zouelle gave her a blindingly confident smile.
Neverfell hugged her quickly to hide her own expression. I know you’re lying, she thought. I know you’re lying to help me, so I won’t have worry all over my face.
Attendants led Neverfell back to the tasters’ district, where Leodora ran an eye of scrutiny over her.
‘Better,’ she muttered. ‘I think it’s better. Let’s hope it’s good enough. Come and eat! Quickly! You have half an hour!’
In the dining hall Neverfell drank several jugs full of water and forced down some fennel casserole with rice. She had barely finished when her escort arrived to take her to the Grand Steward’s tasting. It was larger and better armed than any that had accompanied her before. Clearly the Grand Steward did not intend to see his most prized taster stolen more than once. The horse might have bolted, but the stable door behind it was being very carefully secured.
I just have to get through the next three hours, she told herself, and then I can sleep as much as I like. She imagined the three hours as a space of rough gravel over which she had to hobble, and everything beyond it as rich, thick, kindly carpet.
Left-Eye watched as massive desserts were brought in on palanquins with the exotic pomp of eastern queens. His left fingers slowly tapped at the arm of his marble throne, and he gave long slow blinks to clear the crusts from his strange, glassy lashes.
His one eye glided over the glittering confections designed for his pleasure. The first was a mighty green jelly in a cone shape, from the apex of which burst a candied flower. The sugared roots of the plant could be seen winding their way down through the translucent jelly. The second was a castle three feet high fashioned entirely from sugar and crystallized fruits, complete with a tiny spun-sugar portcullis. Third came a vast cake covered in real gold leaf, and with crunchy pearls mixed in among the nuts.
Ash, said his mind. Ash and dull wool. He needed his new taster. He needed to see her taste these masterpieces so they became real to him.
Here she came at last, a small figure amid her escort. As she approached from the shadows of the doorway, the light fell upon her face.
He felt a shudder of annoyance and distaste pass through the depths of his soul. The stain on her expression was reduced, but it was not gone. It was not reduced enough. The disappointment was bitter and maddening. How could he enjoy anything through a sour countenance like that? It would be like eating delicacies with a dirty spoon.
And then, just as he was about to make the small gesture that would doom the girl and those who had failed to mend her to a sharp and sudden demise, the girl’s brow cleared and brightened a little.
His hand stilled. Perhaps the stain was not as bad as he had thought. She would do . . . for now at least.
It’s Left-Eye! The one who always liked me!
That was the thought that had struck Neverfell at the critical moment, flooding her mind with relief and causing her expression to brighten. Little did she guess that her smile had just saved her from execution. The Grand Steward gave a slight nod of approval, and she took up her place on a small velvet seat a few feet from his throne, hardly believing her luck.
The first pudding was brought forward, and was introduced by its creator in such glowing and detailed terms that Neverfell had a hazy feeling that she should probably curtsy to it. She watched as a tiny silver knife was used to carve a small piece of green jelly and candied flower for the Grand Steward, and an even tinier piece for herself. Letting that little blob of jelly melt on her tongue was like suddenly running down into a glowing green valley against the wind. Somewhere a trapped flower was singing, with all the beauty and pathos of an imprisoned princess.
With difficulty Neverfell steadied herself, and managed not to fall off her stool. The little bowl of moth biscuits came past, and she took a tiny fragment of one and let it settle on her tongue, dulling all flavour. She pinched her nose hard, and managed to smother the inevitable sneeze.
Neverfell did not raise her gaze, because she knew that every eye would be upon her. The knowledge made her feel scraped, like a fruit rind raked by too many eager spoons.
It was only after sampling the Melodia Orchid Jelly, the Chateau Caramel, the Imperial Pineapplerie and the rest that Left-Eye became aware of something tickling at the back of his mind. Truth be told, he was rather surprised to find that he had a back of his mind at all, since his thoughts were so soft, loose and all-enfolding. It was blundering and bothersome, like a bat in the jaws of a lamp, and he could not see it properly.
Flap. Flap-a-flap-flap. What was it?
Something was wrong. The Kleptomancer had not yet made a bid to steal the desserts. He might of course attempt to snatch them after the tasting, but what lustre was there in a meagre challenge like that? The desserts would still be unparalleled, but they would be past their best. Months of calculation had gone into ensuring that they would be presented to the Grand Steward whilst at their very peak.
If the Kleptomancer’s thefts really were designed to cause disruption, which the thief could study to understand the plans of others, what better way to create chaos than to undermine the Grand Steward? And what better way to do that than another audacious theft so close on the heels of the last? It would be a boldness akin to madness for the Kleptomancer to steal one of these desserts in such a dangerous situation, and for this very reason Left-Eye found himself growing ever more certain that the thief would be unable to resist doing so. Thus he himself had to be missing something simple and colossal.
His hand halted in its drumming. He had it. He understood. Another small gesture, and all the puddings were brought forward again so that he could examine them.
He could not be wrong. The Kleptomancer would not miss an opportunity to steal one of these puddings at their best, but the sampling itself had occurred without incident. Which could only mean that the Kleptomancer had already stolen one of the priceless desserts and replaced it with an exact replica.
It was so obvious now that he wondered why nobody else had worked out the truth. But then everybody else’s minds did baffle him by sluggishly dragging themselves in straight lines.
Or, then again, perhaps some of them had guessed. Indeed, some of them must already know, must have noticed the change, or even helped with the theft. Which ones? And which of these puddings was an imposter?
And could it have been poisoned? He glanced across at the red-haired girl who sat nearby. She looked sleepy, but noticeably alive, and any poison
capable of harming him would have killed her as soon as it touched her lips. Her face at least was clear as fresh-drawn water. She was not one of the conspirators, but anybody else in the room might be.
Which pudding? It seemed to him suddenly that the melody of the candied flower in the emerald jelly had been a little mocking in its tone. Yes, doubtless, that was the false dessert. How had the theft been managed? Its creators must have been negligent at best, complicit at worst.
One small gesture of his hand, and his guards were in motion.
Neverfell missed the moment. She was rubbing her eyes during the instant that tense calm suddenly tipped over into blood and chaos. There was a horrible shortened sound, not even a cry, more like a thin slice of a cry, and some soft thuds. When she opened her eyes, she found that the men who had proudly borne in the flower-adorned jelly were buckling to the floor, dark diagonal gashes opening in their chests. Their palanquin hit the ground with a lopsided crash, and the silver platter lurched off sideways, its edge chiming against the floor, the jelly upending with a sodden murmur of melody, like a music box sinking into a well, the roots of the flower waving in the air.
She could only stare aghast and nonplussed at the red blades of the guards, hardly understanding what had happened. Next moment she realized that they were watching the Grand Steward’s china-pale left hand for further instructions.
Before she could recover her senses, the hand was in motion once more.
Left-Eye knew that he had to move fast. In order to make the substitution, the Kleptomancer must have had many accomplices, among the guards, the confectioners, even the Enquiry. Why go to so much trouble just to replace a thing with its double? There could only be one answer. The Kleptomancer had intended Left-Eye to notice the switch. It was designed to throw him off balance, bewilder and madden him, throw his entire understanding of the world into disarray.