The next lines were in Fabrizio’s slanting handwriting. And have you noticed that Miss Uish didn’t even try to get a ransom for her? As if no one wanted her back? She never talks about her family, only about her dresses. And sometimes, when she thinks I’m not watching her, I see a really odd look go across her face.
Sibella had given all of them coral necklaces. According to Emilio, who had obviously seized the pencil back, She said they will change color and warn you if you’re sickening for something.
They didn’t believe in them, but the boys wore them anyway, just in case.
Despite the good news, Renzo’s face was pinched and pale. He clenched a damp, tattered newspaper in his hand.
“Why the long nose? Woan do, woan do at all!” Teo mimicked Turtledove, “You see, they are doing famously on the Scilla.”
Renzo held out the paper. “I just picked this up in the gutter outside.”
Teo too paled on reading the Times’s report of violent art thefts in cities all along the western coasts of Europe. In Cádiz, Oporto, Bilbao and Bordeaux, famous paintings had been ripped off the walls. Innocent guards and curators had been killed. And the stolen masterpieces? All Canalettos, Carpaccios and Longhis. And their subjects were invariably Venice and the Venetians. Looking at the map printed alongside the story, it was clear that whoever was stealing the art was gradually making their way toward London. And in every city where the Venetian art was pillaged, so too were the prisons broken into, and thousands of prisoners melted away into the countryside, with reports that many were later seen making their way north, toward the French coast. A separate story related immense losses among flocks of coastal sheep from southern Spain to France.
Renzo asked quietly, “And how shall we know when the Bombazine arrives in London?”
“When people start to die.”
Next morning, the Mansion Dolorous was inundated with requests for children’s funerals. Sixteen children had died overnight of mysterious wounds after somehow falling in the Thames. Of course, the richer children were to be buried by Jay’s of Regent Street. But the Mansion Dolorous had eight funerals to prepare, using up the entire stock of size two coffins.
Carriages arrived all day, bearing small bodies wrapped in sheets. As they came out of the embalming room, Messrs. Tristesse and Ganorus were unusually pale. They locked the door behind them.
Mr. Tristesse told the boys and girls that these funerals were to be conducted with closed coffins, and as quickly as possible. Teo and Renzo were kept busy all day, twisting artificial flowers into wreaths and polishing the coffin handles. There was no time to go out and look for the zookymen. That night, the Mansion Dolorous gang—and Teo and Renzo—slept alongside the eight sealed coffins, strangely compelled to whisper, even though their little guests were beyond hearing them.
By late morning, all the funerals had been accomplished with the maximum pathos. While the Mansion Dolorous gang departed on their various doings, Teo and Renzo took to the streets separately, searching for the hot-zooky-sellers. Teo chose the south side of the river; Renzo went north.
Walking through London was not like strolling around Venice. The cobbles were lumpily hard on Venetian feet. Teo and Renzo were frequently swept off the pavements by Londoners hastening in solid brigades toward their places of business. Knocked off course, they were in constant danger of falling under hansom cabs and four-wheeled growlers.
Teo stumbled down the stone steps of Blackfriars Bridge, desperate for a moment’s peace from the rumble of traffic and the relentless march of the Londoners. She stopped for a moment on a bench, but even this was inscribed with a notice REST, BUT DO NOT LOITER. Feeling guilty, she rose and carried on. In the quiet passage below the bridge, she was instantly rewarded by a spicy whiff of hot pumpkin. She followed her nose to the forecourt of a warehouse. Men clustered around a handsome man who held out a large metal tray. The Londoners were eagerly exchanging their pennies for the crusts of glowing orange, and nibbling with evident pleasure on the warm flesh of the pumpkin. The smell reminded Teo sweetly and painfully of home. Her eyes prickled with a memory of the day after the ice flood when she had carried hot spiced pumpkin to the wretched and bereaved of Venice.
She waited behind a lamppost until the warehousemen had emptied the tray and the handsome man was alone. He slotted the tray into a wheeled brazier behind him and extracted a full one. A fresh wave of pumpkin scent pulled Teo from her hiding place and over to the man, before she quite realized what had happened.
“Bon di,” said Teo shyly, “good day.”
The man looked down at her with searching eyes. “You speak the language of home,” he said gently. “Who are you, child?”
Above his head, Teo saw his words written in a clear hand with a nautical jaunt to it.
“I am …” Teo felt irresistibly drawn to say, “Teodora Gasperin, the Undrowned Child of the Prophecy.”
Then she trembled. Was that pumpkin smell too sweet? The sweetness reminded her of the emerald-green Baja-Menta ice cream, with which Il Traditore had tried to poison the minds of the Venetians two summers before. It too had smelled delicious, hiding its horrible secret in a luscious taste. Had she been beguiled into making a terrible mistake by the rich scent of pumpkin and the homesickness it induced?
Teo agonized silently, “How do I know he is a true Incognito? How can I be sure he was sent here by Lussa? He could be disguised, working for Bajamonte Tiepolo, waiting to grab me and throw me to whatever’s killing the children in the Thames. The pumpkin could be a trick! Why did I come here without Renzo?”
The slices of pumpkin were close enough to warm her face. Suddenly, she was feverishly hot. Her heart beat so fast that she swayed on her feet. The man bent down, putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her. Or was it to pin her down?
Had Teo betrayed Venice, the Scilla and the mermaids—if they were still alive—by that one careless “Bon di”?
Renzo could not find any pumpkin-sellers. He had marched north over London Bridge, his hands driven into his pockets and his head down against the biting wind. Across the choppy water behind him, the broken masts of the Scilla jostled in St. Mary Overie Dock. This was as close as he dared to go to her: the quarantine officers, he knew, must still be guarding the boat.
He looked hopefully into the Thames’s dark brown swell. A few barges and a Norwegian ice boat sped past: there was no sign of a jeweled tail.
Renzo slowed his pace to a miserable shuffle. Instead of exclaiming with pleasure at the little churches tucked into niches, the extravagant ironwork, the bizarre names of the old inns, he concentrated on sniffing. But there were no pumpkin-sellers in this most businesslike part of the throbbing city. Important men in their tall black hats would not stoop to eating hot snacks in the street. And certainly not with their clever, manicured, money-counting fingers! They surely dined in their famous clubs, sitting on leather chairs at tables set with solid silver and crisp damask.
Renzo worried about Teo alone on the south of the river. Belatedly, it struck him that he had allowed her to venture into the less respectable area. He should have insisted on the south side himself. It would be easy to snatch a small girl like Teo from those winding alleys of Southwark! When he reached Blackfriars Bridge, he turned left and hurried south. It was only when he was nearly across it that he lifted his downcast head, taking in the busy warehouses below. His eye slid over yards, ropes and men rolling barrels. Something caught his attention. Yes, there was a very familiar silhouette of a girl over there, standing with a tall man. The man had placed his hand on her shoulder.
“No! I don’t believe it!” Renzo broke into a run. He galloped down sooty stone steps into the labyrinth of streets that fed into the warehouse district. A faint smell of pumpkin, growing ever stronger, guided him.
He burst into the yard where Teo was still staring wordlessly at her captor.
“Uncle Tommaso!” exclaimed Renzo. “I thought you drowned in the ice flood!”
Teo coll
apsed to her knees in confusion.
“What’s the matter, Teo?” Renzo knelt and put his arm around her. “What could be better? You’ve found us a hot-zooky-seller! And I’ve got my uncle back! And it looks like he’s an Incognito as well!”
“The mermaids!” gasped Teo. “Are they all right?”
“Yes.” Uncle Tommaso smiled. “Lussa and our friends have arrived, and are sheltering in a secret place from whatever killed the Melusine.”
Fat tears of relief spurted from Teo’s eyes.
“Was my father an Incognito too?” was Renzo’s first question when all the hugging and crying was over.
“No, Renzo. And nor did he know that I was.”
Renzo nodded. Not for nothing were the secret saviors of Venice called “The Unknowns.” It was considered safer for them not to know one another. Only in emergencies did they come together and fight for their city, as they had in the battle to save Venice the year before last. But at that time Tommaso Antonello, a sailor by profession, had been away in the Indies on a merchant vessel.
In five minutes all had been explained—including the dramatic voyage of the Scilla, the murder of Professor Marìn, the colossal squid, the Bombazine, their arrival in London, and Renzo and Teo’s new lodging at the Mansion Dolorous.
“I just heard there was a Venetian vessel in quarantine—and I was planning a discreet visit this very night!” marveled Uncle Tommaso.
Soon, half a tray of spiced pumpkin had been consumed, and Teo’s hands had stopped trembling. Uncle Tommaso was still shaking his head at the discovery that his very own nephew, Lorenzo, was the Studious Son of the ancient Venetian Prophecy. And that Renzo’s friend Teodora, this lost-looking crop-haired girl, was the famous Undrowned Child.
“Lussa always said that the Studious Son was a handsome, useful chap.” Tommaso ruffled Renzo’s hair affectionately. “But I could never have guessed it was you. Your mother would have been so proud. Yet I guess she never knew, either.” His voice was sad.
“And now she never will,” Renzo said quietly. Teo squeezed his hand.
“Peace to her memory.” Tommaso wiped his eyes. “And to that of dear Professor Marìn. I cannot believe that we have lost him.”
“But the other Incogniti are safely here, are they not?” urged Teo.
Uncle Tommaso explained that a network of three dozen Venetian pumpkin-sellers was now spread thinly through the whole of London. “The mermaids asked me to lead them, because I know the place already, from the time I was here with your father, Renzo. Our absence from Venice was easy to explain: we let the authorities think we were among those drowned in the ice flood on Christmas Eve. I’m sorry, Renzo. We couldn’t risk telling anyone that those newspaper accounts were not true.”
“So can you take us to Lussa now?” Teo begged.
“Not exactly. Nor can I tell you where she is. For safety’s sake, in case we are followed, we do not meet in person. Instead, the mermaids send shells with the tide to the shingle at Blackfriars, with news of Venice from their turtleshell. I was about to check for them when I met young Teodora. The mermaids will be overjoyed to hear that you are here! But”—his face suddenly fell—“look at the river. It’s been slowing down for days, clogged with ice. I fear that, now it’s frozen so stiffly, the next tide will not take or bring any more shells. We must find the mermaids another way.”
“What have you found out? What is happening in Venice? Are the people still dying? Do you know where my parents have been taken?” Without realizing it, Teo was wringing Uncle Tommaso’s sleeve.
“Draw a breath or you’ll go blue, child! Venice—there is nothing good to tell. Fields of ice have formed around the city. The Half-Dead disease has taken a third of the citizens. The wells are frozen. Our beloved Venice is turning into a ghost-town. And, Teodora, we Incogniti are searching everywhere for Alberto and Leonora Stampara. As yet, sadly, without success.”
“Is Bajamonte Tiepolo here?” Renzo’s voice dragged over the hated name.
“That I cannot tell you. For we do not know in what form he manifests himself these days. He may have become a man—for he has his bones back—or still be a bat. And this is evil news you bring—that Il Traditore has a new ally in the Pretender to the British throne. I can tell you that Harold Hoskins has moved from Osborne to London and is lodged in royal apartments at Kenwood House up on Hampstead Heath. The other royals want him as far away from them as possible, I suppose. This Hooroo connection of which you speak, children, will explain why we Incogniti have these last two nights observed hundreds of Ghost-Convicts with Australian accents on the streets.”
“So the Bombazine is here,” groaned Teo. “Hundreds of Ghost-Convicts and so few Incogniti.”
“What about the London ghosts?” Renzo asked. “Can’t they help? Lussa told me that London once had more ghosts per square mile than any other place on earth.”
“And more magic per square inch too,” agreed Uncle Tommaso.
Teo asked, “Are there any ghosts in-the-Cold left in London? Ones who have done some bad thing and who want to redeem themselves by saving their city?”
Uncle Tommaso smiled. “There is every sort of ghost here. Also, field after field of innocent dead—those felled by the Plague or burned alive in the Great Fire. In short, yes. We’ve been trying to recruit all the London ghosts to our side. But they are weak and suspicious. They’ve had it drummed into them that Londoners do not believe in ghosts. They have been worn away to shadows by the sheer rationality of the ruling powers. Ghostliness has become a mere entertainment here—it is not taken seriously. A few enterprising charlatans set up faked séances to conjure false spirits for money. Grieving husbands and wives will pay a fortune to hear some actor pretending to be their dead spouse and saying that all is well in Heaven.”
“And where are the real ghosts?”
“The poor things have taken refuge in the railway arches.”
“We’ve never seen a ghost and we’ve walked under dozens of arches,” protested Renzo.
“When I say in the railway arches, I mean between the very bricks. Have you noticed how humid it is under those arches? That is ghost-breath. The trails of moisture down the walls, the white efflorescence on the bricks—all condensed ghost-breath and ghost-tears.”
“What use are they, hiding up there?”
“When the time comes, I believe, London will utter her ghosts, like words, like a scream. The cold helps, for the mortar between the bricks is cracking apart, making their exit easier. In fact, Harold Hoskins may unwittingly help us with his Ghost-Convicts from Hooroo.… The London spirits certainly won’t want colonial ghosts coming in and taking advantage of the new opportunities that will surely come on the haunting market, now that Queen Victoria is dead and Londoners feel free to use their imaginations once more.”
Teo and Renzo laughed, but Tommaso frowned. “That reminds me, do not lean against any old walls! Old London stone is so rich with history that it’s denser and more concentrated than the human body. It’s grown stronger too, from all the ghosts who have climbed between the cracks and become at one with its particles. So it simply absorbs the unsuspecting. We’ve already lost one Incognito that way. Look!”
Uncle Tommaso pointed to a bumpy stone wall. At first they could see nothing untoward. But then Renzo caught the swell of a cheek in a stone. And Teo saw the jut of a hip.
She gasped. “That was an Incognito?”
“My friend Lucio from Via Garibaldi,” Tommaso replied, wiping away a tear. “He was waiting to meet me here, and I was late. He must have leaned against the wall to keep out of the wind. When I finally arrived, this is what I found. Now that the old Queen is dead, everything is rousing.”
“Oh no!” Renzo pointed to a cormorant cruising down the river.
Tommaso drew them into the shadows. “You are right. It’s not safe for us to be seen talking like this. Three Venetians together. Our voices will carry. Go! I shall send some Incogniti to the Scilla, to keep an eye
on her. We’ll set up a hot spiced pumpkin stall in Clink Street, close to the boat.”
“And Turtledove will find Lussa for us, just see if he doesn’t!” added Renzo with a smile.
“Look!” cried Teo, as they hurried back toward the Mansion Dolorous.
CHILDREN SEIZED AND SHORN IN STREET!
Renzo and Teo pulled up short in front of the billboard, bending down to read the details. Dozens of children, of all ages and degrees of poverty and affluence, had been pulled behind gates, under bridges and into hansom cabs—and relieved of their hair. The dazed boys and girls could recall nothing of their ordeal, thanks to harsh blows to the head.
“Do you remember,” Teo asked Renzo, staring at the poster, “how Miss Uish shaved our heads? And how the children in the hospital two years ago had their heads shorn by that horrible nurse?”
Renzo shivered. “But what would they want with the children’s hair?”
When Teo and Renzo arrived back at the mourning emporium, they found the Londoners in a state of outrage. It was already apparent what happened to the stolen hair. That morning, while Teo and Renzo were with Uncle Tommaso, the streets had been suddenly flooded with vendors selling mourning brooches for Queen Victoria’s funeral.
The street vendors sold their mourning brooches at a shilling, a tenth of the price of the smallest pin in the Mansion Dolorous’s own expensive range. The boys and girls had winced when they overheard Mr. Tristesse fretting, “If those charlatans destroy our brooch business, we’ll not be able to afford so many child mourners.”
“We must investigerate,” barked Turtledove, when Messrs. Tristesse and Ganorus had left the building. “I’ll not have me childer out on the street on account of this hairy fubbery.”
Tig was despatched to buy one of the offending brooches, clutching a handkerchief of grimy pennies pooled from every member of the gang.
“I feels disloyal layin’ out good money on ’em, doan I?” she protested.