The room inside gave the appearance of simultaneous confusion and strict order in a way that she found deeply comforting. In her own study at home, the shelves had been organized in a similar fashion that made sense only to her. Her fastidious father had forever sneered at her clutter of books, bell jars, and specimens, but she had known exactly where the very last bludvole skull belonged. She suspected Mr. Murdoch held the same knowledge of his domain. The left-hand wall was entirely covered in clocks reading various times. The right-hand wall contained shelves heavy with books and half-made creations. And the wall facing her was a pegboard of instruments and tools, settled carefully over their painted outlines.
A long worktable ran the length of the pegboard, and a man huddled over it with his back to her. He was partially uncovered, which was more than a little shocking. In the city, people rarely revealed an inch of skin unless they were in carefully locked bedrooms, where neither bludrat nor Bludman could threaten their exposed skin. At the very least, he should have worn a coat to greet a visitor, and he definitely should not have left the nape of his neck bare to the world under his ponytail.
“Mr. Murdoch—” she began again, but he shushed her.
She sighed deeply and watched as he hung up the instrument in his hand and selected a different one from the wall without standing up or turning around. Fine, then. If he was going to make her wait while he fiddled with his toys, then she would take the liberty of exploring his shelves. She skipped the rows of books on clockworks, steam power, metallurgy, and other topics that bored her. Instead, she focused on a long line of books on animals both existent and extinct.
“Oh, my stars!” she cried, plucking a volume reverently off the shelf. “You’ve got a first edition of Viviparous Mammals of Sangland! And . . . good Lord. You’ve written all over the pages! Have you any idea how much this book would have been worth without all your frenzied scrawling?”
He chuckled, and she looked up from the once-priceless tome. The man had finally spun around on his stool to face her, and she was startled to find that he was far from the cantankerous old man she had envisioned. He was, in fact, quite handsome, in an outdoorsy sort of way, if one liked that sort of thing. His hair and beard were the color of hay in the summer, his eyes the color of grass in the spring. In all, he gave her the feeling of someone who belonged in a field amid nature, a hearty specimen who could handle a scythe or a butterfly net, if there had been any reason to employ one.
“I actually find that my additions make it all the more valuable.”
“Not to a librarian.”
“A librarian has never attempted to build a juggling polanda bear.”
“Touché, sir. I am Madam Morpho.” She approached and held out her hand, and he raised an eyebrow before giving it a rough shake. “And you’re the mysterious Mr. Murdoch?”
“It would appear so,” he said with a smirk. “The generally reclusive Mr. Murdoch. Since I haven’t managed to scare you away yet, I suppose I’m obliged to ask what brings you to my workshop.”
He had not yet stood, and she studied him with a scientist’s eyes. She was struck almost immediately by a pleasing sort of raw-boned honesty about him, a robust good humor that had been conspicuously absent during her time at the university and, later, the museum. Her fellow students had seemed, as a group, to be sickly and underfed, sharp and secretive. Not so this Mr. Murdoch.
His shoulder-length hair was slightly lighter than his beard and tied back neatly. He was wearing goggles, of course, brass and brown leather, with various optional magnifying lenses bristling from the corners. She had a pair much like them herself, abandoned in London with most of her belongings. Aside from a white shirt rolled back to the elbows, he was all over brown and tan, his waistcoat and pants made of rougher stuff than she would have guessed, although once she tallied the ink and oil stains and burns, she could see why. Unlike Master Stain, he wore the newer style of trousers that went all the way to the toes of his boots. She hadn’t liked the way it looked on the university men, but it seemed to suit Mr. Murdoch.
When her eyes traveled back up and reached his face, she saw that he had also been studying her like a specimen under glass. Despite her unfashionable, faded dress, he gave her an appreciative and approving nod.
“I am newly employed by Master Stain, but I require aid in building the stage for my performers,” she said.
“You have performers and no stage? How very careless of you.”
She glared at him and cleared her throat. Although the look had terrified the reckless lads in the Natural History Museum where she had worked under her former professor, Mr. Murdoch only continued to smirk.
“You no doubt find my behavior uncouth,” he said.
“I would expect no better from a famous recluse.”
“Metal doesn’t complain about manners,” he agreed with a shrug. “And if you want my help, you should also refrain from comment. Now, show me your performers so that I can get back to being a hermetic hermit.”
With a sigh of resignation, she retrieved her trunk and wheeled it into his workshop. When she threw open the lid, he snorted. “Novels. Naturally. People will come from miles to watch them lie there and lie.”
“Things are not always what they seem,” she answered crisply, selecting Dignity and Discrimination. With the cover facing him, she withdrew the still form within and whispered to it. When the scarlet Monarch fluttered into the air to settle on his beard, Mr. Murdoch chuckled, careful not to disturb it.
“Touché,” he said. He held up a finger to the butterfly, and Madam Morpho was gratified at the childlike wonder in his eyes when it stepped daintily onto his fingertip.
“I have detailed sketches of the required equipment, so my time bothering you will be limited,” she said, drawing a sheath of papers from the trunk’s lid. “There are three stages, the main one including a proscenium arch. There will be aerial acrobatics, a brass band in miniature, and contraptions for exhibiting feats of strength. I will also require long filaments of solid gold.”
“Filaments? Of solid gold?”
“Leashes.”
“Naturally.”
He placed the butterfly on top of his head and took the plans from her. After flipping through them quickly, he shook his head.
“No,” he said briskly, rolling them up into a tube and handing it to her.
As he turned back to his worktable, she spluttered, “What do you mean, no? Master Stain did not anticipate any issues. He assured me you would be most accommodating. I understand that you prefer your privacy, and I am happy to respect that, but, honestly . . .”
He spun on the stool to watch her, head cocked and pencil in hand. The Monarch’s scarlet wings flapped slowly, gently, against his golden hair.
“Honestly, Madam Morpho?”
She clutched the book against her chest more tightly than she meant to.
“I need this job, Mr. Murdoch. It is veritably the only thing standing between me and destitution, possibly even death. And without this equipment, I will be unable to perform.”
He nodded and turned to his table. As he sketched, she dashed away a traitorous tear and turned to go.
“You misunderstood me,” he said conversationally. She stopped, one hand on her trunk’s handle. “I was not saying no to you. I was saying no to these plans.”
“The plans are based on the most famous butterfly circus in history!” she barked.
“I’m sure they are, my good lady. The thing is, we can do better.”
Just a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Can we?”
“We can. Give me the morning to draw plans, and we’ll review them after lunch to see if they merit your approval.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch,” she said. “Truly. And please, call me Imogen.”
“You’re welcome, Imogen,” he said, pencil scratching across the pap
er. “And you can continue to call me Mr. Murdoch.”
She didn’t realize until she again stood outside in the warm morning sun that she had left the trunk in his workshop and the Monarch butterfly on his head. When she tried the door again, she found it locked. The strange and reclusive man had her most valuable possessions in his wagon.
For no reason that she could name, she decided to trust him.
4
With nothing to do for the next four hours, Imogen walked back to the wagon she now shared with Abilene. Since being the Bearded Lady didn’t require much outside practice, her new roommate had been taken on as an apprentice to the costumer, a former associate of Master Stain who had recently joined the caravan after tiring of city life in Manchester. From Abi’s description of the pleasant but frenzied working conditions in the costuming wagon of Master Antonin Scabrous, Imogen wanted nothing to do with it. She had not left the clutches of one slave driver just to work herself to the bone for another.
After introducing her to Abi and making sure she would be comfortable for the night, Letitia had briefly sketched out the rhythm of life in the caravan. So long as she didn’t venture too far from the circled wagons, she would be safe from the wild blud creatures of the countryside. For a naturalist, Imogen had met very few of the wild creatures she loved to study, outside of the butterflies, especially since all of the really interesting species were extinct. The paid conveyance that had delivered her to the caravan had run over several bludbunnies with a sickening thump that made the driver laugh, and he informed her that his lifetime count was well into the thousands. But she was more than familiar with what a bludrat could do, and therefore, she resigned herself to staying close to what she must consider home, for the time being.
As she walked, her boots sinking into the moist earth, she looked down. Speaking to people had never been her strong suit, and that was before she had come across such bizarre people as the carnivalleros.
“Good morning to you, ma donna,” the Strong Man called, and she bobbed her head and crisply said, “Good morning.” He seemed a kindly sort, and she liked his mustache and warm smile. By his side, a two-headed Bludman sat scouring a set of heavy barbells with sand to remove the rust, and she flinched as both heads watched her with too-hungry eyes. As she hurried on, she heard twin exclamations of pain in her wake as the Strong Man cuffed both heads at once and said, “Show some respect, my boys! That is a lady, not a steak!”
Imogen cleared her throat and sped up, away from shadowy, bloodthirsty eyes that had no reason to be polite, considering that there were no Coppers waiting with billy clubs. Master Stain had promised her she would be perfectly safe, but the prey animal inside her wasn’t so sure.
Without any warning, a vividly painted figure swept in and tucked Imogen’s arm beneath a sleeve resplendent with lurid harlequin diamonds.
“Abi’s told me all about you, she has,” said the tall girl in a bright cockney accent, and Imogen inclined her head politely and refused to look at her bold companion. Such manners! True, she hadn’t expected much from traveling circus folk. And true, she’d never really enjoyed the leering smiles of her fellows at school or the ladies of what little polite society she had been allowed. But the girl clung to her, chattering as she imagined a monkey might chatter, and Imogen felt herself swept away in a river of the girl’s chirping words.
“Nice to have fresh blood, you know. And nice to see a new girl sharing a wagon ’stead of getting her own fancy box first off. Not that the missus even used her old box, spending all her time in Master Crim’s, but it was still a ripe slap. Since ’alf the Bluddies ran off, a few years back, it’s been a little lonely, and make no mistake. Tabitha was one of them that run off, but she ’ad no time for the likes of the Pinkies when she was here. And the Mule-faced Girl took off for the city, a-following one of Lady Letitia’s glances to get her poor ears worked on. And why, I ask you? What other skills has the girl got, besides removing her hat for Coppers? But we’ve got the new acts, trickling in. You, of course. And the new acrobats, them foreign dragon sisters. And the new juggler, and the chapeaugrapher, and the daimon dancing mistress. And Master Scabrous, of course.”
“How fascinating,” Imogen said, trying to pull her arm away, but the girl wouldn’t allow it.
“And I’m one of the veterans, if you will. Emerlie Fetching, or didn’t I mention it? Been here forever, feels like, along with Abi and Mr. Dregs and Torno and Demi and Cherie and Eblick and the twins and Veruca. And Vil and Mr. Murdoch, of course. Not that I’ve ever seen ’im.”
Emerlie paused to breathe, and Imogen burst in with “What do you mean, you’ve never seen him?”
“Exactly that.” Emerlie shook her head, making the bells on her leather bowler chime. “There’s a reason his wagon says The Mysterious Mr. Murdoch. Far as I know, ain’t no one ever seen him but Master Crim and Vil. Takes all his meals in his wagon, sends notes when he has something to say. If your clockwork breaks, you give it to Vil, and he brings it back in a few days with a rude note. Last time I sent in my wee Batty, the note said, ‘This clockwork is infinitely more fragile and intelligent than yourself. Take a care to treat him better, or next time, I’ll give him fangs.’ Memorized it, I did, so as I could tell everyone. The chuff!”
“And what do you imagine he’s like?” Imogen asked.
“Like God hisself, probably. Old, fat. Big white beard. Watches everything but never helps a soul. Mean as a snake and twice as hard. Bet it smells like a sheep wallow in that closed-up wagon of his.”
“Indeed,” Imogen murmured. “And does anyone know his given name?”
“If they do, they ain’t talking. But look here. It’s nearly lunch. Shall we?”
Imogen allowed Emerlie to drag her up the steps into the dining car, where the girl paused, head up, as if showing off a new toy. Imogen was surprised to find that she was the toy in question and that every eye in the wagon was turned to follow her, vials and spoons held dripping before open mouths.
“Hello,” she said, bowing formally with a hand to her hat.
The carnivalleros responded with nods and smiles, and Imogen was glad enough when Emerlie pulled her toward the buffet. Master Stain had mentioned that the traditional introduction in a caravan was to perform for your massed fellows, but since she did not yet have an act to display, she would be expected to make her own way among them. She had heard of worse cases of hazing and could put up with curiosity, animosity, and even a bit of ferocity, if necessary. They couldn’t be worse than the vicious young men at university who had treated her like a scapegoat and a burden, even as she surpassed them in knowledge and accomplishment.
She sat in a booth with Emerlie and Abilene and stared thoughtfully out the window to the endless green moors as they chattered, bright and silly as sparrows. Imogen subtly stroked the brooch pinned to her jacket, considering the treasure folded within. She had never had a secret before, and yet she had always felt that she had been forced to keep her true self hidden. The waving grasses and wild copses of the countryside were like a dream to her, born and bred and ensorcelled in the city as she had been, but it felt good to be free from the wills of harsh men. Master Stain as an employer seemed bemused and distant, but Mr. Murdoch was a different beast altogether. Something about him drew her in and piqued her curiosity, as if perhaps he kept certain things hidden, too.
Outside, the sky hung heavy over grasses the same green as Mr. Murdoch’s eyes. Somewhere just out of view was London. And the faster they were out of its range, the better.
5
After lunch, Imogen all but needed a crowbar to extricate herself from Emerlie’s company. The girl was like a vivacious little kraken, her arms as firm and sticky as tentacles.
“Really, my dear, I have an important appointment to keep,” Imogen said in her sternest museum-marm voice, and Emerlie pouted and finally loosed her grip.
Knowing that her next mo
ve would be carefully watched, Imogen returned to the wagon she shared with Abilene on the pretense of fetching something. With a push of the button, the orange lamps of the hallway buzzed to life, the color oddly different from the ones in London. Imogen ran a hand along the faded handbills and posters pasted to the wood. Abi had long ago claimed the inner chamber, but at least a brief corridor led to it, keeping her from moving through Imogen’s chamber at odd hours or having access to Imogen’s belongings. She unlocked her own door and turned on the lights, quickly locking the door behind her again when she was assuredly alone.
Her instinct, of course, was to check the security of her trunk, but she didn’t want Emerlie to see her go into Mr. Murdoch’s wagon. She therefore had a few moments to spend, waiting for the inquisitive creature to get bored and plague someone else. Drawn to the lamp’s warm glow, she opened the locket she wore always as a brooch, not daring to touch what lay within but feeling its almost electrical charge nonetheless. She had to wonder if its power had anything to do with her sudden need for freedom and empowerment, her drive to be liberated from meddlesome men and their foolish love of normalcy and propriety. Clicking the locket shut, she told herself it didn’t matter.
The deed was done, and here she was.
A raindrop thumped on the roof, then another and another, until the usual afternoon showers of a Sanglish summer played a trilling song on the flat metal. The slam of the wagon door and Abi’s heavy footsteps signaled the end of luncheon, so Imogen gladly rose and turned off the lights. At the last moment, she remembered to take up her greased parasol before darting out into the storm.
Just as she had hoped, the caravan was empty as the rain hammered down from gray skies. Thanks to the windowless nature of the Pinky wagons, there wasn’t even a way for Emerlie to spy on her as she ran to Mr. Murdoch’s car.