then nothing
The glassworkers are refusing to work in the wake of Faithie’s accident. They need better conditions, they argue, or else more will happen, and worse. The factory stands locked and looming, eerily silent. I still have to feed and exercise Clomper and Caney, but no one minds me.
No work means no pay for the workers, and the only job I’ve got now is looking after the kine. Even Ruzi isn’t expected to come in.
“This is your chance, music man. Write them a strike song,” Kit ribs him. “Making glass … is a pain in the ass…”
Ruzi doesn’t laugh. “Break’ll be over before we know it. Good things don’t last.”
One of his favourite sayings.
I’ve been using the time to draw – and Ruzi’s been trying to repair his guitar. He’s brought it back to Opal Alley. I hear a lot of cursing from the other room, so I’m afraid to ask how it’s going.
It’s warm, unseasonably so. At twilight, after the boats come in, groups of Skøl sit around driftwood bonfires. They stay out for hours. It gets dark and they’re all fire-dazzled, so they don’t realize Crozoni scum walks among them. The branders are busy patrolling town and burning books. They don’t guard the gates, and curfew seems easier to flout outside the old walls.
Ruzi and I go one morning to the stretch of sand where they do the fires. We even light one and burn some seaweed to watch the sparks.
“Do you think you’ll save the guitar?” I hazard. “Or is it dead?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Let’s call it a resurrection in progress.”
“I’m really sorry, you know, Ruzi.”
“Don’t be.” He catches my eye through the smoke. “I have no regrets. Enjoyed it. I’d do it again. Smash all the guitars I ever made over these brickheads.”
I feed small sprigs of dry seaweed to the fire until two Skøl women – out for a morning walk – tell us off for making nasty smoke. Say we aren’t allowed. They’re allowed to burn books, but we aren’t allowed to exist.
My anger flares, but Ruzi nods peaceably and we leave the beach to them.
“The hottest anger won’t cook dinner,” Ruzi reminds me. Back to platitudes.
“You have a fan,” Kit tells me, matter of fact.
“What’s that?”
We’ve been avoiding each other since I surprised him in Rundvaer Square. I must have made things awkward when I met that angry young man and his stolen artefact. Collector’s item, apparently, right from under their fancy Skøl noses. I read about the theft in the Portcaye Post.
“Or someone heard your drawings were selling – they stole that portrait you did of the Scarlets.” He gestures at the wall behind the bar where it used to hang. The one I did for them at Skivårnat. The frame’s still there, but it’s empty.
“Who’d do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kit, I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to … bring you more trouble.”
He turns back to me. “We need to talk.”
My stomach flips over. I nod.
“I was thinking of taking a few hours off this afternoon – around four? Gracie says the Rainbow has a new attraction.” The Rainbow is an upmarket fikka house in the Mermens.
“What’ve they got now?” Last time it was an elektric milk-frother.
“An ice device.” He sees my confused face. “It makes ice. In this weather!”
“To eat. They crush it with orange syrup. Gracie won’t shut up about it. Come there with me. I’ll buy you one.” He winks.
“Will they sell to us?” I feel suddenly shy.
“I’ll wear my nice shoes.” His gaze travels up and down me. “This weather suits you,” he decides. Then he leaves me.
When I’m nearly home, I see Felicity downstairs, perusing the bakery window.
“Here she is! Just the girl I’ve been looking for. How have you been faring with this strike under way?”
“I’m all right.” I frown.
She squints at me. “Are you eating enough? None of my business, I suppose.” She comes closer and lowers her voice. “Listen, I think I found something out about our magistrate friend.”
I freeze. “Really?”
She glances around. “I got an anonymous tip and then I did some digging and – well. I wasn’t sure who to go to. Ridiculous though it may seem, I thought of you.”
We look at each other. “Come on up.” I gesture to our rooms over the bakery.
“No,” she says quickly. I see the signs of strain then – she’s pale, her hair less neat in its plait. She looks – unsually for Felicity – worried. “Do you know somewhere else? Somewhere private, where we won’t be disturbed?”
“The Glassworks is empty,” I suggest. “Only Clomper and Caney.”
“Perfect.” She forces her old smile. “Always wanted to see inside.”
I lead the way.
We’re crossing Sinton Square, and she pauses by the cuboid on Imilia Dezil’s old plinth. ARE ONE SKØLAND WE?
“Isn’t this charming?!” she declares, pushing the anxious tone of her voice down. She takes a deep gulp of air.
A pair of Skøl children are reading out the wanted posters still plastered about the plinth.
“Murder. Moo-tiny at sea. Petty Treason. Debbit-of-life av-avoi— … bootle-egging?” The boy laughs.
“What’s pie-racky?” says the girl.
“Piracy,” Felicity interrupts. “Bootlegging. Debt. Mutiny. Shouldn’t you be in school, learning to read?” She seems to have collected herself again, and the children wilt timidly under her raised eyebrow.
“Truants only cheat themselves,” she declares, smiling at their retreating backs. “Go to school or you’ll end up on one of these posters too!”
We resume our way.
“So you’re still looking after those big kine?” Putting those children in their place has anchored her. Her voice is steady now. “Isn’t that breaking the strike?”
“No. I’m Glassworks property, not staff. I’m more like Clomper and Caney. I don’t get to strike. Here we are.”
Felicity looks behind us as I swing my keys up to the padlock on the side gate. The yard is still deserted, and our footsteps crunch loudly in the gravel.
“I hear the strike might be over soon; is that your understanding?” she asks, peering around.
“Where’d you hear that? I heard they’re planning all sorts. They’re gathering with some of the Registry clerks in Rundvaer Square tomorrow.”
“Really?” Her voice sounds distracted. “So, where are the famous Clomper and Caney?”
I walk over to the stable. The kine are both huffing loudly, stamping, impatient. It’s not like them to be riled up – especially since I saw them this morning already.
“Don’t know what’s got into them,” I say to Felicity over my shoulder – but she’s not there.
“Felicity?” I whisper. “Where did you get to? Felicity?”
I hear a gasp from around the corner, then Clomper whickers loudly, showing her big, square teeth and banging a hoof on the door to her stall. Kine don’t flash their teeth around like horses, and Clomper less than most. Weird.
“Sorry, you two. Take it easy,” I coo.
Hands grab me from behind, shove something wet over my face, a strong smell of vinegar – or pickle, but sweeter. Then nothing.