I take my place to the side of
the catwalk, behind a microphone.
‘Welcome to the Emporium Shopping Night Fashion Parade,’ I say, following the cards Helen has written out for me. There are whoops and whistles. The guests have clustered around the stage, glasses in hand. ‘Tonight we hope to show you that, like good wine, fashion only improves with age.’
I nod at Difficult Steve, his face lit blue from the laptop in front of him. It turns out he’s our saviour, offering to take care of the music. A Serge Gainsbourg song filters out of the PAs.
‘First up we have Ruth in a 1940s shirtwaist dress made from silk shantung, with a matching bolero.’
On cue, Ruth slides out from behind a curtain and makes her way down the catwalk. The guests start clapping immediately, and Ruth smiles demurely at them, walking daintily in her dainty outfit.
‘Ruth wears shoes taken from our large selection of vintage ladies’ court shoes and carries a contemporary handbag made from recycled fabric.’
Ruth sashays right off the catwalk. I look down at the next card, which is full of corrections. I hope I can decipher it.
‘Please welcome to the stage our male ubermodel Jethro, in a velvet riding jacket, pin-tucked silk shirt and tuxedo pants.’
Wolfboy creeps out from behind the curtain and stands at the head of the runway. Ruth has coaxed his hair into a short ponytail. The tuxedo pants are waaaaay snug against his legs, and the maroon jacket hugs his torso. The silk shirt froths at his throat. He should be riding a stallion across the moors.
I forget for a moment that there’s a microphone right in front of my mouth.
‘Wow,’ I say, and there are laughs and whistles. Wolfboy scowls at me, ruining his dashing look. I nod at him and he traipses down the runway. At first he’s stiff and awkward, but the audience is so enthusiastic that by the time he reaches the end he actually seems to be enjoying himself. He pulls a department store catalogue pose, hands on hips, squinting off into the distance, and then starts the return journey. He catches my eye with a grin and a wink, and I know he’s forgiven me for putting him up for public spectacle. I clutch my chest and place my hand melodramatically against my forehead—be still, my beating heart! Only I’m not acting, not acting at all.
The smell of mothballs and perfume is strong behind the fur coat rack. But I don’t care because Wolfboy is next to me, warm by my side. We’ve dragged a couple of cushions behind the rack, and the only thing giving our hiding place away is Wolfboy’s long legs poking out the bottom. Downstairs the cash register dings regularly. I’d feel guilty for slacking off, only it was Helen who sent us upstairs with a bottle of champagne, mumbling something about them not making boys like that when she was young.
Wolfboy hands me the bottle with a grimace. ‘Too sweet.’
‘I know I am,’ I say, and put the bottle aside. I don’t need to be fuzzy tonight. The mezzanine floor hums with bass underneath us. ‘Look, I also owe you an apology. I asked my mum about your phone call.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No, it’s not really. There’s all the privacy stuff to begin with, but mostly she shouldn’t have said those things to you. And I want you to know that I would have called you back if I’d known.’
‘It’s done now. Let’s forget about it. I’m glad’—Wolfboy ducks his head—’I’m glad we’re sitting here now. Even if it does smell like a grandma convention.’
In the low light I catch the silvery shine of something against Wolfboy’s shirt.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ I reach out and snag it. It’s Wolfboy’s lighter, and it used to belong to his brother Gram. It’s engraved with Gram’s and Ortolan’s initials. I flip it over in my hand. ‘So this is what we almost died for.’
‘We didn’t almost die.’ Wolfboy leans forward so the chain doesn’t pull on his neck.
‘It felt like it.’ I let go of the lighter.
I remember our escape from Orphanville in the dusty tunnels and crying when I saw Wolfboy again. I’d left him on the roof with Doctor Gregory and his two bodyguards. When he finally made it down to the tunnel I was so relieved. Everything felt so much more that night, as if we were starring in one hell of a realistic movie.
‘What happened up there with Doctor Gregory?’ I ask.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’
‘Not really. You told me you jumped up on the wall and ran around the edge of the roof, and that you fought his bodyguards.’
‘That’s all true.’ Wolfboy takes the champagne, but then doesn’t drink, peeling off a corner of the label instead. ‘But I didn’t tell you what Doctor Gregory said to me. He said that he knew why I was different. And then he mentioned an institute.’
An unpleasant stillness settles over me. I remember now, Wolfboy telling me he thought we’d been lured to Orphanville deliberately, that Doctor Gregory didn’t care about the lighter at all. I add that to what I learned last night about Paul and the Datura Institute.
‘Do you think he’s using Paul to get to you?’
Wolfboy shrugs. ‘For all I know, it was Paul who went to him in the first place. I haven’t heard from Doctor Gregory in all this time.’
‘What. Did. He. Want. With. You?’ I get so worked up I slap his thigh for punctuation. Wolfboy turns his head and looks at me, blue eyes to brown. ‘I don’t know how things go in Shyness, but out there in the real world, grown men don’t show this much interest in nineteen-year-olds who aren’t their sons.’
‘I’ve got no idea.’
Wolfboy produces a book from his pocket. I part the coats to let in more light so I can read, ‘SHYNESS: A young lady’s treatise.’
‘Look at the author’s name.’
‘Gregory,’ I breathe. ‘Related?’
‘No idea. It’s a common name. But look at this.’
The page he shows me has a photograph of a young girl posed in an old-fashioned white dress. Her hand rests stiffly on a chair; ribbons gather at the side of her head. It’s difficult to tell her age because of the layer of wispy dark hair covering her entire face. It thins only around her eyes and mouth. She’s bucktoothed to an unfortunate degree.
The caption reads: Infamous wild-child Nora Gregory.
Wolfboy reads out the facing text. He has a halting, uncertain way of reading that makes me want to climb into his lap and stroke his cheek. ‘“Despite being afflicted with Night Sickness in her youth my grandmother, Nora, went on to marry and produce five children. Whilst there were a handful of similar Night Sickness cases during the Third Night, my grandmother’s affliction was by far the most severe on record.”’
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Well, she is way hairier than you.’ I take the book out of his hands.
The girl stares into the camera, almost with defiance.
‘She doesn’t look sick, and you don’t seem sick either. Is there anything else about her?’
‘That’s it. It jumps straight to planetary orbits after that. It’s a strange book. This girl Delilah’s diary and a history of Shyness at the same time. I found it a few days ago.’
I thumb through the book until I find a section of journal entries. I read in a posh English accent. For some reason I always assume people long ago all spoke with posh English accents. ‘“Sometimes I feel like little Kay in the Snow Queen, who swallowed a shard of the devil’s mirror, and could only see ugliness in the world. Only I have swallowed a portion of shadow, and that is why I feel the way I do.”’
Wolfboy doesn’t smile as I expect him to. He takes the book back. There’s a pause.
‘I was never going to actually go into the Datura Institute,’ I say. ‘I was trying to get a reaction out of you.’
‘Well, it worked.’
I find Wolfboy’s hand in the darkness and grip his fingers. ‘What do you want to do now?’
‘I haven’t seen Paul since Saturday night. Finding him seems more important than figuring out this other stuff.’ The heaviness shows in Wolfboy’s voice.
‘I agree.’
‘After I saw you last night I ran into this guy I know, Tony. He told me that the blue people go to this club Umbra on Wednesdays.’
‘I hope Paul turns up before then. But if he doesn’t, that can be our next step.’
I hesitate, remembering my words earlier to Ruth about studying hard and not needing boys. Did I really believe that, even when I was saying it? I take a deep breath and tell him anyway. ‘My mum is going away on Wednesday for a few days, and I’m home alone. I can come over to Shyness without having to make excuses. Our neighbour will be watching me, but I can stretch the rules a little.’
I kick open the coats again. There’s no air in here.
Wolfboy turns to me. I have a curiously mixed-up picture of him in my head, half memory of the velvetjacketed, ponytail dandy, and half what’s in front of me now, Shyness boy in black jeans.
‘Why do you want to help me?’
‘I’m an investigative journalist writing a secret article about Shyness,’ I say. ‘And you’re my main source.’
I’m hoping he’ll move closer, but instead he holds up his blue-lit phone. ‘It’s Blake,’ he says. ‘Paul’s come home.’