Sinister Sentiments Page 6

  “Does it hurt you when they break?” I asked.

  “Every broken mirror destroys a part of my world,” the creature explained, his angular jaw sinking sorrowfully to a frown. “The Duke must pay for his crimes.”

  “Where do I relate to this?” I pressed, eager to know.

  The Glassman leaned closer to the frame, his sharp face filling the space just above my head. His frown faded away, leaving only a thin-lipped solemnity to his look.

  “You must kill him.”

  *

  I ran from the Glassman’s offer. By the word of any lord or any faith, killing was certainly a sin. I refused to clean the parlour alone for days afterwards, but the Glassman had other ways of reaching me to pursue our bargain. The shards of mirror in my room were not strong enough for him to take form within them, but I heard his voice echoing out of them at night, whispering to me in my half-dreaming state.

  “You would do the world a service to rid it of such a cruel man.”

  “He has hurt you. You have every right to take vengeance.”

  “Africa is waiting, Aberash. She is waiting for you to come home.”

  This last phrase was the most tempting of all. I think the djinn knew it, for he repeated it most often, haunting me for hours with the promise of the sun-baked shores and the warm rhythm of my country’s beating heart. I knew it was within in me to do the deed he asked; I had ample opportunity to slit the Duke’s throat when he was passed out drunk in his study on any given evening. He would not think to defend himself against a mere girl of fourteen until it was much too late.

  Possible or not, it was the wrong thing to do. Tempting or not, I would resist. There was no circumstance that could press me to act on the Glassman’s command and reap his promise.

  Until I received the beating.

  My refusal to clean the parlour alone had been reported by one of the prettier white maids. The Duke decided that this kind of independent thinking was unbecoming of me, and that I ought to know my place a little better. He called me to his study with a riding crop in hand, and I knew what was coming before he had even closed the door. I wanted to run or to scream, but there was no-one to help me even if I did. No-one had ever offered me help until the Glassman appeared.

  The wretched Duke beat me until my skin sang with blood. The crop ripped through the back of my humble smock and sliced hard until it had broken my skin. Eventually the cuts were so deep that the top layer had been destroyed and I lay doubled over, heavy with sickness from the loss of blood as the Duke continued to shout his tirades of commands overhead. I was too damaged to care what he said, so pained that death seemed a welcome change from life.

  The Glassman appeared in the mirrored tiles of the Duke’s drinks cabinet, near the bottom at the level of my eyes. I could barely see him for the pain and tears in my gaze, but he looked upon me with such sympathy that I felt a pang for denying him his will. He was right about the Duke, was he not? Would he not be a more merciful master to obey than the best above me?

  *

  And so I come to be standing above the Duke now. The deep slits in my back are bound and bandaged, but I can still feel crusted blood cracking as I raise my blade. The hapless beast who gave me these injuries is passed out drunk beneath me, spit and stench bubbling at his open lips. He snorts like a pig amid his snoring. And now I will be his butcher.

  In my last moment of hesitance, the calm seconds before I take the blade to the edge of his neck, a faint light glows from the mirrored tiles once more. I smile, happy that the djinn is there to witness my deed. No sooner than it is done, he will deliver me. Those are his words.

  “I am Aberash,” I whisper to the slumbering beast. “I am your end.”

  It requires more force to gut his throat than I imagined, but I am strong enough for the task. Though my stomach wretches and my hands are shaking when I drop the blade to the ground, I stand in awe of the act itself, shocked at the impossibility that I could have created the bloody mess that now sits in the armchair before me.

  “Well,” I demand aloud, my voice aquiver. “I am ready for Africa.”

  “It is ready for you,” the Glassman proclaims. “Come to the parlour.”

  I follow the sound of his merry laughter as it echoes through the house, sneaking my way to the deserted room where the glowing ornate mirror awaits me. In its glass, the bright golden plain is already waiting. Without a second thought I approach it, climbing up onto the fireplace and lunging at the mirror as though it is an open window. My instincts haven’t led me astray, for this time there is no surface to the glass. I pass into a world of wild and unbearable heat, flying through the mirror and landing on the dusty ground.

  As I choke and splutter, I snap my head back to the direction I came from, but there is no other side to the mirror I passed through, only an empty wooden frame clattering into the dirt. It breaks apart on impact, shards of splintered wood springing towards me and aggravating the dust. I rise slowly to my feet and look around at the beautiful trees and azure sky. This is my paradise, my freedom. I raise my hands to the heavens, checking the horizon. Panic grips my chest as I realise there are nothing but trees as far as my eyes will reach.

  “Where do I go?” I shout to the sky. “Glassman! Djinn! Which is the way?”

  The thought comes to me too late that I should have asked for a better deliverance than this. I start to walk in the damning heat towards a patch of long brown grass, startled when it suddenly moves. A fur-clad figure, golden and lithe, pads from the grass, its eyes black as coal and its sharp teeth bared. The lioness emits a growl that shakes me to my core. She scrapes her claws against the dirt as I stare on, dumbfounded. In the reflection of her calculating eyes, I see a glimmer of bright blue light.

  “Beware your wish come true, Aberash,” a rich voice whispers on the warm wind. “She likes the look of the blood on your hands.”

  The Glassman’s wild and manic laughter consumes me as I turn and run.

  The S Word

  An exclusive chapter one preview, full novel coming in 2015

  “Be completely still or it’ll blind you.”

  I waited, eyes wide open. The exposed flesh dried out as I resisted the sting that urged me to blink. Every muscle in my hands and fingers clenched hard at my skirts, waiting as I stared at myself in the grand mirror of my mother’s chamber. My mother sat beside me, clutching ribbons and pins that she threaded through her fingers repeatedly. I could hear her dainty toe tapping the polished floor beneath us.

  “Get on with it Constance,” she ordered.

  The maid obliged, her quivering hand coming closer to my brow. I remembered Mother’s warning and fought against the blink once more, the sight of the tiny paintbrush coming into my peripheral vision. Seconds later Constance made contact with an eyelash, and my eyelids came crashing down against one another. I squinted and lunged away from the brush. Mother pushed me back towards the maid with a bony hand.

  “Silly girl!” she said, slapping the back of my wrist. “You’ve got ink all over your cheek now!”

  We kept going until I had the hang of keeping still while Constance painted my lashes. I had heard of an invention that made the task of darkening them much easier, but Mother said it was the product of actresses. They were all harlots, of course, so that wouldn’t do for a lady of my standing, even if I hadn’t been a lady of standing for very long. New money meant new rules for us all to follow.

  “Don’t touch her hair!” Mother chided as Constance’s elbow brushed one of my dark curls. “I spent an age getting that hair just so!”

  She really had. It was styled in a tall mass of ringlets that was positively aristocratic. It wasn’t the current fashion of 1897, but it suited me well. Once my lashes were darkened, Constance ran the brush over my brows and then the look was complete. The dark hair complemented my pale skin and even made the mole on my cheek seem complimentary; it was the best job that Mother and the maid had ever made of me. Just in time for the night that would
change my life.

  *

  Papa had bought the dress in New York, when he attended a conference of trade there. It was sent home to us in London, in an expensive black case that took all my strength to open. A gown in pale violet with dark underskirts and patterns like sprigs of lavender climbing up its corset. I had been dying to wear it, peeping into the case every day in anticipation of the ball it was being preserved for. Now that the time for the gown had come, it was almost too precious to put on. I quivered as I walked down the staircase of the reception hall, fearful that my pointed shoes would catch in its fine hem. A footman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to greet me and my mother.

  “Mister Flint is absent tonight, milady?” he asked as Mother approached him.

  “Indeed,” she replied, “you may escort us into the main hall, boy.”

  I wanted to laugh at the lad’s agog expression, but Mother took her new society powers very seriously. After all the hard labour my father had gone through to elevate our standing, Mother knew exactly what we were entitled to and I didn’t dare do anything to jeopardise that. Especially not at the ball of the Duke of Blackfriars. The footman gave Mother a nod and stood between us, taking an arm each to guide us along the short corridor that led to the grand hall.

  The sound of music and gentle chatter caught my ear, an excitement warming my chest and threatening to flush my face. I took a few breaths to calm myself, catching the footman smiling at me from the corner of my eye. He must have only been my age, seventeen, or eighteen at the utmost. The feel of his strong arm, upon which my hand rested, made the heat within me spread further. I ignored him totally, as was proper, and he sulked away to the announcer, who would call our names as we entered the duke’s ball.

  “Mrs Arabella Flint, wife of Mr Oscar Flint, and their daughter Bedelia.”

  A few heads turned to appraise us, but not as many as Mother would have liked. She herded me to the very edge of the space where young people were dancing as my eyes took in the many sights of the opulent room. The duke was nowhere to be seen, which was quite usual for such events, but his splendour was everywhere, in the golden platters where food was being served, and the fine crystal glasses of wine that the elder guests were holding. I would not be permitted wine, but I didn’t need it to feel giddy in this place. The chandelier hung over the dance floor, reflecting candle flames so that they pirouetted like sunspots on the polished boards, darting between the elegant feet of the dancers before me.

  One stood at the edge of the floor in order to indicate that one needed a partner. Tonight, Mother said, was the most important opportunity of my life, the moment where I could bag myself a perfect young man and turn his head to thoughts of courtship. I surveyed the room for men just a little older than myself who weren’t already taken up with partners. Across the floor, a gentleman with rich dark locks conversed with some older fellows, his bright smile wide and gracious. I toyed with a curl of my hair nervously, trying to catch his gaze.

  “Don’t tousle your hair!” Mother chided in a fierce whisper. I dropped my hand instantly. “Who are you looking at, girl?”

  “I don’t know his name,” I whispered.

  Mother followed my gaze, giving me a sly nod, her thin lips pursed in thought. The elegant bones of her face tightened, as they always did when she was thinking.

  “I do believe that’s Roland, the Duke’s second son,” she mused.

  Even as she said the words, the young man with the rich hair happened to glance our way. I was too slow to evade his stare and, when his dark eyes met mine, I couldn’t look away. He glittered like a precious thing, a perfect picture of a man. He smiled at me, inclining his head. I curtseyed in return despite our distance, which seemed to make him chuckle. One of the old men in his group spoke to him and he turned away again, leaving my heart to sink down from the base of my throat.

  “Promising, promising,” Mother said. She took me by the elbow and led me like a pony along the edge of the floor once more. “We must position you nearer so that he may ask you to dance.”

  “Why should he do that?” I asked her. “We haven’t even been introduced.”

  When I glanced at Roland again, his eyes had travelled over the top of the old men’s heads, winding their way to mine once more. Perhaps we didn’t need an introduction in order to dance. He was the son of a duke; he could do whatever he wanted. We arrived in a position just a few feet away from where he stood, in front of a table of men who were seated. A voice behind me crept into my ear, a sleek tone carrying the gentleman’s words despite the din of the music.

  “Of course that’s only the beginning of my experiments,” he said. “You’d have to come up to Bentonville to see any more.”

  His voice was like molten silver. Experiments, had he said? It sent a shiver up my spine, his words consuming me so completely that I didn’t notice another figure moving into the space in front of me. A head bowed in my direction, snapping me back to the scene before me with a little jump. Roland raised his head, already chuckling at me once again.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” he said, an amused look overtaking his perfect mouth. “Have we met? I feel as though I know your face.”

  Before I could say a word, Mother interjected, curtseying to the duke’s son with a thin smile and pulling me down with her. Her eyes were wide and unsuitably greedy.

  “You have met my husband, your grace, Oliver Flint?”

  “The fishmonger!” Roland said with a nod.

  Mother tried her best to hide her grimace.

  “He’s the owner of the factory, milord,” she corrected politely. “We don’t actively deal in the fish.”

  “Of course not,” the beautiful young man answered. “Mrs Flint, a pleasure. And young Miss Flint…?”

  I had a moment and I took it, offering him my hand.

  “Bedelia,” I said.

  “Roland,” he replied, nodding. He squeezed my fingers lightly, our gloves slippery in one another’s grip. “Since I have your hand already, might it be persuaded to lead you out to dance, Bedelia?”

  “She’d be delighted,” Mother said, retreating and holding me at the waist to guide me forward.

  It wasn’t as though I needed encouraging. Roland was markedly better looking than any young man in the whole of the grand hall, perhaps more handsome than any I’d ever laid eyes on. I had been presented last year, on my sixteenth birthday, to make my debut in society, but it wasn’t until recent months that Papa had finally rubbed shoulders with enough of the right people to get us noticed. Now, at seventeen, I was the premium age to secure a good match and Mother had made it her mission to get me one.

  As I took up with Roland to dance, I saw her over his shoulder pointing to my hair, as if to warn me to take care of the style. I nodded ever so slightly, then let my gaze fall to the floor as we began a few steps. The music was faster than I was used to and my fear for my gown had me tripping up every few paces. Roland let that fine chuckle of his loose once more, and I couldn’t help but look up into his beaming face to see his dark eyes glitter again.

  “You’re an odd little thing,” he remarked.

  I didn’t know how to respond to him, so I simply giggled and let him twist me to a new footing, trying to follow the song.

  “Are you shy Bedelia?” Roland teased. “Shall I have to dance with you all night to get more than a word from you at a time?”

  I pressed my lips together a moment, considering my reply.

  “Perhaps.”

  He laughed boldly, louder than the music, his hand at my back growing stronger as he tried to guide me in the steps. We twisted again, the motion and his flattery making me so giddy that I forgot to mind my hem. The underskirt caught in my shoe, as I’d feared it would, and I stumbled backwards wildly, out of Roland’s grip. I fell to the floor with a horrid thump that pained the bottom of my back, my pale face flushing red as I realised that everyone had noticed my accident. Struggling to get my heel free of the gown, I looked down
and wrestled with the skirt, hoping the other guests would go back to their entertainments and forget me soon enough.

  But they didn’t. They were staring still. Roland had not come to help me rise; he simply gaped at me, and the sparkle in his fine eyes was gone. Mother rushed towards me. I thought she was going to help me stand, but instead she moved past me as swift as the wind to a spot behind me. I turned my head to follow her steps and let out a horrified shriek. My hands ran up my neck to the top of my scalp where there was nothing at all to touch.

  My wig had fallen off, leaving the whole grand hall to witness my bald head.

  Weather Vain

  A humble clerk knows that his future position in any company is fully dependent on how he looks when he enters the office. I always stand by the window when I finish dressing in the morning, under the arch of the roof in my third-floor bedroom. The gilded mirror sits in the corner just beyond this window, reflecting light into the modest room behind it, and onto me as I stand, appraising myself in its polished glass.

  Two eyes in a fine amber shade. Dark brown hair smoothed into an austere backward sweep. A slim jaw and slightly-pointed chin. One slim, straight nose in a symmetrical position, sitting atop a thin moustache that I don’t seem to be able to cultivate into a proper beard. An aspiring businessman ought to have better facial hair, but perhaps I’m still too young for the right kind of whiskers to grow in. Someday, I hope for better growth.

  “Your tie isn’t straight, darling dearest.”

  Annette. The brightest light in my life. I don’t know how long she’s been standing at the bedroom door, but now she swiftly moves into my vision, coming to stand between me and the mirror. She reaches out to straighten the maroon bow tie enveloping my shirt collar, patting her hands down the sleeves of my brown jacket afterwards. She smiles with angel’s lips, her almond-shaped, hazel eyes encased in long lashes. Though her hair is kept back by a sensible knot, a recent memory flashes to my mind of those soft, auburn curls hanging down about her bare shoulders.