The Thief on the Winged Horse Page 2

  “Hm. I bought a china doll yesterday.”

  “Oh, did you?” Hedwig had assumed, from first impressions, all the dolls were dearer than he could afford. She suspected he may prioritise his hobby over food and clothing, even if his funds were meagre. Or perhaps – like Conrad, letting houses run to ruin – this man was rich and needed help to spend his money well. To gauge his cash flow, Hedwig asked: “Which china doll was that?”

  “As far as I’m aware she didn’t have a name. Her face was cracked. She made me feel Glorious Exultation.”

  “Ah… I know the one.” Persephone’s father, Briar, had kicked the doll in a drunken rage one afternoon, when he still worked at Kendricks. Following the incident he was persuaded to retire. The doll remained on the market, albeit at a reduced rate to reflect the damage. She still wasn’t cheap.

  “Did I make a good purchase?” Larkin’s eyes were smiling.

  “Yes, you did; I’m sure Persephone explained that all of Kendricks’ dolls are good investments.” Hedwig checked her watch. Eleven thirty on the dot. “Time to show you in.”

  They entered Conrad’s drawing room where, as his years advanced, he spent the bulk of his time. Today he sat before the fire, besuited in olive green, embroidering cloth in petit point for miniature upholstery.

  Conrad’s basalt eyes appraised their visitor as Hedwig introduced him, but the stitching didn’t cease.

  He said: “My dear, the purple silk is missing.”

  “Should I find it now?”

  “It isn’t lost, it’s stolen. The culprit’s long flown. Remember, leave a bowl of milk outside this evening; he’ll take that as ransom, and will return the thread tomorrow.” Conrad held the old beliefs about appeasing the fae folk. Having given his instructions, he deigned to speak to Larkin. “My niece, Persephone, described you. And she said you have a tall tale to tell us.”

  The creel of roses hung from Hedwig’s arm. She took it to the table, where a vacant vase awaited, and she would still be in earshot.

  Larkin leant an elbow on the mantelpiece. Presumptious, Hedwig thought.

  “I’m here as a distant relative,” he began. “With a desire to reconcile.”

  “This doesn’t have the ring of truth. Your speech is wrong. We speak a specific way in this family.”

  Larkin looked bemused; and Hedwig didn’t blame him. All her relatives shared spoken cadences – a rhythm – but Larkin could fairly point out such things were learnt, not genetic.

  After pausing, Larkin tried again. “The story of Jemima Ramsay’s flight has passed down six generations of my family. I’m her descendant.”

  “No. She died in 1821 and left no issue,” Conrad said firmly.

  “She fled to Occitania with her lover; I’ve checked the church records there myself. The very month of her supposed funeral, she gave birth to a child who was baptised Philippe Jehan. She lived the rest of her life in France.”

  “She didn’t; Oxford’s parish records mark her passing here. She’s buried up the road, at St Ignatius.”

  “The coffin’s empty, I guarantee it. I’ve brought proof.”

  “Mr Larkin, I have no desire to see your fake papers en français.”

  “They’re not fake; but in any case, I also have one of Jemima’s possessions. It’s been passed down – my father gave it to me, as his gave it to him.” Larkin searched his inner pocket, then withdrew a small paper package, tied with twine.

  Conrad stopped his sewing, finally, to watch Larkin pull the paper free. The twine unravelled – Hedwig shifted slightly for a better view – and Larkin triumphantly revealed a threadbare book. Without its packaging the book emitted a mildew scent that filled the room.

  Larkin passed the book to Conrad.

  “Look,” Larkin said. “She wrote her name on the flyleaf, and dated it.”

  “Anyone could write that. You could have written it.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  Conrad turned the pages. “The rest is illegible. Just what’s this book meant to be?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been ruined by damp. One of the pages can be read; there’s a diagram of a doll, all the limbs and joints labelled. Have you seen any of her other drawings? Does it resemble them?”

  Hedwig knew that Conrad owned a safe for family documents. If pictures still existed, they were there. And Conrad seemed to recognise the diagram, because he took a lengthy look. She saw a subtle change in his expression. Conrad closed the book.

  “Why d’you want to work for us, Mr Larkin?”

  “To make people feel joy – and awe – and every other emotion that your magic brings. No other doll maker can teach me that. The Kendricks Workshop is unique.”

  “So it’s sorcery that attracts you, not the craft of miniatures. But only the most gifted of our craftsmen are permitted to learn sorcery. I take it you lack craft?”

  “Not quite. I studied Fine Art at Central Saint Martins, then spent a further two years training myself in the making of automata.”

  “Have you ever worked for a firm that specialises in dolls?”

  “No. I only want to work for you.”

  A canny answer, Hedwig thought. Admitting prior allegiances, brief or otherwise, would rule Larkin out in Conrad’s view. The Kendricks hoarded their knowledge jealously.

  “Let’s say I asked you to make a doll,” suggested Conrad. “One that caught my likeness—”

  “I’d make a grodnertal,” Larkin interrupted.

  Conrad chuckled. “Surely not! A wooden peg, sold for pennies? Do I look cheap to you?”

  “No. Grodnertals are durable. They’re hard to break.”

  “And what enchantment would be laid upon it?” Conrad pressed. “What feeling would it call to mind?”

  The visitor dropped his gaze in deference. “Self-respect.”

  Another laugh from Conrad. Hedwig noted he was charmed. He wasn’t, however, fully taken in.

  “I believe your passion’s genuine,” said Conrad. “And the book is credible. Regrettably, that’s not enough to work here. You see, I don’t have arbitrary faith in birthright. What matters, over everything, is loyalty. Rewards for kin aren’t automatic. I must know their past – and know how they will act in future – and know they’ll never give our secrets to competitors. That’s of utmost consequence. If we must have new blood, I permit the hiring of a suitably vetted spouse – for marriage is a solemn, and legally binding commitment to the interests of this family, not easily undone. You have made no such commitment; I don’t know you; and I have no reason to believe you will be loyal.”

  “Let me convince you,” Larkin pleaded, but Conrad merely handed him back the book.

  Hedwig was unsurprised by Conrad’s decision. Twice in the months since she’d held the housekeeping position, men had made eager applications to join their firm, undeterred by the knowledge Kendricks was a family business. On both occasions, Hedwig’s own perspicacity had uncovered they were sent as corporate spies. Didn’t it make sense, then, to be suspicious by default of Larkin – no matter how charming he was? Hedwig only differed from Conrad in her belief a talented enemy could be turned, with the right incentive, into an asset. But outwardly she must show support for his actions.

  “I’ll see you out,” Hedwig said to Larkin.

  He stared as if, till then, he’d forgotten she was there. “Do you believe I have a right to be here?”

  “That isn’t up to me.”

  “Why not? Which branch of the family are you from?”

  “Botham.” Hedwig said again: “I’ll see you out.”

  “No need.” He left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

  Conrad resumed his sewing. Hedwig took the vase to the bay, because the window overlooked the garden and she wished to see their visitor depart. She saw him walking down the path, towards the river. Angrily, it seemed; he kicked a stone. It was a shame he would be leaving. She again considered Larkin’s readiness to buy the cracked doll, and what that signif
ied of his finances. Paxton’s Eyot was short of wealthy men. Oh, half a dozen Sorcerers had money saved, but they were all old and married.

  “Has he gone?” asked Conrad.

  “Yes. He said he stayed at my mama’s last night – presumably he’s walking back there. Now you’ve turned him down he’ll pack his bags and vanish, I expect.”

  “He didn’t say where he came from. Only mentioned where he studied, and – which part of France did he sojourn in?”

  “Occitania.” She paused. “I wonder if Jemima Ramsay did elope there.”

  “Either way, he couldn’t work for Kendricks.”

  “No… Except…” She chose her words with care. “That book looked genuine. And if it is, he might have other things she owned. Like books that aren’t illegible. Or secret records, of her hexes, and…”

  “Her enchantments!”

  “Yes. Things worth a pretty penny, if he sold them. And even if he wasn’t a spy, he might be tempted to take them where they’re wanted. What other option would he have now?”

  “You think I turned him down too rashly?”

  “Not at all. You’re so perceptive, Conrad, when it comes to character, and you’re exactly right to value loyalty. I simply think this chap requires a watchful eye. That’s easier if he works for you.”

  As he reflected, Conrad cupped his chin. “I could employ him, but in a reduced capacity. He’d only be permitted to craft the dolls; not lay enchantments, or be present when the Sorcerers do so. I’d inform the family he can’t be privy to details of how enchantments work.”

  “Until he’d earned your trust.”

  “Understand, he may never deserve it. But if we hold the magic out as a reward, he’ll stay, and we’ll have him where we can see him. Quickly, catch him up – he can’t have got too far.”

  She ran until she’d cleared the bend in the path, then slowed her pace despite her orders. Let Larkin reach the pub, and stew a little; maybe feel the disappointment of his hopes. She wanted him to be grateful for any offer; then he wouldn’t challenge Conrad’s conditions. She strategised this way in Conrad’s interest, anticipating factors he often overlooked. Wealth had made him a poor judge of other people’s motivations and reactions. So often, money had allowed him not to care how other people felt at all.

  3

  When Persephone Kendrick was six years old, her father built her a dolls’ house. At Kendricks Workshop this was the old, unquestioned way of things; the making of dolls’ houses is always about fathers and daughters.

  Persephone had provided him with the rudiments of what she wanted. Two bedrooms – one for a parent; one for a child. A bathroom painted citrine. Real electric lights. He had drawn a sketch, of how the house would look, holding his pencil slightly crooked. His thumbs were misshapen, because he had broken them in fights many times over, and he always endured the fractures without getting them set. Each line on the page had a measurement attached. The shell of the house required seven pieces of wood, and the internal walls would need eight. He cut them from pine, with a hand saw, while Persephone watched, one plait end in her mouth. When the house was assembled he made the stairs, joining the treads and attaching spent matchsticks for balusters. Then he hung doors, swearing at the tiny hinges as he did so.

  “Fucking things.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Daddy, I don’t need the doors to open,” Persephone said hurriedly.

  “If they stand ajar, they look more real.” He persisted, so that every room had a glimpse of the next.

  The first thing Persephone did when the house was finished was put her head inside. Her ear rested on the floor of the living room, and her nose was level with the carved mantelpiece. The house smelt of sawdust. Her father always smelt of sawdust, mingled with beer and sweat. She liked the smell, but it made her feel sad in a way she couldn’t name.

  “I’ve not got any dolls,” she said. “The house is empty.”

  “You can buy some, if you like. I’ll take you.”

  She’d never been inside her father’s workplace before. Certainly she’d seen it from the outside; nearly every grown-up on the eyot worked there, and she had witnessed one conversation after another about its goings on. The dolls displayed in the shop were intriguing but her father pulled her swiftly past them, to the door at the back marked Staff Only. On the other side was a strange lift that her father said was called a paternoster. They jumped in, and watched two floors drop past before getting out again.

  The sign hanging from the ceiling read Sorcerers. Six men, including Persephone’s cousin Alastair, were seated at small tables, painting dolls’ faces under bright spotlights. The centre of the floor was made from glass. When Persephone looked down she could see right through the building. On the level below, there were men making dolls’ houses – that must be where her father usually did his job – and another window beneath them revealed the women on the first floor, papering small walls and painting furniture. Their movements were busy, reminding Persephone of the ants in the formicarium at school.

  Alastair stood up, wiping his hands on his coverall. He had a thick neck and slightly protuberant dark eyes which always put Persephone in mind of a frog.

  “Briar,” he greeted Persephone’s father. “Good to see you – and with a visitor, too.”

  “She wants some dolls to play with. Nothing fragile, nothing like you make for sale – a strong maquette would do.”

  “Let’s see what fits the bill.”

  Alastair led them to a windowless storeroom. A single, naked light bulb swung above their heads. Crates of unpainted wooden dolls, more rough hewn than the ones on sale, were piled upon the shelves.

  “What kind d’you want?” Alastair asked.

  “A little girl,” Persephone said.

  Alastair rummaged through one of the crates. He looked at one, shook his head, and put it back.

  “A little girl, a little girl,” he muttered, passing over this doll or that. “Here’s a nice one, Sephone. Endearing Candour.”

  He placed it in Persephone’s hands. She searched its face, which was marked a dozen times by the whittling knife. The maker had carved large eyes and a sweet mouth. Persephone could feel the Candour welling in her. It was a peculiar sensation.

  “She’ll need a mum and dad,” Alastair said, moving his attention to another crate.

  “She doesn’t,” Persephone cried out. “Just a mummy, not a daddy doll.”

  Alastair looked at her father, a touch embarrassed. But her father only took off his glasses, and rubbed at the lenses with a cuff, as if he hadn’t heard Persephone’s outburst.

  “I’ll fetch a daddy anyway,” Alastair said. “In case you change your mind.”

  More cursorily than before, he picked a pair of dolls from the nearest box, and handed them to her. Now she had three feelings jostling inside her. The Candour; Desire to Appease; and Cool Detachment. She followed Alastair and her father out of the storeroom, back to where the men were painting faces and looking down on all the other workers, and her cousin said he would wrap the dolls in paper for her. She let go of them with relief. As the foisted emotions ebbed, there was room for resentment to flourish. Alastair, and the men who made these dolls, had put these feelings in her. She wished she could make dolls – and work magic on them – so that the only feelings she felt were of her own making. She tried to imagine herself at one of the tiny tables, painting a porcelain face.

  “Why aren’t there any women up here?” she asked.

  Her father and Alastair and the other men laughed.

  “The candour’s worked,” said Dennis Botham, a stocky man with greying mutton chops, who was also Persephone’s godfather.

  “The women do interiors,” her father said. “They’ve a knack for that, because they tidy homes in real life, too. Compared to men they’re more emotional, so working sorcery on dolls would stir them up a lot.”

  “But you said Lucy Kendrick worked sorcery, you said she taught her sisters, who taught their son
s—”

  “They’re dead,” Dennis cut in. “And they had help.”

  “From who?”

  “The Thief on the Winged Horse!”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry,” said her father to Alastair. “We’ll be getting on now.”

  “It’s all right, Briar.” Alastair crouched, to Persephone’s level. “When you’re thirteen, Daddy will teach you how to lay an enchantment. Just the one, and it will be yours, forever. That’s traditional on the eyot. If someone turns out to be good at dollcraft – if they’re better than everyone else – we apprentice them as a Sorcerer, and they can learn all the other enchantments. Do you see? Only the very best people at craft get to do it as a job. Only they get to learn all the enchantments.”

  Persephone sensed there was some insult in this explanation, though she couldn’t put it into words beyond asking, high-voiced with indignation: “How are all the best people men?”

  “Let it go, now, girl,” her father said, frowning.

  The change in his expression silenced her. Alastair handed him the wrapped dolls, and they left.

  *

  Now, she was an adult. She wasn’t making dolls on the top floor as she’d once imagined, despite repeatedly requesting an apprenticeship. She was out front, making sales, getting into trouble for being insufficiently cheerful with the customers. Two days after that stranger with the thin face had bought the Glorious Exultation doll, Persephone and the other workers were gathered on the ground floor for an announcement from Alastair. The stranger was at his side. He carried a doctor’s bag.

  “Settle down,” Alastair began. “I know you’ve heard the rumours. Meet our new apprentice; this is Mr Larkin, who’ll be training with the Sorcerers, subject to probationary restrictions.”

  “Welcome, Mr Larkin,” said Galleren Kendrick – another of Persephone’s cousins, from the architects’ floor. Pointedly, he asked, “Are you a man of Kendrick, Botham or Jackson?”

  “Ramsay,” the stranger replied. “And just Larkin is fine.”