Clovis notices he does not call them by their numbers. The sleeping sickness has frightened a spark of humanity from him.
The governor stands at the door with his back to Clovis. He looks ahead into the dark corridor where the doctor waits for him and turns his head ever so slightly, yet not enough that Clovis might see his face.
‘I shall consider leniency and perhaps your regular clothing.’ He pauses. ‘You have … awakened sympathies.’
She fully understands his meaning, and though her capacity for astonishment is currently low, she is surprised he shows himself so quickly. A dark horse, this man.
‘Thank you, Governor, sir.’ She ignores that she is wrapped in an ugly blanket, that her hair no longer falls to her shoulders and her nails need cleaning. ‘I would be grateful, sir …’
‘The girl … you may console her if you wish.’
‘I do, sir, thank you a second time.’
His dark coat-tail disappears down the corridor.
One by one, the rules of Millbank are broken, all of them.
Clovis leads Willa over to the bed, which is noticeably sturdier in this cell and the mattress is stuffed with plenty of coir. She folds the blankets around Willa and kneels beside her. The flagstones are whiter but still as cold as a glacier, so she wraps the remaining blanket around her own knees and legs. She holds the phial to Willa’s mouth. ‘Take it.’ Willa parts her lips. Two drops touch her tongue.
Clovis leans in closer to Willa’s ear and begins the whispering cure. The words seem kind at first, spoken with warmth and in a soothing cadence. Willa fights to stay awake, terrified to ever give over to sleep again. Her mistress’s voice persists, coaxing, calming. Just as Willa’s head rolls to the side and her eyelids are too heavy to open, Clovis adjusts her tone. She demands obedience and loyalty and plants seeds of fear of the consequences should Willa ever wish to stray from her.
It is cold. She hears the governor and the doctor leave Finn’s cell, but she remains on the floor, her knees cuddled up against her body. Her thoughts whirl. She’s beginning to feel good again. There is a massive mountain of information to consider: Mockett, Benedikt, the sleep and what it means. She thinks of the governor and how she will make him her path to remaining sane in this god forsaken place. She considers how to use Finn, Willa and Jonesy – the people she is bound to in their long lives ahead. And the boy. It always comes back to the boy. A powerful idea brews.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘Mr Moonlight’ presents the knife to Jonesy. The pale, blond warder pauses for a fraction when their fingers meet on the handle. The moment is so quick, yet so electric that this time Jonesy is certain it is intentional. He feels sick with anticipation.
In the months that have worn on, each time Mr Moonlight passed his cell Jonesy’s heart quickened. At first he was concerned that his master could in some way sense that his body became alert to Mr Moonlight’s particularly light footfall. Or, did Master notice how quickly he surged to the gate when Mr Moonlight was on rounds, hoping to catch the smell of him.
Their work is carving, and the evidence of it spills out onto the floor in dusty piles. They shape the wooden handles for the prison’s hairbrushes into monotonous squares. The privilege of working with a knife is great and they are constantly reminded how fortunate they are by the chief warden who frequently inspects their work. Jonesy is so accomplished and quick at it that he is promised more intricate work in the months to come.
Jonesy’s days run together like a long dragon divorced from his auspicious powers, constantly searching to regain his strength, searching for the flaming pearl of spiritual energy and immortality. Jonesy learned of the dragons from the only honourable person in his family, his grandmother. She was a toothless old woman with a crooked back that prevented her from walking in a straight line. The smell of fish emanated from her pores as she regaled him with stories of the Eight Immortals.
She plaited his hair with her gnarled fingers while her peasant voice spun images of Lan Caihe.
‘She, or he,’ his grandmother said coyly. ‘Some say a man; some say a woman. Eh.’ She shrugged. ‘Many say both. Lan Caihe don’t care which one. His, or her, age is not known. Lan Caihe is wandering eccentric. She, or he, walks with one shoe on, one shoe off, in long blue gown. Lan carries basket of flowers of the divine. Life or death, they make no change for him, or her. Lan Caihe is least important of the Eight Immortals, but is most content.’
‘To be peaceful within oneself, Yun, she called him by the name his no-good mother gave him, is the flaming pearl.’ She poked him. ‘Yes? You understand?’
He had been only four at the time and no, he did not understand the contradictions of Lan Caihe. He understood noodles and broth, fried chicken-feet and rice.
Jonesy stacks the brushes into the baskets to ready them for collection. To be at peace within oneself. Never was he at more odds with the world. Never more at war within himself than in this moment.
At six o’clock the gas flame has burned for two hours on this winter evening. The cell is chilly, and damp seeps through the whitewashed walls. Prisoners are becoming ill with diseases of the wet, but not him, not his mistress and master, and Willa is in perfect health, too. Though perhaps, he thinks, not in her mind.
Jonesy is lost in his musings, bending over the stacks of brushes and does not notice the pale warder standing at his cell door.
‘1091.’
‘Sir.’ Jonesy bolts upright and turns to face Mr
