‘Of course, of course, sir. Nothing’s too much trouble for family.’ He stands, drops the tool he was using, and wipes his hands. ‘Miss Fitzpatrick—’
‘Miss O’Malley,’ corrects Brigid before I can. Her voice is like an arrow. Strictly speaking, I should be “Elliott” but Aoife’s always insisted I go by “O’Malley”.
‘Ah, my apologies, Miss O’Malley. Come closer, she’ll not bite, my Delphine.’ He laughs as though it’s a joke he’s told before.
‘Is she… alright?’ I ask, indicating her angle, his ministrations.
He grins. ‘Skirts caught in her hip joint. Boys need to be more careful when they carry her is all.’
I step up to the automaton, look into her face. There’s no animation to the features and from here I can see the places where the painted porcelain of her cheeks and forehead are starting to peel away; her glass eyes are black, but there are not so many lashes left around them, though the brows are dark and definitive. There are tiny chips in the red of her lips; the wig on her head is a little askew from the titling of her for the purpose of fixing whatever the little man thinks is wrong with her. He doesn’t set her aright, she’s leaning sadly like a broken thing.
‘How does she… work?’ I ask, and reach out to touch her gown; the netting is rough, the silver sprayed onto it; it feels like Aunt Florrie’s hair although perhaps not quite so prickly. The beads are cheap and they catch the light with greed. I gently smooth the fabric to cover her, give her some dignity she can’t claim for herself.
‘A winding mechanism, Miss. There’s a spot in her back where I puts the key.’
‘Did you make her?’ My fingers touch her face, lips, cheeks. The porcelain is cold. She’s shaped with large breasts, a tiny waist; part of me wants to look beneath the skirts, but that seems impolite.
‘Oh no, Miren!’ interjects Aidan, though he’s standing well away from us, watching. ‘Found her on his travels.’
Ellingham nods, leans towards me. ‘She’s been with me a long time. There were toymakers in the old days, who’d create dolls that had a little bit of soul in ’em. Don’t see ’em anymore. I think she might have been something like that, once, or almost.’
‘Is there a soul in her?’
He shrugs. ‘Not so I’ve noticed, but who can tell? Who knows what she does at night when I’m asleep?’ He grins. ‘Sometimes I wake up and think tonight’s the night I’ll catch her dancing! Hasn’t happened so far, but maybe one day.’ He winks, and I think I might like him a little.
‘And the language she sings?’ I run my fingers down the silver traceries in her arms, take her hand. It’s colder than her face.
‘Whoever made her gave her that voice, Miss. That language. I don’t know where she came from, don’t suppose I ever will.’ He smiles. ‘We travel a lot, Miss, and each new city I wonder if I’ll hear the like, and maybe find her story.’
‘Not yet though?’
‘No, Miss. But our time in Breakwater’s almost done and we’re off again in a few more days, so…’ His smile is kind and genuine.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and I’m not sure if I’m talking to the automaton or the little man. Her hand, in mine, trembles, shivers, convulses, tightens its grip, then is still so swiftly that I cannot be certain if it happened.
Outside the theatre, Aidan’s carriage awaits. He helps his sister and my grandmother in, then offers me his hand. I reach out, but he wraps his long fingers hard around my wrist, like a manacle. ‘We do look very fine together. We shall do all manner of things together.’
I stare into his eyes, and his grip tightens so I feel my bones grinding. With his other hand he strokes my throat, below the dip in the neck where the silver bell rests, lingering over it. I say nothing. The moment stretches until he changes his hold, assists me up into the conveyance, then climbs in after me. I sit close beside Aoife; I do not meet Aidan’s gaze though he’s opposite me. Brigid, next to him, stares. Is it because she’s never seen me rattled? But I know the blood’s drained from my face; suspect that beneath the makeup I look like a ghost.
When we finally arrive at the townhouse, Aidan aids Aoife and Brigid once more. I climb out the other side of the coach rather than go anywhere near him. Struggling in the tight skirt, I must jump to the ground with no one to roll the steps down for me, but I don’t care. I can feel his eyes on me as I go towards the front door, ignoring Brigid’s questions: Are you well? You are very pale, Miren. Would you like a tisane to sleep? Is it a headache or your monthly courses or both?
Aidan does not follow us. He climbs back into the vehicle, heading off for an evening of entertainment most likely fit only for gentlemen.
In my borrowed room, I lock the door. I glare at Brigid’s gift, then toss it aside, the maiden’s quilt, with all the dreams and hopes and spells sewn into. I’d put it in the fire if I dared, if it didn’t seem such a shame to destroy such a pretty thing. When it’s in a heap on the floor, I throw myself on the bed and weep.
7
The docks aren’t quite deserted, but almost. It’s the sweet hour before the bustle of business begins. Some few women and men – sailors, stevedores, whores – wait, smoking cigarillos, others curl in corners, drape across crates and such uncomfortable things, sleeping off their night’s indulgences. Women and men, again, in bedraggled finery amble towards destinations that might be rented rooms, might be the dressmakers from whom they’ve hired
