‘Thank you, Ben. Thank you so much!’ I take one last look at the map, then slide it into the pocket of my trousers, before fishing about in my duffel for the small pouch that contains the few pieces of jewellery not sewn into my coat’s hem. The earring that is the pair for the one I left on Viviane’s pillow glimmers in the firelight as I throw it to the boy. Ben catches it, holds it up to watch the flames reflected in the facets.
‘Don’t think Ellingham’s delighted about the one you left with Vivi, either.’ He laughs. ‘But everyone else is. We’re happy to have something laid by against the hard times, even if the old man’s too proud. He thinks it’s bad luck, to set things aside, as if you’re going to call ill fortune onto yourself.’
‘Hide it until you need it.’
He puts it into the pouch around his neck, makes sure everything’s secure. He pats it. ‘Safe as houses.’
We smile at each, then he looks sly and says, ‘There was something strange, though.’
‘What?’
‘Well, Ellingham was asking around just like I told you, but that day he was looking for a clockworker or a watchmaker, for Delphine.’
A frost settles at the pit of my stomach, and my throat feels like it’s closing over. I think of lying in the box with her, pressing some button or other and feeling that click beneath my palm. Not admitting to it, just hoping I’d not broken anything... I open my lips to offer an explanation, an apology, but his expression of glee stops me. If I’d broken the automaton, he’d not look so, would he?
So instead I say, ‘Why?’
‘The night after you left, we bring her out on stage just like we always do. She’s all in her new finery that Vivi made, and she looks exquisite if I do say so. Our Delphine sings her song just as she always does, but after the applause dies down and we’re preparing to take her away, just like we always do, she begins to speak. The timing was impeccable, might I add, as if she’d just waited for them all to think her done. But she starts telling this tale, only it’s not in her voice, is it? “I was sixteen when he plucked me from the sea...”’
‘Oh, gods. Is Ellingham angry?’
‘Angry? He couldn’t be happier, for her to have something new. That’s sort of how he found your old silversmith, he was in that street looking for a clockworker to see if they might figure how she might add something else to her repertoire.’
I laugh with relief. ‘When I was in the box with her, I pressed her chest by accident… I told myself the story to stay calm. I hope Ellingham doesn’t break her in his ambition.’
‘No worries about that. Clockmaker wouldn’t touch her, said she was too precious and she couldn’t promise she’d get Delphine back together.’ He shrugs. ‘Ellingham’s happy enough with your tale. The audience loved it, your voice holds the attention.’
‘Will you come with me?’ I ask. ‘Just for a while?’
But Ben says, ‘No,’ with a reluctance that makes me feel not quite so bad. ‘No, Miss Molly, I’ve been gone too long following you. What will Ellingham do without me?’
What indeed? ‘But sleep here tonight, get some rest.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Soon enough both our lids are growing heavy. I’ve been riding, but Ben’s been loping, running to catch up with me. He needs to slumber.
‘Goodnight, Ben, sleep well.’
‘Night, Miss Molly.’
* * *
In the morning he’s gone.
My coat is draped over me, and the fire had been extinguished properly. I’ve slept over-long despite the bright morning light, but the weight of the past days, and the burden of hope brought by the map have worn me out. I’m slow to rise, slow to get on the road. But I pat the kelpie-horse and tell him his journey – our journey – now has an end in sight. He whickers.
It’s early afternoon when we come to Lelant’s Bridge, a decent-sized place. There’s a weir beneath that aforementioned bridge where the water rushes white and onwards, back to where I met the kelpie. I ask a woman at a baker’s stall in the markets which is the best inn for a woman travelling alone, and she directs me to the Maiden’s Revenge. It is smaller than most of the hostelries I pass, but the advantage is fewer guests, bigger rooms, and private bathrooms; and for some extra gold bits I can have my laundry done. I leave the kelpie-horse in the hands of the inn’s stableboy. Before I leave, I whisper and remind my mount that he’s honour-bound not to eat anyone here. He tosses his head as if he thinks I’m rude.
The white-haired, quick-fingered landlady named Beck is polite enough to only give me one raised eyebrow – men’s attire, fairly filthy by now, and I cannot smell good – then she pockets my coin at speed and happily shows me upstairs. The room is bright, a patchwork quilt on the high bed, a chair by the window of coloured leadlight glass, a small fireplace, a table should I wish to eat in (there’s a dining room downstairs for those who like company), and an enormous bathtub. She turns on the taps without asking me, is generous with the fragrant oils on the little shelf above the tub – at which I do my best not to take offence – promises a meal will be brought up soon, then leaves me to my own devices. I’m still soaking half-an-hour later when there’s a knock. A nervous pretty girl carries in a tray, then takes away my dirty laundry. I stay in the tub a long time, washing my
