“I can’t leave Mr Dickens here,” Miss Nightingale said sharply.
As much as the infuriating man was fully to blame for the predicament they were in, she couldn’t just leave him to the mercy of that… whatever it was.
“We ain’t got no time, Miss, we’ve got to get you out,” Miss Kelly urged in rushed tones, her eyes darting towards the open door and the empty corridor beyond. “It’s Mr Sikes and Mr Crackit, Miss. They’ll be looking for you. They ain’t the sharpest tools in the box by no means, but sooner or later they’ll check back here.”
“Which is precisely why we need to move now, Miss Kelly,” Miss Nightingale retorted briskly. “We cannot afford to waste time with idle talk, can we, child?”
“No, Miss, of course not, Miss,” she said, her words tumbling out in a hurried jumble. “But what about Bullseye, the dog, Miss? He’ll sniff us out before we’ve gone twenty yards. It’s fair guess what they’ll do to you, but if they catch me helping you, they’ll slit me open and have my gizzards out, surely they will.”
The dog! Why hadn’t she thought of the dog?
Pressing her lips together and setting her jaw, she cursed herself for being so hasty and careless. It was precisely this sort of reckless behaviour that lands Mr Dickens in hot water all the time.
Around her, torn silks, once vibrant, lay in tattered heaps. Splintered furniture littered the now bare floorboards. There was nothing but useless scrap. Anything even vaguely useful had long since been removed.
Her eyes, raw and watering from gritty soot coating her face, darted around the ruins. A desperate search for escape, for a solution.
Soot!
It was so obvious! Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier?
She glanced at her own hands, dress and boots, all caked in the thick, black filth.
“Miss Kelly, into the fireplace,” Miss Nightingale commanded, her eyes fixing on the other woman. “Quickly, now!”
“The fireplace, Miss?” she sputtered with wide-eyed indignation. “There ain’t no room for me to climb up there.”
“You’re not going to climb up,” Miss Nightingale replied. “I want you to cover yourself with soot. Cover everything.”
“Soot, Miss?” Miss Kelly’s eyes widened further, if that was even possible, her mouth hanging open as if the nurse had lost her mind. “It’ll ruin my silks, Miss!”
“It’s your silks or your gizzards, girl!” Miss Nightingale’s voice was beginning to quiver as her composure threatened to crack. There really was not any time to explain. “I have used charcoal to combat the foul stink of infected wounds in Scutari. If it can quell the stench of gangrene, surely it can throw off a common mongrel.”
With but a whimper of protest, the silk-robed girl nodded, then reluctantly shuffled across the room, ducked through the cast-iron surround, and climbed into the mouth of the chimney.
Miss Nightingale spared no time. Her nails scraped, chipping and tearing against the inside of the firebox, ripping away thick handfuls of black, powdery soot. Forcefully, she began smearing the grime over the girl. Starting from her head, Miss Nightingale worked it into Miss Kelly’s hair, each strand turning from a vibrant red to a dull, dusty rust. Then she started on her pale face, her hands, and her arms.
“Cover every inch of skin,” she instructed in clipped, clinical tones. “We must smell of nothing but ash and soot.”
By the time she stepped out of the fireplace, Miss Kelly’s once vibrant silk robe was ruined, and her white skin smeared with black grime.
Together they bolted for the door.
“Wait!” Miss Nightingale said, coming to an abrupt halt. Bending down, she snatched up a piece of torn silk from the floor. “If Bullseye wants a scent, we’ll give him one that he won’t forget.”
Plunging her hand into her purse, her fingers fumbling until they closed around a smooth glass vial. With a small pop, the cork came loose. The acrid reek of soot in her nostrils vanished instantly, washed away by the sharp, clinical tang of camphor spirits.
The clear liquid cascaded from the vial, soaking the silk until it was dripping.
“Quickly, now,” she ordered, tossing the sodden piece of cloth into the passageway. “Show me where they’ve got Mr Dickens,”
“Miss Miao’s chambers are this way, Miss.”
Following Miss Kelly’s lead, Miss Nightingale stepped through a disorienting labyrinth of winding passages. Their walls, a dizzying blend of green and red panelling that seemed to twist this way and turn that with little sense. Beneath her feet, the floor groaned and shifted, one moment lurching to the left before suddenly tilting sharply to the right. She stumbled forwards, her boots slipping impossibly on the thick pile carpet, as, without warning and for no logical reason she could see, a steep climb suddenly dropped into a sharp descent.
Her hands clamped tightly around a warped doorframe, her knuckles white as her heart hammered against her rib cage. Beside her, Miss Kelly moved with a steady ease, apparently unperturbed by her unnatural surroundings.
Closing her eyes and forcing a deep breath, her racing pulse settled. Exhaling slowly, she smoothed down her soot-covered dress before falling back into step with her guide.
“These creatures, Miss Kelly,” Miss Nightingale said, taking a moment to look at her companion. “These Blossoms… I do not fully understand. I hear tales of their beauty, yet…”
“To the gentlemen, they are right stunners, Miss,” Miss Kelly said, glancing back. “Gentlemen see them as the Blossoms want to be seen. They are vain creatures, those Blossoms; sometimes I think they even believe the illusion themselves. But ladies, Miss, ladies see ‘em as they really are. Their charms are no good on us.”
The corridor took another nauseating lurch sideways.
As they turned the corner, the air changed, becoming thicker. The lingering tang of opium vanished, swallowed by a heavy, suffocating sweetness. A heady wave of jasmine, so thick that it reminded her instantly of the sickrooms, where flowers were piled high in an attempt to drown out the stench of decay.
“We’re almost there, Miss,” Miss Kelly whispered.
Lifting a soot-blackened finger, she pointed towards a heavy red velvet curtain. “That’s Miss Miao’s private chambers. That’s where she takes the ones that she wants to keep.”
****
“She can’t have just vanished into thin bloody air, she can’t,” Mr Sikes growled, his knuckles white around Bullseye’s coarse, hemp lead. “Could she, Mr Crackit?”
“Of course she ain’t just vanished, Mr Sikes,” Mr Crackit replied, peering up and down the corridor. “But I told you to keep an eye on her. I said she’s a sly one.”
Suddenly Bullseye gave a high, strangled yelp. His scarred nose plunged into a piece of torn silk, his dirty white paws clawing at it manically. Almost instantly, the dog lurched backwards, recoiling with a sudden, wet sneeze. With his one eye watering, the brute thrashed his head from side to side frantically, white foam flicking from his jowls.
“What’s gotten into you, you useless hound?” Mr Sikes’ voice thundered.
Mr Crackit snatched the soaked rag from the floor, raising it to his nose.
“Blast, Mr Sikes, it stinks like a tanner’s pit,” Mr Crackit exclaimed, slinging the scrap at the wall. “She’s playing games with us. She’s gone and dosed the mutt’s nose.”
“Don’t you worry, Mr Crackit. She ain’t got far,” Mr Sikes snarled. ”And when I gets my hands on her, I’m going to wring that scrawny neck, and I don’t cares what the boss says about it.”