The Haunting of Alaizabel Cray by Chris Wooding
And he certainly did not look abnormal. He had clear skin and pleasingly placed features, and no smallpox or trench fever had ravaged his face like so many he had seen. He was a little pale, perhaps, and he would never have the build that his father had, for his shoulders were narrower and he was naturally leaner. But he had fine eyes of pale blue and smooth blond hair, gifts from his mother, whom he resembled greatly. His father had often commented that he could see his mother in him; sometimes it was affectionate, sometimes in disappointment when Thaniel had failed to match the expectations laid out for him. Those latter moments crushed Thaniel inside, and he died a little each time.
But his father was gone now, like his mother before him. Thaniel was alone.
His childhood had not been an easy one. He was born the only son of a man who was already a legend by that time. Jedriah Fox, the foremost wych-hunter in London, possibly the world. He knew more about wych-lore than any man or woman who lived. He had been a tall, heavy-set man, with a thick black beard; strong as a bull, and quick-minded with it. A veteran of a hundred scrapes with death, he had attained the status of an icon among the wych-hunters of London. In the early days, when nobody knew anything about the wych-kin and wych-hunting was akin to suicide, it was tales of his exploits that drew new hunters in, and essays that he published that spread the knowledge of how to defeat different wych-kin. Thaniel had been in awe of his father.
But then his mother had gone. Chiana Roseleaf Fox, a senseless and brutal murder in a graveyard in Whitechapel. She was beautiful, artistic, sweet; his father had worshipped her, and Thaniel had loved her dearly. But she died anyway.
After that, Jedriah had changed.
“She was too good for a world such as this; she was meant for the next life, for the angels.” He had said that once, when Thaniel was six. His voice had a terrible melancholy to it as he looked out of the window. “There is no place for people like your mother in this world. Her sweet nature, her compassion, her creative fancies... where once these were strengths, they are weaknesses now. We are in an age of industry, Thaniel. The Age of Reason. Men toil in factories, scientists create wonders; we are unravelling the mysteries of the universe, and they are cold and hard. Science is the new way, and science has not time for poetry or stories or careless folk. I fear for you, son. I fear that those traits that were your mothers will mean your undoing one day.”
“What of the wych-kin, Father? Where do they fit into this new age of science and reason and logical thought?”
Jedriah’s head had sunk a little. “They do not fit,” he said. “That is why we kill them.”
When Thaniel was eleven years old, his fathers fabled skill had failed him. They never discovered what he had been hunting, but there was little left of him when he was found.
It was Jedriah’s friend Cathaline that took up the education of the boy. Jedriah had left him a house and a healthy income, for wych-hunting was an extremely lucrative profession by virtue of its danger, and Parliament offered salaries and bounties that would make a lawyer gnash his teeth in jealousy. She moved into his house and continued Thaniel’s apprenticeship as a wych-hunter; for it was all he had been schooled in since age eight, and he knew no other way. In time, the teacher and the apprentice became friends and finally, hunting partners.
Thaniel twisted the brass taps to turn off the water in the sink and went to look in on the girl again. She was an interesting development, at least. He had not thought about what he was doing when he first brought her back, only that she was in distress and that she should not be allowed to roam the Old Quarter on her own. Truthfully, he had not even considered what might happen after she was better. They would find her parents and return her to wherever she came from.
And if she does not get better?
Thaniel debated the question as he walked down the corridor to his bedroom, where the girl was locked in. He argued with himself all the time. He had few friends, and none that he would call close. It was the lot of a wych-hunter. Working at night, most often alone; all his schooling done at home. But he had Cathaline, didn’t he? And he knew some other wych-hunters as acquaintances. He was happy. He could have been in a workhouse right now, instead of earning many times what most people in London made.
It could have been worse.
He unlocked his bedroom and stepped inside, still intent on his own private thoughts.
“A gentleman would knock,” said the girl, quietly.
Thaniel was surprised out of his introspection. “Ah... I beg your pardon, I... didn’t expect you to be awake.”
She was lying on her side in his bed with the covers drawn tight up to her neck. Her skin shone with sweat and her blonde hair hung lank across her cheeks, but her eyes were open and she was watching him.
“Do you have a fever?”
“I’m cold,” she said. Her eyes darted to the open door and then back to him. “Who are you?”
“Thaniel Fox, miss. At your service.”
“May I have something to eat?” she croaked.
“Of course. Some stew, perhaps?”
She nodded feebly and licked her lips, finishing with a faint smile that made her look like a satisfied cat.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he said, and turned for the door.
“How did I get here?” the girl said from behind him.
“Don’t you know?” Thaniel asked.
“I cannot remember,” she said. Her eyes widened in distress and she drew the covers of the bed closer to her. “I cannot remember anything!”
Thaniel went over to her. She had the expression of fear and mania that he had seen when he first met her. “Calm yourself, miss. It will all come to you in time. Do you know your name? Begin with your name.”
She seemed to relax a little. “I remember my name,” she said, apparently relieved by the notion. “Alaizabel Cray.”
“Then allow me to fetch you some stew, Miss Alaizabel, and then perhaps we can talk more?”
She nodded again, shivering and sweating. Thaniel got up slowly and left her, closing the door behind him. As an afterthought, he quietly turned the key in the lock.
A WOMAN OF ILL REPUTE
TURNING TRICKS
AN UNHAPPY TWIST OF FATE 3
Marey Woolbury had been born under a bad star. It was the only possible explanation. How else had a girl from a well-to-do family ended up standing on Hangman’s Row on a freezing November night with her face painted up like a doll’s, making kiss-faces at the cabs and carriages that rattled by?
She was heartily depressed, and even the tots of warm gin that she slugged from a flask did little to stave it off. She’d had two clients so far that night, both of whom had pawed and mauled her in a particularly uncomfortable fashion in her room before putting their suits and mantles back on and walking out of the building like they were the most proper of gents.
At least the fog wasn’t so bad tonight, she thought, looking over her shoulder at the Waterside Inn and wishing she was in there instead of out here. It’d even be worth having one of those two maulers back if it’d get her into the warmth of the room she hired on the top floor. As she watched, two portly, rubicund old soaks burst out of the door, followed by a wave of heat and light and laughter. Then the door swung to, and the merriness was muffled again.
“Some womanly companionship, sirs?” she asked, flashing them a wink and a sight of her brown teeth.
“Ah, my good lady,” said the more sober of the two. “Our purses have been emptied by the demon in that inn.”
“Aye, the demon Whisky,” added the other, slurring abominably. “He’s a right old thief, a thief he is. Whisky, whisky. Yet he pleases me so.”
“Be on your way, sirs,” Marey said, losing interest in their babble. She had no patience tonight. They stumbled away, laughing, leaving her alone again in the chill.
Marey arranged herself with a curse. Any sane lady would be trussed up in two layers of long johns and undershirts if she were out tonight, not freezing
A bad star, surely. After all, she had been dogged with ill fortune ever since she had been brought into the world. She had been a breech birth, and her mother, always a frail one, had died in labour. Her father, perhaps guilty that he had been the instrument of his wife’s death as much as Marey, turned to drink and gambling. He would beat her savagely when in these stupors, especially when he’d had a bad night at cards, which was often. Then he would make her sleep in the coal basket. Often he had a lady with him, who would laugh a lot and make bawdy comments. It was a different one every time.
When she was eight, she remembered cowering on the hard, shifting bed of dirty rocks after a particularly vicious beating, tears streaking her face, and hurting in more places than she could count. And she remembered the towering shadow of her father storming out of the door, no doubt in search of a drink or a whore, or both. He never came back. He left her alone. Alone, that is, except for the enormous debts he had accrued through his gambling.
For two days she awaited his return. She was used to cooking and housework, so she took good care of herself. When there was a knock at the door, she opened it, expecting to see him back again. Instead, it was a moneylender named Scrimp, with two hard-faced bailiffs. That was when she discovered that she was a debt, too. Her father had bet her on a hand of brag. And lost.
It was illegal, of course, but there was nothing she could do. Now an orphan, she had nobody to fight for her. She was sold to a workhouse for two shillings.
Seven long years, it was. Day in, day out, stitching till her fingers cramped and then stitching some more. Dozens of them, all crammed in a small warehouse, making shirts in return for meagre food and lodging. She must have stitched a hundred thousand hems. A life of endless toil, of sweat and heat and pain. But they were the best years of her life, she had to decide. Because of one thing only. A boy called Kairan.
He was from Ireland, and he was two years her senior. She remembered his always eager face, his lean body—stripped to the waist in the sweltering heat of the summer—and his roguish eyes. But best of all, his voice. That accent, promising things far away, adventure and excitement. He was a roof-runner, one of the boys who worked the pulleys up in the rafters, a nimble climber with a breathtaking disregard for heights.
She fell in love with him, and he with her. For the first time she was wanted and needed by another human being.
Then one day, he got influenza. The work master made him work anyway. He was running along the rafters, and he was dizzy, and he fell. And the greatest chapter of Marey Woolbury’s life was over.
She ran then. She escaped the workhouse, not knowing where she could go, prepared to starve rather than stay there. It was a kind-hearted prostitute called Elsbey who spotted her wandering the streets and took her in. As chance would have it, there was a man there who was in the business of looking after the ladies of the night, a man named Ratchet. He saw in her a prospect, and within a week she was on the street, turning tricks for him. That was five years ago now. She had been there ever since.
The echoing sound of footsteps brought her back to the present, and she realized she had been drifting. The alcohol was fuzzing her brain quite nicely now, and she was even beginning to forget about the cold a little. She squinted to see who was coming, and groaned to herself when she saw who it was. Mr Wardle: one of her regulars, and one whom she particularly detested. He was a vile creature, unhygienic even by her standards. She steeled herself and put on a smile.
“Mr Wardle, sir!” she called. “Marey is cold, and wishes you would come and warm her up!”
Mr Wardle huffed up to her, fat and sweating. He wiped a handkerchief across his brow and over his bald pate. “Sorry, Miss Marey. I’m otherwise engaged tonight. Merely passing by.”
“You have something more important than your Marey? Shame on you!” she teased.
He bowed to her and hurried away, clearly uncomfortable at being seen with her. How odd, she thought. Oh well, she would have liked the money, but it was a relief not to have to make sweetness with that odious man tonight.
She had been standing there perhaps five minutes after Mr Wardle had left, and not another soul had passed. Her mood was bleak, and she was cold and bored and feared the touch of pneumonia. It was then that the sound of a carriage came to her ears. She looked: a black carriage with a carven wooden step leading to the door, pulled by a black stallion and a white mare. The driver was hunched over in his seat, his coat pulled up tight around him, wisps of breath coming from beneath the brim of his top hat. She prepared herself to strut and call as it approached, but decided after a moment that it was not worth the effort.
To her faint surprise, however, the carriage slowed as it neared her, finally rattling to a halt. The horses snorted and stepped from hoof to hoof eagerly, steam rising from their flanks. Marey looked up at the driver, a little fearful of his shadowed face.
“Good evening to you, sir,” she said, her voice small.
The driver took off his hat and folded his collar down, smiling at her. She felt a strange sense of relief. He had a pleasant countenance, a small brown moustache, and gentle eyes. “Good evening, madam. Are you waiting for a cab, by any chance?”
She smiled at his flattery. It was quite obvious what she was doing. “Perhaps I was waiting for a cab driver
“Ah, but you see that I am a carriage driver, madam. A shame, I think.”
“And would this handsome carriage driver like the company of a woman tonight, sir?” she asked, crooking her hips seductively.
“I am afraid this humble carriage driver is on duty, madam,” he said, smiling apologetically. “However, I seem to have an empty carriage, and you must be cold. Perhaps you would like a ride home?”
“I could not afford to travel in such a fine vehicle,” she said.
“There is no charge, madam.”
“That’s very kind, sir, but I have to—” she began, and then caught herself. What was the point of staying here anyway? It was clear that tonight was going to be a bad one. Only one of her regulars had turned up, and that was the detestable Mr Wardle, who had spurned her anyway. She was freezing to death for no good end, and besides, she thought she might be catching a cold. Ratchet would never know.
“Well, sir, your offer is much appreciated,” she said. “I accept.”
“Capital!” he said. “For whats a carriage without a passenger, and a beautiful lady like yourself? Where are we going?”
“To Archerwood,” she said, and the driver put his hat back on and picked up the reins.
She climbed inside, feeling a little giddy from the gin she had drunk. The interior was plush and comfortable, although not much warmer than the night outside. Settling back, she took another tot from her flask and relaxed. This was a kind turn of fortune, for sure. Perhaps her bad star was shining only weakly tonight.
The ride was surprisingly smooth, and the gentle motion combined with the gin began to make her drowse a little. It was a short journey to her home—she didn’t live at the inn, no, that was for business only—but there had been tales of wolves and things worse, and it was always chancy this close to the Thames. She’d had some run-ins before, and a carriage was safer than being on foot in London at night.
She woke up as the carriage pulled to a halt, not realizing until then that she’d fallen asleep. Blinking, she sat up and stretched, listening to the crunch of boots on gravel as the driver slid to the ground to let her out. She felt like a proper lady, she did. Yes, a truly kind turn of fortune.
Her rouged cheeks paled as the door was opened. No handsome driver any more, but a mask of grey sackin
“Stitch-face!” she breathed, and she knew then, as her eyes travelled to the long knife in his hand, that her bad star had finally got the best of her; and she wished more than anything that Mr Wardle had not been otherwise engaged that night.
ALAIZABEL’S FEVER
AN UNWELCOME OBSERVER
A LETTER FROM DOCTOR PYKE 4
Alaizabel sat up in bed, the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders and knees so that only her arms and head showed out of the cocoon. It seemed a curiously childish thing, but it pleased Thaniel, who remembered doing it himself when he was little.
She had awoken with an appetite bordering on ravenous, and was on her third bowl of stew by the time Cathaline returned from the apothecary across the road with a tincture for her fever. The apothecary had been closed, of course—distantly, Big Ben had just struck the hour of one o’clock in the morning—but Cathaline knew the family who owned it, and they were accommodating to her needs when she knocked on their door at such a late hour. Alaizabel spoke little while she ate, her attention entirely on the food that Thaniel provided. She swallowed the tincture without question or complaint, wincing as it seared down her throat; and finally, she handed her empty bowl to Thaniel, and was sated.
“How do you feel?” Thaniel asked.
“Better,” she said, with a little smile. “Not so cold. Not so tired.”
“Would you like to come by the fire? It’s warmer than my bedroom.”
She nodded, her bright eyes fixed on him. Thaniel helped her into the living room, where Cathaline was already building up the hearth. She was still wrapped in her blanket as she nestled cross-legged into one of the chairs, the glow of the gathering flames dancing on the moist sheen of her fevered skin. The room warmed quickly, dim and cosy. Thaniel brought her a brandy, and one each for him and Cathaline; then he took a chair beside her.