The Mysterious Madam Morpho by Delilah S. Dawson
He stroked the object in question with a sly smile. “It’s been a fair disguise. But if you ask it, I’ll shave,” he said. “But you’ve got to shave something, too.”
Imogen spluttered and felt herself turning red. Fussing with her ripped skirts to hide her embarrassment, she barely had time to consider the logistics of such a plan when he caught her face again.
“And you’ve got to tell me, too.” He kissed her, just a gentle brush of warmth. “What are you really running away from, Imogen?”
It was her turn to sigh and look away. But he wouldn’t let it go so easily.
“I know Beauregard wants his specimens, darling, but there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“I wish it were only the specimens.” She cleared her throat, wiggled her toes, and generally avoided his gaze. “He was my professor and my employer and my landlord, and I took him as a lover. Or perhaps I should say that he used me as such. He wants those specimens, make no mistake. And he wants me. But what he wants most of all is this.”
Imogen carefully unpinned the brooch from her jacket and pressed the button to unlock the tiny hinge. Inside was a single red hair.
14
“That’s not a butterfly.”
He held out one finger as if to touch the thin red filament where it lay on a folded bit of scribbled parchment, and she whipped it out of reach.
“Indeed not.” She snapped the locket’s door closed, and they both exhaled in relief, as if the object within was finally safely caged. “What you saw is one of the last true hairs of Aztarte, the Bludmen’s goddess.”
“Then your butterflies . . .”
“Are dead. It’s only charmed necromancy, I fear, no true talent on my part. I wish they were alive, more than anything. I wish to see them floating on every breeze, quivering on every bush. I wish I could build a beautiful greenhouse filled with flowers for them to live out their short, brilliant lives and make hideous, monstrous babies. Alas, all I can do is call them forth for some little while and pretend, for a moment, that they are real.”
“Then why does Beauregard want them so much? Surely it’s not the money.”
“He wants the hair and the spell. If he figured out how to use the magic, he could make a mammoth tap dance or bring back the corpses of kings. He wants to become even more famous. And he’s that old-fashioned, hardheaded sort that can never rest when a woman has the upper hand. He thought to make me his plaything, and I took all that he held dear. He wants revenge.”
Henry looked around his wagon, his eyes resting with significance on the clockwork cheetah sitting still as stone by the door. “But then why did you plan on using them as your act? Surely that would call him out and invite violence against you?”
She sighed sadly. “I had heard the caravan was moving out the next day. I supposed it would take a few cities to build the equipment, that it would be months before anyone in London knew of the deception. I thought it was the only answer, as I’ve no real skills outside of research and scholarship, an area where I’m ridiculed and shunned. I nearly burst out crying when Criminy confirmed that we would be here for another week. But Letitia was so kind, patting me, promising me that it would all be for the best.”
“From what I hear, she’s never wrong,” Henry said, his gaze lingering on Imogen’s brooch. “It’s funny—I had thought to bring you good news later today. The reason Vil turned you away was true—the paints I was using for the final touches of the butterfly circus are harmful, and I wanted you far from the vapors. Perhaps you will think it bad news now, but your act is ready.”
“I can think of few things worse than being forced into my first performance this close to London. Can we stall?”
He hung his head, stroking her hand. “Again, I’m sorry. I informed Criminy this morning that you would be ready for your grand unveiling this very evening. I believe he has taken the liberty of printing new posters and having them hung up in town.”
“I should have told him the truth.”
“There’s a lot of that going around. But when I told him that you had concerns, he didn’t bat an eyelash. He’s determined that everything will be fine. Hell of a will on that fellow.”
“So there is no escape for me?”
“Not unless you care to face the bludbadgers again.”
“It might be easier than facing the crowd,” she grumbled.
* * *
Back in her wagon, she found her armoire open. Her new costume hung carefully within, a pinned note sending the regards of Master Scabrous. Still trailing the blood-splattered hem of her badger-ruined skirt, she ran a hand along the costume’s coppery brown jacket, beautifully embroidered in black. Turning the sleeve, she smiled. He had outdone himself, and if she found her proper end tonight, she would do so in the greatest style of her life.
She sat on the edge of her bed, kicking off her lone boot and imagining bludbunnies savaging its mate on the moor, freckled with the blud of the badgers. Perhaps it would have been easier if they had just taken her then. It was all going to end badly—she was sure of it. She had knocked on the ringmaster’s door, looking as pitiful as possible. But Master Stain had said simply that the show must go on, and Letitia had held her hands and assured her that everything happened for a reason.
Henry had promised her that he would be nearby, but if Beauregard had finally tracked her to the caravan, there was no hope. Weapons were strictly forbidden to the carnivalleros except for certain families that held long-standing dispensations, and Criminy wasn’t in one of them. Even Veruca’s swords couldn’t cut butter. Criminy couldn’t endanger his caravan by intervening on Imogen’s behalf, and the Coppers were always in attendance. And if Henry employed his killer cheetah, the Coppers would definitely have questions to ask, and she wasn’t willing to trade her freedom for his.
She would perform, and if Beauregard was there, she would hang.
But she would give an unforgettable show beforehand, something even Master Stain had never seen. Imogen had considered running away, asking Henry to come with her. But she now knew exactly how far they would get on the moors on foot, and she wasn’t ready to live her life on the run, two convicts without a home. She could never go back to a quiet, drab life behind city walls, not after her days with the caravan. She stroked the brooch, a single tear slipping down her face. When her eyes wandered to the door, she saw the freshly stuck poster there showing an elegant lady in silhouette with butterflies flying on strings like balloons.
SEE! The Mysterious Madam Morpho and her Butterfly Circus! it cried.
Such a pity that her first show would probably be her last.
* * *
The sun was setting, and she rose to dress.
Solemn and silent, she laced her boots and tightened the new corset from the front. She had requested one that would require no outside help, for she had ever been a solitary creature. With a grunt, she tested her ankle, which was still sore from the bludbadger’s assault but supported her well enough. Next, she slipped on the tight-fitting black dress, whispery slim against her skin, a fashion that Londoners would consider outrageously revealing. Then she tied the skeletal dome of hoop skirts around her waist, arranging them just so around her legs, like a birdcage. Tiny paper butterflies swung from strings within, swaying with every step. Then long black gloves. Then the swallowtail jacket, a shimmering copper with black designs to mimic the Monarch butterfly. It buttoned carefully up to the neck, as it should, but she touched the hidden panels of it, smiling to herself. Master Scabrous had been more than willing to indulge her when she offered sketches for its design. She figured that what she lacked in showmanship would be more than made up for by the brilliance of her costume and the magnificence of her butterflies.
There was a knock on her door, and she unlocked it listlessly.
“The reclusive Mr. Murdoch sends this gift as a token of ’is esteem,” Em
Imogen slammed the door in her face, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly when Emerlie called her a very dirty word on the other side of the door. What did it matter if she was well liked? It would all be over soon enough.
Imogen placed the box on her bed and lifted the lid. Resting gently on a nest of crumpled book pages was a mask nearly too beautiful to contemplate. She had heard of such things used by the daimons in Franchia for performances and celebrations, but she had never seen one before, much less touched the thin, flexible leather. It was contoured to fit her face, painted to match her coat in shimmering copper and black. Cupping it in both hands, she held it over her eyes and pulled back the long silk strings to tie them behind her head. With her hair coiled low on the nape of her neck and her small hat sporting long antennalike feathers, she very much resembled one of her uncanny charges.
She hadn’t told Henry, but she loved them just as much dead as if they had been alive. They had a special bond now—she was the only one who could give the butterflies back the breath of life, their fairy wings dancing on air. They couldn’t speak, couldn’t communicate. And yet they were drawn to her, as if they knew that she alone held the magic to call them. Whatever happened tonight, she was glad she had freed them from that dark, moldy attic, where they had sat, unloved and unnoticed, for decades. And she was glad Henry had thought of this beautiful mask to help hide her from Beauregard and the Coppers. She would have a chance to thank him later, she hoped.
With one last look in the mirror and her hand on the brooch pinned over her heart, Imogen stepped out and closed the door to the wagon, unsure if she would ever see it again.
15
Henry waited for her outside, lurking near the clockwork flamingos. Even if no one else in the caravan could tell him apart from Vil, she knew him instantly. The way he carried himself, the breadth of his shoulders—or, much more simply, the fact that he wasn’t constantly hiccuping. He held out his arm, and she laid the black silk of her glove against the worn leather, feeling dainty and beautiful for the first time in her life.
“I have everything prepared,” he whispered to her. “Never fear.”
“I have never not feared,” she murmured back. “It’s a pretty enough way to go, I suppose.”
“You’re not going anywhere, fool woman. Over my dead body. And Letitia doesn’t seem worried, so you shouldn’t be, either.”
“It rankles, being ever dependent on the kindness of strangers.”
“We’re all strange, darling. But you must have faith.”
She could see it then, waiting in the last red light of the setting sun. A low, round pedestal painted velvet black with a curved backdrop like the set of a Greek tragedy, the better to show off the soft grays and vibrant blues and sunlight-spangled oranges of the butterflies. Everything they’d designed together waited, perfectly staged, and she smiled to see the golden leashes glinting under globe lanterns. If only it had been ready earlier. As it was, she had never even touched it, much less practiced with her performers.
Criminy’s Clockwork Carnival was in full swing. The air danced with magic, waves of warmth carrying the scent of caramel and chocolate and exotic spices. The hurdy-gurdy from Mademoiselle Caprice’s dancing lessons twinkled on the breeze, rising and falling merrily. It would have been perfect and beautiful, just the place to finish falling in love properly. She wished she and Henry could turn and stroll in a different direction, play games of chance and laugh at the sights. But she had a job to do. There her act sat, awaiting only her magic charm.
And there he waited, just another face in the crowd.
Professor Beauregard.
His sallow complexion stood out almost yellow against the navy top hat and cape of his professorship. His sharp nose curved downward, and his cruel smile curved up to meet it. Imogen shuddered to think how many times she had let this foul excuse for a human being touch her in her most private places with clinically painful indifference.
“Well, if it isn’t Jane Bumble,” he said as she passed. She held her chin up, her eyes staring straight through the holes of the mask, straight through him, toward the proscenium where the butterflies waited, lying dead as wisps of paper.
“Her name is Madam Morpho,” Henry said sharply. “And she doesn’t speak to the riff-raff.”
She stepped up onto the pedestal, the paper butterflies swaying in the cage of her hoop skirts. With a deep breath, she faced the gathered crowd, noting the Coppers jammed in among the city folk and a few of the carnivalleros, who, like Emerlie, couldn’t miss a first act. Swallowing down her fear, Imogen bowed at the waist, throwing her arms out in a theatrical bow. The fake wings engineered by Master Scabrous sprang outward and unfurled, the brilliant blue of a Morpho butterfly’s wings shimmering behind her. The crowd gasped, and she stood, chin up, resplendent.
She twirled and bowed, moving behind the arch to bend her face close to the butterflies. Through the holes of her mask, she saw Beauregard tense and begin to shoulder forward through the crowd, and she muttered the charm as quietly as she could.
And nothing happened.
She whispered it again, slightly louder, and the butterflies suddenly jolted to life. A spotlight shot through the darkness, landing on the stage in the center. The folded wings of the butterflies flicked up, vertical, to flutter a few times.
“Take up the baton and conduct,” Henry whispered from the shadows.
A slender golden rod that resembled a magic wand waited beside the stage. She remembered seeing it among his sketches, but it was so cleverly constructed that she couldn’t see the strings that had to be hidden, somewhere, to drive the mechanisms. With a dramatic sweep, she raised the baton and brought it down as she had seen Mademoiselle Caprice conduct her dancers.
As if they knew their duties and had performed dozens of times, each butterfly musician took to its task. The Monarch that had once played in Henry’s hair squeezed an accordion with its front legs, while a Common Jezebel tapped twin drums with every downbeat of its bright yellow and red wings. A battered Leopard Lacewing held still and aloof as it impossibly blew a tiny horn with its proboscis. A circle of Skippers rubbed their legs over miniature violins, producing an eerie warbling that was magnified by a golden gramophone. Imogen conducted in what she hoped was a waltz, and the butterflies flapped in three-quarter time with her wand.
She was grateful that the mask hid her amazement. Truth be told, she had gone into this experiment expecting to be arrested on sight. With no practice and no actual experience with her circus, she was simply bumbling through as well as she could. The butterflies were magnificent, and she would have kissed them had they not been dead and also easily damaged.
Her eyes sought Beauregard, who was whispering to the Coppers flanking him. Her baton sped up, taking the music with it, as she thought about what he might have to say about her to other citified men. Her cheeks went red with embarrassed fury behind the mask, and she wondered what was being reported about her in London by those who had never truly known her. But when she looked up again at the rest of the crowd, she saw faces slack with amazement and eyes filled with tears.
The crowd, the rabble—they felt the magic.
Of their own volition, the butterflies ended the song with a crescendo that spun out into the night, the tiny violins thready and high and echoing. When the crowd burst into applause that was more than polite, Imogen bowed, one hand carefully on her mask. Perhaps the disguise was the only thing that stood between her and a London hangman’s rope.
The spotlight above snapped off, bathing the scene in darkness. Beauregard had just shouted, “Now!” when a new spotlight burst on, focused this time on stage left. The Coppers made no move to come for her, so Imogen leaned in to whisper to the still forms. The butterflies’ wings tottered slowly upright.
She and Henry had agreed that the feats of strength would be performed by Swallowtails and Birdwings, as they were the largest and hardiest of the lepidoptera. The butterflies in this act were each attached to a complicated machine of pulleys and levers, but they paused as if waiting for further instruction. Just as Imogen opened her mouth to speak, a smaller butterfly crawled to the front of the stage on delicate legs. It was the Lacewing from the band, and it piped a merry song on its horn.
On cue, the Swallowtails and Birdwings began to pull their weights in time with the music, adding a tinkling metallic counterpoint to the horn. Even though these butterflies were bigger than her hand, it was still amazing that they could manage to lift the metal weights at all, much less with such careful coordination and impeccable timing.
The Goliath Birdwing crawled to the front of the stage, wearing a top hat modeled on Torno’s leather topper. It was a male and the largest in her collection, almost a foot across, with wings of proud green and gold, and it stopped before a black barbell that exactly mimicked the one she’d seen the Strong Man carrying under the tent. With a flex of its antenna, it picked up the barbell and pressed it skyward, first with one antenna and then with the other, then with its coiled proboscis. She couldn’t help smiling under her mask, thinking about how long it had taken her to find a book big enough to fit the monster butterfly. The crowd cheered, and she heard Torno’s voice raised over the rest, calling, “That is my kind of butterfly, that one!”
At this point, she realized that she was as enraptured as the crowd. When she had devised this scheme, she hadn’t considered what she, herself, would be doing. She wasn’t like a lion tamer with a whip or a clockwork artificer with his code words. She wasn’t actually necessary, and if there had been any hope of her escaping Beauregard, she would have been worried by her own lack of panache. On a whim, she slid her hand to the Goliath, coaxing it onto her palm. She was surprised at the weight of it and could feel its feet prickling through her gloves as it stepped up. She held it aloft with a flourish as it hefted its barbell, and the crowd erupted in cheers and laughter.