Read Online The Whatnot by Stefan Bachmann - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stefan Bachmann
Ads: Link
chin on his chest. Two horse-people stood over him, their faces strangely thin and hungry. And just before the company went over a rise and the cottage was lost from view, Hettie saw the horse-people begin to change again and their teeth grow long as needles and their eyes glow red as they looked down on the faery butler. Then Hettie was over the hill, riding away into the shadows and the snow.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Millipede and the Faery
P IKEY was able to avoid the chemist and the chemistâs wife and almost everyone else for two long, cold nights. His luck ran out on the third, as he was returning from Fleet Street. He was slinking down the alley, past the shop door, soft as a shadow, and then the nails in his boots clanked against the stones and the sound echoed all the way up to the chimneys.
He winced.
âOy! Whozat? Pikey?â
Orange light flickered around the door.
âYeh.â Pikeyâs voice was rough as bark. He dashed toward the hole under the shop, his hand tight around the gem in his pocket. âYeh, itâs me, Jem.â
The bolt scraped. Pikey pulled in his feet and lay still.
âOy!â the chemist said again, when he found the alley empty. He had a deep voice, but it was sloppy and wet now, and Pikey knew Jeremiah Jackinpots had been in his bottles again. Jem wasnât a bad man. Pikey liked him more than most folks. But he was slow-brained and weak, and gin did nothing to improve his wits.
âSo quick into yer mouse hole, boy?â Pikey heard Jem take a few heavy steps toward the hole. Then a hacking spit. âNo words for me? No talk? What âave the oil of earthworm prices gone to? Has the war started yet?â
Pikey remained perfectly still. âI donât know,â he lied. âI didnât hear. Werenât no one around to tell me nuthinâ.â He had heard. The town crier had been on Fleet Street as always, reading the news and the prices to the illiterates that flocked around him. Pikey had been there, too, poking his head between the dirty waistcoats. He went every day to Fleet Street to listen and make sure the herb-and-root sellers didnât cheat Jem when they came to the shop. It was why Jem let him stay in the hole, why the aid ladies hadnât come by in their black bonnets and hoop skirts and taken Pikey to the workhouse. He hoped Jem would forgive him, just this once. Just one more day.
âIâm dreadful tired, Jem,â Pikey called. âIâll tell it all in the morning, promise my boots, I will.â
Jem grunted. There was the clink of a bottle and the smack of lips. Then grumbling as he staggered back toward the shop. The door banged. The alley became silent again.
Pushing himself as far into the hole as he could, Pikey wound himself into a ball, all arms and legs and rank-smelling wool. He was pressing his luck. He knew he was. Tonight Jeremiah Jackinpots was too sullen and too drunk, but he wouldnât be in the morning. In the morning Pikey had to be gone.
Sell the gemstone, get an eye patch, leave the city. Iâll go southward. Away from the war. Away from leadfaces and cities and bleeminâ faeries.
He had been repeating it like a spell the last three days, hour after hour until he fell asleep. Though it had changed a bit since that first morning. Then it had been more like, Buy a caramel apple. Then buy lemonade and ginger-rocks, and sixâno, seven meat pies. Then go back to the caramel apples and buy the whole lot.
He would still get that caramel apple. But he was more practical now.
He shivered and stuffed his blanket down the front of his jacket to keep out the chill. His hole was set inside the foundations of the shop, flat on the dirt. Four feet long. Half that high. Above him, through the floorboards, he could hear Jem and his wife snapping at each other. He had to pull in his knees and bend his neck to fit, and the winter could come right in at the door.
But it didnât matter.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Millipede and the Faery
P IKEY was able to avoid the chemist and the chemistâs wife and almost everyone else for two long, cold nights. His luck ran out on the third, as he was returning from Fleet Street. He was slinking down the alley, past the shop door, soft as a shadow, and then the nails in his boots clanked against the stones and the sound echoed all the way up to the chimneys.
He winced.
âOy! Whozat? Pikey?â
Orange light flickered around the door.
âYeh.â Pikeyâs voice was rough as bark. He dashed toward the hole under the shop, his hand tight around the gem in his pocket. âYeh, itâs me, Jem.â
The bolt scraped. Pikey pulled in his feet and lay still.
âOy!â the chemist said again, when he found the alley empty. He had a deep voice, but it was sloppy and wet now, and Pikey knew Jeremiah Jackinpots had been in his bottles again. Jem wasnât a bad man. Pikey liked him more than most folks. But he was slow-brained and weak, and gin did nothing to improve his wits.
âSo quick into yer mouse hole, boy?â Pikey heard Jem take a few heavy steps toward the hole. Then a hacking spit. âNo words for me? No talk? What âave the oil of earthworm prices gone to? Has the war started yet?â
Pikey remained perfectly still. âI donât know,â he lied. âI didnât hear. Werenât no one around to tell me nuthinâ.â He had heard. The town crier had been on Fleet Street as always, reading the news and the prices to the illiterates that flocked around him. Pikey had been there, too, poking his head between the dirty waistcoats. He went every day to Fleet Street to listen and make sure the herb-and-root sellers didnât cheat Jem when they came to the shop. It was why Jem let him stay in the hole, why the aid ladies hadnât come by in their black bonnets and hoop skirts and taken Pikey to the workhouse. He hoped Jem would forgive him, just this once. Just one more day.
âIâm dreadful tired, Jem,â Pikey called. âIâll tell it all in the morning, promise my boots, I will.â
Jem grunted. There was the clink of a bottle and the smack of lips. Then grumbling as he staggered back toward the shop. The door banged. The alley became silent again.
Pushing himself as far into the hole as he could, Pikey wound himself into a ball, all arms and legs and rank-smelling wool. He was pressing his luck. He knew he was. Tonight Jeremiah Jackinpots was too sullen and too drunk, but he wouldnât be in the morning. In the morning Pikey had to be gone.
Sell the gemstone, get an eye patch, leave the city. Iâll go southward. Away from the war. Away from leadfaces and cities and bleeminâ faeries.
He had been repeating it like a spell the last three days, hour after hour until he fell asleep. Though it had changed a bit since that first morning. Then it had been more like, Buy a caramel apple. Then buy lemonade and ginger-rocks, and sixâno, seven meat pies. Then go back to the caramel apples and buy the whole lot.
He would still get that caramel apple. But he was more practical now.
He shivered and stuffed his blanket down the front of his jacket to keep out the chill. His hole was set inside the foundations of the shop, flat on the dirt. Four feet long. Half that high. Above him, through the floorboards, he could hear Jem and his wife snapping at each other. He had to pull in his knees and bend his neck to fit, and the winter could come right in at the door.
But it didnât matter.
Similar Books
