PART III
Rats and Cubs
8
Some might reckon I deserved what I got, for being daft enough to trust Tasha like that. You might even have put together that Madalena was more likely to have been torn apart by a demme who changes into a lion than a Lord who changes into birds. Aye, I was gullible, but that’s beside the point. I was already lost. I was sick for months, through Aphrodal and Floralis, sweating and feverish, drowning in crazy dreams. Tasha didn’t send me back to the theatre; she tended me, whispered motherly words into my ear. By the time I was right again, I was used to doing what she said, even if it was just opening my mouth for the soothing syrup, or turning my head so she could take the soaking pillow out from under me.
I was hers. There was naught for me back at the Vittorina Royale. I’d been gone too long and without Madalena to be sentimental about me, I’d have been replaced within a week. Not much point going back to Oyster, either. The only family I’d ever known was the Mermaid Revue.
Once, before my fever broke, I saw Bad Cravat sitting in a corner of my room, watching me. He was on his own, which was unusual. Tasha normally didn’t let anyone else in unless she was there too, so either she was with me or I was alone.
Garnet, his name was. I remembered that. He was a mite taller than he had been, but fitted his fancy clothes no better than before. He’d be of age in a year or two, maybe. He was also drunk off his face. I was hazy, but I could smell it on him. He was talking, muttering to himself like he didn’t expect me to hear him. I was just there. It was all manner of nonsense about skies and blood and burning that made me think he had more than gin in his cup.
I stirred, and he looked at me in surprise. ‘You’re awake.’
My throat was too dry and hot to do more than croak. He brought me honey water, dripped it into my mouth a bit at a time, fumbling with the glass.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living, little rat.’
‘I dream of rats,’ I said when I could push out the words. ‘Big white ones. Clambering everywhere. I dream that all the time.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Garnet.
Even that small amount of talking was enough to wipe me out. I closed my eyes again, and when I opened them, he was gone.
I got stronger after that, a little at a time. Tasha babied and cosseted me in a way I’d always wanted from Madalena. She called me her Poet, which I didn’t understand, but it was better than Boy or Baby. She delighted in my memory, packed with a lifetime of overheard plays and pantomimes, and as I recovered she made me recite stage verse to her until my voice went dry again.
I’d do anything to please her. Anything.
If the fever had harmed my voice, I have no doubt she’d have thrown me to the street. Or perhaps not. She knew a secret about me, after all. Something even I didn’t know yet.
One morning I woke up and couldn’t think straight. It was like my mind was in a bunch of tiny bodies, all paws and tails and noses, running in a hundred different directions at once.
You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?
I climbed the walls, clung to the wooden eaves, hid under the bed, and when I realised what was happening — I was rats, big white rats, dozens of them — I was so shocked that I fell back into my human body and crashed to the floor, bruised and bloodied and panicked.
Tasha came in, but I was screaming and crying and grabbing and she got bored fast. She shoved me down and walked away. ‘Deal with it,’ she snapped as she left.
Three young seigneurs stood in the doorway looking at me. Garnet and the two others, one dark, one golden.
‘What’s happening to me?’ I yelled at them.
Garnet came, pulled me up on the bed, found another of the seemingly endless pairs of pyjamas that Tasha liked to dress me in.
‘Rats,’ he said with a sigh. Not drunk this time. ‘Either of you pricks got a good way to explain it to him?’
‘I can’t change in front of him,’ said the dark one. ‘Cats might send the poor bugger completely over the edge.’
The golden one shrugged. He unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his breeches, and then … changed. I had seen stage tricks before, and this was no trick. I was too close to fool myself this was anything other than a fellow shaping himself into a large furry creature. He was gold and brown and lithe, and his pelt slithered over his muscles as he padded towards me. My fingers stilled on the pyjama buttons as I gazed in a mixture of horror and awe at the amazing creature.
He licked my face, and the other lads cracked up at my horrified expression.
‘Nicely explained, Lysh,’ the dark one said, shaking his head.
Garnet sat by me, one hand caressing the furry head of his friend. ‘This is Lysandor. He’s also a lynx. See his tufty ears?’ He tugged at the pointy tufts of hair that looked a bit like devil horns. ‘I’m Garnet. I’m gattopardi. Two of them. A bit like our friend here, but smaller, shinier. Better looking.’ Lysandor the lynx snorted and Garnet cuffed him lightly. ‘The smart-arse back there is Ashiol. Plain old house cats.’
‘F*ck you,’ said Ashiol, without any heat. ‘What’s your name, lamb?’
‘Poet,’ I said in a low voice.
Lysandor was warm. I wanted to bury myself in his fur and go to sleep.
‘No,’ said Ashiol. ‘What was your name before you came here? Before Tasha got her talons into you?’
‘Poet,’ I said again, rebelliously.
‘Knows his own mind, doesn’t he?’ said Ashiol, sounding almost impressed.
‘I’m surprised he has any mind left after what she did to him.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Ashiol said. ‘He doesn’t know.’
I wasn’t stupid. They were talking about me like I wasn’t there, but that had happened a lot back at the Mermaid and the Vittorina Royale. I’d learnt to understand what adults said, even when they weren’t saying anything at all, and these were far from adults. I sat up straighter. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re safe,’ said Ashiol, and this time it was Garnet who snorted. ‘Underground,’ Ashiol added, giving his friend a dirty look.
‘Still in the big city?’
‘Under it,’ said Garnet. ‘What do you remember, little rat?’
I ran my hands through my hair. It was longer than ever before. The stagemaster hated it when our hair fell in our eyes — he docked the wardrobe mistress’s pay if she didn’t chase us around with her snippers every month — even the demmes. Long hair was no use if you were a lamb, and even if you made it up to the better roles, short hair made it easier to slap a wig on. No lice, either. But these boys all had longish hair, and now mine was, too. I kind of liked it.
‘I’ve been sick,’ I said.
‘Aye, but do you remember what made you sick?’ Garnet pressed.
‘Stop it,’ said Ashiol.
‘You can’t approve of what she did.’
‘It’s done now, and she’s our Lord. It’s none of our f*cking business to approve or disapprove of what she does.’
‘I never realised you were such a good little servant, Ashiol. Almost like you were born to it.’
Their faces were ugly as they sniped at each other. I ignored them, scratching Lysandor behind his ears. I didn’t know if he wasn’t changing back because he couldn’t yet or because he wanted to stay out of the argument.
‘Is this why I’m sick?’ I asked, interrupting them. ‘I mean … is this part of the sickness? Is it catching?’
I had a horrible vision of all the lambs back at the theatre turning into creatures, crawling around and nibbling at the stage machinery, while the stagemaster howled and yelled until he turned into a giant bear or a walrus or something.
Definitely a walrus.
‘You’re not sick,’ said Garnet. ‘I mean, not really. Once your body adjusts, you’ll be fine.’
I tugged more firmly on Lysandor’s ears. ‘You’re saying this is normal? It’s not going to go away?’
The two lads looked at each other, and I knew the truth. This was it. Forever. I was never going back to the Vittorina Royale.
White rats.