Iron Lights

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeMiss Venture had a cab waiting and the driver handed us both inside before setting his horses trotting away from the prison. I stared out the window, half blinded from the glare of sunlight on metal corsets and waistcoats and buckles and train tracks. It was beautiful, and I didn’t blame Ethel for peeking out of my bag and emitting a loud bing of delight.

I had not the faintest idea where we were going, or why. There was little I could do to change our destination, in any case. All I knew for certain was that my fate was now in Miss Venture’s hands.

My new employer was fidgeting with the chain of her watch, ignoring me utterly. It slowly dawned on me that my guard’s comment about mental fitness might not have been directed at me. Miss Venture appeared perfectly sane—she was wearing trousers, but that wasn’t a definitive symptom of lunacy—and for the first time I wondered what she wanted with me. Was she a famous eccentric, or as respectable as she appeared? Or both?

Now that we were shuttered together inside a cab, I caught the sharp smell of mothballs. Her impeccable suit was definitely not her everyday wear. Now that I was paying attention, it suited fashions dating back to my time in London. Even for the antipodes, that was rather out of date. Her features were rather small except for a broad nose that, along with her blond-and-brown hair, suggested she might one of the Australian natives, and her tan was strong enough to support my guess. I wondered if she and Matilda knew each other, and if she might even be taking me directly to my lover’s arms. Or if Matilda had nothing to do with Miss Venture, and I was letting my heart run away with me yet again.

I was also staring, and when she lifted her head to turn her mild gaze on me I flushed and turned away. It was easy enough to remember my low status when I socialised only with others flung to the bottom of the social heap, but with the prison shrinking behind me I was thrown into confusion. My distraction was heightened by the late-blooming realisation that Miss Venture was a quite lovely young woman. She was perhaps twenty years old, a little too slender, but with an upward tilt to her chin that suggested she knew her business. If only I knew what that business might be.

Now she was gazing at me, or rather at my ear, since I was suddenly shy. It had been a long time since I’d called upon the social graces Mother and a succession of governesses had drummed into me back in London. Britain truly was a world away.

‘Are you well?’ Miss Venture asked me. ‘You’re very short.’

‘Yes, miss,’ I said, forcing my head to turn so I could at least address my remarks to the front of the cab rather than out the open window. ‘I am both healthy and short.’

‘Did they feed you well?’ she said, raising her hand to her lips and then recalling with visible dismay that her cigar was gone.

‘Yes, miss,’ I said, which was more or less true. I’d eaten better, but I’d also gone hungry, so the prison’s limited menu was good enough for me. Besides, Miss Venture clearly expected an affirmative response. It seemed she had me marked out for hard labour of some kind.

Storm clouds rumbled on the horizon, as usual in Melbourne. They were regularly gathered by a combination of magic and science in order to supply plenty of fresh water for the city’s booming industrial sector. The rest of Melbourne was thick with pink dust that stung my eyes and tasted of iron and chalk. If I was to work in the outdoors, I would do my best not to complain. Once I completed my term, I would have an honourable reference to help me pursue honourable work. Nothing could induce me to escape—this time.

Miss Venture did not speak again, and I let my eyes drift to the ever-shifting parade of my betters outside the window. The streets looked oddly familiar, and I couldn’t resist giving a gasp of surprise as we passed the green island of the Botanic Gardens. They looked ghostly in the cloud of dust, but I saw picnickers dressed in white cheerfully playing a game of cricket on the lawn.

We rode on, and on, and the gritty sun stabbed through my window off and on, changing position with every turned corner and bump so it was impossible to avoid the light. Somehow the dust only amplified the glare surrounding the cab, and I grew tired of looking at ordinary street scenes and wished I was safely back inside the cool grey stones of the prison.

The journey continued. We passed the hasty new buildings and tents of outer Melbourne without pausing, and then passed a dusty emptiness before reaching an unremarkable small town. We passed that too, and I began to wonder deliriously if Miss Venture planned to circumnavigate the entire Australian continent rather than let me finally step down from the bumpy oven of the cab.

On my left the sea beat itself listlessly against the land, mindlessly attempting to invade without success, over and over again. I wanted to ask Miss Venture where we were going, but I was no longer entirely certain I wasn’t delirious. Besides, my mouth was clogged with dust.

Our driver stopped at a post house and I half stood, giddy with relief that our journey was over at last. A man came out of the post house with a picnic basket.

‘Hello again, Miss Venture,’ he said, and gave her the basket with a sidelong glance at me. ‘Is this her?’

‘Thank you, Mr Ferris,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate your readiness.’

The new driver climbed into the front seat and passed Miss Venture a leather water-skin while other men changed the horses to a fresh pair. It slowly dawned on me that we still had a long way to go.

Miss Venture handed me a rather squashed cheese sandwich, and I ate it, then gratefully drank a full covered jug of warm and gritty water.

After that I was unable to keep my eyes open and I dozed, waking at the jerkier bumps only to find myself in the same cab with the same employer. The same dust coated my eyes and nose and throat, and the same endless sea glimmered on my left.

Time passed and the sun sank lower, cutting straight across the dried landscape into my window. I kept my eyes closed, but the light only burned redder through my eyelids. When I gave up and cracked open my eyes, I saw another cluster of houses, too few to make up a town but too many to be a farm. The horses huffed and slowed around a corner. I saw a young girl standing by the side of the road, rubbing one hand down the long curve of her skirt as she watched us pass by.

‘Arabella!’ My voice cracked on the word. ‘Arabella, Arabella!’

The girl looked at me in surprise, her blue eyes widening.

She was Arabella, my sister, the girl I had tried and failed to protect from the world. Why was she here? Did she know I lived? Was she also a transported convict? What had my poor choices done to her?

‘Arabella!’

She was still my baby sister, and I would do anything for her.

I grabbed the windowsill with both hands and flung myself outside, glad for once that I’d long since lost all my crinolines. The hard sill of my escape route cut into my stomach but I cried out again for Arabella—Arabella Muchamore, my sister, who was meant to have given up on me years ago—and then I scrambled face-first out the window, landing hard on my shoulder and jumping to my feet again at once.

Too slow! The poor child turned and ran in terror, and I ran after her, trying to catch enough breath to call out once more.

Of course she didn’t recognise me. I’d aged a million years since I saw her; the day we said goodbye on the steps of our Belgravia house, and the police took me away. The judge had been kind to me, transporting me to Australia where my crimes could never hurt my younger siblings again.

But I didn’t want Arabella to think I was dead anymore. I had to talk to her at once, whether she was ashamed of me or not. She couldn’t tell from looking at me, but thanks to my brass heart I could find gold for her as easy as walking. We were rich. We were going to be just fine. I called out for her to stop running and face me, even as shame curled in my stomach. My hair was wet ropes against my neck, my dress was a filthy sack, my face was weathered stone.

‘Arabella!’ I shrieked, and stumbled after her.

A man stormed out of the shadows, gun in hand, and shoved the little blonde girl behind his legs. He planted his feet and took aim at me, and I stopped running and raised my hands.

‘That’s her,’ the girl said, and pointed at me.

I took a step backward, and another. Now that she was standing still she wasn’t Arabella at all. The man was quite obviously her father—blue eyes and all—while my own father was long dead, executed for his own crimes against nature.

Not Arabella. Arabella was far, far away—and I’d just terrorised an unrelated child.

Arabella wasn’t in Australia at all. Of course she wasn’t. What was wrong with me? As far as Arabella was concerned, I was dead and gone. I’d never see her again.

‘Get off!’ the man yelled, and I turned and walked back to the cab.

The horses huffed at me, unimpressed. Sweat ran down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

Arabella wasn’t a child anymore. The girl I’d seen was too young. My sister—my real sister—had long since grown up. My brother, too. They were safely back in London. My cheeks burned and hot tears sliced down my face. I was faintly surprised there was enough moisture in my body to make them, and I caught one on my finger to wet my tongue. My tongue was so caked in dirt that it didn’t even feel it.

By the time I reached the cab again my face was dry. The driver didn’t say a word. I opened the door myself and climbed back inside. Miss Venture watched me like a child watching a caged and dying bird at the zoo, c*****g her head to one side as if trying to understand me.

‘My apologies,’ I whispered. ‘I was mistaken.’

Blood dripped from my elbow, and I shifted my arm so that it fell on my smock instead of the seat. My blood was already muddy from the ever-present dust.