“When will Conrad Kendrick expect me?” Larkin checked.
“Not till tomorrow morning. He accepts selected visitors between half eleven and half twelve, at his house. I’ll tell him you requested an audience. He might even let you in, for a laugh. But he won’t give you a job. Jemima Ramsay had no offspring. And Conrad will never hire an outsider.”
“Too set in his ways?”
“If you like. He’s nearly sixty-five.” She bowed her head to cut the last button. Larkin observed a bee alight in the whorl of her hair. He was about to alert her, but it looked so at home there he said nothing.
When he left the shop he was satisfied. The meeting with Conrad Kendrick would take place; despite Persephone’s warnings, Larkin was still sure that, face-to-face, he could secure himself an apprenticeship. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Larkin daydreamed? To sculpt those dolls? To command the emotion of whoever touched them? He deserved that chance, and it was in his grasp.
2
Outside Conrad Kendrick’s house, the leaves were turning gold and russet. Hedwig Mayhew – tanned from summer, ochre plait twisted round her crown – was cutting yellow roses. She’d worked for Conrad since leaving school a year ago. Despite her youth she relished domestic management. The house – an early Georgian residence – had fallen into poor repair, so Hedwig had spent that year scheduling plasterers and chimney sweeps and plumbers. Builders fixed the failing lintels; masons repointed bricks. Then Hedwig paid them, as she was Conrad’s representative, from Kendricks’ bank account. Her favourite responsibility was settling bills, because she liked imagining that she, instead of Conrad, was immensely rich.
Today, as roses fell in Hedwig’s creel, an ageing painter brushed the door with indigo gloss. Hedwig had just cut the final flower, when she saw a second man approach the gate. A young man, this time, smoking a cigarette. Presumably the stranger that Persephone, the Kendricks shop assistant, met the day before. He wore a faded t-shirt with Russian lettering, and black jeans. Though his coat was cut with expertise it was uncared for: all the buttons were missing, and the threads remained. His cheeks were hollow. Hedwig guessed he needed a good meal. And yet he was, to Hedwig’s thinking, pretty, albeit in a disreputable way. Byronic curls, and startling blue eyes… Some people liked that kind of thing.
“My name’s Larkin,” he said. “Conrad Kendrick should be expecting me. I’m ten minutes early – they were cleaning my room at the Eyot Tavern, so I set out—”
“It’s fine,” she reassured him, smiling. Margot Mayhew, Hedwig’s mother, ran the Tavern without much sensitivity for guests’ requirements. “Conrad won’t admit you yet… You’ll have to wait until he’s ready. I can take care of you till then.”
She winked at him, cheerfully, and dropped her shears into the basket. Larkin followed her along the path. When they reached the door, the painter stood aside to let them pass and they crossed a crumpled stream of linen till their feet met chequered tile.
She gestured at the wooden pew, positioned by a coat of armour. “Take a seat.”
He didn’t move. She saw him looking at the marble stairs – or rather, looking at the spandrel, which had always been enclosed by iron bars. They caged the most important doll Conrad owned: the Paid Mourner.
In 1821, to mark the passing of her sister Jemima, Lucy Kendrick had made the Paid Mourner. The head was carved from wax; the limbs and chest from elm. No ordinary elmwood, either. Lucy broke a single bough from a tree Jemima planted as a girl. The tree was felled a century later. Kendricks Workshop used pieces for parquet flooring.
“That doll,” Larkin said. “I’ve read about her, many times. May I take a closer look?”
“You can try.”
He stepped towards the bars, and peered in. Hedwig joined him. By the half light, the doll was just discernible. Her face was painted cream and pink. A pair of crescents represented lowered eyes. She wore a feathered hat – the plumes as black as guillemots – which matched her velvet gown. The cage’s single door was fourteen inches high, at shoulder level. Sitting on the latch were two iron figures, guarding the Paid Mourner as if they were her jailers.
“She’s beautiful,” Larkin whispered.
Hedwig shrugged, because exquisite detail, the very craft of miniatures, did not seem wondrous to her. Only financial worth inspired her interest. Growing up on Paxton’s Eyot ensured her grasp of trade information. The most important thing about the Paid Mourner was the market value. Pride in Kendricks’ wealth made Hedwig boast; she whispered, gleefully: “She’s worth two million pounds.”
Larkin’s eyes widened. “Two million?”
Hedwig nodded.
“But there’s no lock on the cage,” Larkin muttered.
“Open it. I dare you.” Mischief lay ahead.
The first step of lifting the latch on the cage door was gripping the iron jailers. No other way to move the latch was possible. With reverence, Larkin touched them both – and recoiled with a small cry.
“What happened?” Hedwig queried.
“The figures,” said Larkin. “They feel like Consuming Paranoia!”
“Most effective, aren’t they? And gloves don’t protect you.”
“But surely, if you were determined to—”
“The only living people who’ve opened that door are Conrad, and his brother Briar. No one else. The Paranoia always proves too much to bear.”
“We’ll see.” He gripped the iron guards again; again he let them go.
“Don’t feel bad about it,” Hedwig said. “The sorcery’s very strong… As strong as sorcery gets. Efficacy depends on good materials. Any enchantment grows more potent if it’s laid on iron.”
“I didn’t see any iron dolls in the shop.”
“The Sorcerers usually make them on request, for connoisseurs. The average buyer likes more ornamental, mobile dolls, and finds iron enchantments too intense. In general, iron’s outsold by bisque and porcelain.”
“Hm. I bought a china doll yesterday.”
“Oh, did you?” Hedwig had assumed, from first impressions, all the dolls were dearer than he could afford. She suspected he may prioritise his hobby over food and clothing, even if his funds were meagre. Or perhaps – like Conrad, letting houses run to ruin – this man was rich and needed help to spend his money well. To gauge his cash flow, Hedwig asked: “Which china doll was that?”
“As far as I’m aware she didn’t have a name. Her face was cracked. She made me feel Glorious Exultation.”
“Ah… I know the one.” Persephone’s father, Briar, had kicked the doll in a drunken rage one afternoon, when he still worked at Kendricks. Following the incident he was persuaded to retire. The doll remained on the market, albeit at a reduced rate to reflect the damage. She still wasn’t cheap.
“Did I make a good purchase?” Larkin’s eyes were smiling.
“Yes, you did; I’m sure Persephone explained that all of Kendricks’ dolls are good investments.” Hedwig checked her watch. Eleven thirty on the dot. “Time to show you in.”
They entered Conrad’s drawing room where, as his years advanced, he spent the bulk of his time. Today he sat before the fire, besuited in olive green, embroidering cloth in petit point for miniature upholstery.