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  “So now I’m homeless and alone and there’s pirates who’d kill me to get their hands on this thing.” She held up the brass hemisphere. “If I ain’t crying, Sibelius, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because grief would be a luxury at the minute and I ain’t got time for luxuries.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t understand. I’d always thought me dad was dead but he ain’t, see? And maybe me real mum is alive, too. What I have to do is keep meself together and find Poliakoff. And crying ain’t going to help.” Even as she said it, she felt the tremor in her voice.

  Harriet’s eyelids were suddenly heavy. The events of the night and the brandy together were taking their toll.

  “May I see the device, mademoiselle?”

  “I dunno what it is. Maybe you will.”

  Sibelius took the device and turned it over in his clever, simian hands. He pressed at a certain point and it clicked open into two halves. One was a lid, the other a domed lens. Behind the lens lay a curious system of cogs.

  “Je regrette, mademoiselle. I have no idea what this is. It must be very rare.” He closed the device and handed it back.

  “Maybe this cove, Poliakoff, will know?”

  “I can help you find him. It is quite within my line of work.”

  Harriet stifled a yawn. “I hope you can, too, ‘cos otherwise I’ll be stuck before I even get started.”

  “I will do everything I can to help you, mon amie.”

  Harriet didn’t answer. Her eyes had closed. She was breathing deeply, fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  “Dors bien, ma petite amie,” Sibelius whispered. He laid Harriet gently down on braided cushions and threw another blanket over her.

  Then he set to work.

  Tapping out his pipe, he fired up the little engine which chugged quietly, and guided the balloon to a ruined tower outside the city wall. He anchored the craft to the tower by a long rope.

  Around the outsides of the basket hung pots, pans, tools, rolls of blankets, and ballast. Sibelius untied a knot, pulling free the object he had released: a cane-work construction, in two halves, with oiled canvas stretched and stitched over it like a skin. The two halves met in the middle of a toughened leather back-pack. He pulled straps over his shoulders and around his waist, securing them with brass buckles. A crank handle protruded from the side of the back-pack. He reached behind and wound it round. It made a rapid clicking noise. He pulled himself onto the edge of the basket, adjusted his goggles over his eyes, and leapt off into the sky.

  He was in free fall for a few moments. Then he tugged a cord at his waist and the two cane and canvas wings sprang out and started flapping, driven by a powerful spring in the pack. Like a giant, mechanical bat, Sibelius whirred away into the night.

  Harriet woke hot and sweating under the blankets. She opened her eyes. Where am I? Sunlight through colored canvas and the soft stink of rum, coal and monkey fur evoked a clamor of memories.

  She sat up. Her nightdress stuck to her clammy skin. She was hungry. I could do with a bath an’ some breakfast. Despite the heat she broke a cold sweat. The device! She searched frantically among the twisted blankets until she found it. She let out a long breath. Harriet tucked the device carefully back in among the blankets and stood up shakily, holding on to the side of the swaying basket. “Morning, Sibelius,” she said. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  Her only answers were creaking wicker-work and whistling wind. “Sibelius?”

  She leaned over the edge of the basket; beneath her, only clouds – and the pinnacle of the ruined tower to which the balloon was anchored. I wish you ain’t gone off without telling me, Sibelius. And how did you go? Climbed that rope, maybe? Easy enough for a monkey. She found a flask of water and tore off a strip of her nightdress to wash her hands and face. The blood had dried and the cuts were beginning to heal.

  A whirring noise distracted her; flapping, as if some giant bird was flying overhead. A second later Sibelius landed heavily, gripping the side of the basket with his dexterous toes. The basket swung violently under the impact. Harriet, flung against the ropes, her heart leaping, struggled to regain her balance. The mechanical wings folded in behind the monkey.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle!” he said, shrugging off the flying machine and securing it back to its rope. He had about him a wind-fresh atmosphere of excitement.

  “Morning,” said Harriet, regaining her breath. “Where’ve you been?” He lifted his goggles and raised an eyebrow at her accusatory tone. “Sorry,” she added. “I been worried, that’s all.”

  “C’est ne pas rien,” said Sibelius. He sat on his barrel and placed a paper bag on the table top. The brazier was still glowing. He busied himself making coffee.

  “I have news, mademoiselle,” he said. “Good news. But first, le petit déjeuner. Even in the midst of adventure, we must maintain some civility. Strong coffee and ... open the bag.”

  “Croissants!”

  “And the finest pain au chocolat outside Franca – still warm from the oven.”

  “You’re amazing!” said Harriet as the monkey spread a tablecloth and produced plates, knives, napkins, butter, jam and coffee cups.

  “Je sais,” he said simply, without arrogance.

  “And you’re a real friend.”

  “I am a sky monkey,” he answered, lifting the bubbling coffee pot off the brazier and pouring the dark, black liquid into the cups. “I may be immoral in business - but friendship is sacred to me. Even with a human,” he added. “Please, bon apetit!”

  Harriet sat down and grabbed a warm croissant.

  “It was not so difficult to trace this man,” said Sibelius, tearing a pain au chocolat in two and dipping one half in his coffee. “There are posters of him all over the city.”

  “He’s a wanted man? Wanted by the law, I mean.”

  Sibelius laughed. “Mais non! But you will see. Professor Poliakoff has agreed to see you. He already knows about you. He’s been waiting for you to contact him, mademoiselle.”

  “But how does he know about me?”

  “We will go to him tonight. It will be safer under cover of darkness.”

  “I’m scared, Sibelius. I’m scared of going back on the ground. I’ve only ever known me tower, the sky. All them people, all that noise... It weren’t safe. I don’t like it, that’s all.”

  “Je comprends, mademoiselle. The Groundlings are dirty, noisy and très dangereux. But Poliakoff has chosen to live on the ground and that is where we must go.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “I will.”

  Harriet put out a trembling hand. Sibelius took it in his.

  “I’ve got to be brave, don’t I?” said Harriet.

  Sibelius put his strong, hairy arm round her. She felt his simian heart beat in rhythm with hers. She wept. When Harriet had sobbed herself dry, the sky monkey wiped the tears from her eyes. He spoke brightly. “We have much to do to prepare the balloon. A troubled heart is best cured by busy hands. You will help?”

  “’Course.”

  “Très bien. When you have finished your breakfast, I will show you what to do. Then we must get you some clothes. And I must ask you... have you ever been to the theater?”

  “You know I ain’t,” she said. “I never left the tower before last night.”

  “Well that, at least,” said Sibelius, “is something for you to look forward to. Now, to work!”

  Chapter Five

  Harriet helped pack and secure everything for the descent. Sibelius closed down the burner valve and the balloon sank slowly into the smog.

  “Now we go in darkness,” said Sibelius, extinguishing the lanterns. “We can use the magnetic variometer to navigate through the fog. The city will be well lit.”

  Harriet leaned over the side as they emerged beneath the clouds and the lights of Lundoon’s many towers came into vi
ew. She gripped the edge of the basket. Her heart thumped harder. Her mouth was dry. It’s still beautiful, she thought. But it scares me now. It’ll never be the same again. The thought of being plunged into the noisy and suffocating world of the Groundlings left her feeling cold with dread.

  “Where will we leave the balloon?” she asked. “We can’t land it, surely?”

  “Mais non, mademoiselle. We will anchor it near your tower and from there we will go à pied.”

  “My tower? Ain’t that dangerous?”

  “I think it is the last place the pirates will look now. We will anchor Up Top – there is a gentleman who owes me a favor.”

  Sibelius steered between towers and spires. The city was illuminated by thousands of electrostatic lanterns. Flashes of orange flared as the foundries pounded out iron and steel amidst sparks of molten metal. The Moon, far above and almost full, watched unblinking.

  Sibelius expertly guided his craft to the landing stage at the summit of Harriet’s tower. She helped sling and tie the ropes, mooring the balloon safely into place. She barely recognized it as her former home – the floor where she had lived was so far below – and the top was like another world.

  “Remain here, mademoiselle, while I speak with the gentleman,” said Sibelius. He jumped down into the lush garden and loped over the lawns towards an elegant house built on the pinnacle of the tower. He swung up through trees, finally somersaulting onto a grand balcony. The chandeliers were bright within and strains of music mingled with the scent of flowers. Sibelius slipped inside.

  I wonder why a gentleman as must own this place owes a favor to Sibelius? I reckon me mate’s helped him out of a scrape - or he’s got something on him, more like.

  Sibelius came back out with a gentleman in evening dress. The man clutched a large glass of brandy in one hand and a smoking cigar in the other. Sibelius gestured towards the balloon. The gentleman nodded. They talked for a few minutes before shaking hands. The gentleman turned back to his house and Sibelius leaped up into the trees again. A moment later, with a rustle of leaves and branches, he dropped onto the lawn and loped back to the balloon. He was carrying a package.

  “Tout va bien, mademoiselle,” he said. Harriet took the parcel. “These are clothes from the gentleman’s daughter. They will fit you well enough. You can wash in the small fountain. We cannot go to the theater with you dressed in...that.”

  Harriet looked down at her ragged nightdress. “I ain’t going to argue with you,” she said.

  Sibelius sat with his back to her and smoked his pipe while she washed her hands and face, dragged a comb through her tangled hair and tried on the neat little dress, stockings, bonnet and shoes.

  “Well,” she said. “How do I look?”

  Sibelius turned round. He raised an eyebrow. “ Très jolie, mademoiselle. Très jolie!” He handed her a small pouch on a leather strap. “Take this for the device. Better to keep it out of sight.”

  “But how are we going to get down?”

  “We will take the elevator. Let’s go!”

  Harriet followed Sibelius through a maze of cobbled backstreets. Keeping to the shadows, they negotiated alleyways, tunnels and narrow, stone stairways. These streets all look the same. How Sibelius can tell one from the other is anyone’s guess. Looks like a busy spot up ahead.

  They crouched in an alley, looking out on a brightly lit street bustling with strollers, clattering Clockwork Conveyancers, clanking steam-horses, music and laughter. Pickpockets and cutpurses were hard at work amongst the ladies and gentlemen, despite the policemen patrolling their beats.

  “We must be careful,” whispered Sibelius. “I must remain silent.”

  “But what if the police see me?”

  “Mademoiselle, it is unlikely anyone will recognize you in those clothes. The bonnet shadows your face. Remember, I am your pet monkey. You are ready?”

  Harriet nodded, gulping down the lump of anxiety knotted into her throat. She stepped out, holding Sibelius’s hand. Thank Moses for this outfit, she thought. Look at this place, though! Don’t no-one ever go to sleep down here?

  Two coppers were walking towards them. Harriet was ready to run, but Sibelius’s hand tightened around hers and they walked on. Beneath her silk dress, Harriet’s heart played a lively game of hop-scotch, but the policemen plodded by without a glance in their direction.

  They stopped in front of an ornately carved building. Broad steps swept up to polished walnut doors, finished with shining brass bannisters and door knobs. Above the door, electrostatic bulbs illuminated the words:

  THE DEMONIC MYSTERIES OF PROFESSOR POLIAKOFF, CONJURER AND ILLUSIONIST EXTRAORDINAIRE!

  At the top of the stairs, a gentleman dressed in a plush, burgundy suit and buttercup bow tie greeted the steady stream of theater goers. He exuded confidence and warmth of spirit.

  “Ah good evening, Mr. Cransbergen! How are you this evening? Splendid! Lady Storsbunk, what a very real pleasure to see you. Ah, yes, a wonderful show, terrifyingly wondrous! – You will adore it, I’m sure! Indeed! Indeed! I hope your nerves are strong, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome!”

  “Is that Poliakoff?” said Harriet, forgetting Sibelius’s injunction not to speak to him. Sibelius looked about him quickly.

  “Mais non, mademoiselle,” he whispered in her ear. “That is the proprietor of the theater. Poliakoff is the gentleman next to him.”

  “But there ain’t no one next to him!”

  “The posters, mademoiselle.”

  Emblazoned on the theater’s billboards were posters of a mysterious gentleman in evening dress, a silk-lined cape flicked over one shoulder. One hand held a magician’s wand, the other an upturned stovepipe hat from which curled a cloud of fiery smoke, haunted by grinning, devilish faces. The magician’s face was cast in shadows, accentuating the high arch of his eyebrows and the ambiguous twist of his mouth. The effect was powerful and disturbing. Harriet shuddered.

  “We must hurry, mademoiselle,” said Sibelius. “Follow me.” Harriet followed him across the street, down the side of the theater, and round the back.

  If the front was beautifully painted and brightly lit, the back was altogether different: a stinking yard piled with discarded scenery and broken stage properties. Stained brickwork supported a rickety fire escape.

  “It’s a bit grim back here, ain’t it?”

  “The theater is a house of illusion, mademoiselle. On one side is the magic; on the other, the less salubrious reality. You can climb?”

  “Climb? Well yeah, but...”

  “Come.”

  Harriet followed Sibelius up the fire escape, annoyed by the pretty dress catching in the framework and the bonnet obscuring her view. It’s pretty but it ain’t practical, she thought. I don’t s’pose gentlemen’s daughters have to think about what’s practical.

  They climbed onto a flat roof. The night was dark and warm, the bustle and noise of the city muffled by the fine fog lingering in the air. Harriet was relieved to be away from the crowds. It ain’t exactly sky-ward, she thought. But it ain’t exactly on the ground, either. The Moon was bright, the Starline clearly visible. The guide lights of sky ships flashed as distant engines droned.

  She helped Sibelius lift the cover of a skylight and watched him drop into the dark. Demons and darkness. She shivered, remembering the poster of Poliakoff.

  “Where are we going, Sibelius?” she whispered, looking into the murk. She could just make out her friend’s cunning face looking back. He put his finger to his lips, beckoned her to follow, and vanished into the gloom.

  Harriet took a deep breath, looked once more at the expanse of the Dark Sea above, and followed Sibelius into the dark below.

  Chapter Six

  Harriet dangled a moment in the stuffy air before dropping onto dusty floorboards. A cobweb-covered gas lamp stuttered hissing syllables of bluish-yellow light.
Sibelius stood silhouetted against its pale glow. The ceiling was low, forcing Harriet to stoop as she caught up with him.

  “We must be quiet,” whispered the monkey. They were in the space above the boards. A running balcony, narrow and steep, looked down over the stage and auditorium. Beneath it, a spider’s web of steel bars radiated out. Enormous electrostatic lanterns hung from the bars. “These are known as the catwalks, mademoiselle. From here they adjust the scenery. In this show only the light changes, so we are safe.”

  The lanterns moved on glistening, oiled pivots; brightening and dimming, cranked left and right, up and down, by a system of wires and pulleys operated from below.

  “I am sorry we have such cheap seats – but from here you can see the show. It begins! Voici!”

  Harriet found a spot with a good view of the stage and settled down on the floor, careful not to soil her new dress. The lanterns dimmed over the auditorium. Music struck up from the orchestra pit. The cogs and pulleys sprang to life and the velvet curtains began to rise.

  The mysterious Professor Poliakoff, a tall man in middle age, dressed in formal evening wear and not anything like as devilish as he was portrayed on the poster, took the stage. He strode onto the boards with a magnificent sweeping gesture and a great surge of applause erupted in the auditorium.

  Everything that followed transported Harriet out of herself, away to a world of terror and wonder in which magic seemed real and everything became possible: the flock of doves appearing from within the tiny confines of the magician’s hat to explode mid-flight into a myriad of colored petals; the silver coins flickering in and out of existence between his dexterous fingers; the lady from the audience whom he caused to levitate above the stage (carried, he said, in the arms of demons); the moment when the entire theater crackled with tension as he inserted a dozen rapiers into his own flesh and stood bleeding, until suddenly extracting them, tossing the blades clattering to the floor and ripping open his shirt to show an unharmed torso; the grand finale as, calling out that these powers had been bestowed upon him by a pact with the devil and the hour had now come that he must relinquish his mortal soul, he vanished away in a flash of flames and smoke, only to reappear instantaneously at the back of the auditorium, walking down the central aisle to a standing ovation and taking his bow.