Monique Orphan: Conjuror Girl, #1

By Stephen Palmer

In an alternate 1899...

Monique, resident for as long as she can remember at Shrobbesbury Orphanage, has a strange talent, which she neither understands nor can control. This talent, however, is only supposed to be possessed by men.

Should she conceal her abilities in order to survive, or should she be true to herself? If she hides her gift she will languish, yet if she reveals her true self she will be hunted down and experimented upon by men whose talents outshine her own...

A most peculiar adventure through a fantastical alternative fin de siècle Britain where the darkest creations are those that come from within.

'His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh...' Amazing Stories

• Language: English
• Publisher: infinite press
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201153717

Book preview

Some Reviews of Stephen Palmer’s Books

"A gonzo homage to the late Victorian/Edwardian British adventure yarn... imagine Michael Palin and Terry Jones’ Ripping Yarns doing a Steampunk episode with a large helping of early 70s British prog-rock psychedelia, some very peculiar flying machinora, and a chocolate train... Stephen Palmer is a writer you should read. His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh and sometimes barking... Hairy London is strange, mad, subversive and possibly just a little bit dangerous. You won’t have encountered a vision of London like it." Amazing Stories

Stephen Palmer is a find. Time Out

Stephen Palmer has concocted a beguiling adventure that draws on some of the best sf of recent years for its basic themes... Starburst

Stephen Palmer’s imagination is fecund... Interzone

This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice. Ottakar’s

Give him a try; his originality is refreshing. David V Barrett

... (a) supremely odd yet deeply rewarding experience. CCLaP

...a thrilling chase across a ravaged Europe, a burgeoning North Africa and balkanised US, interleaving excellent action set-pieces with fascinating philosophising on the nature of consciousness. A gripping read to the poignant last line. The Guardian, on Beautiful Intelligence

Palmer is a writer of unique and remarkable imagination. Teresa Edgerton, SFF Chronicles

Monique Orphan

Book one of the Conjuror Girl trilogy

Stephen Palmer

Published by

infinite press

www.infinityplus.co.uk/infinitepress.php

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© Stephen Palmer 2021

Cover © Tom Brown,

with design © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat and The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

The Girl With Two Souls (Factory Girl, book one)

The Girl With One Friend (Factory Girl, book two)

The Girl With No Soul (Factory Girl, book three)

Tommy Catkins

Thanks to: Penny Blake, Keith Brooke, Nimue Brown, Tom Brown, Ron Bourley, Phil Gillam, Jim Hawkins, Heather Large, Rich Lefevre, Katie Rink, Joe Shooman, Alex Whiteley, Anna Wright.

Dedication

To Nicci,

forever

CHAPTER 1

Monique Orphan watched with horror as Mr Goldgate grabbed the puppy by the scruff of its neck and dropped it into a cloth bag. From slimy scum in the runnels of the sink draining board he took a scrap of twine, which he used to tie the bag.

Did you give it a name? he asked.

Monique stared at him. No.

Of course you did! You wouldn’t hide a puppy against the express rules of the orphanage and not name it. What was that name?

But, sir, I never had a chance to–

Liar. I will show you what happens to those who choose to go against me.

Monique covered her eyes with one hand and turned around, but Mr Goldgate reached out, took her by the shoulder and pulled her back. Then he slapped her hand away from her face.

"You will attend to me. You will watch this. Then you will learn your lesson. No pet animals! That is the rule here. Where did you get this whelp from?"

In her distress, Monique could not speak. She wiped tears away with the back of her hand then whispered, Sir, I swear–

I would wager this is one of Ruff’s whelps from a few weeks ago. Isn’t it?

Yes.

And its name?

Monique choked, then replied, "Sir... I promise you..."

Named or nameless, it will go. Now, watch.

Mr Goldgate turned towards the washroom sink, which was half-full of water. He threw the bag into it. Again Monique turned away, but Mr Goldgate grabbed her by both shoulders and shoved her towards the sink, where he forced her head down so that she had no option but to look into the water. Bubbles rose as he pushed the bag down, and it twitched where the puppy kicked it. Monique sobbed as she watched; she dared not close her eyes. After a while the kicks became weak, then stopped.

Have you learned your lesson, girl?

Monique nodded, staring at the floor.

Mr Goldgate grunted something then pushed her away, so that she almost tripped over a heap of dirty laundry on the floor. Who left that there? he asked. "Take it to the laundry room at once. You alone – no help. Make sure Mrs Husband sees it. By heavens, I will have this orphanage running as it is supposed to be!"

Monique glanced at him as she knelt down to gather the heap of clothes. In the light of a single lantern his florid face looked dark with rage, his eyes round behind pink-tinted spectacles. His muttonchop whiskers, uncombed, stood out ragged, and his hair lay greasy flat against his head. In that moment she felt a nameless horror inside her, born of his absolute control and of her own wearisome existence.

That horror weighed her down, and as she stumbled away she carried it as well as the clothes. She realised Mr Goldgate’s cruelty was directed at all the orphans, who, if they tried to circumvent his will, would be regarded as foe. By hiding the puppy she had marked herself out, and likely was already considered by him to be a troublemaker. Any further infractions would turn her into an adversary.

Dawn’s first light shone through smeared windows as she carried the clothes through the kitchen and into the laundry room. Mrs Husband, lighting the range, said nothing. Monique felt as though she were little more than a machine, an automaton with keys to wind her up, and nothing inside except wheels. Now even the horror died inside her as she smelled carbolic soap and old sweat, reminding her of her wretched life. She was empty. She dropped the clothes to the floor.

To Mrs Husband she said, Mr Goldgate told me to show you those unwashed clothes.

Mrs Husband gave her a piercing look. What’s the matter with you?

Monique felt no answer rise up inside her. She walked away, her gaze fixed upon the stone flags of the floor.

Though it was half an hour before breakfast, a few orphans congregated around the main door into the dining hall. If Mrs Husband was in a good mood she would sometimes offer them scraps from the great table beside the range, but today the door into the kitchen was shut. Monique glanced around. Seeing Lily and Edward, she walked over, but at once Lily ran off, her long hair bouncing around her shoulders, and moments later Monique heard shoes clattering on the stairs.

Monique stood motionless. Lily was her closest friend at the orphanage. She glanced at Edward standing just a few yards away, his threadbare jacket pulled tight around his body – it was still cold, so early on an autumn morning. But Edward had the Pallor, and feeling cold was one of the symptoms.

She took a few steps towards him, but he half-turned, as if to run away. Edward, she said, what’s wrong with Lily?

Oh, er... I think... I suppose she needed something from upstairs.

Then he too ran away.

Monique stared. She felt abandoned.

She realised then that she was being observed. The handful of orphans at the kitchen door were watching her, not the kitchen; and she grasped the truth of the matter. News of the puppy drowning had already passed around the orphanage. They were frightened. Even Lily and Edward were frightened. Her two closest friends wanted nothing to do with her.

Distraught, clamping her jaw tight so that she could utter no sound, she walked away, climbing the first set of stairs, listening – no noise – then heading for the stairs up to the second floor. There, she listened again. She half-expected to see Lily, but there was no sound of any child, just dust-coddled silence.

Monique took a key from her dress pocket. Though Shrobbesbury Orphanage was a boys’ institution, it did take on a few older girls, all of whom had a key to their own tiny chamber. Monique was lucky – her room had a window, facing south east. She unlocked the door into the girls’ corridor, locked it again, then went to her own room, where she closed the door, wedging it shut. She took a few watercolour paintings off her bed, plumped up the pillow, then lay down.

She did not feel hungry. The emptiness inside her could not be assuaged by food, not even by the decent hot food they tended to receive at this time of year. Tears crawled down her cheeks. She did not have the energy to sob. Her sorrow leaked out of her only because there was so much of it.

There she lay for half an hour. At length she heard the bells of St Chad’s ringing eight o’clock, and a moment later the bells of St Alkmund’s. Time passed. She heard a murmur of voices from the floor below her where all the school rooms lay. Sighing, she sat upright, wiping her face with a handkerchief. She would be in even worse trouble if she missed her lessons, so she stood up, tidied her appearance then walked downstairs. A channel opened up as the press of boys parted to allow her access. Silence fell. She walked into Mr Goodroffe’s room and shut the door behind her.

She was the first; slightly early. He glanced up at her. She sat down, keeping her gaze fixed upon the window.

Regardless of what the other children do, he said with a wan smile, you shall only perform light fractions and the like today.

Monique said nothing, forcing back her tears. She dared not accept his kindness, knowing that would make her weep. So she looked away, staring at the mildew-fogged portrait of Euclid on the wall, watching his five Platonic solids gleam as they twirled.

As the other orphans of the arithmetic class came into the room no further word sounded. Lily sat on the opposite side of the room. Nobody spoke to Monique, nor even looked at her. She felt isolated as never before.

She ate no lunch. That afternoon she and the other five girls took a class of women’s virtues with Miss Haytor, and once again Monique wondered how somebody given such a thing to teach could be so waspish, so strict and so cold.

By late afternoon her stomach rumbled and she felt faint, so she knew she had to eat something. She arrived early at the dining hall so that she would not have to walk in watched by the combined gaze of the other orphans. She collected a small meal of potatoes, cabbage and a chunk of fat-shrouded meat, then sat in the corner furthest from the main door, her back to the hall.

The atmosphere remained tense. The dining hall was hushed. Mr Goldgate had not spoken to any orphan all day, and now his deputy Mr Proderick stood at the door, watching, studying, his hands behind his back, his long grey hair lank around his face.

Monique heard a noise beside her. Immersed in her thoughts, she gasped and sat up, then turned. It was Lily, sitting down on the stool next to her.

Monique looked away, determined to say nothing.

Lily began eating, but soon leaned aside to whisper, "I had no choice, Monique. We none of us did. I am truly sorry to have left you like that."

Monique said nothing.

Do you not believe me? Mr Goldgate was patrolling the orphanage like the very spirit of darkness. We were scared, all of us.

Monique continued eating.

Will you not say anything to me?

You abandoned me.

"But it is the truth, Monique, Lily insisted. How could it be otherwise? We dared not say anything, in case Mr Goldgate looked at us, in case he noticed and caught us. You know he keeps a strap of leather beside his desk. Some of us have heard that strap. Did he thrash you?"

No.

What did he do then?

Nothing. Just told me to take the laundry to Mrs Husband.

Lily sighed. I am sorry for you, but we did warn you. It was such a risk to keep one of Ruff’s puppies. Mr Proderick was bound to find out sooner or later, and you know he can get Mr Goldgate’s key to the girls’ rooms if he has good reason to.

Monique said nothing. Deep down she knew she had brought this horror upon herself, which made her situation even worse. She was the guilty party.

We’ll talk about something else now, she muttered.

I suppose you have had the most awful day, Lily said, but tomorrow will be better. What will you do after supper? There is still a little light in the sky.

I don’t know. Be by myself... probably in the garden.

Yes. But everything will be fine tomorrow, won’t it? Then you and I can get back to normal. Edward is worried about you too, you know.

Monique grimaced. He’s only a boy. He deserted me, like you did.

I do not believe I need to explain myself any more.

Monique glanced at Lily. As usual she looked her best, her flowing locks combed, her face washed, her lace collar snow white. She wore ear-rings made from paired white hoops, which she claimed she had carved from kitchen bones. More likely she had stolen them to bolster her vanity. Monique looked away, feeling irked. Lily exuded hauteur even when she was being nice.

But at least she was being nice. None of the other orphans would so much as look at her. They had all heard the news.

Without saying anything more, Monique stood up and took her plate to the empties crate. Standing nearby, Mr Proderick glared at her, leaning forward as if in anticipation of conversation, a cigarette butt hanging from the corner of his mouth, but she ignored him as she hurried out of the hall. She made straight for the door out into the yard. To her right stood the orphans’ privies. She visited one, then wandered along the red brick wall to the garden door, which stood half-open. She peered inside. The garden lay empty apart from Mr Printer sitting in front of his easel by the marshy patch. In fading light, it seemed as though he might finish painting.

Monique hesitated. She had wanted to remain alone, but Mr Printer, the orphanage’s odd-job man, was a decent fellow, and anyway she could sit against the warm north wall and ignore him.

The garden lay entirely enclosed, to the east and south by the high wall of the orphanage, to the west and north by a lower brick wall. Here, Monique felt she could at least grasp peace, if not actually feel and benefit from it. In the opposite corner lay the pool which never drained, edged by swampy, reed-strewn mires; to the north, where she sat, a maze of gravel paths, flower beds and sandstone statuettes. Nearby, Chanteclair the rooster stalked, seeking insects. Mr Printer glanced at her, sat motionless for a few moments, then continued painting.

Monique noticed a patch of disturbed earth nearby. She walked towards it, to see that it was a square of replaced turf about a foot on each side. She stepped back. Something about the shape and position of the turf spoke to her of the grave. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sobbed then without cease. Mr Printer, hearing her, stood up, but he hesitated. Still weeping, Monique turned away and returned to her seat.

Then Lily appeared at the garden door. Mr Printer shrugged, returning to his easel.

In silence, Lily sat beside her. Unwilling to hold back her sorrow any more, Monique leaned against Lily’s shoulder, weeping until no more grief remained. Then she sat back: exhausted.

Lily patted her hand. I truly am sorry, she said. What a horrid day this has been for you.

Monique stared up into the sky, where the first stars emerged.

Shall we go for a walk? Lily asked. I should think that would be the best thing for you. The shadow of the orphanage will only depress you.

Monique glanced over the wall at looming black stones, where orphanage windows lay dark, as if signifying emptiness inside. She knew she could not return indoors just yet.

That’s a good notion, she said. Yes... let’s take the air while we can. Thank you, Lily.

Arm in arm, the girls departed the garden, taking the main gate out onto the lower reaches of St John’s Hill. The sun had set, and twilight lay over Shrobbesbury, pierced here and there by gas-powered street lamps. A landau pulled by a white horse sped by, but the curtains were drawn, concealing the occupants. From a distant street corner a newspaper boy shouted out the evening news. Airships whirred overhead.

Oh, Lily, Monique sighed, what will I do with myself? In a couple of months I’ll be fifteen, and then Mr Goldgate can send me off to some domestic apprenticeship, or even to an industrial training home.

Do not be so hasty, Lily replied as they strolled over the brow of the hill. Everybody knows what a superb artist you are. I should think it highly likely that you could make something of that talent.

You exaggerate, Monique replied. It’s men who are the artists.

Do not be so cynical. Do you own a crystal ball? No, you do not. There is as much good as there is bad here, and you know it.

Monique shook her head. For any other child, yes, but not for orphans. We’re doomed, Lily. We have our lot in life mapped out for us.

But is that so bad? We shall both marry well, I am certain, and then who knows what may happen? For you are almost as pretty as me, Monique, even though you never make anything of it, or even admit it.

Monique offered no reply. Lily’s ambition was to make the best match she could.

You should cultivate Mr Printer, Lily continued. He is quite the colourist, you know. He told me he knows all the Impressionists and that he hopes to become a more famous one himself. Has he ever seen any of your watercolours?

Why should I show them to him? Monique replied, irritation rising within her. "He uses oils, he has an easel, he has connections. I’m nobody."

Lily halted, taking Monique’s hand in hers. I will not hear this gloomy talk any more, she said. You must look to the bright side – and at once.

They stood now on Willow Walk, the River Hafren beside them. The water lay dark and weed-choked, a dismal miasma above it, reflecting Monique’s mood. She picked up a stone and threw it in. A glutinous plop sounded, and a magpie chattered.

Where is our river spirit Sabrina? she sighed. Even the water is unhealthy.

Lily tapped her on the shoulder. "Monique! What did I just say to you?"

They walked on. Soon the first of Westtown’s gardens appeared, the Wild Garden, a particular favourite of Lily’s. Couples strolled along the path, enjoying the mild autumn air, their shoes brushing through brown leaf drifts. By the time Monique and Lily reached the Bandstand Garden, twilight had been replaced by night, but now they could see the great crescent dirigible Lune floating high above the Crocus Garden. It was luminous and bright tonight because there was no moon, sending its light to all the better off folk of Shrobbesbury’s western reaches. Monique paused to gaze at it. By contrast, Easttown was grim and dark, lying in the shadow of the hill at the heart of Shrobbesbury.

Somebody hastened by. Monique turned, to see a woman; to see her face for the briefest moment. She gasped and spun around.

Lily took her by the arm. What is the matter? she asked.

Monique gestured at nearby walkers, but already there was nothing to point at. I saw... I thought I saw somebody.

But who? One of the orphans?

Monique disengaged herself and ran forward until she stood at the edge of the Dell. There was no sign of the woman amongst the crowds, and now she found that she could not bring to mind what the woman looked like.

Lily ran up. Monique, what is it? Did she steal your reticule?

Monique glanced down at her side. No. But I could have sworn it was somebody I knew, like somebody from my past.

Why? Who?

I don’t know. Now Monique felt a sudden, overwhelming loneliness well up inside her. She clung to Lily and said, I haven’t got a mother, only you as a friend. We must hurry back. Mr Proderick won’t like us being out so late.

He can jolly well wait, Lily insisted. It is still a while before lock-up.

No, Monique replied. I don’t want to be outdoors now. The whole town feels as if... as if it’s against me. I want to be in my room, with my things.

Very well, Lily said. Please let me take you back. We had better cut across to the Circus, then go back down Pride Hill, though probably it will still be full of tradesmen and the like.

This they did. Soon Monique stood alone in her room. From the chambers of the other girls occasional thunks came, but there was nothing to hear or to see out of her window which might trouble her. She felt her composure return. Picking up her watercolours she placed them on the window sill, then glanced around the tiny room. She felt a hint of peace. She felt safe.

~

Her pillow felt cold beneath her cheek, damp from shed tears. Her room was pitch black despite the ragged curtains remaining open.

She sat up, turned her pillow over, then lay down again. For a while she looked at the twinkling stars, set above silhouettes of the tall, narrow houses of St Julian’s. To her left, almost out of view, she glimpsed residences at the fringe of the French Quarter, where a single round window – a porthole atop some high gothic tower – gleamed mellow with the reflected light of Lune.

She sighed. She knew she had woken early. Sleep eluded her.

Her bed lay with its head beside the window. Most of the other girls had commented on this strange positioning, observing that standing the bed against a wall would be a better use of space, but she had refused all such advice. She wanted to see.

So she gazed out over Shrobbesbury. The odour of the chamber pot underneath her bed wafted up. She closed her eyes, turned over, and sought sleep again.

If she leaned against cold glass panes she could see the railings at the side of the orphanage adjacent to Guildhall Street, the well next to the big side door too, and the door step. Guildhall Street itself would be dark, illuminated by one sputtering lamp where it met St John’s Street. Peace lay chill and heavy. From so high, the well would seem like a tunnel into the underworld.

She awoke. Darkness lay heavy over Shrobbesbury. Her feet were cold and her nose was cold. She leaned forward to peer down at the street. Something moved – a wreath of mist, or perhaps a pale animal.

She tried to sleep, pulling her sheets up to her chin for extra warmth. Mr Proderick, observing that almost a month had passed since the autumnal equinox, had on the previous Sunday permitted them to fetch one extra blanket for their beds, but his pinched face told them how much he disapproved of such comforts, and his nicotine-stained fingers looked more like claws when he scratched his neck to relieve a flea bite. He did not care how well the orphans slept.

She woke up. She peered down. Fog lay dense around the well. Water that far below street level must be very cold to send up winter wreaths so early...

She slept.

From the well two tiny pale shapes emerged. They moved like fluttering leaves over the bricks of the well wall, feeling for grip, each then clutching a projection. But the shapes were hands – attached to arms. Something was trying to pull itself out of the well...

Another shape emerged on the opposite side. A foot... a leg. The figure wore a dress of some sort, thin, rippling, perhaps blue. A woman? Then with a wrench the figure pulled itself onto the wall, lay still for a moment, then rolled off.

It was a woman.

She wore dishevelled garments, narrow shoes and a pale blue dress, or so it seemed in the eerie no-light. She stood upright, brushing herself down.

Monique thought she recognised that gesture – something familiar in the motion, some memory of hands wiped clean on a dress, something she recognised... or thought she recognised in the woman’s raven-black hair, so like her own, which the woman tied back with a ribbon bow. But this woman was not wet – her skin pale, her clothes billowing, even gossamer: no hint of soaking.

Monique gasped and sat up.

She stared ahead at the wall of her room. Then she looked to her left, out of the window. A soft reflection of Lune like a crescent will o’ the wisp upon a distant window; stars twinkling blue and white; great solid roofs and massive chimneys, all velvet black in the night.

A wreath of mist lay around the well, masking its inky interior.

The street lay empty.

Monique knew dawn was not yet at hand – the rooster spirit in her reticule had not cried out its single crow into her mind. Night remained to stain Shrobbesbury.

She lay back.

She felt better. She felt as though she had slept well, had somehow cried out all her sorrow so that nothing painful remained inside her. She would never forget the puppy, would never forget the callous, contemptuous manner with which Mr Goldgate had flung the bag into the sink, as if nothing of value lay inside. She would never forget the hostile look in his pale eyes, so unlike her own, bleak and aggrandising behind his pink-tinted spectacles.

She sighed. It was time for another day.

In her mind she heard a single cock crow.

She lit a candle and got dressed. Bumps against the wall indicated that a couple of the other girls were also waking, but they and the others would stay abed for another hour at least. Monique was usually the first to rise, even before Mr Proderick, whose private chambers lay at the west end of the top floor. After she pulled on her dress and tied back her hair with a bow she raised