Monica Orvan: Conjuror Girl, #2

By Stephen Palmer

In an alternate 1900...

 

Monica Orvan, banished from Shrobbesbury Orphanage, decides to reforge herself in accordance with the talent she has. But the cruel orphanage master is now a man she loathes; and he is searching for her.

 

With her best friend Lily and the painter Henri Manguin, Monica must bring to justice those who have wounded her, yet remain at large in Shrobbesbury in order to succeed. But it is within herself that the real danger lies...

 

Book two in the Conjuror Girl trilogy, 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 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201454197

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

Monica Orvan

Book two 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

Monique Orphan (Conjuror Girl, book one)

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

Monica Orvan looked down at the pool from her perch atop the wall, to her left the midnight bulk of the orphanage, to her right the wall itself, looping around moonlight-pale gardens. No breath of wind or call of voice disturbed her. Ten feet below, the pool lay wreathed in enigma.

The moon shone round and low behind her, so that the shadow of the wall covered the pool and half the marsh surrounding it, and yet she could see a lunar reflection below, a fingernail crescent set amidst red stars.

As she watched, this reflection changed. From fog-shrouded ruins a flat-bottomed boat emerged, upon it two figures. Yet for all Monica’s changes of position she could not see who they were, or even gain much of an impression of their age or appearance, other than one figure being much smaller than the other. As she gripped the tiles topping the wall and leaned as far over as she could, she thought she caught a twinkle of pink light across the eyes of the taller figure. And then they were gone – lost among the collapsed pillars and ruins of whatever demolished landscape they traversed.

Without warning the surface of the pool broke. She jerked back as a jackdaw flew out of the water, a circle of twelve white droplets following it, before, as if frozen, the droplets fell back into the pool. The jackdaw flew free with a melancholy croak.

Monica leaned back, glancing to her left. Though night was advanced and no lamp shone in any orphanage window, she felt nervous. Banished from the only home she had ever known, she was pursued, imperilled and destitute.

She crawled along the wall to the corner where Guildhall Street met Long Lane. Here she had managed to climb up, using projections and handholds provided by decaying mortar, but the descent looked more difficult. In the end she let herself down inch by inch, falling the last few feet when her cold-numbed fingers lost grip. She picked herself up. She felt exhausted now, yet sleep seemed impossible – nowhere to go. Disconsolate, she wandered back to the Wild Garden, where she lay down on one of the benches beneath the Bell Tree; and for a while she lay half-asleep, soothed by dreams of Queen Bess and John Dee, who told her to keep strong and keep eating.

Later, half-awake, she gripped her only penny between fingers and thumb, and at dawn sat up to consider breakfast. The penny was her only hope, she realised, permitting her a basic first meal. But what then?

As morning light broadened to daylight, she walked along the river path to the old port, where she headed into town for the shops of Mardol. Only a few in that street were open so early, but they included the bakery. Loaves inside steamed as she shivered outside; her decision made in seconds. She took out her penny and opened the shop door, determined to bring some New Year’s Day cheer.

An old man stared at her. She said, Good morning, sir.

He continued staring.

And a happy new year to you, she continued. Pointing to a bread roll she said, How much?

Penny each, came the reply.

Monica considered this, already aware that she would have to cheat and persuade in order to survive. But the boy just now said they were a halfpenny each.

What boy?

Mute, Monica pointed to the door.

The old man scowled and turned to shout into the doorway behind him. Maisie? ’Ow much for your brown roll, large? No reply came, so after a few moments he grunted to himself and dropped two rolls into a brown paper bag. Penny, then, he said.

Monica handed over her penny, said, Thank you sir, then departed the shop.

She wandered up the street as she ate. Because it was the first day of the new century, few people were abroad; and it was chilly. She realised that hunger and cold would begin to weaken her within days, if not hours.

At the top of the town she walked into Church Street and saw at once the Loggerheads tavern. Bar refuse lay in bins at the side of the pavement, waiting for dustmen to collect. From one bin she filched beer-soaked crusts, which she put in her pocket. But the door into the tavern stood half-open and she smelled burning coals, so she inched forward, then, hearing nobody, walked inside. At once she felt a little warmer.

A snug room lay through a low doorway to the left – an empty room with a fire. She stood before the blaze, chewing her bread roll.

Who are you?

She turned to see a short man, grey-haired and stout.

What you doing ’ere? he added.

Monica gestured at the tavern interior. Waiting for my papa.

The man glanced over his shoulder, frowned, then said, What’s yer name?

Monica felt her heart skip a beat. This was the first time she would make the declaration. It is Monica, she said, Monica Orvan.

The man appeared unconvinced, glancing around the snug then departing. Monica continued eating, until the man came back and said, There ain’t no Mr Orvan supping ’ere. Get out, yer whippersnapper. Now!

But he told me to wait here.

The man raised a broomstick and waved it at her. "Out, out."

Chased by the man, Monica departed. Already she had learned lessons. She felt a mixture of despair and hope: despair that she be reduced to vagrancy, hope from chance food and half-open doors. Yet more weighty was the dilemma of the letter to Lord Buckler, to which most of her hope was tied. She needed to speak with Lily.

For the moment though, penniless and alone, she would have to survive as did the urchins of the League of Ignored Children.

She stopped walking.

The League!

Motionless in the shadow of St Alkmund’s Church, she saw before her mind’s eye the railway station, Mr Tallyho... and Villars. Surely she counted now as an ignored child?

In winter-weak sunshine she stood, finishing her bread and crusts. Then she headed off through the shuts and alleys of Easttown, down St Mary’s Water Lane, along the river towpath, then up the steps leading to the jail.

From a perch on a brick wall she watched the station platforms, but few steam trains were running, and it was hours before she saw anybody she recognised. As the cold began to chill her bones she saw Mr Tallyho, and then Villars. She watched, noticing how Villars kept away from the platform manager, yet following too when he could, ducking to retrieve booty. How clever he was, dodging behind passengers, concealing himself beside hoardings and lamp posts; collecting, sorting, keeping.

She hurried across the bridge to the revolving barrier leading out into the station yard, where she waited, amusing herself by watching airships. As the sun began to descend, she saw Villars approach the barrier then slip through. She took a step forward, but then halted. He could reject her now. It would be better to follow him, for then she would at least know the location of the League.

Villars pulled his jacket close around his body, glanced from side to side, then ambled away. Monica followed at a distance of ten yards, keeping to the other side of the street where she could. At the Guildhall, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings. Monica jumped into a doorway, watching. Villars sidled towards an alley, looked around again, then vanished into it.

Monica ran across to continue her pursuit, which led all the way through the French Quarter towards Brown Rat Rookery – and now her heart sank. If the League lay in that shambles, she faced worse misery even than that of the orphanage. But Villars passed it by, following the border between the rookery and St Julian’s.

So close to the Filth, this was not an area Monica knew. But now Villars slowed, looking from side to side, alert and wary, so that on a few occasions she thought he must see her. Yet he did not. Into a rubble-strewn yard he walked, and she followed. The place was part demolished building, part wasteland bordered by hedge and fence. Behind the remains of the building lay a great edifice, also part-demolished and five storeys high at least, from which came a murmur of thunder. Villars walked towards this building, heading for a tarpaulin hung from a beam.

Scared she would lose him, she jumped forward and called out, Villars!

He spun around, staring at her. What... you!

She ran forward. I need your help, she said.

What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you followed me?

Yes.

I thought I sensed somebody... but, go away! This ain’t a place for you–

No, Villars. I had to run away from the orphanage. I’m lost.

He shook his head, then reached out to push her away. You can’t, Monique–

No, she cried, grabbing his hand. "No, I’m not that girl any more. I am Monica. I’m different. And I’m banished from my home. You’ve got to help me."

He shook himself free and took a step back. What, here? You must be joking!

Why? I’m an ignored child now.

That made him think. He frowned, studying her, glancing over his shoulder, then looking her up and down.

Well, aren’t I? she asked, sensing his uncertainty.

I s’pose you are.

And the League should help people like me.

He nodded. I s’pose it should.

She smiled, taking his arm in hers. Then that’s settled.

At once he pulled himself free. I don’t know...

To distract him, she said, But Villars, I know where the League is now. Do you all live inside the remains of that building?

Er...

And what’s that rumbling behind it?

That’s from the foundry, he replied. It’s how we keep warm in winter.

How clever. She pointed up at the many canvas sheets hanging down from beams. Is that how you keep the cold out? I suppose there must be the remains of rooms behind. Do you have food too?

He took a deep breath, glancing again at the doorway. I suppose you do qualify, he murmured. But Etis Gmu ain’t gonna be pleased.

She laughed. Let me deal with him.

You don’t understand, he told her. It’s his rules here. He’s king.

I’m sure I can deal with him. Will you take me inside now? I was outdoors all night in the freezing cold, and I’m starving.

His expression softened. Yes. I think it’s vegetable soup tonight. Usually is.

Monica breathed a sigh of relief. My favourite!

Behind the tarpaulin a boy sat on a pallet, holding a stake with a knife tied to the end, light provided by a single lantern. He stood up and saluted when Villars appeared, then stared at Monica.

Stand easy, Villars said.

Now Monica could see that the ground floor of the League’s headquarters had been created from rooms exposed when half the building fell away. The children had shored up remaining walls and hung tarpaulins, with lighter canvas inside as a second barrier against the cold. She ran her hand along the wall adjoining the foundry, to feel warmth.

You see? he said. We call this the Winter Palace. He chuckled. We live here from about October to about April. Then, when it’s warmer, we have other hides. And we work on the harvest over summer, taking our tithe. The farmers don’t notice.

Then, Monica replied, you’ve been here for years, surviving all that time?

Oh, yes. We’ve got it down to a fine art, we have.

It’s a little like a workhouse.

"Nah. You’d never get me into a workhouse," said Villars.

How many of you are there here? asked Monica.

He indicated that she should ascend a stepladder to the next floor. We just walked through the boys’ rooms, he said. There’s ten boys, plus me and Etis Gmu. He gestured at the room they now stood in. On this floor it’s the girls’ rooms – there’s twelve in all, but four special girls live next floor up.

Special?

Etis Gmu likes to have girls serve him his supper, that kind of thing.

Monica recalled Etis Gmu’s vanity and arrogance. I can imagine.

I call ’em the four sick elephants. There’s Martha, Nellie, Gertrude and Maude. They passed through three doorways, then ascended another stepladder. This is Martha and Nellie’s room.

Where are they now? I’ve seen nobody yet apart from the door warden.

Out scrounging. They’ll be back for supper soon.

Out... not Etis Gmu too?

Oh, no, Villars replied. He ain’t never done that kind of thing.

"Then what does he do?"

He’s our leader. He leads.

Monica felt a twinge of irritation hearing this, but she knew she had to restrain herself. Villars took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, to lead her into a large chamber.

This is my room, he said. Through here is the only way up to the top floor, where Etis Gmu lives – that’s why it’s locked. He paused, listening to footsteps above. Sounds like he’s heard my voice.

A light appeared as a trapdoor opened. Villars! Come up at once.

Villars took a ladder and set it against the trapdoor. Me first, he whispered, winking at her. Don’t worry. I ’spect it’ll be all right.

Monica felt concerned. She knew Etis Gmu and she knew his reputation. Moreover, she disliked him. She clambered up the ladder.

Etis Gmu recognised her at once. You! Villars, whatever do you–

No, but no! Villars said, rushing forward and waving his hands. Listen to her story. She’s out of the orphanage now.

"What? What? Villars, you know my rules."

But she’s an ignored child, Villars replied. If we can’t have her, we can’t have Gertrude and Martha, nor most of the boys neither, who we took in exactly the same way.

Etis Gmu seemed to grasp the logic of this, and he paused for thought. Monica glanced around the chamber to see all manner of luxuries: furniture, a desk, even cushions. Etis Gmu wore a woollen tunic, black trousers and soft leather boots, around his neck a cravat of red fabric, albeit ink-stained. At length he said, Go and check the vegetables for tonight’s supper. Remember I ordered carrots.

Villars nodded, then hurried away. Monica looked Etis Gmu in the eye and said, Thank you for inviting me into your headquarters.

He studied her, his face composed. Monica recalled all that had passed between them: the betrayal to the stationmaster Mr Tallyho, the rakshasa, the conjured tiger set upon her.

At length he plunged his hands into his pockets and turned away. What exactly did my adjutant mean by you being out of the orphanage?

Well, Monica replied, wondering how much to reveal. You see, Mr Goldgate took a dislike to me, and chased me out yesterday. I had to sleep outdoors in the frost all night. I really am an ignored child.

He sighed, taking a scrap of paper from the desk, then a quill, which he dipped into a jar of ink. So it would seem, he said, walking towards her. What is your full name?

Monica Orvan.

Monica? he queried.

She nodded, watching him write it down. No, not that surname – without the extra N and the E at the end.

With a grimace he crossed out the last two letters. And how did you locate my residence? he asked.

Monica smiled, wondering how to placate him. You mean the Winter Palace? she said. Oh, knowing Villars as I do, I happened to notice him in the street, so I followed him, being so chilled – to the bone, in fact. It was all I could think of to do.

Etis Gmu glanced down at the trapdoor; the sound of Villars below. Indeed it must have been, he muttered.

Villars reappeared, clambering up to stand at Monica’s side. Shall I make a space for her in the room next to the food store? he asked.

Etis Gmu glared at him. My decision is not yet taken.

But... she’s ignored. By your own rules, you have to.

"I do not have to do anything. Nevertheless... despite a certain amount of disquiet, I suppose we shall have to take the ragamuffin in."

Monica felt slighted. "I am fifteen, she said. I have had education at the orphanage. I have learned writing, and reading, and arithmetic. I’m not stupid."

He stared at her, and she sensed he was little used to opposition. Really.

Monica snatched the paper and the quill. Beneath her name she wrote: Yes, I have. I am clever, and useful, and don’t you forget it.

There, she said, handing the paper back. You like the quality of my handwriting?

Etis Gmu snorted, turned away, then said, Villars, take the girl and find a place for her. I don’t care where. Then return to me. We need to have a discussion about rules and etiquette.

Villars led Monica to the trapdoor, then through his own room, the door of which he locked behind them. Are you in trouble now? Monica asked.

Probably.

I’m sorry, Villars. I didn’t mean to rile him. It just came out. I’ve had a horrible day out in the open.

Villars shook his head. He gets riled at everything, so don’t you forget that.

But he treats you like muck – and he clearly thinks little of the children here.

Never you mind how it all works. Without him and the League we’d be nothing.

Monica sighed. I suppose so...

He led her down a further floor, where, in a chamber full of junk, he halted. This is all we have spare at the moment, he said. All the other rooms are occupied.

This? Monica said, looking at the dust-shrouded mounds.

It’s got a warm wall, ain’t it? he replied. Move some of this junk across to the tarpaulin, then there’ll be space. He turned his head, listening. I can hear boys. Sounds like everyone’s coming back. I’ll introduce you later.

He strode away, leaving her to stare in dismay at the rubbish. She brushed a tear from her cheek. A decaying store room would be her bedroom now.

~

Next morning Monica met the rest of the children at breakfast, which was taken in the least damaged of the ground floor rooms. A trestle table pushed against the warm foundry wall was set with cracked plates on which lay piles of bread. Each slice was ragged, suggesting to Monica that the mould had already been pulled off. Mute, the children studied her, their grimy faces marked by tracks of snot and tears.

Feeling shy, she said nothing as Villars explained her situation. This here is Monica, a new girl. Etis Gmu was ’specially generous for New Year, and allowed her in. Monica’s a bit older than you lot, but that ain’t no bad thing because she can read and write. Anyway... she ain’t got nowhere to go, so she’s staying awhile.

But the children cared little for such praise. Bread was all they wanted.

Thus, with apathy, Monica was accepted into the League. Of Etis Gmu’s four girls only Maude Woodbead paid her any attention. I’ll look after you today, she said. You’ll have to work hard though. We go out into town, scavenging. Of course, the market is best, it’s where a lot of the food is. It’s all done proper here. We’ve got latrines, you know – between the ground floor store room and the river. I’ll show you.

Monica nodded. Etis Gmu and Villars have got everything running well.

Maude smirked. Etis Gmu? Yes. Villars will never amount to anything.

Now Monica felt more depressed than ever, yet she felt she did have one advantage. Apart from Etis Gmu, Villars and Martha she was the oldest child, which gave her the faintest hint of authority. The other children, like many of the boys at the orphanage, were dulled by harsh lives, by cold and starvation. She could flourish for a while here, not least because she knew how to deal with younger children; and if Lord Buckler did change his mind, she could depart – swiftly.

Sitting beside Villars in the storeroom she pondered disguise and concealment. Mr Goldgate will hunt me down, she said. I’ll have to keep hidden.

You will have to work, Villars replied. Etis Gmu ain’t the sort to tolerate backsliding. We only survive by finding everything Shrobbesbury folk throw away.

I’ll pull my weight, Monica replied at once. You’ll see that soon enough. But I can’t afford to be seen around the orphanage, or even in the town, at least, not much.

If you stick to the shuts and passages, you’ll be all right.

I hope so. She pondered her appearance. I could always cut my hair.

What? He looked across at her dark tresses. A girl can’t do that.

Why not?

It ain’t seemly.

She crouched at his side. Listen, Villars, I’m being serious. Mr Goldgate is a monster. He’ll exploit any mistake I make. You must be my guardian. Only you know about my past.

He smiled at her, and seemed abashed. Maybe. We’ll see.

She sat back, concerned at his nonchalance. Was Edward at this moment handing over her letter to Lord Buckler? She knew she must never mention that possibility to any child of the League. If she was to depart, she must do so without warning. But first she would need to speak with Lily and with Henri...

Besides, said Villars, we ain’t got no mirror for you to look into. He stood up. I’ll take you to see Maude. She’s going out into town with you. I gotta go to the railway again, and there’s no way you should come with me.

To that, Monica agreed. As the sun ascended, Maude led Monica into the frost-lined yard, where their breath plumed and the cold seeped up through the soles of their shoes. Monica began shivering.

You could do with some thick socks, said Maude.

But I’ve only got what I’m wearing.

That’s all right, Maude replied with a smile. I’ll show you where all the clothes are.

You have clothes?

We have lots of things.

Monica followed Maude back into the building. Already groups of children were preparing for the day’s work, organised by Villars, who read instructions from a scrap of paper. Are those from Etis Gmu? Monica asked Maude.

No, Villars is in charge of gang organisation.

"What then does Etis Gmu do?"

Maude glanced at her. He’s in charge of the overall direction we take. This is his place.

Monica forced herself to remain silent. Already she could see what a hold Etis Gmu had over his acolytes, and how little they saw of the truth. But then, she was new, from the outside. The children here were blind to what she could see.

Maude led her into the last chamber on the ground floor. Through a hole in the wall she could see the river, where there was more than a hint of cesspool overflow from the Filth. The chamber was full of old tea chests each labelled in a clear, round hand. Do you need new boots as well? Maude asked.

Monica glanced down at her old shoes. Yes, she replied.

Soon she was kitted out with woollen socks, new boots, and a thick scarf to which a pair of gloves were tied.

Where does all this come from? she asked Maude.

We keep everything we find. Us girls mend everything scavenged. You never know what you might need, so we don’t miss a trick.

Do you have any boys’ clothes here?

Maude nodded. Lots. Monica looked through the selection, until Maude added, What are you doing with those trousers?

I might need to disguise myself.

Maude shuddered. As a boy?

Perhaps.

Etis Gmu would never allow that. He insists girls be like girls.

Etis Gmu needs his ideas examining, Monica replied at once.

Maude looked shocked. I don’t think you’ll last very long here, she said.

We’ll see. Perhaps I won’t need to.

They spent most of the day outdoors, walking through the alleys of northerly Easttown, keeping off the main streets, slipping into back yards and down forgotten passages, watching, scavenging, pilfering. Monica insisted on keeping out of sight, until Maude became annoyed and Monica had to explain about Mr Goldgate.

Again, Maude looked disconcerted. If Etis Gmu finds out you’ve got an enemy, he’ll turf you out, she said. We have to keep to the rules, else be discovered. And none of us wants to be discovered.

Perhaps I’ll turf Etis Gmu out, Monica said with a shrug. Maude offered no reply, and Monica realised she had gone too far. Only joking.

"I