“Well, what else are they supposed to do? Petition Madam to take care of them?” Andrew looked just as angry, but tempered with resignation. “Good God, Clifton, what would that get them? Nowhere, of course—she’s the one who’s poisoned them in the first place! What relations are going to care for them? Ellen’s second-cousin is the only person that has ever brought one of these paintresses to the attention of a doctor, and that is in no small part because the cousin discovered Ellen’s magical potential was being drained away from her by a person unknown. That is one case, out of how many potteries?”
“Quite a few, I would venture to say,” Marina offered, feeling an odd sort of dislocation—ethically, she was as appalled as the vicar, emotionally she was as horrified. But intellectually—she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame any girl who took such a step toward ensuring whatever future she had was comfortable. “But I suspect that would be because those doctors are disinclined to see a patient without being paid. Actually, Andrew, that’s not quite true—Madam and Reggie were discussing something about a female doctor, a suffragist, who was campaigning on behalf of the paintresses at one of her potteries. But I don’t know which pottery that was, so I can’t tell you if there’s anyone trying to do anything about the place where Ellen worked.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but it’s irrelevant to the situation we were discussing,” Andrew pointed out. “So Clifton, what exactly are these girls to do with themselves before they die? Eke out the remaining miserable days of their lives in the poorhouse? Or spend them in comfort by selling their bodies while the bodies are still desirable?”
The vicar hung his head, his color fading. “I don’t know, Andrew. A hard choice, in a hard life.”
“They say that Madam letting them men in, makes sure all the paintresses gets a chance to get set up—and they do just go off, sometimes without giving notice,” Ellen observed, with a hint of sardonic amusement at the vicar’s reaction. “Girls get a lot of men coming ‘round. We all figured soon or late, you get one as is willing to take care of you proper. And until you do, you get nice presents, lovely dinners, get taken to music-halls…”
Marina had a good idea that Ellen must have had her share of those things from the way she spoke of them, wistfully, even knowing what she knew now, with regret.
It isn’t just their bodies that Madam is poisoning, she thought, suddenly. She locked gazes with both Andrew and the vicar, and saw that they were thinking the same thing.
But it was still hard to believe. The immediate thought was that surely, surely, Arachne Chamberten didn’t actually know what her pottery was doing to the girls who worked there. Surely anyone who did would change things!
But then she remembered that discussion—that most “unacceptable” discussion—over the dinner-table. No, Arachne knew. She might pretend that she didn’t, but she knew. And Arachne didn’t seem to think of the lower orders as being—well—human. She didn’t care what happened to them, so long as there was a steady supply of them at cheap wages.
When their hands start to shake, she’d rather have them out selling their bodies anyway, to make room for new ones.
“Difficult as this may seem to you, Ellen’s situation is worse yet, Clifton,” the Doctor said grimly. “Or was. One of the reasons that her cousin whisked her away from that vile place so quickly was that besides being poisoned, she was being drained, magically.”
“What?” Marina and the vicar exclaimed together, aghast. “But—how? Why? By whom?” Davies had the wit to ask, as Marina just stared.
“I don’t know. There definitely was some sort of tie to her when she was brought to me, something that was acting as a drain on her personal and emotional energies, but one that I didn’t recognize, and one I couldn’t trace back.” Andrew shrugged. “Not that I didn’t want to, but I was too busy trying to save her life at the time. I just cut it, cauterized it, and dismissed it from my mind. Now, though—” He paused. “Clifton, you can work through the Church to see that the physical aspects of this disgusting situation are dealt with—but if there is an occult aspect to it, I think we ought to look into it. There was only myself before—frankly, trying to get other Masters to help in something as vague as this would be like persuading cats to swim.”
“Now you have two more of us,” the vicar said, with a lifting of his chin and a touch of fire in his eyes. “And Ellen is going to be all right—”
“If you don’t mind helping us with this,” Andrew replied, slowly— “The only problem I can see is that the tie isn’t there anymore.”
Ellen gave him a stern look. “Don’t be daft,” she said, forthrightly. “Begging your pardon, but the only places I ever went was the pottery and out with—men. And them men came to the pottery. So?”
“QED,” Andrew said ruefully. “You’re right, Ellen. The place to look is the pottery. If this business involves more girls than just you, it could be the symptom of something much worse.” He scratched his head ruefully. “This is where I have nothing to go on but vague premonition—”
“But the premonitions of an Elemental Master are as important as an ordinary person’s certainties!” Marina and the vicar said in chorus—then looked at each other—and at Ellen’s puzzled expression—and chuckled weakly.
“All right. If you agree that my premonition is not nonsense—well, I just think that this is important.”
Something I can do! Finally, something only I can do! “And—” Marina said, with a sudden smile. “I think I can get in there. Easily, and with no one suspecting a thing. There’s just one problem.”
“What is it?” Andrew asked immediately. “I’ll help you with it!”
“I wish you could, but you are the last person who would be of any use,” she replied, with a rueful laugh. “The problem is, to do so I’ll have to spend at least two days in the inescapable company of the Odious Reggie!”
And at the sight of his expression, she could only shake her head.
Chapter Seventeen
SEQUESTERED in her office, with orders not to be disturbed, Arachne fixed her son with an ice-dagger stare. “What,” she asked, in the coldest voice she could muster, “are you doing about winning that girl?”
For a long while, the only sound was that of the fire in the fireplace behind her, crackling and popping. Arachne licked her lips, and thought she tasted the least little hint of blood on them.
She didn’t have to elaborate her question; there was only one girl that he was supposed to be winning, after all. He squirmed a little in his chair; not a good sign. Reggie only squirmed when he was trying to be evasive. When he was lying, he looked directly into your eyes, and produced his most charming of smiles. When he was telling the truth, he didn’t smile, he looked completely sober, and didn’t try to charm. She wondered if he realized that. Perhaps not; he was not as experienced as she was in reading expressions and the nuances of behavior.
“She’s a bore, Mater,” he said, sideslipping the topic—or trying to. “She’s a bluestocking and a bore. I wrack my brain to tell her amusing stories, and she talks about literature; I try to make love to her, and she asks me about votes for women or politics.”
She frowned. “That is not what I asked. The girl is normal enough. She certainly has a craving for fine feathers, she’s young, and I’m sure you can turn her head with flattery if you exert yourself; she’s not that different from the little trollops you amuse your idle hours with. You ought to be able to charm her without thinking twice about it.”