Jane Eyre vs. The Mighty Boosh

Posted on by
Vince Noiyre, a young governess, takes a position at Thornfield Hall under the watchful eye of Howard Moonchester. But what are those noises coming from the attic? Why does everyone think Vince is a girl? And how old is Naboo?

Category:

Characters: , , ,

Pairing:

Genre: , , , ,

Rating:

Warning:

Status:

Length: words

Jane Eyre vs. The Mighty Boosh by Maestro

[nextpage title=”Chapter One: In which Miss Noiyre arrives at Thornfield, blowjobs are mentioned, and the housekeeper has a problem with unsightly facial hair.”]

Chapter One: In which Miss Noiyre arrives at Thornfield, blowjobs are mentioned, and the housekeeper has a problem with unsightly facial hair.

Reader, I married him.

Oh shit, wait – that comes later. Let me start over.

My name’s Vince, but most people call me Miss Noiyre, which is… well, yeah, I have a whole androgynous charm thing going on, and I use a little make-up occasionally, only to bring out the gifts I was given in spades, right, but still, there’s no excuse for thinking I’m a girl. But mostly I let it go, ‘cause I’m a governess.

Or governor.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s it. See, they don’t have many male nannies where I’m from, it’s all a bit backwards here. And jobs are scarce enough for an electro-ponce-slash-classic-frontman making ends meet – for now – by teaching snotty little brats just how many dinky little countries Britain happens to be oppressing at this moment in time. So when your boss calls you “Miss” and asks you to wear a dress, if the money’s good enough, there are some issues that don’t get raised.

It was raising the dress that was the problem.

Anyway, I don’t really wanna get into it, but long story short, that job’s over and I’m heading on to pastures new. This place Thornfield sounds cool, as far as I know there’s just one little girl there to teach, which is easy, compared to some of the gigs I’ve had.

So here I am, sitting in this rickety old trap – that’s, like, an old coach thing – winding my merry way along all these bumpy and dusty little country roads, wondering if taking a job right out in the sticks was such a good idea. I miss London already. But, out here in the middle of… Christ, I don’t even know what county I’m in any more – anyway, wherever I am is one of the only places that won’t have heard about my little… the thing that happened that got me sacked. Well, I quit. Anyway. Also this guy Moonchester didn’t ask for references.

Actually, that’s a bit worrying, now I think about it.

I’m dressed in my travelling clothes – just your simple studded leather jacket, belted at the waist, on top of a silk wrap-around top that maybe shows off a little too much skin, but fuck it, and my tightest jeans. Oh, and boots. I like boots. Not that I’m short, I just… like ‘em. These ones are red, they’re wicked.

And this farmer guy that Moonchester sent to pick me up from the station keeps giving me these knowing looks, like either he thinks he can give me half a guinea for a blow job, or he knows something about Thornfield I don’t. And he’s about a hundred and six, so he isn’t getting anywhere with the first option.

So when we pull up outside I’m pretty much prepared for anything. Thornfield’s this gorgeous old place, bit old-school gothic maybe but I like that kinda thing. Huge building, hundreds of windows that I’d bet Moonchester has a fleet of maids to clean ‘cept that they’re all filthy, which isn’t a good sign for that raise I was planning to ask for.

And outside the front door, right? I swear I’m not making this up.

There’s a gorilla.

In a pinny and a little maid’s cap. With his/her (how do you tell with gorillas?) hands tucked neatly behind his/her back, the picture of propriety, except I didn’t think propriety would be quite so hairy.

Farmer Guy pulls up outside, not shocked, and this is what he must have been giggling about. Well, ‘cept then he licks his lips and winks, so I’m figuring a little of both. I give him the finger, Jagger-style (John Jagger, old mate of mine from school, ‘bout as rock’n’roll as you like) and hop off the trap, landing perfectly, not easy on boots, but I practice.

The gorilla does a little curtsey, and I guess I can tick off an item on my list of ‘things to see before I die’.

“Miss Noiyre?” the gorilla says in this deep growly voice, and despite the dress I decide it must be a ‘he’. Well, who am I to talk about dresses, eh?

“Mr, actually,” I say, ‘cause servants knowing your gender pronoun ain’t the same as kicking up a fuss in front of the master. “And you can just call me Vince.” I hold out a hand, and he grins, showing about a billion teeth. He’s got one hell of a handshake. His hand feels like my jacket, and suddenly I’m really glad I decided not to travel in my gorilla-fur coat.

“My name Bollo. Did you bring bags?” he asks, and he’s got this strange sort of stilted way of speaking that misses out verbs and possessive pronouns – see? Governess by name and nature – and I have to stop myself from going, “My name is Bollo. Try again.”

Instead I just point behind me at the trap, the whole back half of which is covered in trunks, suitcases, satchels, and a dressmaker’s dummy with no arms that I picked up for a song in St. Giles. So cheap my guess is either it was stolen or it was used as a murder weapon in some trial I haven’t heard about, on account of saving my money more for lipstick than for newspapers.

Bollo’s eyes widen when he sees all my baggage, and seeing as no other servants are rushing out or anything, I’m guessing maybe Moonchester’s fallen on hard times, maybe Bollo is the only servant. He certainly looks a bit overworked. I think he’s starting to moult under the arms. So I give him a hand, and I think about asking Farmer Guy to help too, ‘cept I’m worried about what he might expect as a reward. Takes us a few minutes, but eventually all my stuff is out on the driveway, and Farmer Guy buggers off in a cloud of dust and an evil cackle.

If they made horror movies at this point, he’d be the guy going, “Don’t go oop ta Carstle Draculaarr, marsters…”

Bollo’s pinning his little mop cap back on his head – it’s adorable, really, makes me think about getting one myself – and looking at this heap of bags, and back up at the house. I know that being the new governess, they’ll have put me in the most distant part of the house, some dark and dingy room where a girl hung herself fifteen years ago. Hey, there’s a point. Moonchester’s got a kid, right? Then he must have been married at some point. Or, you know… I mean, I don’t judge, but times are like that. Half a crown says he’s widowed.

Anyway, so it took us ten minutes to move all of this stuff two feet, Christ knows how long it’ll take to drag it up fourteen flights of stairs. “Don’t worry,” I say. “Let’s just leave it for now, go and have a cuppa.” This isn’t London, after all – I’m sure my bags’ll be okay.

Bollo nods in thanks, and does a little gesture to show that I should go into the house first – I don’t know whether it’s because he still thinks I’m a lady, or because I’m new, but if it’s the first one then it’s an argument to have another time, and maybe not with someone who could knock me through a wall with a casual backhand.

Inside, Thornfield is just as dusty and dingy as it looked from outside, the floor’s been swept which is fair play to Bollo, but the pictures and tables are all thick with dust, like a little furry carpet of it everywhere. There are some stairs going straight up, all mahogany and green velvet, and they must’ve been really majestic at some point. Not that I’ll get to use ‘em much – and if this is the state of the public part of the house, the servant’s quarters’ll be half missing, from the looks of things.

Bollo takes me down a dimly lit corridor to what turns out to be quite a nice kitchen, sort of like my mum’s, well, except I’m an orphan and I suspect the memories I have are more out of furniture catalogues than real life. You know, mum leaning over a tray of warm cookies while little kiddiewinkies frolic at her feet. That sort of thing.

But this place is nice, homely. There’s a big pine table right in the middle, and I pull out a chair, resisting the urge to put my feet up. Bollo fusses about with teapots and strainers and milk jugs, the bow of his little apron wiggling behind his back.

“So what’s the setup here? You the only guy working?”

Bollo pours out in a cracked china cup, and I add about eight sugars, I like things sweet.

“Bollo work here three months. All other servants gone long time ago.”

I nod sagely. “That’ll be after the missus popped off, yeah?”

Bollo looks confused, his eyebrows… well, let’s be honest, he doesn’t actually have eyebrows. Or at least, I can’t find them in the rest of the fur on his face. But something comes together with something else, almost as if his eyebrows had pulled together in an expression of confusion. Boy, inter-species body language is tough.

“No one dead.”

I stir my tea. “No? Hmm… she’s not a nutter, is she? That happened at this other place I was at, mistress of the house went right off her trolley, got carted off to a ‘sanatorium’. Everyone split after that.”

Bollo shakes his head.

Great. Well, there must be a way of putting this delicately… “So the kid’s a bastard then?”

Bollo chokes on a mouthful of lukewarm tea. “Naboo is no bastard. But Howard not married.”

Must be like a niece or summat. And Howard, what a dull name. Sounds like he wears one of those cardigans with the leather patches on the elbows, and smokes a pipe, reading philosophy all the time. “Where is he, anyway? I figured he’d be here to say hello, see what I’m like.”

“Howard not back til tomorrow.”

And that’s that, it seems. I don’t get any explanation, no ‘he had to go see farmer’ or ‘he off seeing doctor for fungal feet’, or even, ‘he gone to see prostitute because he not had any in very long time’, any of which could be true with a name like ‘Howard’. Bollo and I finish up our tea, and it’s getting late, and I’m fucking wasted from both the long journey and the truly awesome leaving do I was at the night before, so when he sees me yawning he takes me out to the entrance hall.

I groan, thinking about all them bags we gotta lug up to my room, but when I poke my head out of the door they’re all gone. “Fucking thieves!” I start shouting, but Bollo puts a hand on my arm, and takes me upstairs.

Down a long corridor, right at the end (told ya) is my room, and inside are all my bags. Even my dressmaker’s dummy is set up nicely in the corner by the window.

I turn to Bollo. “I thought you said you were the only servant?”

“Naboo must have done it.”

I look at the bags, weighing several tonnes. “An eight year old girl carried all this?”

“Poof,” Bollo says, and I feel my hand already bunching into a fist.

“What did you call me?”

“No, no,” Bollo says quickly, and makes a weird gesture of, like, throwing some dust at me. “Poof. Magic. Voodoo magic.”

And there’s a point where I’m tempted to argue, but there doesn’t seem to be anything missing, and I remember this one house where the cook made the best damn stew you’d ever tasted, but he’d go missing two, three days out of every month, and there’d be wolf sightings, and sheep disappearing in the night, and when he came back he’d make more lamb stew, and there are some questions you just don’t ask. I mean, I’ve seen weirder shit in my time than an eight-year-old voodoo practitioner. And anyway, I’m fucking exhausted.

Bollo leaves me a candle. I’m too tired to start unpacking now, I just kick off my boots and my jacket, lie down on the bed, and I’m out straight away.

I dream about something above me, moving around, some kind of weird gargoyle/harpy thing jumping around on the roof of my bedroom and climbing in through the window and sucking out my soul, and then it turns into the Farmer Guy and tries to take my jeans off, only I’m wearing a chastity belt, and he tries to have sex with that, with me just lying there and watching him in bafflement as he ‘clunk clunk’s away at it, and I think about how maybe going the whole day on only a hunk of blue cheese was a bit stupid.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Two: In which Naboo turns out to be neither a girl nor eight, but still adorable, and Miss Noiyre finally meets the enigmatic Mr Moonchester, who turns out to be slightly less adorable.”]

Chapter Two: In which Naboo turns out to be neither a girl nor eight, but still adorable, and Miss Noiyre finally meets the enigmatic Mr Moonchester, who turns out to be slightly less adorable.

This guy Howard’s gonna be back today, so I make a particular effort with my outfit. I’ve got this skintight sparkly top one of my ex-admirers picked up for me in the West Indies (actually I think he nicked it from a brothel in the East End, but what I tell people and what I think in’t the same at all), and more skinny jeans. I put on a little make-up too, just definition, eyeliner, that sort of thing, and sling on my jacket, tight in all the right places. I fluff up my hair a bit, shove on my red boots (take me home, Aunty Em!) and shut my door, giving my dummy a bit of a snog on the way out.

The house is quiet, usually at this point in the morning someone would’ve brought me a jug of warm water to wash in, but bugger it, I’m not gonna make a fuss. Bollo seems a decent bloke.

I tiptoe along the corridor, not sure if Howard’s back or not, maybe I’m all wrong and he had a mental night out last night and he’s nursing a hangover. There’s some noise coming from the kitchen, so I head there, the smell of bacon and eggs making my stomach go nuts. No cheese today.

I push open the door, and Bollo’s standing at the hob, cooking away, which for someone who’s ninety percent fur, standing next to a naked flame maybe not such a good idea. And sitting at the table is this twelve-year-old boy in a fancy dress outfit, swinging his legs which aren’t long enough to reach the floor.

So I was a little misinformed. It’s not like we have the internet, or even telephones. I took this gig at short notice; my info’s bound to be a little off.

“Mornin’ Bollo,” I nod to him, and Bollo grabs another plate out of the cupboard and goes back to frying eggs, and to a certain extent, himself.

I grab a chair next to this kid, put my head down to his level, and grin. “You must be Naboo.”

He leans back in his chair. I’ve never seen a child less excited. “That’s me.” He’s got a bit of a lisp, I hope Howard doesn’t expect me to cure it, I never signed on for speech therapy. Besides, it’s wicked cute.

“I’m Vince.” I stick out a hand, which he shakes limply, and then goes back to picking at the table. Bollo’s watching the two of us warily. He’s blatantly been like a second mother to this kid, and he’s got an eye on me like I might whip out a packet of Rohypnol-laden Smarties any second.

Naboo doesn’t care though, just pats this little blue turban thing he’s wearing – adorable! – and pretends like I don’t exist.

“I’m your governess.”

He glares at me. “I don’t need a governess.”

Oooooookay. Looks like this one might be a bit tough. But still, I’m the guy that got both bloody Frampton twins to stop having tantrums, and managed to get Lucy Steele to eat all her dinner after only four weeks on the scene. This is nothing.

“All kids need governesses,” I say calmly, only making him glare more.

“I’m three hundred years old, you idiot,” he lisps, adorably, but Bollo suddenly bangs down our plates in front of us, giving Naboo this weird glare like he’s said too much. Probably worried about him showing up his parenting skills by being rude to me.

I decide to drop the whole thing, and start tucking into my bacon, which is slightly burnt. “So, is Howard back yet?”

Bollo shakes his head, pouring out more tea. “Not til afternoon.”

“Great,” I grin at Naboo. “Means we don’t have to start classes today. You can have the day off.”

“Whoopee,” he says in this completely deadpan voice, and picks at his egg with his fork. Tough crowd.

I finish off my breakfast, and as much as I’d like to stick around in the kitchen, it’s a sunny day. And I’m sure as hell not going to stay inside this mouldy old house. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Bollo nods, already making a start on the washing up.

“You can come, if you want. Fancy the exercise?” I ask Naboo.

He gives me a withering look. “If I want a walk, I’ll go on my own.”

“Fair enough,” I say, not pushing the issue this time round. “See you guys later.” I clip-clop off down the corridor, hearing Naboo break into some kind of angry rant as soon as I’m gone, but I can’t make out the words. I’m not too worried, though, Bollo seems like he’ll fight my corner, say I’m a good guy and Naboo should do as I say, etc. What kind of a name is Naboo, anyway?

It really is a great day. One thing this place has over London (that’s one positive against the pages-long list of negatives) is the space. Nice day in London, you don’t see it, you just feel it in the sweaty bodies of four hundred people pressing up against you whenever you go outside. Here at Thornfield, I can’t see another building for miles. There’s a nice little breeze, birds singing, flowers… it’s like a postcard.

I find a path that runs next to a stream, and follow it for a bit, the house at my back. I have to take my jacket off and sling it over one shoulder, my glittery top leaving sunshine-traces everywhere I turn. The path turns, and there’s a little bridge over the stream, with a bench just beyond, where the path curves. I take a seat, putting my feet up and having a little lie-down, the sun on my face.

The wood vibrates under my cheek. I sit up, blinking a little in the light, and hear hooves. One road to Thornfield. Guy on a horse. Unless Creepy Farmer Guy has finally scraped that guinea together, there’s really only one person it can be. I whip out my mirror and check my face, neatening up my eyeliner and my hair, which has a tendency to sort of deflate in hot weather.

What would be the best pose to be casually discovered in? For one ridiculous moment I think about leaning back, spreading my legs as far as they’ll go, one hand cupped on my crotch, Jagger-style (he was a weird one, our Johnny) but I come to my senses quick, and decide to just cross my legs all demure. No telling what this guy could be like.

The noise of the horse’s hooves gets closer, and I can hear the jingling of the… bridle? I don’t know from horses. Jingling of horse stuff, anyway. The path bends behind some bushes, so I can’t actually see them approach.

The horse comes round the corner, this beautiful black thing all glossy and shiny, some black shadow sitting on its back. I shield my eyes with one hand, trying to see him through the sun, and as I do so I move slightly.

I see the sparkles from my top reflected on the horse before I really think about it. Next thing I know, the horse has gone mental, rearing up all crazy, and the rider’s in the dirt.

I run over. “Oi! Easy! S’only me!”

The horse stops bucking immediately. (And don’t ask about the talking to animals thing, it’d take too long and it’s much less interesting than it sounds.) “Don’t tell me what to do, you little poof,” it neighs. “You’re the one shining a lamp in my eyes. What’d you expect me to do?”

“Shut it,” I say, one hand on his neck… string… thing. “You’re gonna trample all over your master.”

“Good thing for him if I did,” the horse grumps. “He’s half dead already. The half that matters.”

I don’t get a chance to ask what he means before the dark shadow on the floor groans and sits up.

This guy Howard Moonchester is older than me, but it’s difficult to tell by how much. At a guess I’d say he’d been a sailor at some point, that always dries out the skin, makes you age. His face is a bit weatherbeaten, but not unpleasantly so, and he’s got a little moustache that makes you look at his lips a lot more than you ought, really, if you want to keep a job. His hair’s long, not as long as mine, but down past his ears, and it’s got this little wave in it so it curls. I mean, it could do with some product, but in this day and age, whose hair couldn’t?

He’s dressed all in black, like his horse, big thick riding boots, a big black coat which his arm’s got tangled in, sort of like a cloak. Nice shiny buttons right down his chest, and a… oh Christ. He’s got a fucking riding crop tucked into one boot. Talk about every S&M fantasy right here.

Well, anyway, I decide not to think about that so much, just looking at this fairly attractive and above all very manly man, sitting there with his arse in the mud.

He speaks. “Who the fuck are you?”

It’s not exactly, ‘What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?’ I blink. “Um, I’m Vince Noiyre, sir, your new governess.” ‘Sir’ is for keeping my job. Not the S&M fantasy. Really.

He untangles himself from his coat, smooths down his hair, and holds out a hand for me to pull him up. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“Taking a walk, sir,” I say as I pull him to his feet.

I let go, and he shouts in pain, grabbing at my arm. “Goddamnit. My fucking ankle’s all twisted up. What the hell are you doing hiding out here, jumping out at people?”

Okay, so he’s slightly less fanciable when you let him talk. In fact, he’s downright irritating, but he’s in pain, so I cut him some slack, letting him lean on me. “Sorry about that, Mr Moonchester.”

He glares at me. Must be a family trait. “Go and get Bollo, you imbecile. And tell him to bring bandages.”

“Are you sure I should leave you on your own, sir?” He’s gone a bit pale.

He limps over to the bench and sits down with a sigh. “Do I look like an invalid? Go. I’ll be fine.” He sits there rubbing his ankle and not looking at me, whether that’s because governesses don’t matter or because he thinks my outfit’s a bit… tight… who knows. But suddenly I’m getting this massive insight into why all his staff buggered off.

I set off towards Thornfield, the horse snickering and mocking my ‘yes sir no sir’s as I go. Bollo doesn’t seem surprised when I tell him that Howard’s had an accident, and he grabs his little first aid box and heads on out there. Naboo makes himself scarce hearing that Howard’s back, off to his room somewhere no doubt. That’s good, that’s something I can use, being the nice guy to Howard’s nasty one.

About twenty minutes later there’s a bang in the hall, and I come out of the kitchen to see Bollo holding Howard like he’s just carried him over the threshold, Howard’s leg all bandaged up. Bollo’s got his first aid kit and Howard’s wicked boot (the crop-less one, thankfully) in a bag slung over his shoulder, and the whole image is just so hilarious I have to bite my lip.

“Don’t just stand there, open the door!” Howard yells, and Bollo nods at a door to his left. I scamper on over and open it wide, stepping inside a dark little sitting room, all moth-eaten sofas and damp curtains. Dark despite the sunshine outside, but not dusty. This must be one of the few rooms that gets a Bollo treatment.

Bollo dumps Howard on one of the sofas, getting a tirade of abuse for his trouble, and he backs out of the room sharpish, sighing. He closes the door behind him carefully, holding the latch up so it doesn’t click or bang, proper servant stuff.

I feel like sitting down, but employers can get weird about that kind of stuff, and it’s not like this guy’s shown himself to be anything but strict. I stand with my hands behind my back neatly, feet together, looking at the floor.

“Get me a brandy,” he orders, pointing at a liquor cabinet in the corner by the window, all old wood and brass. “The key’s on top of it.”

I walk on over to it, and it’s a big old thing, lots of shelves, lots of bottles. There’s something nice, maybe, in letting me know where the key is, or more likely he still thinks I’m a woman and women don’t drink. I reach up to grab the key, fingers ploughing through all the dust and spiders’ webs – ick – and I have to tiptoe, crooking one knee behind me like a prostitute advertising her wares. I mean, I don’t mean to do it, it’s just instinctive. And no, before you ask, I’m not telling.

I grab the key and unlock the cabinet. There are about fifteen crystal decanters half full of different coloured liquids, and a staggering array of different sized glasses. Now, brandy I know, it’s the glass that looks like a little vase, so I grab one of them.

“Brandy… brandy…” I muse to myself. There’s a bottle marked “Yeksihw”, must be a foreign one, and one marked “Nig”, which is a bit strong, surely? And “Akdov”… “Initrilf”… “Ydnarb”…

“For heaven’s sake, Miss Noiyre, is this simple task beyond you?” he moans behind me.

“Are you sure you’ve got some left, sir? I can’t find any.” And I haven’t heard of any of the ones I can find… maybe they’re brand names, or something?

I hear him sigh. “They’re written backwards. Look for one marked ‘Idnarb’.”

Oh. I take the “Ydnarb” bottle out and pour a generous measure into the glass, putting everything away neat and bringing it over. He looks irritated, but smiling a bit despite it, taking a long gulp and relaxing. He looks back at the cabinet. “Have one yourself.”

I wander back over, and I… look, I’m a governess, but even governesses have their faults. And for me, spelling has always been a bit of a problem. So I’m not gonna stand here for half an hour puzzling away at all these stupid labels, not without a bit of paper and a pen, anyway. I hate brandy, but I pour a little bit into a glass anyway, and sit down in an armchair that sags alarmingly, across from Howard.

“Why are they labelled backwards, sir?” I ask, if only to make conversation.

“Oh, it’s an old trick,” he says, leaning back and closing his eyes, one hand idly rubbing away at his ankle. “It’s supposed to stop servants from stealing any.”

Which might just be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, if you can’t read, you can’t read, and if you can, it being backwards won’t stop you for very long. And most servants I’ve met could pick out brandy from whiskey at ten paces anyway, writing or no. But I don’t say anything, just nodding like it’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.

He opens his eyes, glaring at me, like he knows I don’t think much of his little scheme. “I didn’t do it. They’re family heirlooms. I haven’t replaced them because I have better things to spend my money on.” He looks me up and down, quick. “Like governesses for my ward.”

Here we go then. I fake a sip of my brandy to be companionable, putting my knees together and trying to look as prim and proper as possible.

“Naboo has been at boarding school for most of his life, but three months ago I felt it would be best for him to come and live with me.” I wait for him to elaborate on how, exactly, he and Naboo are related, but he doesn’t say. “As such, you should find him tolerably well educated already. I simply require the services of a governess to keep his mind engaged, make sure his studies don’t slip any more than they already have. You’ll be responsible for arithmetic, literature, French, geometry, divination, Latin, so on and so forth. I trust you already have experience in such subjects?”

I duck my head. “Yes, sir. As long as you have the schoolbooks.”

He finishes his brandy, and swings his legs off the sofa, sitting up. “I have an extensive library upstairs, all of which is at your disposal. The schoolroom is on this floor, in the east wing.” He pulls a rope hanging by the fireplace and I hear a bell jangle somewhere close by. “I’ll have Miss Fairfax show you.”

“Miss Fairfax?” Aha, this’ll be the boy’s mother, surely.

Howard looks scornful. “My housekeeper.”

“Bollo?!”

“Miss Bollo Fairfax, yes.”

Man, the genders in this place are so fucked. The door to the sitting room opens, and Bollo pokes his head in. “You rang, Howard?”

Howard makes a choking sound of annoyance. “You rang, sir. Not Howard.”

Bollo shrugs. “What you want?”

Howard nods at me, and I put my still-full brandy glass down on an occasional table and get to my feet, tugging my jacket down neatly. “Take Miss Noiyre to the schoolroom, and inform Naboo that he’s to be ready to attend lessons later this afternoon.” He looks at me. “How long will you need to prepare?”

“An hour should be fine, sir.” I have to restrain the urge to curtsey, not least of the reasons against it being that if I do too much knee-bending in these trousers they’ll split.

He does a little hand-wave that means, ‘you’re excused’, and I do a little nod and bugger off, following Bollo off down the corridor to get ready to teach Howard’s adorable brat.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Three: In which Miss Noiyre loses technology that probably hasn’t been invented yet, Mr Moonchester turns out to be a flamer, and saliva is swapped.”]

Chapter Three: In which Miss Noiyre loses technology that probably hasn’t been invented yet, Mr Moonchester turns out to be a flamer, and saliva is swapped.

The schoolroom’s okay, nicer than some, not as nice as others. It’s got a blackboard, a globe of the world (which I think is out of date, America’s not still a colony, is it? This is what happens when you don’t read newspapers), and a little desk and chair for Naboo to sit in. There’s a proper sized desk in front of the blackboard for me to work at, and as soon as Bollo’s gone I start going through the drawers and having a general poke around for anything interesting.

Nothing. From the smell of the place it hasn’t been used in years. I open a window to let some fresh air in, and it creaks scarily. I put a bit of wood under it to hold it up.

I figure the best thing to do is to set Naboo a little test on pretty much everything – it won’t make me very popular, but at least that way I can prove to him that there are gaps in his knowledge, and we can do more fun stuff later. I go up to the library and grab a few basic books on maths, science, history, that sort of thing, as well as a couple I brought with me. Oh, and I bring down my gramophone too, be nice to have a bit of music while I work.

I set up my books in a big pile on the desk, wind up the gramophone, and put one of my favourite records on.

‘I’m a dandy highwayman who you’re too scared to mention… ’ echoes through the room as I work away. This guy Adam Ant’s bloody mental, one gig I saw him at he had this big white stripe across his nose, mad. But he sings a good tune, you’ve gotta give him that.

I’m sitting there scribbling, starting to think I should’ve asked for longer than an hour to write a test for all human knowledge, humming to the music, when the door to the schoolroom slams open violently.

For one moment I think maybe the window’s fallen shut, and look over there, but then Howard limps into the room, shaking with fury, his face all red. He stands next to the desk, and before I can get to my feet he’s yanked the record out of the gramophone with a horrible screeching scratching sound that makes me wince

“Oi!” I start to say, but he just chucks the record on the floor. It bounces, thank Christ, and skitters to a halt by the door, still open.

“What… the fuck… is that?” he says through clenched teeth, pointing an unsteady hand at the gramophone.

“It’s a gramophone, sir,” I say, and when he doesn’t reply I feel like I have to give a little more info for this poor guy living out in the sticks. “It’s a machine that plays music.”

At the word ‘music’ he physically flinches, looking up at me. I see he’s not shaking in anger. It’s fear.

“It’s perfectly safe,” I add hastily. He probably thinks it’s powered by the devil or something.

“Safe?” he echoes, staring at me in horror. He looks back down at the gramophone, and slams the lid shut with one hand. “It’s banned.”

Banned? “I don’t understand, sir.”

He puts his long cuff over his hand, and picks up the Adam Ant record off the floor, putting it on top of the gramophone, trying not to touch either of them with bare skin. “Look, you’re new, Miss Noiyre. And I realise Miss Fairfax may not have gone through the rules with you yet. But… music… is outlawed here. No singing, no whistling, no instruments… and definitely no fucking ‘gra-ma-fons’.”

I open my mouth to ask why, then think better of it. Howard limps over to the corner of the room and pulls another one of those bell-ropes, and Bollo appears at the door. “Miss Fairfax, please take this machine upstairs and put it outside the door to the attic.”

“Now hang on…” I start, but Bollo’s already picking up my gramophone.

Howard looks at me, leaning on the desk for support. I’m guessing he just basically ran from the sitting room on his injured leg. “And Miss Noiyre, go upstairs and fetch any more…” he nods at the record, “plates you may have, anything that could make… noise. You’ll give it to Miss Fairfax, and she’ll ensure it’s locked away properly.”

I’ve got a whole trunk of records, a tin whistle a mate brought back for me from Ireland, and a hell of a lot of combs and paper, but I’m buggered if I’ll give them up. I think about arguing, but Howard really does look awful, like just the idea of music in Thornfield is sucking the life out of him, so I decide to shut up for now. At least they’re only going to be locked up, not burned or anything. I follow Bollo meekly out of the room, leaving a shaking Howard to cling to the desk, his head on his chest.

I’m woken in the night by the music of Adam Ant drifting down through the ceiling, and I think, Bastard. What the hell does he think he’s playing at? Okay, no music in the house, fine. Well, not fine, really – I’m a musical creature, you might as well ask me not to piss or breathe or get horny, but I can stand it for a bit, I suppose, just until I can find somewhere better to work, and worse comes to worst I can always go right out into the fields and scream a couple of songs into the wind. But to make up that whole bullshit story just so he could play my records to himself up in the attic, that’s fucking not on.

I’m in my red silk pyjamas – present from an ex-boyfriend, as most of my bed-related items are – and I throw on a dressing gown and light a candle. I’m gonna go up there and give him a fucking piece of my mind.

I open the door to my room, a little disorientated in the gloomy corridor. My sputtering candle doesn’t give out much light – the sooner they invent electricity the better, if you ask me. Howard’s room is just opposite mine, I found that out earlier when he went to have a little lie down and rest his ankle. I’m just about to head up the corridor to the stairs to the attic, when I hear a little muffled noise coming from his room. His door’s ajar, there’s light flickering inside.

Now, if Howard’s in the attic, who’s in his room? Bollo? Naboo? I get this horrible tightness in my chest suddenly, thinking about what a twelve-year-old boy might be doing in Howard’s bedroom. I mean, you don’t hear about it, but it happens. And it’s happened to kids under my care a couple of times. Each time I did what I could to sort it, but… look, I don’t wanna bring the whole narrative down, but let me just say that I know why he might be in there. And I have to go look.

I push open the door to Howard’s room, wary of what I might find.

Howard’s there, in bed, alone. There’s no one else in the room, thank fuck. He’s straining and scrabbling away under the sheets, covered in sweat, eyes shut. It looks like he’s having a nightmare, a really painful one.

Oh, and his bed’s on fire.

I can’t believe he hasn’t woken up, but he’s under about fifteen thousand blankets and eiderdowns and coverlets, and the flames are gently lapping around the foot of the bed. I grab the water jug from off his bedside table and throw it onto the fire – saying a little prayer inside my head that he’s not like my ex-employer old Mr McGregor, whose water jug was actually filled with ‘Nig’.

There’s this loud hissing noise, and most of the flames go out. I pat out the others with part of the blanket, my hands burning a little.

Howard screams, and sits bolt upright, his eyes wide. I spin round, putting my candle down on the table and grab him by the shoulders, scared out of my wits. “Howard? Howard, are you okay?”

He blinks a couple of times, and then suddenly catches sight of me. He smiles really slowly, the expression creeping over his face like the water soaking into the bedclothes, but never reaching his eyes. Maybe he’s still asleep.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “And who might you be, pretty lady?”

Maybe he can’t tell in the dim light. “It’s me, sir. Vince Noiyre. I heard a noise, you were on fire. Are you alright?”

His eyes are dark and unreadable. “Mmmm. You’re a sexy little thing, aren’t you, Vince?”

My mouth goes dry. “I think I better fetch Bollo…” I manage to stammer. I turn to go, but his hand suddenly snakes out and grabs my wrist, holding me where I am.

“No need, sweetness. We got all we need right here.”

The room’s warm and smoky from the fire, and my hands are still tingling, and I feel dizzy. It’s dark, and hot, and close, and Howard is very, recognisably, there. His eyes are roaming all over me in a way he didn’t look at me today, and he’s wearing these black pyjamas that just remind me of him on his horse, all masculine and commanding.

So when he tugs on my wrist, pulling our faces right close together, I don’t struggle, because maybe part of me believes I’m dreaming, or he is, or that at any rate it’s been a while since I got laid, and there’s a whole bunch of reasons for why when he kisses me firm and brutal on the lips, I kiss him back.

There’s tongue, and teeth, and all that moodiness and glaring is right there in him kissing me, hard enough to leave bruises, tongue slipping inside to taste. I don’t… I mean, I bottom a lot, yeah, but I’m not submissive. Except right now, apparently, where he leads and I just follow, hanging on. He’s got his hands on my back, and he suddenly pulls me in from where I’ve been standing by the bed so now I’m on the bed, sprawled across his legs, him bent over and still kissing me, hard.

The door creaks, and he breaks away suddenly, looking up. I’m still too breathless to move, so I don’t see who it is, but he blinks a couple of times, letting me go, and says, “Miss Fairfax?”

I look up, and Bollo’s standing there in a frilly nightdress, holding a candle and looking about as shocked as it’s possible for a gorilla to look.

Howard looks down at me, lying across his knees on top of the covers, and his eyes go wide. “Miss Noiyre?!” he says, like this is the first time he’s seen me. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and get up, quick, pulling my dressing gown closed.

“There was… um. There was a fire. I put it out.” Bollo and Howard just look at me, and I point to the charred remains of Howard’s top blanket, lying in a heap at the foot of his bed. No one asks how putting a fire out ended with me and Howard snogging each other’s faces off.

“Right. Good. Excellent work, Miss Noiyre,” Howard says eventually, smacking his lips like he tastes something odd in his mouth. He looks up at me, and maybe he remembers or maybe he works it out, but his lips tighten like he’s done something awful, and I think, not again, for fuck’s sake.

There’s just silence.

“Um, I’m gonna…” I point over my shoulder, and edge out of the room, past Bollo, who doesn’t say anything, and back to my own room. I close the door in darkness, realising I’ve left my candle behind, but I don’t want to go get it.

I get back into bed silently, no longer hearing the music coming through the ceiling, and think for a bit. I’m guessing Howard was still asleep, sleep-snogging somehow. It happens, maybe. I just hope… I need this job, if only to get references for a better one. If he throws me out, I don’t know where I’ll go. Is there anywhere more isolated than Thornfield?

I fall asleep with the taste of blood in my mouth, and I don’t dream.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Four: In which Miss Noiyre and Mr Moonchester share a cursed breakfast, Naboo has a proposition (NOT LIKE THAT: DON’T THINK THAT) and time passes unsubtly.”]

Chapter Four: In which Miss Noiyre and Mr Moonchester share a cursed breakfast, Naboo has a proposition (NOT LIKE THAT: DON’T THINK THAT) and time passes unsubtly.

So, yes. I fancy my employer. It’s not that bad, and even if it’s unrequited it’s still a hell of a lot better than the other way around, believe you me. And the fact that he kissed me – okay, in some kind of sleep trance thing, but it still counts – means that on some level, he probably fancies me too. Now I only have to worry about the class difference, the age difference, the employer/employee relationship, and oh yeah, worries about his sexuality. This period in time can be sort of conservative about that sort of thing, it takes its psychological toll.

The morning after the night before, I get dressed, and make sure I’m looking absolutely stunning, no ‘I wept the night away pining for you’ for me, no sirree. I go for this nice green top with roses all over it, brings out my eyes.

I head down to the kitchen, where this time there’s only Bollo, cooking away. He gives me an odd look, but doesn’t say anything about catching me in bed with his boss, just points out quietly that when Mr Moonchester is back, breakfast is served in the morning room. He tells me where it is, and I head off through the labyrinthine corridors of Thornfield.

When I find it, Naboo and Howard are already seated at a big table covered in a linen tablecloth and plenty of crockery. Only half of it is being used, the other half covered with a dustsheet. Three places are laid – Bollo will eat in the kitchen on his own, naturally – with Howard at the head of the table and Naboo on his left, with a place for me on his other side.

Howard gets to his feet when I come into the room, favouring his good leg. Naboo is slumped moodily in his chair.

“Naboo, when a lady enters the room we stand up. We’re not French,” Howard says in that deliciously authoritative voice.

Naboo looks from me to him. “Uh, Vince is a man?” he points out.

“That’s no excuse,” Howard says, and makes a sharp gesture for Naboo to get to his feet, which he does, arms folded and looking pissed off about the whole thing.

It’s all… I know I said I hate people thinking I’m a girl, but this is different, because Howard doesn’t really think so, at least from where his hands were going last night he ought to know better now. Still, I get the feeling he might only be doing it to annoy Naboo.

I sit down at the table, and sneak a look at him, trying to work out what’s what. There’s been no mention of contracts or handing in my notice, which is good. He shoots me a small, thin-lipped smile. I know I have a tendency to read too much into things, but really, honestly, what I think this one says is, ‘I know you and I shared a moment last night, which was rudely interrupted before it could go anywhere really interesting, but rest assured that we’ll pick it back up again at the earliest opportunity. Simply allow me some time to get my head around everything, sort out some issues in my head, and I will be entirely at your sexual disposal.’

Of course, it could also mean, ‘I like your top.’

Bollo brings in a couple of trays of food, far nicer than the burnt grease we were eating yesterday, and unloads them. Kippers, eggs, toast, several different kinds of jam… despite Howard’s lack of servants, and the general state of disrepair of Thornfield, I’m guessing he’s actually quite loaded. Not that that really matters. Except on the subject of raises.

When Bollo leaves, clanging and clashing away, the silence returns.

Howard clears his throat, helping himself to some devilled kidneys. “So, Naboo, what do you have planned for today?”

Naboo readjusts his turban, the fancy dress outfit it appears he’s never seen without, and glares. “I have to check the protective wards in the west wing.”

“Sounds like important business,” Howard says solemnly.

“Well, yeah, it is. Without it, you could die.”

“Don’t forget you have class today with Miss Noiyre,” Howard carries on. “Your games will have to wait until she says you’ve finished.”

Naboo sighs. “If those wards fail, not only could the evil contained in this house spill out into the rest of the country, but you,” and here he points at Howard with his knife, “will be in even more serious trouble than you are now.”

Howard chokes on a piece of toast, reaching for his cup of tea hurriedly.

I jump in. “Actually, sir, Naboo’s doing terribly well. He scored full marks on the test I set him yesterday. I’ll have to write a much harder one today, he’s already well out of his age group.”

Howard nods, obviously pleased. “He’s certainly a precocious young man.”

Naboo gets to his feet. “I’m three hundred years old!”

We continue eating our breakfast, me knowing from experience not to rise to this sort of behaviour. “Of course you are, dear,” I say, spreading a little lemon curd on my toast.

“I could put a curse on you both, you know.”

“Not at breakfast, Naboo,” Howard says serenely.

Naboo kicks his chair back and stalks over to the door, his robe trailing behind him, adorably. He stops, one hand on the doorknob, and turns, pointing at Howard. “I could curse you so that you were a grumpy and soulless old man, living alone in a rundown house in the country, petrified every time you heard a snatch of music, with no chance at love or happiness or anything resembling a normal life, and you never remembered being anything else.” He leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Howard has a forkful of scrambled eggs frozen in front of his mouth, his face suddenly pale. He puts his fork down and folds his napkin neatly. “He’s at a funny age,” he says to me.

“You know, tantrums like that are a bit strange for a three-hundred-year-old,” I say to Naboo a few hours later, when he’s working away at the new test I’ve set him, in the schoolroom.

He’s sitting at his little desk, scribbling away; I’m sat on my larger desk, tapping my boots against the wood.

He sighs, tucking a strand of black hair behind his ear. “I’m a bit stressed.” Seriously, hearing this kid say ‘stressed’ just makes me want to bundle him up and eat him with a spoon, it’s so cute.

“I usually have a hookah, it makes everything go a bit easier. I guess I’m missing it a bit.”

It’s a skill I’ve worked long and hard to get, and so I don’t react in the slightest, simply nod and say, “Ah. At the boarding school, yes?”

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, turning over his paper.

“What boarding school was it again?”

“St… Pete’s,” he says, not looking at me.

“St Peter’s? Whereabouts?” There are so many bloody boarding schools named after saints.

“… Surrey?” he says, like it’s a question.

I’ve not heard of it, but that’s not surprising.

Naboo looks up and watches me carefully for a moment. “What do you think of Howard?”

He really is precocious, and it’s not like I wasn’t expecting this question. But still I’m a bit stunned. “I think… he’s a bit moody,” I manage to say, trying not to give anything away.

He nods, musing. “He’s got something locked up in the attic, you know.”

“Yeah. My gramophone.”

He shakes his head, his long hair pattering against the sides of his face. If I were a normal everyday kind of governess, I might make him cut it. But, I mean, look at me. Long hair’s in.

“Something else,” he says quietly. “Something evil.”

“That’s why you’ve been casting protective wards, right?” I say lightly.

He doesn’t hear me, still musing on something, looking at a point just past me. “He wears the key around his neck, and I can’t get in there without it.” He glances up at me. “If you… if you can get your hands on it, if you bring it to me, there’ll be a reward.”

I tilt my head to one side, the test forgotten for a moment. “If you want to go up there so bad, why don’t you just ask him?”

Naboo shakes his head again. “I have, he won’t let me. He’s too scared.”

“Then why do you think he’ll give me the key?”

He grins slyly. “I didn’t say ask for it, did I?”

I get down off the desk, turn around and head for the blackboard, writing up today’s topic, my back to him so he can’t see my face. “I’m flattered you think I have so much power, but I’m just the governess, Naboo.”

“That’s not what Bollo says.”

I freeze. It figures. Even in a house with only two servants, gossip still travels. I’m a little hurt that Bollo told a child about it, but not completely surprised. Gossip is power in these big houses. I speak without turning around, my voice cold. “And what does Bollo say?”

“That he saw the two of you sucking face last night.”

I concentrate on the chalk, on writing out… let’s see. Shakespeare’s plays. Alphabetically. It’s soothing. Naboo doesn’t seem irritated or annoyed, it’s not blackmail material, really, since Howard isn’t married and there isn’t really anyone to tell. But still.

“If you can get the key, and bring it to me, you’ll be saving his life. And like I said, there’ll be a reward.”

Half a pound of bullseyes, no doubt.

I turn around, having got all the way up to Hamlet. “That’s enough of that, Naboo. Finish off your test.”

His sly expression turns to annoyance, and he ducks his head and resumes his scribbling.

Time passes.

Yeah, I know that’s a really stupid and non-writerly way to put it, but I’ve been racking my brain and that’s all I can come up with. Nothing really happens, except that a couple of months go by.

Naboo’s still a little shit about his lessons, I practically have to turn the house upside down just to find the little bugger, and then he seems to know the answers to all the questions before I even ask them. I’ve had to send off for some more serious books. Astrophysics, that kind of thing.

I don’t see a key around Howard’s neck, but… well, I don’t see that much of him. Things don’t happen how I thought they might. Sometimes I hear him wandering around the house in the middle of the night, and he stops right outside my room, and I wait for him to open the door, but he doesn’t. I occasionally hear him moving around in the attic. But I never hear music again, and there are no more fires.

He disappears now and then for a couple of days at a time, leaving all excited and buzzing, coming back depressed, like he’s looking for something he can’t find. He’s still as fucking moody as ever, slumped in his sitting room in the dark most nights, drinking brandy, ringing the bell and yelling at Bollo. Sometimes I sit with him, talking about everything and anything, but it’s so hard to know what will set him off. One time I talk about a placement I had with a family in Yorkshire, and he goes spare, throwing his glass into the fireplace.

Still wicked hot, though.

And now, he’s off on another one of his little trips. Bollo, Naboo and me are standing on the steps as he gets onto his jet-black horse, taking a firm hold of (what I now know are called) the reins.

“Back in a couple of days,” he says to Bollo, and winks at me, and I just burn. Then he rides off.

“There’s something about a man on a horse,” I muse out loud, “that’s just indescribably sexual. All that power between his legs… urging it forward with a little thrust from the hips… the steam coming from its nostrils…”

Bollo and Naboo just stare at me, open-mouthed.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Naboo says in a small voice, and he and Bollo head back into the house.

Yeah, it looks like I might have it bad.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Five: In which Mr Moonchester houses an absent-minded visitor, and Miss Noiyre dresses like a nun for his pleasure.”]

Chapter Five: In which Mr Moonchester houses an absent-minded visitor, and Miss Noiyre dresses like a nun for his pleasure.

Classes are suspended while Howard’s away, and Naboo spends most of his time hanging around with Bollo, muttering together in dark corners. About me, no doubt, but I don’t care any more. Or at least, I’d care less if it were more true, if Howard and I really were an item.

I spend my time scanning the job section of Howard’s newspaper, looking out for another governess’ job. It’s not that I want to leave, exactly… more that I’m worried about what will happen if I don’t. I mean, maybe if something happens, if Howard makes a move. But I’ve got this sick feeling that he’s the master of the house, with property to look after, and status and reputation, and he can’t be seen to get involved with his governess. Especially if she’s a bloke.

There’s a couple of places that looks like they might work, and I send off a letter and my CV, waiting to hear back. I try to convince myself that Howard’s just biding his time, that he’s a moody bugger, that everything will work out. That just because we’ve got together doesn’t mean he’s necessarily out there wooing women, re-establishing his heterosexual credentials.

And then.

He comes back one night, a day early, and there’s another horse with him, a beautiful glossy bay. And a woman riding side saddle, her sea-blue skirts spread out in waves, laughing and joking with him as they trot up the driveway.

Naboo, Bollo and me, all three of us tense up, although for different reasons.

Howard stops in front of the house, swinging his leg up and over and getting off his horse in a way that’s… look, I know what Freud says about horses, but it’s just sexy, okay? Stop giggling.

He reaches up and takes hold of this woman by the waist, lifting her down with the utmost care. She’s gorgeous. She’s got jet-black hair tumbling over her shoulders in curls, proper Tigger-tail ringlets that bounce and sway every time she moves. She’s wearing these thin black glasses that set off her eyes, outlined with mascara in a way that makes me desperate for a mirror so I can check mine. And she’s smiling, and laughing, and flirting, brushing Howard’s arm, running a hand through her hair. And I’ve never seen him look so happy.

Howard hands the reins of the two horses to Bollo, who reluctantly drags them off to the stables. He and this new woman walk over to me and Naboo, and Naboo actually takes a step closer to me, in a way that makes me feel a bit better.

“Miss Noiyre, Naboo,” Howard says to us, taking his lady friend’s hand. “I’d like you both to meet Mrs Blanche Gideon.”

She curtsies to us, although I can see she’s doing it more to Naboo. I’m just a governess.

“This is my ward, Naboo,” Howard says, reaching out to ruffle Naboo’s hair through his turban, and Naboo just glares at them both. “And his governess, Miss Vince Noiyre.”

Again, I’m in jeans, so I just do a nod and the smallest of dips. Not that I really feel like curtseying anyway.

Mrs Gideon looks at me over her glasses. “My, but what an outlandish outfit!” she says to me, and there’s a trace of something odd in her voice. French? German? It’s impossible to tell. “Do you let all your servants dress this way, Howard?”

Okay, I hate her.

Howard coughs, goes a little red. “Of course not. It’s Miss Noiyre’s day off, she’s in her travelling clothes. We’ve arrived back a little earlier than I thought we would, I’m sure she’s just about to go get into her uniform.”

A few points. Firstly, uniform? I don’t have a bloody uniform, and I’m damned if I’m gonna wear one just to please her. Second, we’re back to ‘she’ and ‘her’ again, I see. Which is why, exactly? Because he thinks that if she knows I’m a bloke, then any sexual tension would show him up as a bender? I fucking knew it. I knew this was a sexuality thing. He’s fucking ashamed. Oh, and third, how come she gets to call him ‘Howard’? How long have they fucking known each other?

Some of this must be leaking out in my expression, because Howard’s giving me a pleading look, like ‘play along’. Buggered if I will.

“Let’s go inside, Mrs Gideon,” he murmurs to her, taking her by the arm and leading her into the house.

“Blanche, please,” she says with a smile.

“Okay, Mrs Gideon…”

Naboo and I are left on the steps, warmed by the setting sun.

“Could you curse her?” I ask him quietly.

“I’ll get my bag,” he says.

When we come in, Howard rushes out of the sitting room, looking for us. “Hey, Naboo… tell Bollo to set up afternoon tea in the sitting room, will you?”

Naboo just blinks at him.

“Quickly, there’s a good lad,” Howard says, clicking his fingers, and Naboo wanders off as slow as it’s possible for anyone to walk.

He turns to me. “Vince, follow me.” I’m stunned for a moment by him using my first name. He hasn’t done that since that night. I just stand there as he takes a few steps up the stairs, and eventually he’s forced to physically grab me by the hand and pull me upstairs, along the corridor, into his bedroom.

I haven’t been in here since then. Okay, well, maybe I have, just quickly, just to see what it looked like during the day. And maybe I tried to imagine how things would go, if and when they did. And maybe they went sort of like Howard grabbing me by the hand and pulling me into his room, and closing the door behind me, and standing close, just like he’s doing now.

My heart seems to be trying to escape through my mouth.

“I’m really sorry about this, Vince,” he says.

I’m about to say something along the lines of hey, no worries, kiss me you fool, when he turns away. There’s a trunk at the foot of his bed, and he opens it and starts rummaging inside, tossing things out left, right and centre.

Sex toys, I’m thinking.

But instead he comes up with an armful of drab black material, itchy and thick, and pushes it into my hands. Is it… a nun’s outfit? “What is it?” I ask.

He nods at it. “It’s a governess’ uniform. It should be about your size. Put it on, and come sit with us in the sitting room. I need you to keep Naboo on his best behaviour.”

I just gape at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Howard sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, you know and I know that you’re not a typical governess. And that I’m not really bothered what people wear, as long as they do a good job. But Mrs Gideon is bothered. So please, just while she’s here, put it on.”

Oh, there are so many things I could say, and I have about a billion comebacks circulating in my mind. But for some reason, what actually comes out is, “How long will she be here?”

Howard opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. “I… don’t know. We’ll see.”

“So you want me to wear this indefinitely, is that it?”

“Vince, please.”

I narrow my eyes. “It is Mrs Gideon, isn’t it?”

He gives me a pitying look. “She’s widowed, Vince.” He puts one hand on my arm, squeezes it. “I’ll leave you to put it on. See you downstairs in a bit.”

And he leaves. The bastard.

I don’t bother going to my room, I strip off and put the dress on then and there. And it’s awful, far worse than I’d even imagined. It’s made for a woman, first of all, so it’s too tight at the waist and too loose at the chest. It’s black, the sheer darkness of it reminding me of all of Howard’s clothes, but it’s really itchy. I mean, just the worst, cheapest material you could ever imagine. It’s a blazing hot night, so I have the option of either wearing a T-shirt under it and sweating to death, or wearing nothing and scratching my skin til it bleeds.

I look at myself in the mirror. There’s a reason I don’t wear black, or not all black. Where it makes Howard look dashing and distinguished, manly and interesting, I just look washed out. Coupled with my black hair, my face hovers in a cloud of smoke, pale as the moon. And the dress gives me no definition at all, I might as well be wearing a sack.

I want to storm down there, hurl this thing in his face, tell him how he could have had a good thing with me but he’s thrown it all away to play happy families with this European tart, but I don’t. There’s something about having a job that relies almost entirely on the goodwill of your previous employer that stops you from dramatic scenes. I mean, I could go down and hand in my notice, but I’d still have to work tonight, at least. I’d still have to wear this.

It’s horrible, I hate it, it makes me hate myself, but I have to wear it. I fluff my hair out a bit, reapply my make-up, and I’m damned if I’m gonna lose my red boots. If she kicks up a fuss, I’ll just tell her… I spilt bleach on my black ones. Or these are lucky, or it’s a superstition. Or I’ll just tell her to mind her own fucking business. Tell her that he’s mine.

I chuck my clothes into my room and make my way down to the sitting room, the longest walk I’ve ever taken. When I go in I can tell by Howard and Naboo’s reactions how my new look is going down. They look at me like I’m ill.

Mrs Gideon glances at me, once, then turns back to the conversation. Dressed like this, no longer a threat, I’ve become just so much background noise to her.

I go and stand next to where Naboo’s sitting in the armchair. Mrs Gideon’s sat right up against Howard on the sofa, of course, laughing and joking away. Compared to her, I must look like… Howard doesn’t look at me, he only has eyes for her.

“I just love this place,” she tells him. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Thornfield?” Howard says, baffled, as we all are. It’s a dump. I mean, it could be nice with a bit of work, if it was a bit cleaner, but it’s not beautiful.

“Thornfield, yes. All it needs is a woman’s touch, I think.” She leans towards him, and both Naboo and I snort. How fucking obvious can one woman be.

She hears us giggling, and turns to Naboo. “And such a darling child. How old are you, my boy?”

“Three,” says Naboo, glaring.

She’s dumbstruck by that, but only for a moment, laughing her lovely tinkling little laugh. “How adorable.”

“Tell me,” Naboo says, and Howard’s looking at me to stop him, but I avoid his eyes, fiddling with the hem of my awful dress, “what was it that first attracted you to Howard?”

Mrs Gideon looks confused. “Howard?” She glances down at her left wrist. “Oh, Howard… yes, well, I don’t really know. What a strange question.” She puts her hand on Howard’s right knee. “I shouldn’t like to pick out just one quality.”

“… when there are four hundred thousand of them, right?” Naboo finishes for her, and Howard chokes on his biscuit, four hundred thousand being approximately what he’s worth, I’m guessing.

“Miss Noiyre!” he says hurriedly, and suddenly I realise that during our conversation upstairs in the bedroom, he called me ‘Vince’ and I didn’t call him ‘sir’. But now we’re back to the status quo. “Would you fetch Mrs Gideon a drink, please? What would you like, Mrs Gideon?”

“Please, call me Blanche… after all, I call you,” she looks at her left wrist again, “Howard, don’t I?”

“I’m sorry Mrs Gideon… Blanche… I think it’s going to take a bit of getting used to,” he grins, and she practically clicks her fingers, ordering up a ‘Skcor eht no Hctocs’. As I cross the room I think about topping it up with ‘Ssip’.

I walk across the room behind the sofa where she and Howard are sitting, and as I do so I catch a glimpse of something written on her wrist. What can that be? I fill her glass quickly, slopping the alcohol over the side childishly so she’ll get her fingers wet, too little ice so it’ll warm up unpleasantly, and stand behind the sofa, handing it to her in an awkward way that means she has to show me her wrist to grab it.

Her dress has long sleeves that button up at the wrist, five or six of them in a little line from wrist to elbow, but on her left arm she’s unbuttoned all but one, so that when she holds her arm in a certain way, the material gapes and shows her bare skin. And on that skin she’s written ‘HOWARD’ in biro.

“What’s that?” I ask, holding the glass just slightly out of reach. Howard looks over and sees it too, a split second before she pulls her arm back and holds it against her bosom.

“What’s what?” she says all innocent, but we both saw it.

“On your wrist.” I gesture, spilling a small amount of scotch on the carpet. Something dawns on me. “Wait a minute… you can’t remember his name, can you? That’s why you keep looking at your arm!”

“Mrs Gideon?” Howard says to her, already leaning away from her a bit, his arms folded. If there’s one thing Howard prides himself on, it’s being memorable.

“Honestly Howard, of course I can remember your name!” She snatches the drink away from me, glaring. She turns back to Howard, eyes downcast, body language guilty. “Oh, it’s so silly. I feel like a schoolgirl.” She looks up at him through her eyelashes. “I just… you’re a very handsome and interesting man, and I wanted so badly to feel closer to you. I wrote your name on my arm as a whim, the way one might write ‘Blanche Moonchester’ on an exercise book.”

I sit back next to Naboo, and it’s almost as if we’ve developed telepathy. I know he’s thinking, as I am, Surely he can’t fall for this bullshit.

But he does. “Ah, well, we’ve all done something stupid like that at some point, Mrs Gideon.”

Naboo and I both shake our heads as Mrs Gideon laughs again. I shiver to see Howard smile.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Six: In which Miss Noiyre reveals his artistic talent, French curses are learned, and Adam Ant sings some peculiarly apt lyrics.”]

Chapter Six: In which Miss Noiyre reveals his artistic talent, French curses are learned, and Adam Ant sings some peculiarly apt lyrics.

Ha. Owing to Howard asking Bollo to prepare rooms for her and not being specific, she’s over in another wing of the house. Howard tried to rescue the situation by saying it was ‘the guest wing’ but when he and I both headed down the same corridor I felt her eyes on my back like daggers. Screw that bitch.

Howard says a brief thank you to me for wearing this torture implement masquerading as a dress, but I’m in so much pain I can only curtsey before dashing into my room and tugging it off. My skin’s all red and blotchy, it’s really awful. I don’t think I can survive another hour in that thing, let alone a day.

I sling my pyjamas on and get into bed, but I can’t sleep, and lying down is painful. I keep tossing and turning. Eventually I get up and light my candle, sitting down at my dressing table in front of the mirror. I stare at my reflection glumly, the line of red around my neck where the collar of the dress chafed me, my hair standing up crazily from where I’ve been lying on it, my face pale and dull without make-up. I think of Mrs Gideon, and her perfect face, perfect hair, and depression hits me in the chest.

I get a sudden violent urge, like when you’re walking down the street and you just want to punch a wall, and before I know what I’m doing I’ve swept the table clear of make-up and hair products, and pulled out two sheets of paper and my pencils.

I draw, as best I can, a picture of Mrs Gideon, as pretty as possible. As much as I want to be brutal, I force myself to be kind, I even make her nose a bit smaller, her neck a bit longer, smooth out some of those wrinkles. When I’m done, I have a perfect picture of her, her smouldering eyes staring out of the page at me. I resist an urge to spit in her paper face.

Instead, I pin it up next to my mirror.

Then, forcing myself to look at my reflection carefully, I draw myself. And this time I’m brutal. I draw my crazy hair, all over the place like an electroshock patient. The dark circles under my eyes that I usually hide with concealer. My pointed features, my big nose. My thin lips, although still… sensual, for all that. My eyes, glittering and captivating, like sapphires in a bowl of cream. My flawless skin. My perfect, kissable neck.

Ah, who am I kidding. I’m fucking gorgeous, even like this, rumpled with sleep. Perhaps more so. Howard’s an idiot if he chooses her over me.

And I get one of those crazy midnight ideas. I pick up both pictures, open the door to my room, and pin them there on my door, side by side. So he can see what he’s really choosing. No contest, in my opinion.

Then I set to work on the dress. He said I had to wear a uniform, he didn’t say I couldn’t customise it. First things first, I use one of my old sheets to line the inside so it won’t rub so much. The neck is a high collar, with whalebone inside to make it stand up. I lose all that, cutting a wide swathe of material out so that the neck dips worryingly low; well, worrying if I were a woman. A wide V from both shoulders to breastbone. I hem it with a length of red ribbon for colour.

Then I work on the ugly, ugly skirt. I slit it up both sides, thigh high, and cut the bottom asymmetrically, not too much, but just enough to be noticeable, to show off my ankles. I add another sheet as a sort of petticoat, cutting it up both sides too, and loosely attaching it to the skirt so that it peeks out through the slit. I’ll have to wear stockings rather than tights, but once you’ve got used to wearing a dress to work you don’t really think of it as ‘cross-dressing’ any more.

I let out the waist a touch, but enough to still be tight. And take in the chest, so it won’t hang like a sack anymore. Ideally I’d like to stitch on a few sequins, some more ribbon, do something with the cuffs, but it’s fine for now, and my eyes are aching from the dull candlelight.

It must be about three am, and I hang it up in my wardrobe, blowing out the candle. I’m just about to collapse into bed when I hear Howard’s door open. There are shuffling footsteps, which stop at my door. I hold my breath. Perhaps tonight…

Then I remember the pictures on the door, and suddenly regret it. I hear the rustle of paper ripping as he pulls them off, then footsteps as he walks away down the corridor. It’s fairly obvious what he’s chosen. Fuck. Fuck.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but it can’t be more than half an hour because it’s still pitch black when I wake to the sounds of a woman screaming. It goes on and on, it just doesn’t stop, surely a person needs to breathe? I’m disorientated and exhausted, and I can’t find the matches in the moonless darkness, scrabbling around on my bedside cabinet.

Instead, I open my bedroom door and look out into the corridor. There’s nothing there, but the screaming gets louder and louder.

Shit, what do I have that I could use as a weapon? I grab a metal comb off the floor by my dressing table, and clutch it in one fist.

I step out into the dark corridor, and Mrs Gideon slams into me at top speed, knocking us both to the floor. She stops screaming, takes a shuddering breath, and clutches the collar of my pyjama top.

“Miss Noiyre, Miss Noiyre, his eyes!” she whimpers, right in my face, her voice cracking.

She’s half-strangling me, and all I can think to do is push her hands off, fighting with her to get her to let go. She has the strength of the mad.

“Get out of here, you must! Just go, as far away as possible!” She looks over her shoulder into the shadows, shaking. “He’s evil!”

“What? Who’s evil? You’re not making any sense!”

Suddenly she lets go of me, pressing both hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. “Il vient! Il est ici!” She crawls over me, stepping on my chest, scratching at the wall in her haste to get to her feet and get away, and then she’s gone, her French screams echoing down the corridor.

I hunt on the floor for my comb. I don’t speak French, but whatever she was saying was not good. I need a fucking weapon.

I’ve just found it when someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I lash out instantly, but whoever it is catches my arm by the wrist before I can do any damage.

That thumb, pressing against my pulse gently. “Howard?” I say, in a shaking voice.

“Vince. Where did Mrs Gideon go?” He pulls me to my feet, and I clutch his shoulders for support.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“Which way did Mrs Gideon go, Vince?” he asks, his voice cold. I can’t make out his face in the darkness, and suddenly I’m scared, I pull back.

“Vince?” He sighs. “I haven’t got time for this. Go check on Naboo, he must be frightened out of his wits. Can you find your way in the dark?”

“W-what’s wrong with your voice?” I ask him. He sounds… deeper, maybe. He sounds odd.

There’s a flicker of light, and suddenly there’s Howard, holding a lit match between our faces. Just normal, everyday, hot-as-hell Howard, looking a little frightened maybe, a little out of breath, but still him.

“Well? Go get your candle, Vince. I can’t wait here all night.”

Yep, it’s Howard alright. I stumble into my room, knocking about a billion things over as I struggle to find where I left my candlestick, then bring it back out into the dark corridor again. For a moment I think Howard’s disappeared, that I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight, then a match flares and he lights my candle.

We stand there shivering in the corridor. “Check on Naboo,” says Howard darkly. “I’ve got to find Gideon.”

He heads off down the corridor out of sight, and, unwillingly, I head in the other direction to Naboo’s room. When I get there the door’s already open, and Bollo is in there in his nightdress. Naboo is shirtless, but still wearing his strange Arabian bell bottomed trousers and turban.

Both of them get to their feet as I come in. “Where’s Howard?” asks Naboo.

“He’s looking for Mrs Gideon.”

“He’s not in the attic, then?” Naboo turns to Bollo. “He might have left the door open. We might be able to end this once and for all.”

“I got a bad feel-”

“Whatever,” Naboo cuts him off, and picks up his own candle, heading out of his room and towards the attic steps. Bollo and I follow him uneasily.

“Is this such a good idea? Maybe we should just stay put, like, behind a locked door. Mrs Gideon said she saw something… evil.” I say to Naboo’s back as we go up the attic stairs.

“We might not get this chance again,” Naboo whispers.

This is nuts. Fucking insane. Here I am with a twelve year old boy and a gorilla housekeeper, trying to get into a locked room that makes women scream in the night and speak French. I want to go back to my room and hide under the bed, but I don’t fancy going on my own, so I keep going.

The stairs are rickety, but free of dust. Someone comes up here a lot.

At the top of the stairs is an old door, dark wood. It could be beautiful except that someone’s scratched all over it, weird symbols and words in a language I don’t recognised, some carved an inch deep. There’s a lighter area of wood on the left where there must once have been a keyhole, but you can tell it’s been filled in.

Naboo gives it an experimental shove, but it’s stuck fast.

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. “If there’s no keyhole, how can there be a key?”

“Magic,” Bollo murmurs behind me.

Naboo holds up a finger to his lips, gesturing for us both to shut up. We listen, straining in the dark, but hear nothing.

“I thought-” Naboo begins, but is cut off suddenly by a blast of noise, loud enough to make your ears bleed. We cover our ears with our hands instinctively, taking a step away from the door.

“I’M THE DANDY HIGHWAYMAN WHO YOU’RE TOO SCARED TO MENTION… ” blasts out of the attic, and my mouth drops open in shock.

“I SPEND MY CASH ON LOOKING FLASH AND GRABBING YOUR ATTENTION.”

This may be the scariest fucking night of my life.

All three of us turn tail and pelt it down the stairs. At the bottom I run into Howard, his face twisted in rage. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, screaming something but I can’t make out the words. He practically throws me down the corridor in the direction of my room, and I bump against the wall, bruising my shoulder painfully, Naboo and Bollo somewhere ahead.

“THE DEVIL TAKE YOUR STEREO AND YOUR RECORD COLLECTION… ”

Oh God. What the hell is going on here?

“THE WAY YOU LOOK YOU’LL QUALIFY FOR NEXT YEAR’S OLD AGE PENSION.”

The last thing I see before I turn and run to my room, locking the door and hiding under the covers, is Howard, his lips set in a thin line, going up the attic stairs.

Under the covers, clutching my comb, I hear the music stop suddenly, the silence almost painful in the night. It’s dawn by the time I fall asleep.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Seven: In which typhoid provides Miss Noiyre with an escape route, prostitution is recommended, and the impossible seems slightly less so.”]

Chapter Seven: In which typhoid provides Miss Noiyre with an escape route, prostitution is recommended, and the impossible seems slightly less so.

I hear the clock downstairs chime three when I wake up, still clutching my comb, and for one horrible moment I think I must have gone back in time, that I’ll have to live the whole horrible night over again. But I pull the sheets off my head and see daylight outside, and I realise that I must have slept the whole day through. No one’s come to wake me.

It’s weird – normally with something like this, once day breaks everything feels a lot better. But instead of the blazing hot July sun outside my window, the day is drab and grey, and I shiver. I mean, you’d have to go far to find someone less brooding than me. But a day like this, with the clouds hanging close to the ground, the grass bending and bowing to the biting wind… after a night like last night…

Putting on my carefully customised “uniform” cheers me up a little. The material’s still rubbish, but with the extra weight of the sheets I’ve added it swishes around my legs nicely. What I couldn’t do with some real fabric, eh? Silk, maybe. I puff up my hair, add a little eyeliner (bollocks to Mrs Gideon, I mean, I think when she sees me in this my make-up’ll be the last of her worries) and head downstairs. I’m still a bit nervous, though, and I slip the metal comb up my sleeve and rebutton it, just in case.

As I open my door I see the two pins I put there last night, a scrap of paper clinging forlornly to one. Hopefully whatever happened last night will have put my little poster stunt to the back of Howard’s mind.

I float down the stairs and wait at the entrance to the sitting room, checking my appearance in the mirror just by the door. Now or never. I push the door open firmly, and step inside.

I’ve never actually seen someone’s jaw drop before. I’ve heard about it, sure, read about it in those penny dreadfuls they sell at the station, ‘He took her in his arms and kissed her tender’, like, never actually stating where her ‘tender’ might be… but this could be a scene from one of those books. Howard’s slumped on the sofa when I come in, and he looks up. When he sees me his eyes widen, his mouth falls open, slack, uncontrolled, and I can see his tongue.

No sign of Mrs Gideon, which is a shame.

“Miss Noiyre?” Howard says, like I might turn around and say, “Whoops, wrong house… I’m Chesty LaRue, actually…”

Cool and casual is the way to go, I think. I cross the room and sit down in one of the armchairs, crossing my legs. A chill against my right thigh means the slit in my skirt is revealing a slice of skin just above my stocking, and I twist so Howard can see it.

“I’m sorry I slept in, sir,” I say to him, keeping my head ducked for now so he can take everything in.

“Th… that’s quite alright, Miss Noiyre. You… you look…” He trails off, blinking at me like an owl. I think I might prefer him speechless, actually.

“Is Mrs Gideon not with you, sir?” It takes an effort not to spit the name out, but I manage it, asking a perfectly innocent question.

“She… unfortunately had to leave us early this morning. She remembered some urgent business elsewhere.”

I’ll bet.

He gets to his feet suddenly. “Stand up,” he says. “Please.”

I get a low tingling feeling in my stomach, that feeling of delicious anticipation that comes when something’s about to happen. I get up, smoothing down my skirts, and clasp my hands behind my back, looking up at him. “Sir?”

He looks me up and down, intently, studying me, taking in the alterations I’ve made. He holds his hands either side of my shoulders, not touching, maybe an inch above skin. It’s ridiculous, but in my mind I can feel the heat radiating off them, and I burn.

“You were going to wear this in front of Mrs Gideon?” he asks quietly, and there’s a hint of a smile there, but all I hear is Gideon Gideon Gideon. It’s like a physical blow, I stumble.

She’s gone, but she’s still here – the problem she was a symptom of is still here. Howard Moonchester is master of Thornfield Hall, and requires a mistress, not a governess. Whatever I might want to happen between us, looks and reputation are all. The best I might get is a quick tumble in the hayloft, and I’ve had my fill of them already.

I would have shown him up in front of his heterosexual life-mate, that’s all that matters, not that I look like a stone cold fox in this outfit, or that he and I have a real spark together. A connection that should cut through all this everyday bullshit, but doesn’t.

I don’t think he knows what he’s said, because he just looks confused as I take a step back, towards the door. “I’ll just go see to your ward, sir,” I say, eyes looking down at the ground because he’s too good to look at, and I’ll stumble again.

“Miss Noiyre?” I hear as I leave the room, door banging behind me, but he doesn’t follow me, and that tells you everything you need to know, really. For a splitsecond I wish I was a woman, I wish I was Mrs Gideon, but then I pinch my arm harshly and come back to reality.

He’s just a bloke. And it’s his loss. He turned me down, and that’s fine, but there’s hundreds who won’t.

There’s a little pile of letters on a table next to the front door, and I catch sight of “Miss V. Noiyre”. I walk on over, and there’s two or three for me. I remember the job applications.

One rejection. One acceptance, although at two-thirds my usual rate. Fine, I’ll go, anything to be out of here.

There’s one more letter, and I slice it open hastily, leaning against the wall by the front door. It’s stupid, really, I should go somewhere else. Howard could come out at any moment.

Mr Leroy? But I didn’t write to him. I worked for him four or so years ago, up in Manchester. If it wasn’t for the fact that his youngest was twenty-one and married off, I would have stayed there, they were a nice family. Let’s see… he’s heard that I’m looking for a new post. And his sister-in-law’s just lost her governess to typhoid, and needs a replacement. She’s got two little girls, three and five. They need someone fast, and better yet, I won’t need any references because he already knows what I’m capable of.

It’s perfect, and it makes me want to cry, because it’s what I wanted, but it’s not. I can be out of here by tonight, if I send a telegram and pack fast, get that Farmer Guy back here early enough. It should take a couple of days to get up to Manchester, but I’d leave all this behind, the intrigue, the secrecy, the fear. Howard.

I look up from the letter and he’s standing at the door to the sitting room, one hand on the doorframe, the skin pale against his pitch-black sleeve.

No references, I think. Nothing to lose.

“Is everything alright, Miss Noiyre?” he asks, but stays where he is.

I stand up straight, pushing away from the wall. “I applied for another job. And I’ve been accepted. I can be out of here by tonight.”

He stares at me, a flash of anger in his eyes. “What?”

“I’m leaving,” I say calmly.

His response is immediate, instinctive. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t let you.”

I nod grimly, smirking. It all comes down to property and ownership with guys like him. “You can’t stop me. I don’t need a reference, it’s someone I used to work for. There’s nothing you can do.”

And that’s it. My legs unsteady, my stupid bloody dress that he made me wear tangling around my knees, making me trip a little, I get to the foot of the stairs before he speaks.

“Don’t go, Vince.”

I turn. He’s still standing at the door to the sitting room. He doesn’t trust himself to come closer?

“Give me a reason, Howard.” The name is like syrup on my tongue, thick and awkward. I haven’t used it before, not to him. I’ve thought it, I’ve dreamed it, but this is the first time I’ve felt like I can use it to his face, and it sticks in my throat.

He walks towards me. He’s got that riding crop in his boot again, the one that still fascinates me, and it swivels like a metronome as he crosses the hall, ticking back and forth with every step, marking time. And then he’s in front of me, tall and forbidding and moody and completely the opposite to me and yet so perfect, so very much what I want.

He grabs me by the back of the head with one hand, the other slides round my waist, and he tilts so he’s holding me horizontal, leaning over me, like a dance move, like a bad film. He leans in and kisses me, firm, tongue teasing at my lips, but I don’t react, I put both hands on his chest and push, much as I want to stay.

“Is that…” I’m breathless, stupid goddamn reactions, I’m all faint. I concentrate. I’m not playing the hapless maid to his heartless master. “Is that your idea of a reason?”

“I want you.” His voice is low, and it sends a shiver to my groin, pure desire. I sigh, I can’t help it, but I can control what I say.

“You want a quick fuck, go get yourself a whore. They must have ‘em even out here.”

He blinks at me. He’s not used to having people disobey him, it’s clear, and I can tell why – every part of me wants to just go with this and let him do whatever he wants. One part in particular.

“If you’re serious, if you really want me to stay… marry me.” It’s a stupid and pointless thing to say, of course, but there’s a message behind it. About what he’s looking for, about how it isn’t me.

“Vince?”

“I mean it. And put me down.”

He does. The fabric of my dress clings to my skin where he’s touched me, sticky with sweat. Got to be firm, got to see this through, I turn away and head up the stairs, lifting my skirt as I go, knowing that if I look at him again I’ll give in. I make a list in my head: All’s Well That Ends Well. Antony and Cleopatra. As You Like It.

“Alright.”

I feel him speak before he does, that low growl of a voice that reaches from my spine through to my gut. I half-turn, looking down at him over my shoulder. “What?”

He grins. “Fuck it. Why shouldn’t I have a normal life? Why shouldn’t I get a chance at happiness? I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

I stand there, speechless, and all I can say is, “What?”

He ascends the stairs, slowly. He’s really mastered that cocky walk, hips rolling and boots thudding on the carpet softly. I watch him, dumbfounded.

He takes hold of my hands in his, and squeezes them gently. “Vince Noiyre. Will you do the me the honour of becoming my wife?”

“What?”

He laughs, swinging my hands. “Look, we fooled Gideon, we can fool anyone. You’re a stranger here, no one knows you’re not a woman. And the parish priest is a myopic drunkard who knows very little about androgynous London style.”

I pull my hands away. “This is a trick. To get me into bed.”

He spreads his fingers and nods. “You want to wait until after the wedding, that’s fine. I can respect that.” His eyes dip to my neck and back up. “Although waiting might be… difficult.”

“You’re serious?”

“If you are.”

I… “Yes.”

He grins again. “Then give me a couple of days to sort everything.” He runs a hand down my side, fingers brushing lightly against the slit in my skirt, stroking the top of my stocking. “You better go take this off, it can be your wedding dress.” He leans in, breath warm against my ear, and whispers. “Besides, I prefer you in trousers.”

[nextpage title=”Chapter Eight: In which old friends bring up lawful impediments, Miss Noiyre is felt up several times, and everyone finally learns what’s behind the attic door.”]

Chapter Eight: In which old friends bring up lawful impediments, Miss Noiyre is felt up several times, and everyone finally learns what’s behind the attic door.

There’s something bizarre about this whole thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great. I wanted Howard, I pursued him, I got him. Everyone’s dream result. But this wedding… the speed of it… it’s a bit off.

The announcement goes in the paper the day after Howard proposes, and the church is booked for the day after that. I suppose when you have money, things like ‘waiting lists’ don’t really exist. I don’t know, when employers or kids I’ve looked after have got married in the past, it’s always taken ages. Six months or so. Three days just seems a bit strange.

It’s like… Howard has this strange look in his eyes, his cheeks are flushed. I once worked for a woman with consumption – that’s some disease of the lungs, pretty nasty. And most days she could barely get out of bed to piss into her chamber pot. But one day she was as bright as a button, up and about, into her dress and everything. And she drew up all these plans, said how she was feeling much better and planning to take in the sea air at Brighton.

The next day, she was dead.

Howard has a little of that manic, unhealthy energy. Like he’s a man heading for the gallows, and wants to make the most of the time he has left. And I can’t help thinking it’s got something to do with whatever’s in the attic.

I’m getting married in my governess’ dress, which is… well, okay, I never actually pictured myself getting married, for obvious reasons, but if I had, and if I’d pictured a dress, I wouldn’t have picked black. I’m not superstitious, but it seems unlucky. Funeral wear.

Howard’ll be in all black, naturally, his everyday outfit he says. I don’t know, I figured this would be special somehow. Not rushed, hurried along, like knocking through a wall. Get on with it, get through it, what’s taking so long?

I should say something, but I’m not sure what to say. This is me, it’s my fault, I said he should marry me and he is, so what can I complain about exactly? That it’s too fast? Don’t I want that? I spend most nights thinking about the wedding night, about the honeymoon, smiling to myself in the darkness and listening to the bed creak. So how can I go to him and ask him to slow things down, when he’s clearly as eager as I am?

Not to mention that he’s never in. Organising a wedding in three days is no easy task. There’s my bouquet to order. Witnesses to organise. Organ music to ban.

And so the day of the wedding arrives, and I’m standing outside the church listening to the silence inside, thinking how much this is not how I imagined it. I’m being given away by a gorilla, for a start.

Bollo takes my arm, clad in a thick white linen dress and hat which is much more like what I should be wearing (although not the hat, obviously, my hair doesn’t do hats). He opens the door and ushers me through, and I see the church, a few meagre blossoms along the pews being all Howard could rustle up at short notice.

Vince Moonchester.

Without the music our footsteps are clumsy, nothing to time them to, and we’re out of step with one another. Howard is standing to the right of the vicar, and he doesn’t turn around as we walk up behind him. I get an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, and clutch my bouquet tighter. It’s pink, but if Howard could have organised it I don’t doubt he would have preferred something black.

We reach the front of the church, and Bollo hands me over to Howard, who nods at me but doesn’t smile. Getting married is serious business, apparently. Bollo goes to sit down next to Naboo, who refused to go without his little Turkish fancy dress outfit even for the time it would take for the wedding.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar begins, slurring slightly, and it’s an odd choice of words considering there’s only five of us here.

Suddenly there’s a loud slam, and both Howard and I turn to see what it is. Someone’s just come into the church.

“I OBJECT!” the man screams, one hand pointing dramatically in the air.

“… I haven’t got to that bit yet…” the vicar mumbles to himself, flicking forward in his Bible.

The voice is horrifyingly familiar. An American accent. Loud. There really is only one person it can be.

“Vincent, don’t marry this creep! He only wants to steal you away and do depraved things to your ass!” The man storms up the aisle, both arms held out pleadingly to me, and I try to put Howard between me and him.

“Sir, kindly explain yourself at once,” Howard says in his commanding voice, but the loud American walks right past him and takes hold of my arm.

“Vincey, we gotta get outta here! It’s not safe!”

I pull my arm away quickly, but Howard’s already looking at me in expectation. “Vince?”

I sigh. “Howard, this is my ex-employer Mr Robert Fossil. Mr Fossil, this is my fianc� Howard Moonchester.”

“I know who he is!” snaps Fossil irritably. “He’s a scum-sucking two-timing lowlife, is what he is.”

Howard blinks. “Have we met?”

“Fuck you, Moonchester. You’re not taking my little Vincey baby away.” He turns to me and starts fondling my arse.

I duck behind Howard again. “Geroff! Howard, this is the reason I had to leave my last post in a hurry. He kept trying to molest me!”

“We’re in love!” Fossil yells, pursuing me round Howard’s back, and this could turn into one of those bizarre cat-and-mouse round-the-maypole chases, but luckily Howard sticks an arm out and shoves Fossil away, protecting me.

“This has been really interesting, but I think you better go. Vince is marrying me.”

“You?” Fossil spits at Howard. “He can’t marry you. I know all about you.”

At the word ‘he’ I look at the vicar quick, but I think he’s nodded off while standing up, so we’re okay. “Yeah, whatever, Mr Fossil,” I say, but Howard is stock still, one arm out between me and Fossil.

Fossil leans in slightly, hissing. “I know what you’ve got locked up in your attic, Moonchester. Or should I say, who.”

Howard swallows, I see his throat contract, and it’s like this is what I’ve been waiting for all along. “Howard?”

He turns to me, takes my hand, but won’t look me in the eye. “I suppose being happy was too much to hope for.”

“Howard, what’s he talking about?”

“Yeah, Howard,” Fossil prods him in the shoulder sharply. “Why don’t we all go see what’s in your attic, huh? Why don’t we let Vincey baby decide who he likes best?”

“Piss off,” I snap, and Fossil mumbles into silence. “Howard? Look, I swear, if you just be honest with me, it’ll be okay. Really.”

He looks at me sadly, and nods, once. “Okay.” He takes hold of my arm and heads back down the aisle, out of the church door and across the fields to Thornfield. Behind us is Fossil, and a ways back Naboo and Bollo, struggling to keep up – one with short legs, the other in a dress that doesn’t have a slit up the side and so is difficult to run in.

Howard’s hand is tight on my arm, harsh almost, and he looks angry. I have flashbacks to that night with Mrs Gideon. Will I spend the rest of the day screaming in French? I feel sick, dizzy. My special day, ruined. And I’m not sure I want to know Howard’s secret. I’m not sure at all.

It only takes a few minutes to reach Thornfield, and Howard barely slows down, pushing the door open with one hand and pulling me up the stairs, Fossil huffing and puffing behind us, the fat bastard.

The attic stairs are only wide enough to walk up single file, and I’m practically treading on Howard’s heels what with Fossil pushing behind me. We reach the attic door, and Howard fiddles inside his shirt, pulls out a smooth, flat, black stone on a cord. He waves it in front of where the keyhole should be, and there’s a clicking sound.

“Magnets,” Fossil scoffs, one hand on my arse again, and I slap at him, following Howard into the attic.

The three of us stand there, Howard holding the door open, me next to him, Fossil right up against me. The attic is dark, shadowy. I can make out my gramophone and my trunk full of records over on the left, on a dusty little table. There are musical instruments in piles on the floor and mounted on the wall – violins, flutes, even a really long brass horn I thought you could only find in the Alps. It looks like there’s a piano right at the back of the room, but it’s too dark to make out. I lean forward, straining my eyes, and suddenly there’s a flaring sound, and bright light.

There are flames right at the back by the piano, like someone’s lit one of those old-fashioned dungeoneering torches. And then the flames move closer, and I can see it’s a top hat, on fire. The face under it is difficult to make out, a black man, white streaks across his cheeks and above his eyes. He’s dressed in an immaculate white suit, and he’s bobbing and weaving strangely, the flames streaming in the darkness and leaving blue streaks on my eyelids.

I turn to Howard. “Look, I know this is the Dark Ages and everything, but I really don’t think hiding a black man in your attic is quite the horrifying secret you might think.”

“Mmmmm,” says the man, hoarsely. “I know that voice.” He steps forward, and I grip Howard’s arm instinctively.

“What the hell is this?” Fossil screams, going red. “I thought you had some mad wife chained up in here, not a guy with his hat on fire! What kind of sick depraved sex game is going on here?”

“This,” says Howard, his voice so low and his face so pale, “is the Spirit of Jazz.”

“The bedroom,” says the Spirit of Jazz, edging closer to me. “I remember. You and I did the two-tongue tango. Mmmm, yeah, that was tasty.”

“You know this guy?” Fossil says to me, and I shake my head.

“We’ve never met. I’ve never met you!”

“I was inside this fool,” the Spirit of Jazz says, looking at Howard in disgust. “But it was still me, boy. All me. What’s the matter, you come back for round two?” He licks his lips, and his tongue is as white as the marks on his face.

“Howard?” I whisper to him, and he shakes me off, taking a step forward, putting himself between me and danger yet again.

“That’s enough. Leave him alone.”

The Spirit of Jazz just grins at him, a mouthful of gold. “Or else what?”

“Vince, let’s get outta here!” Fossil tugs on my arm, pulling me towards the door, but I shake him off.

“Vince?” Howard looks over at me, worried. And quick as a snake striking, the Spirit of Jazz grabs him by the back of the head and clamps their mouths together, like he’s giving him the kiss of life. I remember all those nightmares I had about demons sucking out my soul, and I take a step forward to intervene.

Fossil’s gone, the attic door banging closed behind him. I hear but don’t entirely register the soft click of it locking.

And the Spirit of Jazz disappears completely, only his flaming top hat left behind, hanging in the air for a moment before falling to the floor exactly as Howard does, a crumpled heap.

“Howard!” I rush forward and put a hand on his shoulder, but he leaps up in a way that seems to be physically impossible, standing firmly and grinning at me.

“Remember me now?” His eyes glow red suddenly, and his voice is pure Spirit of Jazz. I finally understand.

I run to the door, but there’s no handle, nothing to grip onto. I claw at the gap between door and frame, but whoever built this place built it to keep something in.

“Hey now, little lady, where ya going? We got all we need right here.”

I bang on the door in desperation, and suddenly I hear Naboo’s voice, muffled by the wood. “Vince? Are you in there?”

“Naboo!” I scream. “Get help, the door’s locked!”

“I can’t open it. You’ll have to get the key off Howard…”

I turn, back flat against the door, and Howard’s grinning at me still. He walks slowly towards me, and my breath catches in my throat, because it’s Howard’s walk, that slow steady tick. Even the riding crop, which his fingers brush against casually.

“That’s it… Vince. It’s all coming back to me, sweetness.” He stops about two feet away.

Okay, okay, okay. It’s up to me now. First and foremost, I’ve got to get out of here. To do that, I need Howard’s key. The key on a cord around his neck. Except the Spirit of Jazz is inside him. So I need to get close to him.

Howard crosses the room to my gramophone, and flips open the lid, pressing ‘play’. The sounds of Adam Ant fill the room, sinuous and disturbing and sexual, the rhythm beating through my body through the wood of the door behind me.

“Howard don’t know what to do with a pretty little thing like you, y’know,” Howard says, his eyes sparking red in the darkness. “Any time he’s showed even a little confidence, that’s been me, inside him. Without me, he would’ve been stuttering and stammering away, blushing like a fool.” He leans against the table, arms folded, and watches me. “Every time you wanted him, you wanted me.”

I bite my lip. “I… I always did feel like there were two sides to him.”

“Nope, just one side. And me.”

I take a step towards him, away from the door, the music drowning out Naboo’s cries. “And the boots? Were they his idea, or yours?”

Howard grins, slowly, wolfishly. “Gotta love the boots, darlin’.”

I take another step. “And the riding crop?”

He pulls it out of his boot, running his free hand along the length, his nails glittering in the light. He looks me up and down, carefully, intently, and it’s Howard’s look. He slaps the crop against his thigh, the cracking sound almost blending in with the music, and now I’m standing in front of him.

“And the kiss by the stairs? Was that you too?”

His eyes bore into mine. “Only one way to find out.”

One part of my brain is going, it’s just Howard it’s just Howard it’s just Howard, as I lean in. But it’s disturbing how easy it is to believe, like whatever line there is between the two of them is so thin it might not even exist. His lips are soft, and he doesn’t touch me, this is some sort of game I don’t know the rules to. He opens his mouth, and I slip my tongue inside. From the look of his deathly pale white tongue earlier, I guessed he’d taste of ash, but it’s just Howard, a little alcohol, a little salt, just Howard. Oh Christ, but it’s good.

I slide my hands from his head down inside his collar, pushing him against the table, pushing our bodies together, and I feel the slim cord inside his clothes. I run my hands around his neck, feeling for a knot to untie, but I can’t find it. I’m guessing Howard doesn’t take this off, so there wouldn’t be one.

Suddenly Howard grabs my hands by the wrists, and pulls back. “What ya doin’, honey-pie?” he hisses.

I look him in the eye. “Too many clothes. I want to feel you.”

He chuckles. “That right?” He leans in, mouth close to mine. “You first.”

I’m wearing a dress. I mean, I’m only wearing a dress. I’ve got pants too, of course, but that’s it. But what can I do?

I turn my back to him, and hold my hair up so he can undo the buttons at the back. His hands are soft, gentle, and his breath is warm on my neck, making me shiver.

It’s only Howard it’s only Howard it’s only

The dress falls from my shoulders and I step out of it, toes pointed, like I’m in the ballet. I kick it into a corner, dust rising in clouds, and turn, facing him in the darkness. Howard runs a finger down my chest, and plucks at my waistband, but I slap his hand away. There’s a moment where it looks like he might slap me back, where his eyes dart to the riding crop on the table next to him, but it passes.

I start tearing at the shining buttons to his black jacket, my fingers suddenly stiff and shaking, and he laughs at me, doesn’t help. There’s a black shirt underneath, and as I undo the top buttons I can see the stone on the cord slowly come into view, swinging, mocking me. I try not to look at it, feeling Howard’s eyes hot on mine, and just make my way down the shirt, clutching at the stupidly small buttons. He’s topless then, and I think he expects me to make a start on his trousers, but instead I lean in and kiss his neck, one hand on his waist, the other running trails down his chest.

I feel the cord under my mouth, and I bite hard, getting maybe halfway through. He pulls my head back by my hair, and I yelp in pain.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” he hisses at me, holding my head at a painful angle.

“Wanted… to leave a mark…” I manage, and he lets go of me, studying me carefully.

“That so?” he says quietly, and he smiles. I smile too, thinking I’ve got away with it, when he hits me, hard, in the face, and I fall to the floor. “How’s that for a mark, sweetness?”

Howard doesn’t have nails, but it’s like when the Spirit of Jazz is inside him, he has ghost nails, pointed. I put a hand to my stinging cheek and feel something wet, something red. I’m bleeding, in what feels like three short lines across my right cheek. Not to mention the cut on the inside of my cheek where it scraped against my teeth.

I look up at Howard through my fringe, holding my cheek and breathing deep. He grins at me, and gives me a hand, helps me up.

“It means you’re mine, just like him,” he says. “Not only now, but forever.”

“Forever,” I echo in a whisper, and let him lean in and kiss me, tongue and teeth, harsh and brutal, tasting the cut in my cheek and lapping up my blood.

And I make my final move.

One hand on his shoulder, holding him close, the other slips between our bodies and tugs on the stone around his neck. The cord snaps, and it falls into my hand.

He pulls back, and looks down. Quick as a flash, I grab him by the shoulders and knee him in the balls, hard as you like. He sinks to the floor, eyes wide, mouth frozen in an ‘O’, one hand grabbing at the table behind him. He knocks the gramophone, which skips and gets stuck in a loop.

“DEVIL TAKE YOUR STE- DEVIL TAKE YOUR STE- DEVIL TAKE YOUR STE- DEVIL TAKE YOUR STE-”

I look at Howard kneeling on the floor in pain, and almost regret it.

“You… little… bitch…” he manages, and I run to the door, rubbing the stone at where the keyhole should be.

“Naboo! Naboo!” I scream, and there’s a click, and the door opens, revealing Naboo and Bollo. I go to follow them down the stairs, to run for our lives, but they push past me into the attic. “No!” I say, but they don’t listen.

Bollo looks at me, eyes wide, taking in my semi-nude state and the blood pouring down my chin, and puts an arm around me. Howard gets to his feet, clutching at his crotch, and Bollo growls at him, revealing all his four million teeth. It’s possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, and one of the most reassuring.

Howard looks at Naboo, and his eyes glow red with anger. “And who the hell are you?”

Naboo stands with his hands on his hips, looking up at him. “I’m Naboo, that’s who.”

“What the hell are you talking about, child?” Howard yells at him, one eye on me.

Naboo holds out his hand, palm up, in front of Howard’s face, and blows sharply. A handful of dust flies into Howard’s face in a cloud, and he starts to cough. He falls to the floor, unconscious.

The Spirit of Jazz re-materialises just next to Naboo. “You think it’s that easy?”

Naboo just smiles. “By the power invested in me by the Shamen Council of Great Britain, I hereby banish you for the next fifty years.” He makes a strange little sign with his left hand, and the Spirit of Jazz just laughs at him.

“What was that, hmmm?”

But he’s starting to blur at the edges, misty like smoke, and for the first time he looks afraid. “What the-” he starts to say, but his voice gets quieter and quieter, fading like a stereo when you turn down the sound, and he fades and fades into the darkness, until all that’s left is his flaming hat, which falls to the ground.

Naboo grinds out the flames with the heel of his pointed shoe, and nods. “There. And it only took seven months.”

It’s an incredibly girly thing to do, and not at all consistent with my hardcore image, but I faint.

[nextpage title=”Chapter Nine: In which everyone says farewell, and happy endings are never guaranteed.”]

Chapter Nine: In which everyone says farewell, and happy endings are never guaranteed.

Then all that’s left is loose ends, I suppose.

It’s maybe an hour later, and we’re all in the sitting room. I’m in my pyjamas on the sofa, tucked up under a blanket Bollo brought me, my cheek washed and bandaged, the cloth tight around my face. Howard is in his armchair, his clothes back on, an icepack on his crotch. Naboo sits in the other armchair, Bollo standing by his side, looking oddly naked without clothes, even though he’s covered in fur.

Howard and I can’t look at each other.

He takes a sip of his ‘Yeksihw’, the ice cubes in the glass clinking as his hand shakes, and he starts to speak.

“When I was about fifteen, I ran away from Thornfield and my parents to Leeds, to become a famous jazz musician. Sadly, it turned out that compared to the rest of the talent there, I was shit. I got a job in a bar, a place where they let me play occasionally when it was dead, and I made my way like that for a few months, watching my money run out.

“One night, as I was closing up, the Spirit of Jazz appeared in the bar. He offered me a deal. He’d make me great, if I just signed a contract. I didn’t really bother reading it because I didn’t believe it could be true.”

Bollo snorts.

“But it was true. Soon I was the most famous jazz musician in all of Yorkshire. I won awards, I got gigs, I had everything I’d ever wanted. But…” Howard sighs. “There was something wrong. Every time I played, I felt like I was losing something. Like, that when I played, I was somehow being less me.

“I packed up and left Yorkshire, coming home to Thornfield, and inheriting the estate, and I stopped playing. I locked up my guitar in the attic and didn’t think about it any more.”

Howard takes another sip of his drink, and I pull the blanket tighter around my legs. “Then, one night, they had karaoke in the pub in the village. I got up to sing ‘Funkytown’, and… I just can’t remember what happened next. I woke up without my trousers in a ditch outside of town, covered in cheap lager and lipstick. And the Spirit of Jazz was there, leaning over me. ‘What a night!’ he said, and I knew then that I was stuck with him.

“He helped me back to Thornfield and explained that I was his, that every time I played an instrument, or sang, or even if I just heard music, that he’d take over my body and make me do things, terrible things. So I told him I’d stay away from music, and he just laughed, told me that would be impossible. Sooner or later I’d slip up, he said, and then he’d just take over forever.

“I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do. But he said he’d cut me another deal. He said that I wasn’t using my body when I was asleep. That if I made a home for him, up in the attic, he wouldn’t bother me by day, as long as I stayed away from music. But at night, I’d be his. He’d control me.”

Howard looks wretched, staring into his glass. “What could I do? I agreed. I got a friend of mine to turn the attic into a protected space, reckoning that although the Spirit of Jazz said I was his at night, he didn’t say anything about me having to let him roam free. I set up the lock, and the key, and found a way to keep him from using it. Every morning I’d wake up tired and sore, with no memory of what had happened the night before, but every morning I’d be me again.”

“And then… and then…” He frowns. “And then I must have decided that it would be a good idea to have a little boy come stay with me, but I don’t…”

Naboo clears his throat. “The Council of Shamen have been looking for the Spirit of Jazz for a long time,” he explains. “When we found out he was at Thornfield, I was sent in undercover with my familiar, Bollo. You were under a spell to believe you were my guardian.”

“Wow,” I say. “Aren’t you going to take off the spell that makes you look like a little boy?”

Bollo snorts with laughter, and Naboo just glares at me. “Shut. Up.”

“I don’t understand,” says Howard. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

“We not able get to attic. Always locked,” says Bollo.

I stare at the carpet. “Explain Gideon.”

Howard coughs. “Every time I went away, I was trying to find some way to get rid of the Spirit of Jazz. Mrs Gideon was one lead I had, she told fortunes down on Brighton Pier, and she said she could ‘cleanse Thornfield of evil spirits’. But when she saw the Spirit of Jazz, when he got inside me, she just lost it. I really thought she was a witch. But she turned out to be a fake.”

I nod, still not looking at him, picking at the patchwork on my blanket. “And the fire in your bedroom?”

“I overslept, and he came looking for me. When I woke up in the middle of the night, and I heard the clock strike midnight, he was there, looking down at me. He put his flaming top hat down at the bottom of my bed. I must have kicked it over when… when he…” He trails off, eyes unfocused. “He must have left me when Miss Fairfax found us, maybe he knew she was a familiar, I don’t know. But I managed to get up to the attic and lock myself in after you’d gone, and there was… there was no harm done.” He taps his index finger against his glass, the sound ringing through the room.

There’s silence for a few moments.

“Well, we’re going to go,” Naboo says, getting to his feet. “I wish I could say it’s been fun, but tell the truth, I need a long holiday after all this palaver.” He tips his turban to me and Howard, and walks out of the room.

Bollo takes me by the hand, and smiles. “Take care of yourself, my friend.”

“You too,” I sniff, feeling like I’m losing a mother all over again. He squeezes my fingers, nods to Howard, and follows his master.

Howard coughs. “Look, if… if you still want to go for that job in Manchester, you should go for it. I won’t stop you.”

“Thanks,” I say, staring at my knees.

He coughs again, finishing his drink, and leaves the room, still not looking at me. I pinch myself in the arm savagely, trying not to think about what the Spirit of Jazz said.

Every time you wanted him, you wanted me.

I wake up in the middle of the night to music drifting down through the ceiling, and I just stare at the cracked and peeling plaster above me.

Of course. I should have known it was too easy. What kind of fairy story ends with the bad spirit banished just by someone saying so? My cheek stings like crazy, and I have to tear the bandage off my face and scratch, the itching soon replaced by blissful pain.

I get out of bed, and pull a dressing gown on over my pyjamas, shoving my feet into my red boots. I don’t have any slippers. I grab the metal comb off my dressing table – one of these days I really have to invest in a knife or a gun or at least a cricket bat – and, carrying my candlestick in my other hand, step out into the corridor.

Howard isn’t in his room, of course. And suddenly it hits me that I can leave if I want. I’m not trapped up there, locked in. He said I could go. I could always try and alert this ‘Council of Shamen’ when I’m far enough away.

But of course, I can’t go. I start walking down the corridor, heading for the attic steps, and I realise that I don’t want to go, not without Howard. Spirit of Jazz or no, he’s mine, and I’m going to save him. Again.

I’m not sure exactly what I can do, though.

I start walking up the stairs, the candle flickering in some invisible breeze. Every time it dips, almost going out, my heart misses a beat. The music coming from the attic gets louder.

I nudge open the door, and it swings free easily. I grip my comb tightly, pointing down, like a knife.

The Spirit of Jazz is nowhere to be seen. But Howard is sat on the desk next to my gramophone, fully dressed, a guitar in his hands. And he’s playing.

I hover at the entrance, not sure if he’s seen me or not, listening to the tune. I don’t recognise it, whatever it is – well, that’s not surprising since he hasn’t played or even heard anything for about twenty years – but it’s sweet, and sad. Every time I think I’ve got it, every time I think I know what’s coming and I start to hum along, it twists, and there’s another level. As metaphors go, it’s a pretty good one for him.

The tune speeds up, and Howard’s fingers start to flash along the frets, a blur on the strings, and then there’s a note out of tune, and another, and it starts to fall apart. Howard stops playing, smacks the strings in annoyance. “Fuck.”

He looks up, and smiles. “You can come in. I’ve disabled the lock.”

I take a step into the room, but remain propping the door open with my shoulder. I just can’t let it go, not right now. I put my candle and comb down on the floor by the door, and pull my dressing gown tighter. “That sounded good.”

Howard shrugs. “Needs practice.” He looks down at the guitar, and then at me, in my pyjamas. “Shit, sorry. Did I wake you?”

I make a little gesture that means ‘don’t worry about it’. I’d been asleep most of the day anyway, I just collapsed after that little adrenaline kick wore off.

“I just…” He looks around the dim little room. “I’ve trained myself too well. I woke up dead on quarter to twelve, and it was like… I couldn’t not come up here. Just in case.”

“You can’t believe he’s gone,” I say.

Howard pats the guitar. “Oh, he’s definitely gone. But, it does seem a bit sudden.”

There’s a silence, but it’s a companionable one. Howard plucks at the strings of the guitar idly, smiling to himself, and I realise that far from what I thought, he’s as crazy about music as I am.

He hops off the desk and lays a hand on the gramophone. “So, how does this thing work, then?”

I look at the door nervously, and then he’s suddenly by my side, taking an old iron doorstop from off a teetering pile of sheet music. He wedges it under the door, and it stays firm. There’s an irritating breeze blowing in, and the dark hole of the stairs beyond draws the eye and makes you shiver, but he doesn’t say anything, just heads back to the gramophone, lifting the lid and peering in at it. It’s very… very easy. Just making allowances for each other, doing things the other wants. It’s very married.

I cross the room, my boots click-clacking against the bare wood, and he looks down at them, smirking. “You sleep with your boots on?”

“Bunch of thieves in this house,” I say lightly, my voice cracking a little from all the screaming I did earlier on. I shoo his hands away from my precious gramophone, wanting to slap them playfully, but not quite ready for that yet. He takes a step back, one arm out as if to say ‘it’s all yours’.

I kneel down and pull my trunk of records out from under the desk. “What do you fancy, then?” I ask. I’ve got a lot of Adam Ant, but I’m thinking we won’t be listening to that in a while.

He snorts, above me. “You’re asking me? I thought you London types were all up with the latest musical trends?”

“Yeah, we are. I just don’t think I have anything here that you’d like. Hmmm… I’ve got an old record by Sting that I found in a skip somewhere…”

He gives me a little kick, not really a kick, more of a nudge with his boot, and I put a hand out to steady myself, feel the leather of it. My eyes travel up his leg, up all that black, to his face hovering above me, his eyes dark, but not red. He’s trying not to smile, that twist of the lips that I know so well. We share a moment before I duck my head again, grinning like an idiot, like being kicked is the funniest fucking joke I’ve heard in ages.

“Something nice. Something slow,” he says. “Something you could dance to.”

The room seems to have got about three degrees warmer.

I find an old Nina Simone record that I’d all but forgotten about, and slip it on. Howard watches me carefully as I lift the needle, slotting the record into place. I wind the gramophone up using the handle at the side, then carefully put the needle at the beginning. There’s the crackle and hiss of static.

“Amazing,” breathes Howard.

I hold up a finger, making him wait, and then we hear the beautful sound of a piano being played. ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’. One of my favourites.

And then it’s like I’m still dreaming, or at least I hope I am, because Vince Noiyre is rock’n’roll and smeared lip gloss, not ballroom dancing and candlelight. But Nina’s singing her little heart out, the music’s perfect, and Howard’s standing in the middle of the floor, gorgeous as ever, and holding one hand out, asking me to dance. And what can I do but take his hand?

He leads, which I guess I should have expected. With my red boots on we’re about the same height, thank fuck, otherwise I think my neck might have collapsed with the strain of gazing upwards. He’s got one hand tight around my waist, firm but not pulling me in, just there, reassuring. I’ve got my arm around his neck, his slightly-too-long hair brushing against my fingers. Our hands are clasped in traditional dancing mode, and we do that slightly nervous swaying from side to side, not really moving our feet.

But he’s a good little mover, and even though I haven’t done this in a while I find it coming back to me easily. We get a bit more free, a bit closer together. And then there’s a little kick in the music, and we both go with it. He dips me low to the floor, just like before, holding me close and careful and how can I be like this and not think about kissing him? There’s an electric moment, the dip going on for just too long, our faces maybe an inch apart, my left leg bent close to his waist.

But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead his eyes shift to my right cheek, and he looks away, pulling me back up, putting me on my feet.

He lets go of my hand, and I feel his arm slipping away from around me, and I have to do something. There was a point today where I blamed him for not telling me, for leaving me here in the attic with the Spirit of Jazz, but now, suddenly, that’s all gone, lost in the fact that he won’t bloody kiss me. I put my free hand around his neck, matching my other arm, and hold him close. He really has no choice but to put both hands back on my waist.

We’re face to face now, but somehow he’s managing not to look at me. “I’m so sorry, Vince.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No, it’s not.” His voice is hard. “I lied to you. I was going to marry you, condemn you to a life like this without giving you a choice. I put you in danger.”

And it’s true, but it’s not true. I catch sight of the bruise at his neck where I bit him, where I bit the Spirit of Jazz, and I run my fingers over it. He winces. “You put yourself in danger too, you know.”

He ducks his head, presses his face against my ear and my hair. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I say, and our faces just tuck against each other perfectly, like this is the only place I should ever be, listening to him breathe, feeling his heartbeat.

“The key,” he says, and his hands tighten around me. “The key is supposed to be coded to me, only to me. It’s not supposed to work if anyone else uses it. But you used it.”

And he doesn’t need to say anything about magic or connections, about how this shows something about us, something timeless, because I can feel it already. I already know what he’s been thinking, and I know that he’s known this, this magic or love or whatever is there between us, and he’s still been ready to give it up, because he thinks that might be what I want, or at least what’s best for me.

And then there’s no more time for thinking or rational conversation, because all I can do is turn my head, open mouth brushing against his hair and past his cheek, hands tugging at the back of his neck, and pull him in for the longest, sweetest kiss ever. Where he bruised my mouth, that night in his bedroom… where he was cocky and manic, on the stairs… this is soft, this is him. Not maid and master, but Howard and me. He’s stubbly and scratchy, and his moustache tickles my top lip, and we’re so different, but somehow this works.

There’s something poking into my thigh, and I giggle, suddenly fourteen. “That better be a gun.”

“Oh!” He takes one hand off my waist and somehow manages to reach into his pocket without breaking how close we are, his fingers soft on my leg through two layers of fabric. He pulls out some kind of small package, wrapped in paper.

I’m a sucker for presents.

He gives it to me, and I press a kiss to his lips before taking a step back to unwrap it. The paper is soft, folded and refolded so many times, and warm from his skin. It smells a little like Howard, and bizarrely, a little like me.

He’s grinning as I open it up. I’m now holding a worn little cardboard box, big enough to fit in my palm, and the paper wrapped around it: the picture I drew of myself, rumpled with sleep and fuckable, probably about how I’m looking now.

“I know,” sighs Howard, “I’m soft.”

“You fucking are,” I say with a smirk, thinking about how he must have been carrying this around for days. I want to make some sarcastic joke about needing to update it with the marks on my cheek, but I manage to bite my tongue just in time.

“Well, open it then,” he says, rolling his eyes at me standing there grinning like a loon.

I open the little box, and something glitters at me. It’s a ring, a diamond engagement ring, some sort of heirloom by the looks of it. I take it out and look at it, small and forlorn in my hand without a finger to rest on.

“It’s yours, if you’ll have it,” he says quietly, and I can’t quite look at him. I mean, I’ve almost got married, almost got killed, and now almost got re-proposed to all in one day. I remember that this should be my wedding night.

He clears his throat. “Shit, sorry. I just thought… because I did everything wrong today, I didn’t even give you a ring, I thought I could try again.” His voice is thick. He plucks the ring from between my fingers. “You’re right, it’s too fast. It was a stupid idea.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” I take hold of his hand, and take the ring back, slipping it onto my finger. It’s warm, and a little loose – I have amazingly slim fingers – which is irritating, because it would be perfect if it fit just right. I clamp my fingers together so he can’t see it slipping around, and holding my hand up to the light in classic bridal pose. “I just wasn’t sure about the colour, that’s all.”

Howard barks a short, relieved laugh, and pulls me close. He grins. “We’ll get out of here, go up to London. You can show me all this culture I’m apparently missing out on.”

I sigh. “It is the centre of the universe.”

He leans in for another kiss, but stops short, his mouth almost on mine. “And… do you still want to wait for the wedding night?” His lips hum against mine as he speaks, his breath light.

I pretend to think about it, but his mouth so close to mine is deliciously distracting, and I can’t keep up the game for long.

“Persuade me.”

[nextpage title=”Chapter Ten: In which the wedding night of Mr and Mrs Moonchester is described in vulgar detail.”]

Chapter Ten: In which the wedding night of Mr and Mrs Moonchester is described in vulgar detail.

Piss off, you perverts. Honestly.

Maestro
+ posts