A Face Like Glass by Frances Hardinge Page B

corners and their stunted chimneys shuddering with
invisible fumes, then plummet into the shadows once more. Other narrower ledges appeared to be for foot traffic, to judge by the railings, and the rope ladders that dangled to allow passage between
them. The dusty cavern floor itself was striped with wheel ruts. Sheltered as she was, even Neverfell could see that this cavern was a great junction for passageways.
    Halfway between Neverfell’s hiding place and this wall of thoroughfares was a ten-foot crater with a raised lip that had filled to become a pool. A series of rusty rings was driven into
the rock nearby, and to one of these rings was tethered a grey, four-legged, long-muzzled beast as high as Neverfell herself. From Erstwhile’s descriptions, she realized that this must be one
of the blind pit-ponies that did most of the drag-work in the tunnels. Its muzzle was dipped into the cool of the water, and Neverfell watched with hypnotic fascination the soft puckering and
quivering of its nose as it drank, the fine grey hairs and mottle-spots between its nostrils, the ripples that raced across the water, the silver bells that festooned its bridle.
    Then a strong pale arm reached round to slap at the pony’s dusty flank, and Neverfell realized that there was somebody standing behind it. To judge by the shadow thrown on the wall,
somebody small and slight. Somebody her size, perhaps her age.
    Her heart leaped, but her body did exactly the opposite. Suddenly she found herself flat on the ground, her arms wrapped protectively around her head. She would be seen. The Great Outside would
notice her. She was not ready. She had thought she was ready, but she was not.
    ‘Hey!’
    Neverfell made about six feet in a backwards scuffle-crawl before she heard an answering yell, and realized that the first had not been directed at her. Gingerly, she advanced again, and peered
into the cavern.
    There were no less than three people. The nearest was a brown-haired boy of about her own age, tugging at the pony’s thick coat with a heavy brush, his blunt features frozen and alert, as
if listening to an order. Even when he looked away, the expression hung as if the rocks, the horse, the lanterns were all there to instruct him. It was the sort of Face all drudge-class servants
were encouraged to wear.
    In a narrow, unpainted wooden cart some small distance beyond were seated two girls, one tall, one short. The pair were talking, but it took a little time for Neverfell to be sure that it was
words she was hearing. They prattled the way brooks ran, talking over each other with a speed and ease that left the poor eavesdropper grasping at stray syllables as they flew by. It was a far cry
from Grandible and his curt, gravelly utterances. It was even faster than Erstwhile.
    ‘. . . well, we have to do something about it quickly, or we are both down the well without a rope. I would love to take care of it all myself, but this time it just isn’t possible.
I really need you to help with this.’
    The older girl’s high confident tones were louder than those of her companion. She looked about fifteen, a long, blonde plait gleaming down the shoulder of her grey muslin gown. She had
three favourite smiles and was clearly proud of them. On the occasions when she was not speaking, she slid smoothly between them, as regularly as a rota. Warm confidential smile. Narrow speculative
smile. Amused expectant smile with a tilt of the head. The drudge-workers and errand boys who called on Grandible’s domain usually had only one smile. This was clearly a better class of
person.
    The other girl was shorter, rounder, more hesitant in gesture, her hair tucked under a white coif. When she turned to look over her shoulder, Neverfell caught a glimpse of her rounded baby
features. The corner of her mouth was dragged down unnaturally, and one of her eyebrows was raised high, as though the muscles of her face were playing tug-of-war.
    The boy