around. “I don’t like the situation I find myself in,” he said. “London writhing beneath a hirsute plague, the police out of control, people trapped in their houses. Soon they’ll run out of food and water, and then there will be horror in this city.”
“Then it is up to us to aid the Institute in their work.”
“Indeed... I’m not a member of the Suicide Club for nothing.”
Valantina looked him up and down, then tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of her swordington. “You do not allow women to join your club, do you?”
“Er, no. The constitution forbids it.”
Valantina shot him a mocking glance. “What a shame. Half the population of London ignored.” She shook her head. “For shame, for shame, not least for the house of Moondusst.”
Extraordinary... quite extraordinary. He agreed with her! She had planned and undertaken an operation just like a man. Damn it though, she was pretty, with the sun on her glossy hair and her chest heaving from the exertion.
“D’you know, Valantina,” he said, “I don’t care about those stupid rules any more. It is ludicrous. You’ve proved that by rescuing me.”
She smiled. “There is hope for you, perhaps.”
He glanced up and down the street, but saw nobody. “Where to next? I am effectively an outlaw now, though I use the term outlaw relatively.”
“We must leave Cornhill and hide up somewhere. I have a place by Fishmonger’s Hall, just along from London Bridge.”
“A safehouse?”
“My own house. But, yes, it is safe.”
Sheremy did not like the idea of entering a lady’s residence without formal invitation, but circumstances were against him. “Very well,” he said.
She led the way down Gracechurch Street, Arthur Street, then into Swan Lane. Opposite Fishmonger’s Hall he saw a small three-up-three-down house adjoined to the local branch of the Belfast & Goonhilly Bank, which was covered in ginger hair; in the light of the rising sun it shone like red gold. Valantina unlocked the front door of this house and gestured him inside.
The place was decorated in sophisticated style: couches from Parisi, a Quincerian doobrie, paintings by Schnauzer of Berlinzeug, and even a stuffed sprog from Varsaw. “I confess I’m surprised by this opulence,” he said. “You are... independently...?”
She glaced at him, amusement on her face. “You surprise me, Sheremy, never having heard of the house of Moondusst.”
“I believe I may have heard your name, but I can’t quite bring the instance to mind.”
“We are a family of foreign nobles.”
Ah! Foreigners. That explained the feisty attitude. He chuckled and said, “And you are from...?”
“Why, the moon. Where else?”
~
Velvene found himself on Dartmouth Park Hill, and it was exceptionally hairy; and this hair, to make matters worse, was curly, which meant every strand tried to wrap itself around his legs as he tried to force a path though.
Even worse was the state of the trolley wheels, almost immobile because of hair wrapped around their axles. This hair he had to cut off with his penknife every ten minutes. It took him two hours to progress half a mile down the hill, by which time the sun was setting and he seethed with frustration. But not one person did he see outdoors. Plenty of people leaning out of open windows, one or two on their rooves, but none in the streets. Hairy London had shut down.
He was a long way from Bedwards House, alone and fatigued. He did not know what to do. But then he saw a boy sitting on a wall up ahead where Brecknock Road began, and beyond the boy the red and white lamps of Tufnell Park Underground station.
“Lad,” he called out. “Is the Underground running?”
“Not this one sir,” the boy replied. “I heard Hampstead station is open.”
“Well, that is too far away,” Velvene said. He looked at the boy. “What are you doing here?”
“Ain’t got nowhere to go.”
“Whatever do you mean? Go to your house, I expect your
“Then it is up to us to aid the Institute in their work.”
“Indeed... I’m not a member of the Suicide Club for nothing.”
Valantina looked him up and down, then tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of her swordington. “You do not allow women to join your club, do you?”
“Er, no. The constitution forbids it.”
Valantina shot him a mocking glance. “What a shame. Half the population of London ignored.” She shook her head. “For shame, for shame, not least for the house of Moondusst.”
Extraordinary... quite extraordinary. He agreed with her! She had planned and undertaken an operation just like a man. Damn it though, she was pretty, with the sun on her glossy hair and her chest heaving from the exertion.
“D’you know, Valantina,” he said, “I don’t care about those stupid rules any more. It is ludicrous. You’ve proved that by rescuing me.”
She smiled. “There is hope for you, perhaps.”
He glanced up and down the street, but saw nobody. “Where to next? I am effectively an outlaw now, though I use the term outlaw relatively.”
“We must leave Cornhill and hide up somewhere. I have a place by Fishmonger’s Hall, just along from London Bridge.”
“A safehouse?”
“My own house. But, yes, it is safe.”
Sheremy did not like the idea of entering a lady’s residence without formal invitation, but circumstances were against him. “Very well,” he said.
She led the way down Gracechurch Street, Arthur Street, then into Swan Lane. Opposite Fishmonger’s Hall he saw a small three-up-three-down house adjoined to the local branch of the Belfast & Goonhilly Bank, which was covered in ginger hair; in the light of the rising sun it shone like red gold. Valantina unlocked the front door of this house and gestured him inside.
The place was decorated in sophisticated style: couches from Parisi, a Quincerian doobrie, paintings by Schnauzer of Berlinzeug, and even a stuffed sprog from Varsaw. “I confess I’m surprised by this opulence,” he said. “You are... independently...?”
She glaced at him, amusement on her face. “You surprise me, Sheremy, never having heard of the house of Moondusst.”
“I believe I may have heard your name, but I can’t quite bring the instance to mind.”
“We are a family of foreign nobles.”
Ah! Foreigners. That explained the feisty attitude. He chuckled and said, “And you are from...?”
“Why, the moon. Where else?”
~
Velvene found himself on Dartmouth Park Hill, and it was exceptionally hairy; and this hair, to make matters worse, was curly, which meant every strand tried to wrap itself around his legs as he tried to force a path though.
Even worse was the state of the trolley wheels, almost immobile because of hair wrapped around their axles. This hair he had to cut off with his penknife every ten minutes. It took him two hours to progress half a mile down the hill, by which time the sun was setting and he seethed with frustration. But not one person did he see outdoors. Plenty of people leaning out of open windows, one or two on their rooves, but none in the streets. Hairy London had shut down.
He was a long way from Bedwards House, alone and fatigued. He did not know what to do. But then he saw a boy sitting on a wall up ahead where Brecknock Road began, and beyond the boy the red and white lamps of Tufnell Park Underground station.
“Lad,” he called out. “Is the Underground running?”
“Not this one sir,” the boy replied. “I heard Hampstead station is open.”
“Well, that is too far away,” Velvene said. He looked at the boy. “What are you doing here?”
“Ain’t got nowhere to go.”
“Whatever do you mean? Go to your house, I expect your
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