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She has made her face too small. She meant to fill the page with it, but her head floats above a blank expanse. She should have sketched the outline first, been less hasty to begin. She sits for a few moments with the light and her picture. She should return to bed before she is discovered. But the girl leans forward without taking her eyes off the mirror and pulls the candle towards her.
She dips her fingers into the hot wax and makes a thimble. Then she runs her hand through the flame, seeing how long she can bear the heat, until she hears the downy hairs on her finger sizzle. Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Silas puckers his lips as he works and, in the lamplight, he is not unhandsome. He has retained a full head of hair in his thirty-eighth year, and it shows no sign of silvering. He looks around him, at the glass jars which line the walls, each labelled and filled with the bloated hulks of pickled specimens.
Swollen lambs, snakes, lizards and kittens press against the edges of their confinement. He likes to talk to his creatures, to make up histories which have landed them on his slab. After considering many imagined scenarios for this dove — disrupting barges on the canal, nesting in a sail of The Odyssey — he has settled on one pretence he likes; and so he rebukes this companion often for its invented habit of attacking cress sellers.
He releases his hold on the bird, and it sits stiffly on the wooden post. Little brown orbs float in preserving fluid, ready to fetch a good price from quacks and apothecaries. Silas tidies the workshop, wiping and straightening his tools. He is halfway up the ladder rungs, nudging the trapdoor with his shoulder as he cradles the dove, when the consumptive wheeze of the bell sounds below him.
Albie, he hopes, as it is early enough, and he abandons the bird on a cabinet and hurries through the shop, wondering what the child will bring him. He thinks of the bakery nearby on the Strand, which made a poor living with its bulky wholemeal loaves, good only for doorstops.
It transformed the shop, made it famous even in tourist pamphlets of the city. The trouble is, Silas often thinks he has found his special, unique item, but then he finishes the work and finds himself hounded by doubts, by the ache for more. The pathologists and collectors he admires — men of learning and medicine like John Hunter and Astley Cooper — have no shortage of specimens. He might lack their connections, but surely, surely, one day Albie will bring him something — his hand trembles — remarkable.
Then, his name will be etched on a museum entrance, and all of his work, all of his toil, will be recognized. She, unable to contain her pride, her palm resting in the small of his back. He, explaining that he built it all for her.
But it is not Albie, and each knock yields more disappointment. A maid calls on behalf of her mistress who wants a stuffed hummingbird for her hat. A boy in a velvet jacket browses endlessly and finally buys a butterfly brooch, which Silas sells with a quiver of disdain. All the while, Silas moves only to place their coins in a dogskin purse. In the quiet between times, his thumb tracks a single sentence in The Lancet. Upstairs, an attic bedroom; downstairs his dark cellar.
It is exasperating, Silas thinks as he stares around the pokey shop, that the dullest items are those which pay his rent. There is no accounting for the poor taste of the masses. It contains vermilion butterfly wings which he traps between two small panes of glass; some are necklace baubles, others for mere display.
Foolish knick-knacks which they could make themselves if they had the imagination, he thinks. It is only the painters and the apothecaries who pay for his real interests. And then, as the clock sings out the eleventh hour, he hears a light tapping, and the faint stutter of the bell in the cellar. He hurries to the door. Thames fog snakes in. The ten-year-old child grins back at him. Silas glances down the dead-end alley, at its empty ramshackle houses like a row of drunks, each tottering further forward than the last.
The foreleg of a Megalosaurus, or perhaps the head of a mermaid? A pocket of air escapes, gamey, sweet and putrid, and Silas raises a hand to his nose. He would like to uncork the miniature glass bottle of lavender oil that he stores in his waistcoat, to dab it on his upper lip, but he does not want to distract the boy — Albie has the attention span of a shrew on his finest days. The boy winks, grappling with the sack, pretending it is alive.
Silas summons a smirk that feels hollow on his lips. He hates to see this urchin, this bricky street brat, tease him. But Silas says nothing. He feigns a yawn, but watches through a sideways crocodile eye that betrays his interest by not blinking. Albie grins, and unmasks the sacking to present two dead puppies. At least, Silas thinks it is two puppies, but when he grabs hold of the limbs, he notices only one scruff. The skull is segmented. He holds them up, sees their silhouette against his lamp, squeezes their eight legs, the stones of their vertebrae.
And you can come in, visit my workshop.
Carlos Baute se divierte cambiando los pañales de su hijo Markuss
Albie hawks and spits his disdain on to the cobbles. Would you have a lad starve? He steadies himself on the cabinet. He glances down to check the pups are still there, and they are, clasped against his chest as a child would hold a doll.
Their eight furred legs dangle, as soft as moles. They look like they did not even live to take their first breath. He has it at last. BOY After Silas slams shut the door, Albie bites the shilling between his front tooth and gums, for no reason except that he has seen his sister do the same. He sucks on it. He is pleased; he never expected two bob. But if you ask for two bob and you get a bob, what happens if you ask for a bob?
He shrugs, spits it out and then tucks it into his pocket. There is a second hemp sack next to his Dead Creatures bag, which contains tiny skirts he sewed through the night.
He is careful never to mix the two. Sometimes, as he hands over the bag at the doll shop, he is convinced he has muddled them, and he feels an arrow-quiver in his heart.
He blows on his little fists to warm them and takes off at a run. The boy zigzags through the streets, rickety legs bowed outwards. He runs west, through the muck of Soho. Gaunt whores track his racing limbs with tatty eyes, just as worn-out cats watch a fly. He emerges on to Regent Street, glances at the shop which sells sets of teeth for four guineas, taps his single tooth with his tongue, and then catapults into the path of a horse.
It bucks and rears. She picks at a loose thread, then knots it. Even though it is almost noon, her mistress Mrs Salter is yet to rise for the day.
Her twin sister sits behind her, head bowed over her sewing. She lowers her voice. Have you ever seen her stick out her tongue? His mucky blonde hair, his single fang, his soot-stained face: In another world, he could have been born into their family in Hackney. She planned to put it towards a new sheet of paper and a paintbrush. Iris watches him go and allows herself to inhale. He may be a filthy little urchin, but even so she can never understand why he stinks quite so foully of decay.
He felt his stomach twist, a fizz of terror squeezing the tip of his tongue. Had he been hit? He strained around in his seat, staring into the twilight. The sky was empty. No puffs of ack ack, no Spitfires. What the hell just happened? Could he make it back across the English Channel, back to the German base at Coquelles? But not up here. He must drop down, hide in the cloud base, let the engine cool. His hand was trembling; he must steady himself. The engine cut and he was gliding now, his breath booming in his helmet as he watched the needles drop.
There was even time to glimpse enemy fields between the breaks in the clouds. They were white with snow like the Alps of Swabia. He felt calmer, listening to the gale outside, calm enough to wonder if he would ever walk in the mountains again, see the ice crystals forming rainbows in front of his eyes.
He pulled off his oxygen mask to give himself more freedom and a smell smacked into his nostrils, hot metal and fuel. Deceptive and free indian dating online sites derivative Tymon hangs from his cavalry, remembers and decomposes in an inelegant way.
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