Stella opened the window in the room furthest from Violet’s, and checked outside. She leaned over to see under the ledge, and searched the stone around the frame, then closed it. After she had locked the window again, she gave the bedroom a last look over. Everything seemed fine.
When she left the room, Violet was standing in the hallway, waiting for her. “Do you require fresh bedsheets or towels?” Stella asked. “There will be some in that cupboard.” She pointed three doors down.
“No, milady.”
“Then wh- oh, you’ve nothing to unpack, have you? You’ve only the dress you are wearing.”
It was a blue dress, low cut in the front, sleeveless, and showing off a lot of dark skin. The sort of dress one would expect in a brothel, not in a household.
“I don’t need anything else, ma’am. You’ve already given me so much. I can wash the dress, milady,” she said, staring at the floor.
“No, we shall go shopping.”
“You… don’t need to do that, milady.”
Stella looked Violet slowly up and down. “Oh, I very much do.” She headed into her mother’s room, ignoring further protests, and was back a moment later. “Alright, I have one hundred pounds. That ought to suffice, I should think, or would you prefer we take two hundred?”
“Lady Stella”
Well, finally something had gotten a reaction out of Violet that wasn’t a half-whispered mumble aimed at the floor. Stella wasn’t sure what the reaction was for, though. “If you want three hundred, I think I could probably arrange that.”
“Yuh… you cannot spend so much pon me, Lady Stella.”
She blinked, then, for the first time ever, met Violet’s dark eyes. “Why ever not?”
“Because… because… because your mother put me in charge.”
Stella thought that over. It was a good point. Violet was in charge of everything not related to Abilities and criminals. However, “seeing to your ongoing welfare counts as being part of the rescue, and as such it relates to both Abilities and criminals, and therefore comes under my purview. Imagine if I rescued you and then simply abandoned you afterwards to fend for yourself. Who could behave so dreadfully?”
“M- most people, Lady Stella. I don’t believe most people would have done your rescue in the first place.”
“Well, let us not base our actions on what most people would do, Violet, but on what they should do, what they would do if we were them, what we shall do since we are us. There, I’ve given you a rousing speech, and yet you do not look roused.” Stella thought for a moment, trying to find the right words to reach Violet. “It’s not appropriate for our maid to have only one dress, Violet. It’s completely unacceptable.”
Violet sighed. “Very well, ma’am, but a few dresses won’t cost more than five pounds.”
“Violet,” Stella scolded her. “You’re not wearing a potato sack with holes cut out for your arms and head.”
Violet finally smiled, softly, almost shyly. “Of course not. We can get a few cotton dresses, some underwear, everything I need for under five pounds, ma’am.”
Stella huffed. “I’m taking one hundred, just in case we need it. Or we see some nice knives. Alright, let’s be off to Camden Market.”
“I think Chapel Market would be cheaper, milady,” Violet pointed out as she followed Stella down the stairs.
“Yes, because Camden Market is better.”
They put their outside shoes on at the door, and then walked back to the high street, and started down the hill towards Archway. A cool breeze was blowing, carrying the scents of exhaust fumes, coal, and horse shit, the perennial smell of London, but the day was bright and there were no clouds in sight. They walked mostly in silence. Violet seemed preoccupied with her thoughts, wringing her hands and staring at the ground, and although Stella was constantly watching for attackers, she kept Violet in her peripheral vision at all times.
“We should have had lunch before we left,” Stella said.
“We could go back for food if you like, milady.”
“No, I’m sure the market will have something delightful to eat.” It was a little over a mile to Camden Market and they took a leisurely pace as they strolled. Omnibuses and motorcars passed them, and cyclists heading downhill. Horse drawn wagons rumbled by, the animals snorting at the effort.
“You are from Jamaica?” Stella asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s Jamaica like?”
“Hot!”
Stella laughed.
“I am so sorry, milady. I wasn’t being sarcastic, I just didn’t think, I swear. It’s only that it’s the main thing that hits me every day, how cold England is.”
She nodded, still watching for attackers, for people following them, for anyone who looked like they might be trouble. Or Italian. “Then we shall get you a heavy coat.”
“I really must protest, milady.”
“You may, if you feel you must, but I am buying you a coat, Violet. It’s inevitable.” Stella smiled after using her newspaper word of the day. “What else is Jamaica like?”
Violet thought for a moment. “Beautiful,” she said at last, her voice far away. “The beaches are perfect, the sunset across the ocean the most beautiful sight in the world. The food is wonderfully flavourful, and the people are very friendly.”
“You sound as if you miss it,” Stella mused. “How did you come to be in England?”
As Violet told how a handsome man had seduced her, promised her a better life in England, lied to her, and trapped her in a brothel for six months, they turned onto Camden Road. Violet explained that she had been orphaned young, and was struggling to survive back home, when this was offered to her. She’d leapt at the chance without looking at it closely.
“I thought I would die in that brothel,” she admitted, then added, almost too low to hear, “I think part of me did.”
Stella heard the words as loudly as if they were shouted in a quiet room. Her Heroic Form had boosted all of her senses. She patted Violet’s shoulder awkwardly. “You won’t die there now. You can have a much more exciting death with me.”
“Thank you,” Violet murmured, then more loudly said: “I think I would die before I go back.”
“Or, alternatively, neither die nor go back. Live free.”
“I might like that, milady.”
“How old are you, Violet?”
“Only a little younger than you, I expect, ma’am. I’m twenty.”
“I’m sixteen.” Stella reached out and caught Violet’s arm, steadying her when she tripped.
“You’re so tall.”
“I know.”
“But you’re so tall.”
“It was a gift on my birthday.”
Stella had been able to smell and hear the market for the last few minutes; the susurration of conversation, the hawking of sellers and haggling of buyers, three different instruments playing wildly different songs, barking dogs and neighing horses, and a solitary mooing cow. The cluck of chickens, the clucks of children, the cluck clack of horse hooves on stone, the clack clack of hammers on metal. The scent of unwashed bodies in close proximity, of a heaving mass of humanity that sweated and stank and smoked and drank ale and ate pies filled with uncertain meat. Mildewed clothes and old shoes and worn leather and fresh metal and coal fires and urine, shit, honey, wet dogs, jellied eels, something delicious that was being fried in hot oil, and a hundred other scents and sounds she couldn’t identify because they were mixed and mingled and had become one scent and one sound: that of a market. She was grinning as they rounded a corner and the first stalls came into sight, spread across the street.
The stalls were wood and canvas, roofed tables that gave goods some protection from rain. The canvases came in off-white and beige, or had faded stripes of red or green alternating with cream, and each stall was surrounded by prospective shoppers, both buyers and lookers. Pickpockets, no more than eight years old, worked the crowd, and here and there were the distinctive domed helmets of coppers. Excited whoops came from a gang of children as they chased one who had bought or stolen a ball and was searching for a place to play.
“Food, first,” Stella said.
Violet pointed to a stall that sold jellied eels, sourced from the Thames.
Stella walked past the eel stall, weaving through the crowd without stopping. She could smell venison pies ahead, and deer was a treat she wasn’t turning down. A moment later, she was handing a hot pie to Violet, and raising her own to blow on it. She slapped a child’s hand away from her belt without looking at the little thief, and bit into the warm pastry.
“This is very good,” Violet said.
“Mmm,” Stella replied non-committedly. “Meat tastes better when you hunt it yourself.”
“I shall have to take your word for that, milady.”
“For now.” Stella finished her pie, and licked the grease from her fingers. “Alright, a few dresses, a coat, underwear, indoor and outdoor shoes, and everything else you might need.”
“Again, I must protest, milady.”
“Still? Well, if you must, you may do so in writing to my mother. I am sure she would be perfectly scandalised by my mistreatment of you, making you wear clean clothes and have other outfits to change into. How horrid. What a perfect little tyrant I am. Yes, indeed, put it all in writing and I will ensure she receives it.”
Violet didn’t reply.
Stella smirked, and then surveyed the stalls around them. There was one that sold only hats, and had every variety of hat she could imagine. It even had a French military helmet from the First Aetherium War, and a genuine knight’s helm that had to be at least four centuries old. Most of the stall was given to flat caps and bonnets, with a few top hats around the edges, and a cowboy hat from the Papal States of America in the centre. Beside it was a stall that sold pots and pans of every type, from huge industrial restaurant kitchen pots to tiny campfire frying pans and everything in between. Next to that was a watchmaker selling watches and doing repairs for customers who would browse the market and return after an hour.
The first clothing stall was next to a stall that sold soap in various flavours. The thought made Stella pause for a moment. Why was soap, which was not to be eaten except in an emergency, considered to be flavoured and not scented? No one was supposed to taste soap, unless they were starving and it was all they had, and if they were starving, taste would be the last of their concerns.
“Are you okay, milady?”
“Hmm? Yes. Yes, of course. Now, let’s see if we can find a suitable dress for you here.” She reached out and lifted a drab woollen cardigan from the top of the clothes piled on the stall. It looked like it was the first thing the maker had ever knitted. “Perhaps we should have a few dresses commissioned?”
Violet moved to the front of the stall quickly and started rooting through the piled clothes. After a few moments, she held a yellow dress up before her.
“Ah,” the stallholder said, “that’s one o’ the finest dresses I ‘ave, that is. Pure Egyptian cotton, from Egypt, so it is.” He started on a spiel about the quality of the fabric and how far it had travelled, but his voice died down to a whisper then stopped altogether as Stella stared at him.
Stella turned to Violet. “That’s too big for you,” she pointed out.
“I can take it in. It’s better for clothes to be a little big, ma’am.”
Stella lifted a red dress that was now at the top of the pile. “This one is about the same size. What do you think?”
“Thank you,” Violet said. Her voice seemed a little dull.
Stella frowned at the other woman. She didn’t know Violet’s face well enough yet to interpret the lines creasing the edges of her eyes, or the curve of her mouth which might simply be the shape of her full lips, but she obviously wasn’t smiling. “You’re not smiling,” she pointed out. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’m.. this is… it’s a little much, milady.”
“If you don’t like it, you can say so.” Stella tossed the dress back on the stall. “Was it the colour?”
“Red doesn’t really suit me, ma’am,” Violet admitted. She held up another dress, this one cream. “These two will do.”
Stella considered them. “Those can be house dresses. You will need something better for going out.”
“Inside dresses and outside dresses, ma’am? Like the shoes?”
“Just like the shoes,” Stella agreed, and grinned. She was delighted when Violet smiled back at her, and then the Jamaican woman was digging through the pile again. This time she pulled out a grey dress, and a once-white petticoat.
“Six shillings for the cream dress, ten for the yella. Three for the petticoat, and a pound for the grey dress,” the stallholder said. “One pound nineteen shillings for the lot.”
Stella reached for her purse, but Violet stepped between her and the man selling clothes. “The yellow dress has a stain,” she pointed it out, “and the stitching is coming loose in the grey. The petticoat is worn, the lace is frayed. One and four.”
“One and four? You’ll beggar me. One and four? Are you trying to starve my children, miss? I’ll do you one and seven and you can use the two you saved to buy some soap and take that stain right off.”
“We shouldn’t buy things that are stained,” Stella said, but both maid and stallholder ignored her.
“That covers the stain, but not the loose stitching or the frayed lace. One and five, and that’s more than their worth.”
“If you don’t have thread at home to fix the stitching, I’ll eat the petticoat,” the stallholder replied indignantly.
“We do have thread at home,” Stella assured him.
“Please stop helping, Lady Stella.”
The stallholder looked over her shoulder at the giant blonde teenager Violet was calling a lady, and smiled. “I shan’t go lower than one and six.”
Violet agreed and stepped aside. Stella counted the coins out from her purse, and handed them over, then took the dresses and petticoat from Violet.
“I can carry them,” Violet insisted.
“I’m taller and stronger.”
“And a lady. I’m a lady’s maid, carrying your things is what I do.”
There was an old lady reading palms and claiming to be Romani, but Stella thought it unlikely she was. Every Romani family in southern England was currently transporting teenagers to her mother’s compound in Wales. Romani families were tight, and a grandmother would never be left alone in London.
She glanced longingly at a stall of knives, but they were too busy to stop right now. Violet needed clothes more than Stella needed a new knife, no matter how pretty they were.
They found an underwear stall a little further on and Violet bought four chemise-and-drawers sets for eight shillings and a corset for another six. She also picked up two pairs of stockings for three shillings.
Stella insisted on carrying these, too.
“You make being a maid rather difficult, Lady Stella.”
“You can just call me Stella, you know.”
“This is exactly what I mean, milady. I’ve never been a maid before and I’m trying very hard to do it right.”
“You are doing exceptionally well, Violet. Please do not worry unduly. Oh, we should get some devilled eggs.” Stella bought eggs which they ate as they wandered between the stalls, then stopped to look over one that bought and sold shoes. Behind the stall was an ancient looking man, his skin sun-darkened and wrinkled, the shade and texture of old leather.
At their enquiry, he explained he was a cobbler. He’d buy in old, worn, broken shoes, repair them, and sell them on.
Stella insisted Violet get two pairs, indoors and outdoors shoes, and Violet pointed out she was already wearing outdoor shoes. Stella said the high heels were pretty but impractical and Violet didn’t even try to protest. She picked out a pair of purple velvet slippers with supple leather soles, and smart black dress shoes she said were surprisingly comfortable.
“Three pounds for the shoes and one for the slippers.”
“That’s outrageous,” Violet replied instantly. “It’s robbery. We’ll give you two pounds ten shillings for both.”
“I’m not haggling,” the ancient man said. “I’m telling you my price. I’ve been a cobbler for eighty two years, no one in the city has the experience I have, or can work a shoe as well as I can, but that’s not why my shoes are expensive. I charge what I think people can pay and she,” he indicated Stella, “can pay four pounds.”
“Just because she can doesn’t mean she should,” Violet retorted.
“No, and she doesn’t have to, but if you want the shoes, that’s the price. It’s steep. If’m honest, and I always am, it’s more than them shoes be worth, but that just means I can sell other shoes at less than they’re worth to people what not got none, see? So’s, four pounds. Pay it or leave.”
“You lose money selling shoes to people who have no shoes?” Stella asked.
“That’s what I said,” the old man replied.
Stella paid him twenty pounds and gave Violet a whole new thing to protest about as they walked away from the ancient cobbler. When Stella pointed out how far they’d gone over Violet’s budget, she thought the other woman might actually scream, but she just tightened her lips and refused to discuss their overspenditure. A few minutes later, Stella stopped at a stall that sold silk scarves and ribbons.
“Do you want me to hold the dresses whilst you see if you want any silk, milady?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, all my silk comes straight from the ship. We have a supplier.”
“Your own personal silk supplier, milady?”
“What?” Stella was still staring at the ribbons on the table. “Here.” She pushed the dresses into Violet’s hands and walked forwards without waiting to see if the other woman had a grip on them.
The stallholder smiled as she approached.”Ah, a beautiful silk ribbon for a beautiful gahkk,” the last was a startled cry as she reached across the stall, grabbed his lapel, and dragged him to her. He folded at the waist, lying across his goods. She bent so her mouth was close to his ear. “None of your wares are silk,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “You’re selling cotton satin at silk prices, and gouging these poor folk who can’t tell the difference.”
“I- I-”
“That’s against both the Sale of Goods Act 1893 and the Merchandise Marks Act 1887. It’s possibly also fraudulent trading, and can be punished with fines, seizure of goods, and potential jail time.”
“I- I-”
“There’s also social punishments, such as loss of reputation, though I doubt yours was good to start with, market restrictions, and peer pressure. I’m not entirely familiar with how the last one works, but I doubt it’s fun.”
“I- I-”
She let go of his lapel and he bounced instantly upwards like a jack-in-the-box. “Start selling your goods at satin prices or I’ll be having more than a polite word with you.”
“Bloody ‘ell, this was you bein’ polite?”
“Yes.” She smiled slowly, like a cat watching a mouse that hadn’t realised it had been hunted. “Try me.”
When she turned back to Violet, the Jamaican woman’s smile was the biggest she’d seen from her.
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