Teacups & Tentacles | ONC 2022

9. A Brand New Secret

A little after supper, Amelia yawned a string of copious jaw-breakers and announced to Rose that she was tired and thought she'd go to her room and read for a while before turning in. They were in the front parlour relaxing in armchairs next to the cold hearth grate, Rose busying herself with, as far as Amelia could tell, the pointless knitting of yet another scarf for Maynard. 

Amelia guessed it wasn't so much that her brother-in-law had his mind focused on so many important things that he forgot them everywhere it was possible to forget a scarf-- as Rose steadfastly believed-- but that he was purposefully attempting to rid himself of the ghastly things whenever and wherever he could. In the Underground, draped over chairs in tearooms, chucked into metal Impoverished Citizens Aid boxes or merely stuffed into the next rubbish bin. 

She would've.

Rose looked up in surprise from the fuschia and mustard-coloured abomination curling like a nauseous snake in her lap.

"So early? I thought we might work more on your pillow embroidery," she said, a note of disappointment in her voice. "You still don't quite have the knack of the double-arc stitch, which is very important for a clean buttercup design, if only of secondary interest for-- "

"Tomorrow, Rose. I promise." Amelia yawned again and stretched, cracking her knuckles in such a way to make it sound like she'd snapped her spine in two. A wince of repulsion passed over Rose's matronly features and she waged an internal battle to stifle the sharp reprimand already forming on her lips. 

 "Well, good night then, dear. Sleep well," she finally got out through gritted teeth. 

Amelia replied in kind and scampered upstairs to the first floor where she had been given use of a disused guest room. She closed the door and locked herself in. Dropping to the floor, she extended a hand into the space under the wide, bulky wardrobe and pulled out a small leather case with copper corner reinforcements. She placed it on her lap and opened it. 

Inside were her carving blades, chunks of interesting wood scraps and a half-full glass bottle of Marber's Exotic. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the heady scents of wood and polish rising from the case.

Ahhhhh, her secrets workshop! The best thing that had come out of her sojourn at Swanington Prison -- besides the admiration of the Mastermind Society. But that went without saying. 

Amelia placed the case on the floor, selected a blade and then picked up the lumpy, dark piece of wood resting on top of the other scraps. It measured approximately the length of her first finger and had had three coats of Marber's polish carefully applied to it over the past few nights, causing the wood to take on a lovely purplish hue. 

She ran a fingertip over the surface. Smooth and even. Perfect.  

Placing the tip of the carving blade against the wood, Amelia set rapid, delicate strokes, slicing through the coats of polish to the lighter grain below that remained unaffected. 

After a half an hour, she put the blade back in its case and admired her work: A parrot, its feathers seeming to fold over each other and its head cocked at a half-curious, half-menacing angle. Amelia turned it over and over, looking for flaws or details she'd forgotten. 

She saw none. The secret was as perfect. 

Odd how she'd never considered wood before her incarceration. It had been the imposing Director of Enforced Labour, Mr Crookchain, who had been so impressed by her ability with a soldering iron and needle-nosed pliers that he recommended her to the wood workshop where prisoners jailed for non-violent crimes spent their afternoons carving tops of gentlemen's walking sticks and other saleable items. 

After only two months of instruction, Amelia had mastered a number of advanced techniques and was designing her own objects, some of which Swanington put into production (with no remittance, of course, but she had not expected any).   

When she heard she was to be released into Rose and Maynard's custody for the legal "readjustment" period of eight months, Amelia had sensed she would need to keep her talent with her hands to herself. She had, instead, found great pleasure in faking astounding incompetence at baking, needlecraft, hat decoration, silhouette cutting and any other feminine pastime her sister decided was character edifying for a lady who had fallen in with an utterly unsuitable crowd of nut jobs and madmen.   

A smile blossomed on Amelia's face. 

Nut jobs and madmen! Rose would never understand what a homecoming it had been for her to find and be accepted into the notorious Mastermind Society. That her application had been approved on the first try had seemed nothing short of a miracle considering how rigorous they were in weeding out fakes and narcissistic pretenders attempting to razzle their way in the door.

But it wasn't even that. It was that the Masterminds didn't give a toss.

No one at the Society stared at her bizarrely matched hats and day jackets, scrunched up their noses at her dull shoe buttons, or clucked their tongue at her scraggly, baby-flyaway hair the exact same tone as gutter water. 

No one told her that spiking her afternoon tea with two shots of Craigloon's scotch was unlady-like.  No one inquired after her recipe for roast piglet with apple puffs on the assumption she had one. No one asked to see her pressed flower album or demanded she scribble a dedication in their poetry book.

They didn't even care that she was a woman, or even that she was a tall broomstick of a woman. Or that she was a tall broomstick of a woman with a marked interest in lock picking. Or that she habitually produced interesting, sometimes disturbing, noises when she was bored or excited. Or that she  sometimes jerked her head around like a pigeon pecking for breadcrumbs for no particular reason anyone could discern, least of all the pigeon in question. 

But most importantly, nobody asked her why, at thirty-four, she was still unmarried and urged her to lure in a man as quickly as possible. 

They didn't care one rust-speckled spanner. She was a half-gone Mastermind and that was enough for them.

A pitter-pattering sound outside her door caused Amelia to reach out and gently close the lid of her secrets case, manoeuvring it back into the shadowy recesses under the wardrobe. 

The sound passed.   

Amelia peered up to the tiny mantlepiece where a squat antique clock with a cracked glass front sat, its little hand permanently collapsed at nineteen minutes past. 

It was well after eight, she surmised from the angle of the hour hand.  Not long now and she'd be able to slip downstairs and out the door without being seen by even the housemaid. In the meantime, she'd need to get herself changed in her 'working' clothes and make sure her tools were packed and ready.

The freshly finished secret needed to be delivered to its hiding place without delay and, no matter what faults  anyone might find with Mastermind Amelia Tooting-Spur, being unprepared was certainly not one of them.