The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(20)

"How women stand this all their lives, I know not," Philip said, thrusting his arms into the corset she held out. Coby laced it up the front with brisk movements; it was much like the one she wore under her own shirt, but cut lower, to enhance rather than conceal. Not that Philip had anything to enhance.

"You should eat more," she muttered. "Being so skinny makes you look too much like a boy."

"I eat every scrap on my plate. It's Master Naismith's fault, the miserable old skinflint. Anyway, you're one to talk."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm not the one who needs to look rounded and womanly."

She held out the farthingale, and he stepped into it. Coby fastened it at the back then walked around him with her head on one side, peering at the hemline.

"Are you standing on tiptoe again?"

"No. See?" He lifted the front of his skirts to mid-calf and dropped them again.

"Then stop growing, will you?" She placed the end of her measure on the ground and squatted to count off the markings. "I'll have to sew another two inches of guard on all your gowns at this rate."

She crossed to the baskets filled with neatly folded fabric remnants, and began searching through them for a length of black taffeta to match the farthingale.

"Short is fashionable. To show off my pretty ankles." He poked one foot from below the skirt, toes pointed.

"And your yard-long feet," she replied. "No, the hems must touch the ground, or the illusion is spoilt."

Philip heaved a sigh and folded his arms again. She draped the green-and-gold shot taffeta skirt over the farthingale and again measured the deficit.

"Want to come to the bear-baiting when we're done?" Philip asked. "I'll lend you an angel to bet with."

"No, thank you. I have far too much work to do, thanks to your sprouting. And where do you get so much money, anyway?"

Philip smiled slyly. "De Vere sent me a pearl carcanet. Said I ought to wear something queenly for the contest."

"And you sold it?" She stared at him in dismay. The cheap fake pearls from the costume chest would not pass muster from the lords' gallery.

"Pawned it. I can get it back any time before the performance."

She thought of Catlyn, pawning his lute and running behind on his payments.

"And what if you can't?"

Philip shrugged. "There'll be others. I reckon Southampton would cover me in pearls if I let him touch my cock."

Coby felt herself blush. "You wouldn't…"

"Course not. Sam from the Admiral's Men reckons you can get more with promises than surrender." He frowned, staring at his own raised hand as if imagining it adorned with jewels. "Still, could be worth it…"

"You don't mean that. I–"

"What? You going to rat on me, Jakes?" Philip unfastened the skirts and let them fall to the floor.

"No."

"Perhaps I should start spying on you. I'm sure you have some tasty little secret you wouldn't want Master Naismith to find out."

He stepped towards her over the silken folds. Coby turned away for fear her expression would betray her, and rummaged in her sewing basket.

"You Dutch are as thick as thieves," Philip went on. "What is it you get up to on Sundays, anyway? Can't spend the whole day at church."

"Master Kuyper reads to us from the Bible after dinner," she replied.

"Whited tombs!" Philip attempted a deep hectoring tone, like a street corner preacher. "Full of dead men's bones, and all filthiness!"

"Don't you quote scripture at me, Philip Johnson. Or I might turn the page to Saint John. Starting with the whore of Babylon."

The blood drained from Philip's face, and she thought he was going to hit her. Instead he growled something under his breath, snatched up his clothing and marched out. It sounded very like You'll regret that, Jakes.

"You have all the wit of a cow pat, and are less use withal," she shouted after him, but her words were lost in the slamming of the door.

She gathered up the fallen garments, shook them out and hung them back up. She really shouldn't goad Philip, but one of these days she was going to wipe the smile off his simpering, beardless face.

The streets were becoming busy by five o'clock, as the citizens of London swarmed home for their supper. No doubt that was Walsingham's intent; one more man amongst the throng was unlikely to be noticed.

Seething Lane lay a stone's throw from the Tower, a narrow street of tall, well-kept houses built close together to make best use of the valuable land. Second to last on the right, Baines had said, with a door knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Mal scarcely had time to lift the heavy bronze ring before the door opened and he was ushered inside.

He found himself in a bright atrium with white-painted panelling and a black-and-white tiled floor. A wide oak staircase dominated the space, and arched doors led off into the house to either side. The man who let him in wore servant's garb, but his face bore the same guarded expression Mal had seen on Baines's face. Was there anyone working here who wasn't an intelligencer?

"This way, sir," the man said.

He opened a door Mal had not noticed before, concealed as it was in the panelling under the stairs. Mal half-expected to see a flight of steps running down to a dungeon. There were many rumours about what went on in the house in Seething Lane.