The Red Necklace by Sally Gardner

holding firmly on to Yann. Pushing him into his carriage and climbing in after him, he nodded to his coachman, who handed Mr. Tull an envelope with his money in it.
    Mr. Tull started counting.
    “It is the agreed sum,” said Mr. Laxton.
    By now the carriage was making its way out through the arch, disappearing into the main thoroughfare.
    “Wait a minute! Not so ruddy fast!” shouted Mr. Tull to the disappearing wheels. “I need money for the breakages.”
    Mr. Tull was not in a good mood as he walked toward the Fleet River and the Red Lion Inn, a tavern renowned for the company of rogues.
    If you couldn’t make an honest penny by hard work, then perhaps it would be more worthwhile to make a dishonest pound instead. “Where is the justice?” said Mr. Tull to himself. “The rich get everything and do nothing for it, and all the while they expect the likes of me to risk life and limb for them. And they don’t even pay for breakages.”
    He had heard the talk of clever people in Paris and in the London coffeehouses, people who knew what the tomorrows of life had in store. Civil war, that was what they were predicting. As far as he was concerned it couldn’t come soon enough. There was money to be made in upheavals.

chapter twelve
    The savagery of grief tore at Yann, filled him with rage, stripped him of his gift for reading people’s minds. All that was left was the silence of heartache. His past and his future had vanished, had been gobbled up and spat out again as if the very marrow had been sucked from his soul with the murder of Têtu.
    Lost in the fury of his thoughts, he hadn’t heard one word Mr. Laxton had been saying, until finally, standing in the hall of the house in Queen Square, he realized that by some twist of fate he had entered another world, and he didn’t want to be here.
    Henry Laxton’s valet, Vane, had been with his master for many years and spoke tolerable French. He took Yann upstairs and showed him a large bedchamber, dominated by a four-poster bed and smelling of oranges. They reminded Yann of hot summers and journeys with Têtu. Behind a screen at the far end was another door that led to a small antechamber, and there by the fire sat a bath filled with steaming hot water. What it was doing in the room Yann wasn’t sure until Vane started solemnly rolling up his sleeves and said that sir was to take a bath.
    Yann stared at him in disbelief and then, seeing that this was no idle threat, made for the door, but to no avail. Vane was doglike in his determination, with a wiry strength that took Yann by surprise. Finally, defeated by exhaustion and the lack of sleep, he resigned himself to drowning.
    He was washed and scrubbed until the water was as filthy as the Seine and his skin tingled all over. Wrapped in a large housecoat, he sat in front of the fire while a barber set about cutting off his long black locks and vigorously rubbing a lotion into his scalp, for the express reason, so he said, of ridding Yann of fleas.
    From an assortment of shirts and breeches, Vane then set about dressing Yann as if he were a tailor’s dummy. Finally, he tied a cravat around his neck and set a looking glass before him. What Yann saw there was a stranger. If it hadn’t been for the anger in his face he would have said he was staring at someone else.
    Vane inspected his handiwork and took Yann down to the sitting room on the first floor to present him to Mr. and Mrs. Laxton.
    “Well, look at you, sir,” said Mr. Laxton in his perfect French. “To the manor born, I would say.”
    Yann, not knowing what was expected of him, bowed stiffly. All this felt as if it were happening to someone else, that he was simply an actor upon the stage.
    “You have met my niece, Sido de Villeduval, I gather,” said Mrs. Laxton.
    Yann looked at her. Was he dreaming, or did she look like Sido?
    “Yes.”
    “And was she well?”
    Was she well? He had to think what he was being asked. Was this the reason he had been