Neverwhere(70)

“Calm yourself,” said Hunter.

“But she’s Serpentine,” wailed Door. “Of the Seven Sisters.”

Serpentine inclined her head, cordially. Then she stepped out of the doorway and walked toward them. Behind her was a thin woman with a severe face and long dark hair, wearing a black dress pinched wasp-thin at the waist. The woman said nothing. Serpentine walked over to Hunter. “Hunter worked for me long ago,” said Serpentine. She reached out a white finger and gently stroked Hunter’s brown cheek with it, a gesture of affection and possession. And then, “You’ve kept your looks better than I, Hunter.” Hunter looked down. “Her friends are my friends, child,” said Serpentine. “You are Door?”

“Yes,” said Door, dry-mouthed.

Serpentine turned on Richard. “And what are you?” she asked, unimpressed.

“Richard,” said Richard.

“I am Serpentine,” she told him, graciously.

“So I gathered,” said Richard.

“There is food waiting for all of you,” said Serpentine, “should you wish to break your fast.”

“Oh God no,” whimpered Richard politely. Door said nothing. She was still backed against the wall, still trembling gently, like a leaf in an autumn breeze. The fact that Hunter had clearly brought them here as a safe haven was doing nothing to assuage her fear.

“What is there to eat?” asked Hunter.

Serpentine looked at the-wasp-waisted woman in the doorway. “Well?” she asked. The woman smiled the chilliest smile Richard had ever seen cross a human face, then she said, “Fried eggs poached eggs pickled eggs curried venison pickled onions pickled herrings smoked herrings salted herrings mushroom stew salted bacon stuffed cabbage calves-foot jelly—“

Richard opened his. mouth to plead with her to stop, but it was too late. He was suddenly, violently, awfully sick.

He wanted someone to hold him, to tell him that everything would be all right, that he’d soon be feeling better; someone to give him an aspirin and a glass of water, and show him back to his bed. But nobody did; and his bed was another life away. He washed the sick from his face and hands with water from the bucket. Then he washed out his mouth. Then, swaying gently, he followed the four women to breakfast.



“Pass the calves-foot jelly,” said Hunter, with her mouth full. Serpentine’s dining room was on what appeared to be the smallest Underground platform that Richard had ever seen. It was about twelve feet long, and much of that space was taken up with a dinner table. A white damask cloth was laid on the table, and a formal silver dinner-service on that. The table was piled high with evil-smelling foodstuffs. The pickled quails’ eggs, thought Richard, smelled the worst.

His skin felt clammy, and his eyes felt like they had been put in their sockets wrong, while his skull gave him the general impression that someone had removed it while he had slept and swapped it for another two or three sizes too small. An Underground train went past a few feet from them; the wind of its passage whipped at the table. The noise of its passage went through Richard’s head like a hot knife through brains. Richard groaned.

“Your hero is unable to hold his wine, I see,” observed Serpentine, dispassionately.

“He’s not my hero,” said Door.

“I’m afraid he is. You learn to recognize the type. Something in the eyes, perhaps.” She turned to the woman in black, who appeared to be some kind of majordomo. “A restorative for the gentleman.” The woman smiled thinly and glided away.

Door picked at a mushroom dish. “We are very grateful for all this, Lady Serpentine,” she said.

Serpentine sniffed. “Just Serpentine, child. I have no time for silly honorifics and imaginary titles. So. You’re Portico’s oldest girl.”

“Yes.”

Serpentine dipped her finger in the briny sauce that held what appeared to be several small eels. She licked her finger, nodded approvingly. “I had little time for your father. All that foolishness about uniting the Underside. Stuff and nonsense. Silly man. Just asking for trouble. The last time I saw your father, I told him that if he ever came back here, I’d turn him into a blindworm.” She turned to Door. “How is your father, by the way?”

“He’s dead,” said Door.

Serpentine looked perfectly satisfied. “See?” she said. “My point exactly.” Door said nothing. Serpentine picked at something that was moving in her gray hair. She examined it closely, crushed it between finger and thumb, and dropped it onto the platform. Then she turned to Hunter, who was demolishing a small hill of pickled herrings. “You’re Beast-hunting then?” she said. Hunter nodded, her mouth full. “You’ll need the spear, of course,” said Serpentine.