A Novel (19 page)

“I'm sorry, but I don't really see how this is my problem,” he began warily.

“They are your candles, are they not?” Dahria demanded at her most imperious.

“Well, yes,” said Macinnes, quailing.

“Then see to it!”

For my part, I had shrunken somewhat, my face half in my hands, and as close to tears as I could realistically suggest. In truth, it wasn't hard. Faced with Dahria's aristocratic contempt, it was all too easy to imagine myself less than the dirt beneath her heel.

Macinnes faltered, shooting a look at the security guard, and Dahria took the opportunity to step close to him. She snarled into his face, “I assume you have a scullery maid?”

*   *   *

I WAS PROPELLED—UNSTEADILY
in those ridiculous shoes—through a stockroom and into a hallway where stairs descended to the servants' quarters and kitchen. I descended cautiously, the security guard at my back, listening to the fading sound of Dahria's rant about candles, shoddy service, and the inadequacies of personal staff. I kept my eyes open for the butler who had turned me out on my ear before, but there was no sign of him, and the housekeeper who had opened the door to me called the scullery maid without giving me a second glance. I blubbered through a handkerchief, hiding my face as best I could, until a girl of my own age entered, looking flustered.

This was surely Billy's lady friend. She was white, pretty in an ordinary sort of way, with rough hands and a round, kindly face.

When she spoke, it was with the accent of the city's working poor. “Oh my, you 'ave made a mess of yourself, 'aven't you?” she said. “Let's 'ave a look in the light.”

She shunted me close to a patch of sun that streamed in from one of the high windows I had seen from the backyard.

“'Old on,” she said. “Let me get my iron and some brown paper.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You're Billy's friend, aren't you?”

She looked up at that, startled and, judging by the way she checked over her shoulder to make sure the housekeeper was not in earshot, afraid.

I couldn't blame her. I doubted Billy would be considered an especially suitable catch for someone who worked—albeit menially—on Crommerty Street.

She risked a smile as she put the iron on the stove. “Let's get you out of that pinafore,” she said. “'Ave a seat.”

I did so, relieved to take the weight off my aching feet. How Dahria walked around in shoes like those all day, I had no idea.

“How do you know Billy?”

“Mutual friends,” I said with an apologetic shrug. “I'm Ang, by the way.”

“Bessie,” said the girl. “You and Billy work together?”

“Nah,” I said, handing her the dress and watching as she picked the wax off before applying the iron. “A little overlap, but different circles.”

“Well, yes,” said the girl, as if that were obvious.

My hackles rose. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“With you being a lady's maid and all,” she said, momentarily baffled by my look. “You thought I meant because you are…” She hesitated.

“Lani,” I completed for her. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No need,” said Bessie, relieved to get that over. “And to tell you the truth, we don't see many of your sort around here.”

That was my chance.

“No?” I said. “What about a boy? Last week.”

The maid shook her head.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive. Why?”

“Someone said there was a Lani boy going from door to door all down the street,” I tried.

She shook her head again. Her face was guileless, innocent. I would lay everything I had that she was telling the truth. “I think there was a boy at Ansveld's,” she said. “Across the street. Mr. Savil, the security guard, commented on it, but he never came here.”

“You're sure?”

“I'd have seen him. I'm never off duty when the shop is open. Mr. Macinnes doesn't like to be understaffed.”

I nodded. “Fancy district,” I said.

Bessie grinned. “Too fancy for the likes of me,” the maid agreed. “Or 'is Lordship, truth be told.” She said the last in a low voice.

“His Lordship?” I asked.

“Macinnes,” she said, her smile souring. “Jumped-up little nobody, he is. Amazed they 'aven't drummed him out.”

“It's a nice house,” I said. “Seems successful.”

“Oh, he makes his money, all right,” she agreed. “But this classy-gent routine is all an act. Why do you think he has the butler and the mahogany sideboard? So no one looks too closely at 'im.”

I matched her grin. “Bit shady, is he?” I asked.

“Oh we get all sorts in 'ere,” she said. “Especially after hours, when the posh folk 'ave gone 'ome.”

“Like who?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“Oh, I don't get to see them,” said Bessie. “If he knows they're coming, we're kept out of the way. They usually show up in the house anyway, not in the shop. Couple of weeks ago, some black fella came in. That was a first. Just wandered in from the street, big as life! And not a local black either. One of them 'unter types from the plains. Old bloke. Scared me 'alf to death, he did. Macinnes kept 'im talking for like a hour as well! I thought they'd just throw 'im out, but he was still 'ere when it came time to close.”

“But no Lani,” I said, guiding her back to the original question.

She shook her head definitely. “There,” she said, looking up from the dress and smiling, proud of herself. “That looks like it's got it.”

“Very nice,” I said. “No wonder Billy is so keen.”

She laughed at that, but her question—“You think he's keen?”—was real enough.

“Absolutely,” I said, thinking of Billy's two purses and his sweet and silly notion of not soiling Bessie's ring with stolen money.

“Well, that's nice,” said Bessie, pretending she didn't really care and smoothing my pinafore. “Just launder it as usual when you get 'ome and Her Ladyship shouldn't give you any more trouble.”

“Oh,” I said, “she'll find an excuse.”

“Don't they always,” said Bessie.

 

CHAPTER

18

I HAD NEVER BEEN
to the opera house. I had passed it many times, knew it as a landmark, an icon of the city, but it represented a version of the world in which I had no place. The prospect of going there now both thrilled me and so stirred my guts that I had to pretend to tie my boot just to sit down for a moment and breathe.

The building itself was a vast domed oval, every door and window ornamented with carved patterns and theatrical masks, every area of wall decorated with heraldic animals and coats of arms from the north. This was white Feldesland, and the carved beasts adorning its elegant and imposing exterior were as far from the creatures that roamed the bush only a few miles to our west as I could imagine.

Outside was cool, polished stone the color of pale sand, but inside were darker, richer colors: cobalt blues, emerald greens, and coral reds, all lavishly gilded. There were soft couches in grottoes, upholstered in thick velvet and trimmed with gold braid. Rich mosaics and bold statues filled every alcove, and they were executed not in the elegant northern style but as if they were copies of Mahweni and Lani subjects described to a sculptor who had never seen the originals. Here was a golden fountain in a turquoise pool decorated with Mahweni river spirits. There was a Lani monkey god covered in gold leaf, dancing on top of an elephant. It was luxuriant, even seductive, but strange, dreamlike.

I stood quite still, jostled by the crowd of ticket holders, blinking at the bizarre sumptuousness of the place, and feeling more than usually isolated. I kept my bonneted face turned down like a threatened tortoise.

“Isn't it just darling!” whispered Dahria. “The music is mostly a bore, but the place is so much fun that I come from time to time anyway.”

I said nothing.

At one end of the great curved lobby, between a pair of gilded columns, was a bar where fastidiously dressed ladies and gentlemen were congregating before going in to the performance. We drifted in that direction, surrounded by the cream of Bar-Selehm's high society. I saw faces I recognized from the newspapers—aristocrats, businessmen, and politicians—but the biggest shock came rather closer to home.

A man was reporting that the government had withdrawn its ambassador from Grappoli in the ongoing spat over the theft of the Beacon and that street protests were expected tonight in the largely black Morgessa District, which had always been a hotbed of political activism.

I turned, curious why the Mahweni would care about a diplomatic row with the Grappoli, and found myself inches from my sister Vestris. She looked radiant in wine-red silks trimmed with silver that evoked her Lani past while blending perfectly with her newfound status. She was in a circle of white men and women, one of whom, laughing loudly, was Stefan Von Strahden. I stared for a second, shocked and confused, and in that moment, Vestris turned absently to him and plucked a thread or hair from the lapel of his jacket without a word. He said nothing in response, and if he even looked her in the face, I did not see it.

I turned away before she saw me, my mind racing as fast as my pulse. I had to speak to her.

You are a servant,
said a haughty, irritating voice in my head that could have been Dahria's
. You will embarrass her. If people realize she is related to the likes of you …

But I had to at least let her see me. If we could just make eye contact, she would find a way to talk to me.

“You turned your back on me,” Dahria muttered into my ear. “May I remind you in what capacity you are here?”

“Sorry,” I whispered, though I did not turn.

“What is the matter with you?” Dahria hissed, her irritation mounting. “Turn around, girl! Why can't you—?” She hesitated, as if she had just seen or realized something. And then cooed, “I see. You
do
aim high, don't you? But I told you that the Right Honorable Mr. Von Strahden already has a lady in his life.”

It took a moment for me to realize what she was saying, and another moment not to correct her. I liked Von Strahden well enough because he was kind to me and treated me like a person, but that was all. What Dahria's remark also revealed was that she didn't know Vestris was my sister.

In the instant I decided that it was better that way.

At my back, the group laughed politely and I felt again the glow of Vestris's presence and the annoyance of being outside it. I turned abruptly and raised my bonneted face just enough that my sister's eyes fell upon me.

They widened, and her glossy lips parted in the smallest gasp.

Something flashed through her face, something more than surprise, and then she was excusing herself and moving quickly away from the group so that Von Strahden looked after her, his brow furrowed.

I lowered my head and followed, muttering apologies.

Vestris left the busiest part of the lobby and vanished behind one of the massive ornamental columns by an empty tea salon. As soon as I rounded the column, she was whispering feverishly into my ear. “What are you doing here, Anglet?”

“I'm working as a lady's maid,” I said, barely suppressing a giggle, like this was a game we were playing while we waited for Papa to come home from work.

“A maid?” Vestris demanded. “To whom?”

“Dahria Willinghouse,” I said, still grinning.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It's just a bit of fun,” I said. “Not like a real job.”

“We can't be seen together,” she said. “Not here.”

“Oh,” I said. She was right, but I was still a little crestfallen.

“I'm sorry, Ang, I really am, but reputation is everything with these people. If they knew … If they even thought…”

I saw the anxiety in her face and realized just how fragile her position was in this strange, elevated society, the Lani girl who made good. It was like being up on the chimneys. One false move …

“I know,” I said, meaning it. “I'm sorry. I just saw you and had to talk to you.”

“I understand,” she said, relaxing fractionally.

“I sent you a message, but you won't have got it yet,” I said.

“What?” she asked, still flustered.

“Just a note,” I said, “so you could contact me. I sent it to the address on the card you gave me.”

“Yes,” she said. “Right. Ang, I'm sorry, but I really have to—”

“I know,” I said. “Go.”

She relented a little at that. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Do you need money? Is there anything I can do?”

And that was all I needed, that look of concern, that willingness to help. I was in the glow again, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. “I'm fine,” I said, smiling. “I don't need anything. Go back to your friends.”

She leaned quickly under my bonnet and kissed me on the cheek, leaving once more the aroma of sandalwood and violets, and then she was gone.

I just stood there, cherishing the memory of her presence, her desire to help; then I took a breath and returned to Dahria, head bowed.

“There you are!” she said as I slid back to her side. “Where have you been, you maddening creature?”

I was about to mutter something about the toilet when I became aware of someone making a speech behind me. There was a patter of applause, and then the light changed, producing a soft intake of awe-inspired breath from the assembly.

I turned and glimpsed a large blond woman, middle aged and dressed in yards of pleated green taffeta that made her look like the prow ornament of a ship, beaming at the crowd, her arms open. At her throat she wore a pendant so bright that, even at this distance, it was hard to look directly at it.

“I think we just found the Dowager Lady Hamilton,” said Dahria.