Breath of Earth (21 page)

Ingrid and Cy ducked into the doorway. She felt the weight of stares on her. Whispers. Scrutiny. Some admiring, some sharp as stilettos. She stood a little straighter and looked at Cy. He looked so handsome, so out of place beside her . . . and yet he glanced at her and smiled. It was the same warm smile he'd offered her when they'd first met on the auxiliary steps.
He didn't question being there with her. He wasn't ashamed.

Damn it all, she wouldn't be ashamed either.

Cy showed their tickets at the door. The steward looked from one to the other, a thick eyebrow aloft, and winked at Cy as he motioned them on. Ingrid didn't flush or scowl. She walked on by.

The noise of protesters was replaced by the more austere, excited buzz of high society.

Outwardly, the Damcyan looked like most any of the towering brick structures in downtown. It was older yet had gracefully aged. The interior, in contrast, was that of an alcazar, a Moorish-style castle: checkerboard marble floors and sandstone walls and inlaid mosaics. The lobby featured triple archways with swirling columns. Palm trees lined the concourse, many growing from pots almost as tall as Ingrid. The ceiling featured myriad gold inlaid stars that made the whole space glimmer. The scent of cloves and smoke drifted in the air.

“The opera in Atlanta is designed to look like a factory.” Cy almost had to yell in her ear to be heard. “You even enter on a conveyor belt.”

“That would be amazing!” she shouted back. Mr. Sakaguchi had told her tales of the place ages ago.

They waded through the mob. A man stepped on her foot and Ingrid froze in alarm, but it was minor enough that the earth didn't react. Even so, her heart raced and she hurried onward.

As a season ticket holder, she knew where to find their seats at the dead center of the second tier. Mr. Sakaguchi was
comfortable in his wealth, but not extravagant enough to buy a private balcony.

“There.” Cy motioned over his right shoulder as he sat. Yearning swept over his features and was promptly replaced by practiced stoicism.

Unfortunately for them, George Augustus ranked among the extravagant. He had a private balcony.

From their vantage point, Ingrid thought all of the white men looked alike in their white suits, with a few black jackets mixed in for variety. A black man served drinks.

“How can we access him?” she asked, her stomach twisting with worry.

“I don't know. As a boy, I confess, I didn't pay attention to such details. Miss Ingrid, please face forward or we'll draw the wrong sort of attention.”

Back to formalities again. She sighed as she smoothed out her skirt.

“However,” he added, “it might be nice if you acted like you enjoyed my company.”

At the renewed softness in his voice, she couldn't help but smile. “Maybe I'm not a good actress.”

“Or maybe I'm lousy company.” He released a long breath. “I'm nervous to see him, and not simply because of the A-and-A and everything we found yesterday. I'm nervous to see him, period. It's been a long time.”

She was nervous about this meeting for different reasons. Could George Augustus be trusted to hide his son's reappearance? If the man was a participant in the Gaia Project, what sort of scruples did he have? Not like the Cordilleran Auxiliary
had been innocent. She knew there had been corruption among the wardens and graft to Mayor Butterfield, but the Augustinian Company was the single most powerful American company behind the Unified Pacific. Even Japan, technologically advanced as it was, clambered for their creations. That kind of power did something to a person.

“Pardon me.” A man edged along the aisle toward them. He was middle-aged, a toothpick of a mustache stretching across his upper lip. “You're the girl who works for the wardens, yes? The Cordilleran?”

Ingrid sat a bit straighter. “Yes, I am. How can I help you, sir?” She would end up playing secretary after all, it seemed.

The man's attention shifted to Cy, there in Mr. Sakaguchi's seat. “Such a tragedy about the auxiliary. Terrible news.” Pause. “I had a standing order for several pieces of kermanite, and I was wondering about the status of the stones.”

A hundred dead, and this man fussed over his rocks?

“There's a lot to sort through right now, Mister . . . ?” Cy's voice was smooth and gentle.

“Campbell. Talladega Campbell.”

“Well, Mr. Campbell, I assure you, the matter will be addressed very soon. Right now there are matters of grief to attend to, but I assure you, the wardens will take care of you and everyone else.”

When Cy rolled out the southern charm, the man could lull a Porterman to a tower in the thick of a cyclone.

“Why yes, of course. My condolences. I'll hear from you soon, then?”

“Most assuredly.” Cy smiled as the fellow backed off.

“Baka.” Ingrid growled beneath her breath, talking to herself as much as the departing man, then looked sidelong at Cy. “If Mr. Sakaguchi is out of town, he lends these seats to someone from the auxiliary. Of course, everyone's going to assume you're a visiting warden, here to help. No one knows the dire straits the city's in.”

That old anger flared in her chest. Cy didn't have to do anything but sit there, in that chair, and because he was a man, he gained the lofty status of a warden. And here she was—the secretary, the ornament, barely worthy of note.

She plastered on a smile for the next three men who approached with similar inquiries. Two were concerned about standing orders. The last heavily hinted that he detected an imminent kermanite crisis affecting the West Coast and that the wardens would financially benefit by diversifying their investments with orichalcum mines up in Baranov. Cy handled each man with such good-natured sincerity that Ingrid almost believed him.

“Hellfire,” he growled at her after the last man left. “Do wardens deal with this every time they step out the door?”

“Yes. Mr. Antonelli and Mr. Kealoha would only discuss kermanite transactions by appointment, for that very reason. Mr. Sakaguchi is more flexible.” It still felt so wrong to speak of the other wardens in the past tense.

A buxom uniformed girl worked her way down the aisle as she took drink orders. Ingrid pursed her lips in thought. “Cy, I could dress as a servant to gain access to the balcony.”

“You've been reading dime novels, hmm?”

She blushed. “It's just an idea—”

“It's a fine idea, but the problem is that the men in those balconies tend to use their own servants for security's sake. See the black man up there? That's Reddy. He's been with Father since before I was born. The man's brilliant. Remembers anything anyone ever said, and as scrappy as a wyvern in a fight. You'd never get past the door.”

She actually recognized Reddy. He'd come to the auxiliary before. He'd been quiet and pleasant, with a shrewd sparkle in his eye. She likely knew many of the most powerful men in the world, not by their names or faces, but by their servants.

The orchestra began to take their places. The mood of the place shifted. She glanced back at the balcony.

“The Cordilleran Auxiliary owns an interest in the mine down south. So does your father. There's common ground there, literally,” she whispered. “He's bound to know what happened on Sunday and would be as concerned as anyone, probably more so.”

Cy nodded. “Some eighty percent of large-chunk kermanite orders are for the military. You're right, we need to take the initiative and play this out.”

The serving girl reached them as the lights dimmed. “Would you like to order a drink?” she asked, her accent French.

“Actually,” Cy said, “I was wondering if you could get a message to George Augustus regarding a business deal. We have reservations afterward at—” He looked to Ingrid.

“Quist's,” she said.

“Quist's, and I was hoping he'd be there as well.”

She nodded with a coy smile. “And who should I say is inquiring?”

“The Cordilleran Auxiliary.” He pulled something from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. She slowly drew her fingers across his.

“I will relay that and get back to you by intermission. No drinks now, sir? Madam?” They both shook their heads and she moved on, the curve of her hips brushing Cy's knees as she passed.

“You're not holding energy right now, are you?” Cy asked in a very low voice.

“No.”

“Good. The woman's just trying to earn an extra tip. Try not to throw her into the orchestra pit when she comes back, or at least, let her speak first.” His eyes sparkled with mirth.

“You!” She kicked his foot.

“That proves you're telling the truth. My foot didn't shatter.”

She glared at him, but it was a fond sort of glare. Strings hummed from the pit below. Cymbals crashed, and trumpets burst out in triumphant fanfare. Young Lincoln strode onto the stage. Ingrid settled back in her seat.

It was strange, really, how the pleasure of the opera made all the terrible events of the past few days fade away. Mr. Sakaguchi had been so fond of
Lincoln
he practically wore out his Graphophone records, and arranged daily schedules around anticipated broadcasts of live shows over the Marconi. She knew every song and so much of the dialogue that she mouthed key lines with the actors.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and not simply because of the fine performances onstage. Oh, how Mr. Sakaguchi would have loved this production.

It also comforted her that no blue fog haunted the Damcyan. Her thin slippers didn't even transmit any movement. She surmised there were multiple floors beneath her seat, and likely substantial metal supports.

Fully gripped by both joy and longing, she didn't feel any annoyance when the serving girl sauntered by during a quiet moment. The woman slipped a note into Cy's hand, and he returned the favor with a coin. Ingrid leaned over to read the folded paper.

Will talk at Quist's. Need status reports. —G. Aug.

“It's his handwriting,” Cy whispered.

Ingrid slipped her hand against his and squeezed. Gossip be damned. This was a minor thing compared to their intimacy over the past day. He'd seen everything from her bloomers to her body soaking wet, not to mention the fact she'd worn his own clothes for a time.

Then there was that kiss—oh, that kiss. She felt all hot and shivery at the very thought of it. But being in public or not didn't matter. Right now he needed some support, and by God, she'd give it.

Cy's thumb rubbed the back of her knuckles in a slow circle, his coarse skin sending a tingle up her forearm. He didn't let go, not until the curtain dropped for intermission, and they joined the masses in the lavish corridors. Circumstances required they go their separate ways for a few minutes. As Ingrid returned from the powder room, she paused to look down at the orchestra.

The Damcyan was designed to awe, and it succeeded. Elegant sandstone columns stretched so high she had to crane her head to take in their full length. Realistic stars dappled the ceiling.

When she looked down at the stage again, she spied Victoria Rossi with her camera.

The woman had set up her gear on the far side. She wore a plush red gown that matched the rich shade of the upholstered seats. Her wavy black hair was coiled atop her head like a resting snake, perfect ringlets drifting by her ears. She looked like a model for a Pre-Raphaelite artist.

Miss Rossi angled her camera toward the magnificent pillars, then the drapery of the curtains, and then out to the seats as they began to fill again.

Strange, how that woman had been found over the past few days in so many places that seemed like quintessential San Francisco.

Despite Miss Rossi's rudeness the last time they spoke, Ingrid wouldn't mind talking to her now. The simple fact was, Miss Rossi was probably the most knowledgeable person she knew in regard to local fantastics in the wild, especially within the bay. She had even carried photographs of California selkies in her shop, though they hadn't sold that well. “Too native-looking,” an adept from the auxiliary had commented as he browsed. Imported postcards of fair-skinned Scottish and Irish selkies sold better.

Ingrid retreated to her seat. Cy greeted her with a smile as he politely said farewell to yet another concerned customer of the auxiliary. It was as if word of their presence had spread.

That realization sent a cold chill through her.

“Cy,” she murmured as she sat. “If these customers know to approach us here, what about Captain Sutcliff?”

He considered that for a moment. “There's no warrant out for your arrest—or no notice in the paper, at least. I checked
today. A fellow a few minutes ago inquired about Mr. Sakaguchi, said he'd heard of a fuss at his house. I told him the warden was in protective custody and not to worry.”

“Protective custody.” She flinched. “I suppose that's true, in a way.”

“Sorry.” Sympathy warmed his eyes. He tugged at the outer seam of his pant leg, smoothing some invisible irritation. “My gut feeling is that word will spread quickly once the opera's done.”

“We'll need to watch our shadows, then.”

“Did we ever stop?”

The opera resumed with the mournful wail of clarinets. The performance reached an emotional crescendo at Lincoln's death as singers from the shadows sang “Sweet Freedom, Take Me Home.”

Ingrid's lip quivered as she fought back emotion. Mr. Sakaguchi adored this aria. She had asked him once if it made him think of Japan, and he had shaken his head. “No,” he said. “It makes me think of people, not places,” and with fondness gazed across the room to the kitchen, where they could barely spy Mama through the door. She kneaded dough with the brutality of an Ambassador in an interrogation.

Ingrid started to bawl. She fumbled open her satin clutch, belatedly remembering that the Chinese woman hadn't included a handkerchief. Ingrid had, however, brought Mama's revolver. Priorities.