by Carrie Patel
“Sir, when has Recoletta ever handled a murder investigation this way?” Even Malone was beginning to lose her composure.
“It’s the Council’s duty to set the policy and yours to abide by it, Inspector.”
“This is one killer, Councilor. Not an army,” Malone said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ruthers’s quick flare of fury echoed in the rotunda. “It is unprecedented! The way this individual is attacking the very peace and stability of our city is intolerable.”
“You mean the peace and stability of your neighborhood,” she said, shooting him a final cool glare. The conversation was over.
“Inspector, you take too many liberties. Now you will have to leave before I have you and your partner detained for interfering,” he said. “Dominguez, if you will.”
A spring in his step, Dominguez once again escorted the detectives away, leaving them after he had marched them ten paces into the surface street. Smoothing the wrinkles in his coat, Sundar looked at Malone, his round eyes ringed with anxiety.
“Can he really do that?”
Malone was silent for several moments. “Yes, I think he can. I just never thought he would.”
As Malone and Sundar stood in the streets under a bank of gathering storm clouds, the Council’s machines were already in motion. The city guards spread throughout Recoletta like the reaching vines of a creeper. Citizens blinked at the shining bayonets, melting into tunnels as the guards took their posts throughout the city. They would exchange whispers and glances with their neighbors until, coming to a notice board, they could read a freshly-pasted announcement declaring the following in boldface letters:
“DELINQUENT ON THE LOOSE. CITY-WIDE CURFEW AT 9.00PM. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO THE CITY GUARD. THESE MEASURES TO CONTINUE INDEFINITELY.”
Chapter 6
The Outsiders
The remainder of Jane’s week, like her headaches, passed without incident. With the Guard patrolling Recoletta’s passages and the rumors surrounding the murders floating atop the public consciousness like a film of scum, the city resonated with tension. Suspicious reports, mostly from the Vineyard, persisted, and agents of the Council hounded the poorer districts in search of the “delinquent”. Nonetheless, the Council’s investigations led nowhere.
The attacks, however, had stopped. In the current atmosphere, crime had almost stopped altogether. Would-be crooks had as much to worry about from their over-vigilant neighbors as they did from the guards who scoured the streets and tunnels. It was as if the collective paralysis of the sheltered and privileged Vineyard had dripped down and saturated the rougher districts, leaving their denizens stunned and benign. This moratorium would have been a comfort to most people were it not for the pervasive feeling of being watched. Even for the whitenails, a certain vulnerability had invaded daily life.
Jane was still marked by her experience. The throbbing and tingling had left her skull, but a disquiet had lodged in her heart. It followed at her heels on the most mundane errands and settled beside her when she lay in bed at night. Despite Fredrick’s suspicion that the Municipal Police no longer had jurisdiction over the murder contracts, Jane gratefully noticed a black-clad officer nearly every time she passed the entrance to her apartment warren, just as Inspector Malone had promised.
But today was the day of the gala, and her lingering fears were eclipsed by that delicious, fluttering sense of anticipation and, she was surprised to note, by a touch of a different dread. Working for the prestigious families of Recoletta gave her an idea as to the appropriate decorum in social settings, but witnessing these manners and practicing them were two separate matters. Fortunately, Fredrick was more accustomed to these situations and had coached her throughout the week:
“Just remember: curtsy, don’t bow. You’re not a man, and you’re not a servant. Not at the gala, anyway.”
Jane scowled. “I’m not a servant at all,” she said. “I’m a laundress-for-hire. It’s different.”
Fredrick brandished the first two fingers of his right hand in a theatrical “V.” “Mistake number two! Don’t correct anybody. If you can’t think of anything agreeable to say, just go with, ‘How interesting that you should say so’.”
Jane looked back at the starched folds of her skirts, attempting to mask her annoyance with another practice curtsy. “I think I’d take all of this a lot better if it weren’t coming from you, the most obstinate and least proper person I know.”
“I never follow advice, not even my own. But I know what I’m talking about.”
She smirked. “How interesting that you should say so.”
After a week of these lessons and dancing in Jane’s den, the day of the gala had arrived. Restless, she arose early and completed her work by mid-morning. She spent the later part of the morning blighted by that anxious idleness that prevents one from accomplishing much of anything on the cusp of something momentous. After a meager lunch, she began her preparations for the evening: bathing, grooming, and dressing. By the time she went next door to meet her escort, it was hard to imagine how such a slow day had passed so quickly.
Fredrick answered the knock with a shouted “Come in!” and she found him standing by his dressing table, straightening a tie. He wore a trim tuxedo with longish tails that would have looked gaudy on a less ostentatious man. Jane had selected a gown that one of her whitenail clients had discarded and left to her. With her keen eye for detail, she had tailored its fit for her smallish figure and replaced outmoded tucks and stitches with more contemporary alterations. Now, Jane cut an angelic figure, swathed in creamy, diaphanous fabrics that wrapped her frame and floated behind her. Her dark locks were tucked at the back of her head and secured with a complex arrangement of pins. Looking over from his fussing, Fredrick gave a low whistle.
“Well! You can stop worrying that your clients may recognize you tonight. I hardly can, myself.”
“I think you mean that as a compliment, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Please do. I generally need it.”
“But I can’t give you any more time to obsess over your hair. Are you really not finished yet?”
Licking his forefinger, Fredrick gave the edges of his mustache a playful tweak and affected a snobbish accent. “Dear girl, it is but the work of a moment.” With that, he tucked his billfold into an inside jacket pocket and, taking Jane’s arm in his own, whisked out of the apartment. They reached the surface, and he hailed a horse-drawn cab.
“Fredrick,” Jane said, climbing into the coach, “are you sure we can go by the surface streets?” She looked around, her brow lined with worry. “I mean, is it proper?”
He waved a hand, balancing in the open door of the cab with the other. “Don’t worry about it. Plenty of people will be doing the same thing. Besides, if you haven’t seen the Brummell Hall veranda by night, you really must.” He slid into the seat next to her. “And what with the curfew, you won’t have many other chances.” The festivities would last well beyond the usual 9.00pm deadline, but as in most things, the whitenails and their affairs enjoyed some leeway.
Fredrick’s skillful banter banished any foreboding Jane felt about the evening. He turned her mind from preoccupations with custom and class to visions of laden banquet tables and dashing young bachelors and, rolling through the streets, her anticipation mounted as the glamour of her surroundings increased. In the Vineyard, tiny lights had been set at every corner in celebration of the evening’s festivities, covering the district in a sparkling frosting. The gardens, too, were conspicuous with diamond-like twinkles. Beams of colored light in the distance announced their destination.
They finally came to a halt in front of Brummell Hall, a building that was to pomp and fashion what the Barracks was to might and power. Surrounded by columns of light in the early evening, its rich white marble glowed with an ethereal luster. Pathways lined in low flames led from the drive, where ladies and gentlemen exited their carriages, through
a garden of pruned hedge lines and dewy rosebushes. At the entrance, glowing columns supported the open section of the veranda. Her skin prickling in the pleasant, late autumn chill, Jane realized that she was already halfway through the garden but still transfixed on the sights around her. It was just enough to mask the presence of glowering guards.
She and Fredrick followed the stream of people to a wide staircase, its velvet-lined steps curving down and into the main hall. Jane steadied herself with one hand on the thick marble balustrade as the hall came into view. The overwhelming whiteness above was replaced here with shimmering gold and crystal. A sparkling, golden hall, lined with mirrors, stretched before them, the plush red carpet crunching softly underneath their shoes. Jane gasped at the floor-length mirrors she passed, her radiantly draped figure looking like a vision from someone else’s dream. A thousand mirrored iterations of her doe-eyed expression gazed back at her with sympathy.
This strange and marvelous passage opened into the ballroom, where delicate, spiraling columns set off the wings. Between these, the dome of the ballroom rose toward the horizon. Chandeliers of glass and crystal dispelled the faintest hint of a shadow, with the grand device in the center of the ballroom burning as high and bright as a beacon. Each ghostly tongue of fire danced in reflections and refractions inside the crystal. Jane’s shoes clapped on the tiled floor, barely audible amidst the murmur of conversations.
She felt a not-too-subtle jolt at her arm as Fredrick tugged her in the direction of the banquet table. Crossing to the far end of the ballroom, she saw the orchestra situated on a stage against one wall. Their tranquil minuet served as a backdrop for the chattering groups of invitees. Fredrick loaded a plate for himself, and, seeing Jane’s absorption with their surroundings, fixed one for her as well.
Jane picked at a deviled egg as she scanned the clusters of dignitaries and socialites. Her gaze flitted now and then to the trickle of people still filing into the ballroom and swept the smaller halls in the wings where a few came and went. She even watched the curtained doorways through which the attendants passed.
Only vaguely did she hear Fredrick mumble at her.
“Are you going to finish any of this?” Staring at her plate, he waited the obligatory beat. “Mind if I do?” She shook her head as he seized the dish. “Oh, here comes the show,” he said between bites of salmon canapé.
A hush fell over the crowd, and the orchestra rushed to their coda. The rooster-like man from the market waited on the stage. He wore the stiff green robes of a councilor, the rigid collar rising behind his neck and opening at his throat. The outer garment fell straight down to his feet, streamlining his figure to a solid pillar of green broken only by the slit down the front where the two halves of the sheath met.
Looking off to the side, Jane saw eight men and women attired in the same manner. She picked out Hollens and recognized Phineas, the egg-like man, his air of studied poise refuted by his shining forehead. She returned her gaze to the man on stage, recalling with a jolt that this was Ruthers, the informal leader of the Council. A little trill of urgency rippled in her stomach as she debated what to do. Silence fell over the room, and her only option for the moment was to listen.
Ruthers folded his hands in front of his chest. The commanding chill in his voice shattered the fatherly image. “Ladies and gentlemen of the city, allow me to express my sincerest delight.” He used the word like a knife.
“You represent the finest and most distinguished of our great city. Tonight we welcome our neighbors from South Haven,” he said with a sweep of his arm. Jane followed his motion and saw a handful of men and women in burgundy robes standing in a secluded cluster a little ways off from Recoletta’s councilors. They flashed stiff, decorous smiles at their introduction.
Councilor Ruthers continued as the applause faded. “This has been an eventful week in our fair city, but you all have seen how the strong arm of justice descends in protection when trouble arises.” He gestured grandiosely at the guards stationed around the room. “And I know you share my joy at the safety and tranquility that has returned to Recoletta.” Scattered nods testified to the general agreement. Something was building.
The councilor’s voice darkened. “Indeed, it has always been our destiny to seize glory from misfortune. Through strength and determination we can overcome the failures of the past as well as those individuals who would hold us back. We must press forward as a city, and we must recognize those sacrifices that are necessary to ensure our continued survival and prosperity. This is as true today as it was when our city was first born from the ashes of decadence and destruction.” He glared around the room, challenging his audience. Mouths were clamped shut and eyes cast down. Even from Councilor Ruthers, such a direct reference to the antebellum past was unsettlingly rare. Satisfied, he continued.
“Thus, it is with a spirit of triumph that we receive our neighbors here today. Let us welcome them in a manner befitting our city’s magnificence.” Grateful for the change in pace, the audience clapped with gusto.
“Tonight, let us not concern ourselves with the trials that lie before us. This is a night of commemoration, and we celebrate our cooperation as brother territories.” Ruthers smiled at the vigorous cheers, and the South Haven representatives nodded quietly. With a magnanimous flourish toward the orchestra, he backed from the stage, and the music swelled.
Jane lowered her eyes from the stage and had turned to look again at the South Haven delegation when her breath caught in her throat. Leaning against one of the winding pillars, in almost the same posture in which she had first seen him, Roman Arnault stood with his long hair slicked back, sipping pale spirits from a vial and lazily gazing about the ballroom. Something in her chest fluttered as she watched him unnoticed.
Her reverie was broken by Fredrick’s gentle prompting. “How rude of me, Jane. I keep forgetting that you don’t know anyone here. Let me steer you into friendlier waters.” Popping a cheese-stuffed olive into his mouth and placing his hand on her back, Fredrick guided her toward a gaggle of older women congregated at the other end of the room.
“They’re a little dusty, but they’re good people,” he whispered. “Stick with them and they’ll take care of you. Just watch their claws.”
“Fredrick,” she said, stopping him. “The man who just spoke…”
His eyebrows lifted from behind his plate of food. “Ruthers?”
“I saw him last week. In the market.”
“Even councilors go shopping, Jane.”
“That’s not what I mean. He was with one of the other councilors – the short, bald one. Phineas. It was just the two of them, and they were whispering about something.”
“Be thankful they weren’t shouting about it. I’ve heard the Council sessions can be chaos once they get going.” Fredrick swallowed another olive.
“You’re missing the point! They’d come all the way to the market to avoid being noticed. Really, how often do you think two councilors actually go by themselves to pick up groceries? If they needed something, they’d send their staff. Anyway, the whole time they were there, they were whispering about something, and Phineas seemed terrified–”
“Hello-o, Jane, did you see the man on stage? And did you listen to a word he said? It’s all very innocuous-sounding; Councilor Ruthers practically runs Recoletta, and he just reminded us of that. There may be a you-know-what out there,” Fredrick said, “but in here, we’re surrounded by guys that look like that.” He nodded at one of the guards across the room, a man armed with a bayonet and no apparent personality. “And those guys all follow Ruthers. That’s his way of pointing out that while there’s only one ‘delinquent’, there are thousands of guards, so the rest of us had best stay in line.”
“But I think they were plotting–”
“Of course they were plotting, Jane! What do you think councilors do? And I know what you’re going to say next, so yes, it probably did have something to do with the murders. But so what? That’s w
hat everybody’s talking about.” Fredrick skewered another three olives with a toothpick and slid them into his mouth. “So,” he said between bites, “unless you heard them say something about a new mistress or a new quartz vein, there’s no news.”
Defeated, Jane allowed Fredrick to usher her again toward his destination. When they moved into range, a group of three elderly women looked over and smiled politely, awaiting their introductions. They were older than many of the other attendees, and more showily dressed, dripping with jewels. As Jane noticed their ring-laden fingers, she realized what Fredrick had meant when he’d warned her about their claws. Their nails were easily four inches long and as strong and sharp as daggers. Jane rarely saw anyone take the whitenail tradition to this extreme, and those who did came from old families and old money. Lots of it.
“Jane, allow me to introduce to you the honored and esteemed Lady Myra Lachesse, Madame Francine Attrop, and Madame Lucinda Clothoe. Ladies, may I present my very dear friend, Miss Jane Lin.” They gave Jane a polite appraisal while she executed the much-practiced five-step curtsy. Fredrick glowed with pride.
“How charming,” said Madame Attrop.
“It is always a pleasure to meet somebody new,” Lady Lachesse said. “We so rarely do at these events.” Madame Clothoe only smiled and nodded.
“Where do you come from, my dear?” asked Lady Lachesse.
“I live on the east side, next door to Mr Anders.” Jane avoided mentioning its proximity to the factory districts.
“How delightful. And where are your people from?”
Fredrick cut in. “Ah, yes, Miss Lin and I go way back, and you could even say–”
“Hush, Freddie, we’re talking to her,” Madame Attrop said. The trio looked back at Jane, and Fredrick blanched apologetically, avoiding her eye.
