by Carrie Patel
“It’s beautiful.” Her gaze rested on the wall of bookshelves, the embossed covers winking at her in the fire’s glow. In the light, she could just make out the titles of the copies nearest her.
Roman circled to the chair across from her and sat, resting on one elbow. “What brings you here this late?”
Fingering the nap on the arm of her chair, Jane realized that she had not fully answered that question for herself. “I read about your incident in the paper, and I wanted to see how you are.”
“A house call?” he asked with feigned shock.
“I suppose so.”
“I’m touched. Did you have any trouble getting here?”
“Not really.” She hesitated. “Well, I ran into one guard.”
“He didn’t stop you?”
Jane blushed. “I told him I was on my way home.”
His eyes widened even further and he leaned forward. “You lied to the City Guard? Jane, I’m shocked… and proud. This is unlike you.”
“I’m a little surprised, myself.” Smiling, she relaxed. “Funny, though, it wasn’t as hard as I thought.”
“You fooled him?”
“I got lucky, I’d say. I suppose I still have some learning to do to really trick anyone.” She looked back at him and saw his grin spreading, his gaze intent. Embarrassed, she glanced back at the fire. “It hardly compares with your adventures, though. How are you feeling?”
He touched the welt above his cheek. “Not too bad. But I will have to ask you to keep your wit at a minimum,” he said, running a hand over the cut in his side.
Jane was surprised to notice how contentedly she had reclined in her own chair, relaxing at his good humor. Something in the shape of his posture or the slant of his smile suggested a different man from the one she had met at the gala or even at Hollens’s place. If this was the change that a knock on the head could produce, she could not bring herself to regret his misfortune.
He stretched in his own chair and spoke again. “I’m relieved to see you here, Jane. After facing doctors, councilors, and inspectors all day, it’s good to see a friendly face.”
The word “inspectors” stung her with a tiny but precise force, and she realized part of what had driven her here: a desire to investigate. Basking in warmth from more than the hearth, she cringed at the thought of betraying this charming new Roman, but she remembered her conversation with Malone. Besides, even he had admired her newfound cunning, hadn’t he?
She squinted vaguely, assuming a look that, she hoped, suggested she had just thought of something. “Did you say ‘inspectors’? That’s funny, I thought they weren’t supposed to investigate the Vineyard murders anymore.” She looked over at Roman, hoping that he would think nothing of the heat rising in her face. “Fredrick told me,” she added. “He hears all sorts of things at the paper, and he generally doesn’t keep them to himself.”
“He’s right. Unfortunately, some people are as dogged as they are ignorant.” A dark expression clouded his features, and Jane decided to move the conversation along.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I’m glad you’re alive.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Do you remember anything about how it happened?”
“Only vaguely. It was over in a flash.” He looked down at his right side and touched his cheekbone again. “I kept reminders of the significant events, though.”
Jane grinned. “It’s just still so hard to believe all of it. Who could do something like that?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You mean you didn’t get a look at him during the attack?”
“I could be asking you the same thing,” he said. She swallowed and wondered if she was pressing too hard.
“But wait, Fredrick never published my name. How did you know about–?”
“Jane, you forget who I work for. The Council knows everything. Almost everything,” he added gently.
“But not the name of the murderer.”
A crooked smile spread from one cheek to the other. “No, not the name of the murderer.” Jane blinked away the image of Roman’s toothy grin. Her lack of subtlety felt like a weight around her ankles.
“I suppose Ruthers isn’t too happy about that,” she said. An instant of shock registered on Roman’s face, and she corrected herself. “Councilor Ruthers, I mean.”
“No, I can’t say he is.”
“I shouldn’t be so nosy. But going through the whitenails’ dirty laundry for five years now, I never would have guessed that there was so much I didn’t know.”
Roman took an iron poker from a stand by the fireplace and stirred the burning logs. “You get a rather intimate view of your clients’ personal lives, wouldn’t you say?”
She watched the iron probe the flames. “That’s true.”
“Do you ever snoop on them?” As Jane opened her mouth to answer, Roman turned his head and regarded her with a knowing gaze. She thought back to their meeting at Hollens’s residence.
“Sometimes you can’t help but notice things.”
He nodded. “Well put. And do you think you notice more than most people?”
“I’ve never thought about it. A lot of my job is about attention to detail, though.” She looked up at him, but he stared back, expectant. “I suppose yes, then.”
“And what,” he said, replacing the poker, “do you supposed distinguishes people who notice things from people who don’t?”
Her eyebrows came together on her forehead. “I couldn’t begin to say. It has a lot to do with what people are like, doesn’t it?”
“Take a step back. What makes you a good laundress? I’m assuming, of course,” he said with a smile and a gesture in her direction, “that you’re an excellent one.”
“I know how to fix problems – stains and rips.”
“And how do you know when to fix a problem?”
“Well, first…” She cocked her head and looked up at the mantel. “I know what I’m looking for.”
“Yes.” Roman leaned back in his armchair and propped his left heel on his opposite knee. “You know what you’re looking for.” He smiled at her. “You’ve gotten at the heart of that question. But here’s another: does someone tell you what you’re looking for, or do you figure it out yourself?”
“A bit of both, I guess.” In the silence that followed, Jane feared the unspoken question, and what are you looking for here?
Instead of asking, Roman kicked his left leg to the floor and sat forward again. “You seem to have a taste for secrets, Jane. If you’re still feeling bold, I’d like to show you something.” Roman tilted his head at her, the question dancing in his eyes. Jane blinked her surprise, a thrill of anticipation swirling in her stomach.
“OK.”
He rose from his chair and moved to the far side of the bookcase, and she followed. “I won’t ask about the most dangerous item you’ve ever come across in a client’s residence,” he said, running his finger across a row of spines, “because I guarantee it won’t top this.” He pushed several volumes aside, revealing blank paneling at the end of the shelf. Pressing against one edge, he slid the dark wood aside to uncover a hidden compartment stocked with an assortment of books and papers. He extracted a thick tome and placed it in her hands.
“The Riverside Shakespeare,” she read. “What is this?”
“A collection of plays.” He watched her examine the cover. “Many of them historical.”
Her head snapped up, and she instinctively held the book away from her body. “This can’t be legal,” she whispered.
“Of course not. It’s one of the most dangerous books around.”
She marveled at the cover, hard and worn, with no indication of the sinister enigmas beneath it. It gingerly rested on her fingertips, and she realized that she was holding it out to Roman. He made no move to take it back. “Why?”
“Why is it dangerous? Besides containing histo
ry, many of the works inside it demonstrate a disturbing contempt for authority. Rulers are installed and unseated about as often as they sneeze.” His eyes rolled quickly in their sockets, and his even voice rose in pitch. “Heaven forbid people should get the idea that leadership is seized rather than bred.”
“No, why are you showing this to me?”
“You like books. And secrets.” He took the volume from her, replacing it in its compartment. As he leaned it back into its place, her eyes fell on the stack of papers wedged behind it. Shuffled and dog-eared, they stood out from straight-backed books sandwiching them. A worn folder barely kept them together, and Jane could just make out “Prometheus” in faded lettering across the spine. “And I like sharing both with you.”
“Does the Council know?”
“They let me get away with a lot, but they don’t know about this. Are you going to tell them?”
She tried to laugh. “Of course not.”
His eyes softened as he squared his shoulders and regarded her. “And again the poor host. You walked all the way here, and I haven’t offered you any refreshment. May I make you some tea?”
What Jane really craved was a minute alone with the sheaf of papers. “I’d love some.”
He turned toward the kitchen and looked back at her, smiling with something that looked like regret. “We can’t hide from what we are, each of us. I’d like to tell you that we’re instruments of a destiny written in the stars, but I don’t believe in plans. We only follow what’s in our blood, and I hope you don’t judge me too harshly for what’s in mine,” he said with strange tenderness. “I have to heat the water, so you’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes.” He crossed the room and she heard him opening cupboards in the kitchen. Jane glided to the shelf and swept the loose pages from between the books, glancing back at the hall where Roman had disappeared.
Flipping through the pages, she saw a long list of names and phrases, none of which she recognized. As she thumbed through several sheets of the same, she realized she was looking at a long list of titles. An inventory – too extensive to relate to Roman’s personal bookshelves, but perhaps a catalog of the Department of Preservation? It seemed to fit, especially since Roman maintained his own collection of clandestine literature. Still, she found herself vaguely disappointed until she reached the last sheet.
It was a map, worn and covered in mottled colors that could have been geographic features or stains. Recoletta sat at the center, but the map’s last owner had been more interested in a place called “Fairview,” a commune several inches south of Recoletta. That, and a large, circled dot in an otherwise empty portion of the map. Someone had written in the margin:
“IBRA Y RES – 80 miles south of Fairview Commune, due E of river from giant veranda.”
“Is this how you usually repay hospitality?”
Jane whirled to see Roman standing inches away, his eyes boring into her. There was no tea.
“I was–”
“What you were doing is obvious, and you’re a fool to think you could sneak it past me.”
“I know how this looks, but–”
“Yes, Jane, please enlighten me. Exactly how does this look?” His fury was withering, his voice rising over the pounding of her heart.
“Roman, I’m not a spy, I swear.”
“You forget that I am, and I’ll always be two steps ahead of you. In fact, I’m insulted that you could think otherwise.” He snatched the papers from her grasp and thumped them on a side table with menacing deliberation. Clamping a hand on her shoulder, he led her back toward the fireplace. Jane began to feel terror rising like bile in her throat.
“No, please don’t.” She tugged feebly against his grip.
“Don’t what?” Roman spun her to face him. “What exactly are you afraid of?” His voice was dangerously low, but she could still hear its obsidian edge. “Not so brave anymore. What am I going to do with you?” He pulled her closer until she could count the blue rays in his irises. “Answer.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said, not daring to speak above a whisper. Her shoulder was losing feeling under his iron grip. Looking down, he released his hold, and she took two tentative steps back. The man facing her was not the same one who had admitted her into the domicile thirty minutes ago. The warmth was drained from his expression, and glaring at her in the firelight, something deadlier than his old venom simmered under the surface. She expected to read fury in his eyes and a snarl on his lips, but everything about him radiated calculated coldness and perfect calm.
“What did you come here looking for?”
She opened her mouth with an answer but stopped. “I didn’t know,” she finally said.
He almost smiled. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that’s true.” His voice oozed condescension.
“I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to help.”
“Of course you did. The problem is, I don’t think you really know who you’re helping or why.”
“Listen, can’t we–”
In one quick movement, he drew a pistol and brought it to bear on her. “Stop. You forget that you’re not made of the right stuff. You may be an angel, my dear, but you can’t fly.”
The sight of the gun aimed at her chest silenced her. Then he spoke again. “If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like your parents.”
Jane’s blood froze. “How do you know about my parents?”
“How do you think, Miss Lin?”
“Are you telling me that you…?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was thirteen years old when your parents died. But someone else did.”
Jane was struggling to speak. “My parents were…”
“Murdered.” The word sounded like something cold and metal in Roman’s mouth. “They were writers, but, more importantly, they were snoops.”
Her voice quavered. “And you’ve known…”
“Yes, since I met you. I recognized your name immediately.”
She paused, absorbing the new information. “I’ve never heard of any writers named Lin.”
“They wrote under a nom de plume. The Brownings.” He saw recognition dawn in her eyes. “Yes, like the ancient poets. Unfortunately for your parents, some of their writings were too political.”
Something inside Jane was changing. Anger began to replace her fear. “How–?”
“I’ve nothing more to say on the subject. Your parents were reckless meddlers, and you would do best not to follow their example.”
“Tell me.” The heat returned to her face.
“Enough.” He thumbed the hammer on his gun. “Your parents got what was coming to them, and if you don’t learn when to abandon a line of inquiry, so will you.”
Her entire body shook as she glared at him. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re a fool.” A sadistic grin twisted his mouth. “Did it ever strike you as odd that the maid found you so quickly? And the hours she keeps!” He stared at her, relishing her bewilderment. “She does much more than clean houses. I sent Olivia Saavedra. And if you don’t exercise discretion, you’ll find out why.”
Jane blanched, shocked into silence again.
“You’ll find a carriage waiting at the surface,” he said. “I don’t need to tell you not to mention this night to anyone.”
“Are you going to shoot me if I do?”
“I won’t have to. Stay out of this, Jane. You don’t know what you’re interfering with. Now get out.” He nodded at the stairs.
She began to take a step toward the landing, but she stopped. “You still don’t frighten me.”
“It’s just the adrenaline talking. Go.” Jane turned toward the stairs and he lowered his gun.
“Jane.” She stopped on the threshold at the sound of her name. “If you ever try anything like this again, I will not be so lenient. With you or the reporter.” Without another word, she ascended and found the hansom waiting. It rolle
d forward as soon as she stepped in, the horse’s hooves pounding a heavy tattoo. The ominous rhythm thundered in her head all the way home.
When the carriage stopped above her apartment she got out, and it started away with a jolt. She waited until it was out of sight before patting her bodice, where she had tucked the map. She turned toward the city center with a final errand in mind. It was risky, but Jane decided it was also necessary if she was going to make this fresh peril worth anything. She had one thing left to do before Roman Arnault and his spies tightened their hold on her.
Chapter 13
Turnabout
Malone arrived at the station the next morning to the sounds of the early shift traffic: shuffling footsteps, mumbled greetings, and stifled yawns. Given yesterday’s events, she was surprised not to find Sundar already at his desk or, more likely, waiting by her office with stacks of notes in hand. They had enjoyed a tantalizing measure of success at the Wickery office the day before, a much-deserved victory after their individual defeats investigating Arnault, but she was still stunned by the implications of what they had found.
Arriving at the law office by mid-afternoon the previous day, they had been astonished to find it still operating and under the management of Edmund Wickery’s son, Edmund Jr. He’d greeted them with the matter-of-fact dourness of a man who both loathes his occupation and believes that his feelings on the matter are universal. When the inspectors had introduced themselves and their purpose, he’d seemed only moderately surprised.
“My father retired from the practice eight years ago, and he passed away two years later,” he told them as he stacked and shuffled papers.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Malone said.
“You clearly didn’t know him. Now, what is it that you’re here for?”
Furnishing a contract, Malone had explained that she and Sundar were fixing some gaps in the station’s files and would need to see the records. Edmund Jr had led them to a moth-infested room full of shelves and files and gave the inspectors a quick rundown of their quasi-alphabetical order. As he’d retreated to the comfort of his office, he’d informed them over his shoulder that if they should need anything, he was at their disposal. The door had closed behind him almost before he’d finished his leave-taking.
