“Dennis…”
“Come with me,” he said.
“To the forest?”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much of a home, but…it’s quiet and beautiful. I would build you a cabin and take care of everything. In the summer there are wild blueberries everywhere. In the winter, the snow…” He trailed off, probably realizing that she was unlikely to give up everything to live in a log cabin.
He had forced her hand, but even now she struggled. If he ran away to the woods, at least he was within reach if she ever changed her mind. But she couldn’t keep him from his family and home, sentencing him to a life alone. “I know where the portal to America is. That’s no guarantee I could get you there, but…”
He gripped her hand and she saw hope there; hope that pierced her down to her bones. “Where?”
“It’s in the palace. But—you would have to be a little bit patient. The palace isn’t open to me all the time. I would have to sneak you into the next courting dance. So in the meantime, you would have to go to this show.”
“I don’t like the risk,” he said. “The longer I stay, the better the chance Calban might throw a wrench in my plan.”
“But it would mean going home.” She swallowed down the sensation of a lump in her throat. He didn’t seem bothered by the idea of leaving her, not if he could go home. “I know that’s all you really want.”
“Parsons…I wish…” He scowled. “Believe me, if I could, I would take you to Paris. I would take you anywhere you wanted to go.”
“I understand. Dennis…” She wanted to say something. It killed her that she couldn’t go to America with him. Should she agree to live in the woods? But fates…that was no place for a girl like her.
He twined her fingers with hers. “If it’s too much to ask you to run away with me, I’ll stay for the film, and…it’ll be night we can both remember for the rest of our lives.”
He’s right, Parsons thought. I need Els and Papa…and they need me. I can’t run away.
But it was a terrible choice, because she was already losing Els, and Papa was pushing her down a path she hated. There were other things too—music, books, her pets, her automobile, but what really mattered?
She didn’t have long to think about it.
Just before the debut of “Poor Little Rich Girl”, the Miralem nation of Laionesse abruptly broke the short-lived trade agreement. Miralem warships prowled the waters, driving back the trade vessels and menacing the Gray Sea, which touched the coasts of Nalim Ima, Halnari, and Laionesse. It was expected that the other great Miralem nations would support their own.
War was back on the table, stirring the air with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
Hopefully it would calm down the unrest in the city, which was chronicled in the paper each morning: “Northside Mill Workers Walk Out”, “Bookstore Fire Believed to be Arson”, “Shipment Sabotaged”.
For the film premiere, Parsons did something she had never done before: unwrapped one of her mother’s old dresses from its trunk and sent it out to be altered. It was a dress Mama had bought in Paris in 1905, the year before Dennis became a vampire, made in the style he would have remembered from his own earlier life.
Francoise helped her into it, the fabric heavier than Parsons was used to. The dress was silk of very pale gray, trimmed with red velvet, still smelling faintly of her mother’s perfume. She remembered the ridiculous corset her mother had to wear in Paris just to look right in the gowns; all the Parisian women’s torsos jutted forward from their hips, the effect enhanced by so much lace and frills at their bosoms that their individual breasts disappeared. Parsons had the dress altered a bit, to lessen this effect, and had the skirt shortened enough to show off her shoes.
But it was very daring for her. The puffed sleeves fell to her elbows, leaving her stitches visible there and at her wrists. Her nerve wavered, looking at her wrists, and she opened Mama’s jewelry box. Two matched bracelets of silver and sapphires—those would do.
“My gosh,” Francoise said, as she finished buttoning the back. She couldn’t seem to resist running her hand down the fabric. “You’re beautiful.”
“I don’t know.”
“Look!” Francoise led her to the mirror.
Of course, Parsons’ face was no different than before. It was the dress. It had such a regal air to it, that she suddenly realized her usual clothes made her look young and small and sad, like the orphans in American novels. This dress was feminine, but commanding, from the voluminous sleeves to the impressive volume of the skirt. It enhanced her small waist but she didn’t actually look small in it.
For a moment, she did see her mother, sweeping into a party with complete confidence.
“Please tell me you’re going to do something with your hair,” Francoise said.
“I—I never do anything with my hair.”
“Can I try something?”
“All right.”
Francoise found some jeweled clips in Parsons’ drawers and fussed with some pins, trying a few different placements before fixing her hair into a small knot. “There,” she said. “Is that all right? I think you look so sophisticated!”
Parsons wondered what Francoise really thought of her. Did she hate Parsons, deep down? Was she in awe of her? Did she think of them as being at all the same? She wondered what Francoise thought of the dress baring Parsons’ stitches. Did the servants ever have romantic feelings? They weren’t made with the ability to have sex. Parsons wondered if that took the feelings away too, or if they ever resented being made that way.
She felt very awkward around her servant all of a sudden. It was strange how little she knew of Francoise or Eugenie’s thoughts, and she didn’t see how she could ever ask them either.
She came down the stairs, where Papa and Dennis were already waiting in the room just to the side, having a drink.
Dennis turned when he heard her hand sliding down the banister, and for a moment, he looked at her with an expression she hadn’t seen before, not startled or unnerved in the least. Not even as wondering as before. He looked like he saw someone he knew and loved.
It broke her heart a little, actually.
Papa offered a hand. “That is a lovely dress, my dear. Have…I seen it before?”
“It’s Mama’s. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh. So it is. No, I don’t mind. That explains it exactly. I knew I remembered something about it…” He leaned a little closer. “May I talk to you for just a moment?”
“Of course,” she said, although she couldn’t imagine this would be good.
He pulled her aside—several rooms aside, to the formal dining room which was almost never used. He must know Dennis had keen ears. “My dear, I spoke to Calban this morning. I must confess, I’d had enough of Mr. Faraday being in such close proximity to you and I went to tell him so. But—he explained his intentions to me. I was very much mistaken. He wants Mr. Faraday to be your husband.”
Parsons clutched her hands together. “Why?” she breathed, although she knew the answer. She wanted to hear what her father would officially say.
“He wants you to be sure that Mr. Faraday never causes anyone any trouble.” Papa spoke barely above a whisper. “And, he said, he thinks you will be happy together as well. I must confess, I was not happy. Although I didn’t want to question his orders. It’s hard for me not to think of Mr. Faraday as being threatening. But I understand, he is not threatening to you. Only to the rest of us. My only concern is…do you…feel comfortable with this directive?”
“Yes,” she said. “Actually. Papa, I…I do like Mr. Faraday. We have nice talks on our drives.”
Papa smiled tentatively. “Do you? Maybe I’m just being protective with you.”
“Protective? But you wanted me to dance with Mr. Samaron?” He still didn’t seem to realize how hurtful it was that he didn’t listen to her about him.
“Well—Mr. Samaron is a Daramon. Maybe it was more comfortable for me to imagin
e, even if he wasn’t right for you. I—I just don’t know how to talk about these things. I was never good at anything like this. I’ve always been bad at reading people; that’s why I’d rather be in my shop. In these moments I miss your mother more than ever.”
“I know.” Papa… She loved him so much, but he was too timid to shield her from anything.
“Does Mr. Faraday share your feelings? I’m not sure how he feels about your circumstances.”
“He does.” She started to smile too, although she shouldn’t smile. This was not going to end happily.
“It’s all so sudden… but—courtships usually are quick when they happen outside of school, I realize.” Papa reached in his pocket and handed her a small bag. “Calban would like me to tell you to offer him your hand.”
Inside the bag, she could tell, was a lightweight cylinder of metal. Another wand? No…a house key. “Is this—”
“It’s the key to one of the new cottages at the foot of the hill. You have permission for a lam di resta.” This was the arrangement where an engaged couple lived together before the wedding—most commonly in the groom’s parents’ house, but in this case Dennis had no parents in this world, so she would probably just take her servants and establish her household immediately.
She wanted to cry. She wanted this plan to be real, and it couldn’t be real. “I—I’m not sure what he’ll make of me proposing to him. I don’t think that’s how it works in America.”
“He might as well get used to different ways now.” He gave her a hug. “If you’re happy, cub, I’m very happy.”
Chapter Fourteen
What to tell him?
I can’t.
It would only make it harder to leave…
Dennis had a brand new suit and looked so…human. In the best sort of way, better than the bland clean-cut men in the magazines but also nothing like a Daramon. Daramons were lean and darkly beautiful. Dennis had an air of sturdy straightforwardness to him, returning her small smile with a brazen grin, offering an arm as soon as they were out the door. Whenever she tried to imagine him in his human life, she imagined someone almost…ordinary. It was strange, when she always thought she should strive to be extraordinary, that this would be so appealing.
They walked out into the warm dusk of summer, scented by the sea breezes.
“Your father’s still letting us go?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried when he pulled you aside.”
“But I’m driving tonight.” She needed to work off those nerves with her foot on the gas.
“It’s your car; I won’t fight about it, although I’ll admit…in America it would be embarrassing.”
“To let the girl drive to a date?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t tell you that it’s probably embarrassing here, too.” She gave him an impish look and climbed in the driver’s seat.
She drove down the hill and turned toward the city proper, passing under the tracks of the new elevated railway. Just outside of the grounds of the Palace of Blessed Wings and its surrounding neighborhoods were a breathtaking variety of shops occupying the ground floors of apartment buildings that had all been constructed in the past twenty years. Just as there had been an old palace before the Palace of Blessed Wings, there had been an old city here, which Parsons only knew from paintings: big stone market buildings and drafty little houses with steep roofs and central chimneys; a city that fell completely dark at night in a time before electricity.
The west side of Nalim Ima was even newer and brighter and this was where they headed now. Wide streets were flanked by new department stores and more buildings under construction; taller ones that would rise twenty stories and hold company offices.
“Are you kidding me? Is that a Macy’s?” Dennis asked.
“Yes,” Parsons said. “That’s the new department store. It isn’t actually open yet.”
“Why Macy’s, though?”
“Well, you know. People want to go to a real American department store.”
“It is going to be hard to leave,” he murmured. “I’ll never how this experiment worked out.”
She glanced at him, chewing her lip. Please don’t mention leaving.
He squeezed her hand, his expression turning serious again, and it didn’t change the situation, but it reassured her that he hated this as much as she did.
The theater was not far away, and so brightly lit that it overwhelmed everything around it. The four story building was ornately styled in American fashion with a glowing marquee. Crowds were heading toward the theater, a confusing number of them on foot, carrying torches.
“Is something else happening?” Parsons asked.
The city guard had set up a barricade and one guard stopped them in the street before they got too close to the theater. In contrast to the new buildings, the guards wore the same uniforms of the past century: knee-length black tunics with gold city emblems on the sleeves and hats with pointed flaps on the sides that mirrored the pointed shape of their ears. They still carried swords along with their guns.
“There’s some rabble gathered around the theater,” the guard said as he reached their automobile. “I recommend parking right here on the side of the street and I’ll escort you in.”
Parsons cut her wheels toward the curb.
The guard led them along the sidewalk. Ahead of them was another group of theater-goers, a few ladies in sheer wraps and feather-plumed hats accompanied by men in dark suits. Parsons had never seen so many men wearing Earth-style suits and it looked odd. They were all dressed the same. Of course, she knew that was how Earth was, but it didn’t really make sense to dress like everyone else when you were rich.
Twenty or so guards were holding back a crowd of the most ragged looking people Parsons had ever seen in Nalim Ima. They wore the clothes of laborers, unchanged over the centuries: patched cotton and sturdy wool, brimmed caps, plain leather shoes without all the buttons that added expense and complication to Parsons’ daily wardrobe. Every one of them had long hair kept in the old styles, fixed in braids or loops, sometimes with decorative clips above the ears or combs near the crown of the head. They were not especially organized in their dissent, just making a lot of noise.
“What’s going on?” Parsons asked.
“Don’t worry about it, miss,” the guard said. “Some disgruntled factory workers. We’ll have them cleared out by the time you come out of the theater, but the general didn’t want us to use any force with them.”
As they entered the lobby, everyone was grumbling about the protestors as “ungrateful”, “backwards”, and “disruptive”. Parsons had never even seen the factory district. The workers were paid fair wages, she knew that much, but she didn’t know if their lives were actually at all pleasant. The factories, it must be admitted, didn’t sound very nice.
It was easy to forget within the interior of the new theater. Bright chandeliers hung from soaring ceilings, which were painted elaborately with different animals. She realized after a moment that they represented Lord Jherin surrounded by his four loyal generals: the black phoenix of the Wodrenarune in the center against a deep red sky, and on each side, a peacock, a bull, a deer, and a white bear, each one stylized with gems for eyes. Carved pillars led her gaze back down to the carpeted floors. The box office was a little booth within the lobby, shaped a bit like Lord Jherin’s palanquin, with gold wings spreading out from the roof.
Although the style was reminiscent of Earth, certainly no one would forget where they actually were.
Behind the palanquin box office was a set of double doors, and then a grand, curved staircase that led to a balcony above and another set of double doors which must lead to a mezzanine. She stopped at the box to get their tickets. “Through the lower doors, miss,” said the man in the ticket booth.
Calban met them at the front. No plain black suit for him, of course; he was dressed in a gold frock coat, breeches and stockings, like al
l those men named Louis in her books about France. His red hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a ribbon.
“Miss Belvray. Mr. Faraday. So good to see you.” He gave her a knowing look. “Is this your mother’s dress?”
“Yes.” Leave it to Calban to remember a dress more than a decade later. “I know it’s old, but…”
“I wasn’t complaining. I’m glad to see it.”
Irik lurked a little distance away, in a pearl hair bandeau and tube-shaped gold dress that was striking against her dark skin. She immediately glanced at Parsons, and Parsons had a feeling nothing had improved between her and Calban.
Lisandra, the Red General, was also present. She looked harried as usual, hitching up the skirt of her crimson gown as she rushed around, but stopped to introduce two human women who looked very much alike, with brown curly hair. One was clearly older than the other, but she looked older in that smoothed-over Daramon way, like her skin had been shape-shifted. Actually, she looked familiar, Parsons realized.
“This is Isabel and Lizzie Clarke,” she said. “Miss Belvray, it’s possible you might remember Isabel. You met her when you were a little girl.”
“Did I?” Parsons asked. “I do think I remember her.”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “I met with your father a few times, to tell him about Earth.”
“And Mr. Faraday,” Lisandra said.
“Mr. Faraday,” Isabel said. “It’s so nice to meet someone from home. I’m from Albany.”
“Western Maryland.”
She grinned. “We were practically neighbors, compared to this place.”
“Isabel and her daughter were the first humans to ever come to our world,” Lisandra said. “Almost thirty years ago. She’s married to Pel Morsan. You probably don’t remember him, but he was one of the first sorcerers to travel to Earth.”
Lizzie was probably around Parsons’ own age, but she was looking at Parsons like she had never seen a Fanarlem in her life.
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