I felt like I might be sick.
Servants began to circle the room, handing out glasses of champagne for the toast. David and Cara paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the requisite speech. Addison climbed a low dais at the side of the room. “We are here tonight to celebrate my beautiful daughter’s debut into society,” she said proudly. “Cara has worked so hard . . .”
As she continued with her speech, I stared at David, drowning out everything except the sound of my memories.
We are alike, you and I, he’d said. But then he’d flung spoken like a true Landry at me, like an insult, like a knife.
Though one hand was in his pocket and there was a relaxed set to his shoulders, his eyes flicked around the room ceaselessly and his left foot tapped against the marble stair. He was possessed by the same nervous intensity I’d noticed a few weeks ago in the library, when he’d badgered me into confessing my turmoil over my future.
“. . . So please join me in raising a glass to my daughter, Cara, and to her escort, David Dana.”
David looked surprised when he was handed a glass—clearly he hadn’t been listening to a word of Addison’s speech. The guests raised their glasses and murmured their individual benedictions, then drank. I held my flute with trembling hands, unable to bring myself to take a sip.
The band started playing, and David led Cara to the middle of the ballroom floor, where the crowd parted to give them room to dance. The onlookers sighed and clapped at intervals, taken with the couple, with Cara’s beauty and David’s charm, but I could barely watch. My stomach churned every time he pulled her closer, his hand so low on her waist that his fingertips brushed her bustle. Once, a slender lock of hair fell into her face and he reached to tuck it behind her ear. I found myself remembering what it felt like, his fingers on my skin.
One moment caught my attention. David leaned in to kiss Cara, and instead of welcoming him, she turned her head ever so slightly so that his lips landed on the corner of her mouth. It looked simply like she had turned her head to make her next step in the dance, but from where I stood, I could see a brief flash of distaste flit across her face, as if enduring his kiss was some sort of chore. I had seen that expression many times in our childhood, in etiquette lessons, in school, in our beds late at night when I insisted on reading passages from books aloud.
But as soon as I noticed it, it was gone. I suspected that I had probably imagined it in the first place.
The dance ended and the crowd erupted with applause. Now everyone could dance and the debutante and her escort would partner with as many guests as time would allow.
I took a seat in the back of the room and watched the parade of hopefuls approach Cara and David. Their dancing cards would no doubt be filled within the next few minutes. To my surprise and the surprise of the girls surrounding David, he broke off and started walking toward me. People moved out of his way as he strode across the room, staring at him and then at me. Equal parts mischief and desire were in his face, and I had no idea if he was David the bachelor or David the boy who could guess my favorite stories or even David from the car—barbed and full of uncomfortable questions I didn’t have the answers to.
“Would you like to dance with me?” he asked, extending a hand.
I was frozen to the chair. “I—”
All eyes in the room, including Cara’s, were on me. I knew without looking the expression on her face: livid, territorial. Every ounce of logic in me begged me to say no to David, yet, this close, I couldn’t ignore the message he was telegraphing. He genuinely wanted to dance with me.
He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Luckily for you, I have learned how to interpret your silences. This silence means, ‘Yes, David, I would love to dance with you.’” He led me to the center of the floor. The band raised their instruments, David placed my hand on his shoulder, and suddenly, I was in his arms.
He danced lightly, but the heat from his hand at my waist burned through my dress.
“You don’t look like you are enjoying yourself, Madeline,” David reproached. “It is a debut. You are supposed to be drunk on plum wine by this point, and why not? The Westoffs imported crates of the stuff.”
We spun in a circle, and I could see the curious gazes of onlookers, wondering why David had picked me, and why I’d consented, when I’d made a career out of only begrudgingly dancing with people, unless they were Jamie.
David pulled me closer as we spun. “I want to know,” he said, his mouth very near my ear. “Why does my Madeline look so forlorn?”
“I am not forlorn,” I said. “And I am not your Madeline.”
“And the gray eyes flash. You’re mad at me, then?”
“Yes.” I didn’t risk saying more—he didn’t need to know how confused I felt.
His gleaming shoes slid against my slippers, our steps completely synchronized, his leg pushing against my skirts. “Are you sad that I am leaving?” he asked. “I am quite sad myself.”
I felt suddenly tired of his act—and of playing along with it.
“You are not fooling me,” I said, keeping my eyes on the band, on the other dancers, anywhere but on his face.
“I assure you that I am indeed sad—”
“I know you are,” I interrupted. “I don’t mean that. I mean this act you’re putting on for everybody. All charm and no substance.”
He grinned a quick canine grin. “It’s not an act, I promise.” He lifted me up, his hands dangerously close to my breasts, flattened by the corset.
The girls nearby giggled while being lifted by their own partners. Once my feet touched the floor, I moved David’s hands back to my waist.
“Why can’t you just accept that I am really this charming?” he asked.
“Because I know better.” As part of the dance, he drew me close, so that my mouth was next to his ear. I took the opportunity to press my point. “I saw you help that Rootless girl.”
For a moment, his grip on my arm grew so tight, I thought he’d bruise me.
Finally he let go. “You saw nothing,” he said, stepping back and bumping into a dancing couple. The clockwork of the dance jammed. The dancers stopped to stare and the band stopped playing mid-tune. Gone was the casual air, the expression that suggested David thought the whole evening was a grand joke. He looked pale.
And furious.
“You should go,” he said, his voice choked.
“Why? Because I know that you helped her?”
He glanced around the room. The murmurs and rustles stilled to nothing as everybody leaned forward to listen. “I think you are mistaken. I was not in the park that day. Maybe you were just daydreaming about me.”
My face burned. “You’re lying,” I told him.
“And you’re delusional.”
We were both breathing heavily by this point, inches away from each other. “You should go,” he said.
“You can’t make me leave. This is not your house.”
Cara swished up, eyes narrowed. “But it is my house, and you’re making a scene.”
“I won’t forget what I saw,” I told David. And with the eyes of the city boring into my back, I left the ballroom, forcing myself to walk as slowly as dignity would allow.
I woke up the next morning feeling exhausted and listless. I’d spent the night stirring and sighing in the silvery moonlight, vacillating between anger at David and anger with myself, between feeling hurt and feeling confused. In the darkest hours, I let a sharp needle of remorse dig at my stomach as I went over everything that had gone wrong since Marianne Wilder’s debut.
I hadn’t found Cara’s attacker. I hadn’t obeyed or pleased my father. I hadn’t discovered why David helped that girl in the park, why he seemed so interested in me, or why he flitted around the edge of my thoughts constantly when all I wanted to do was forget him.
And the look on his face when he told me to go . . .
I curled up on my bed and let that needle of shame grow hotter and hotter until I thou
ght it would burn a hole inside me, falling asleep only after I’d numbed my mind with programs on my wall screen.
The morning was no better. As Elinor brought a breakfast tray to my room, I put my head in my hands.
“Are you all right, miss?” Elinor asked, leaving the tray and helping me sit. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”
I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My sleepless night had left dark circles under my eyes and an ashen cast to my skin. I looked terrible.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just—I feel a little lost right now is all.”
“Why don’t you take a walk to the university and stroll around the grounds?” Elinor asked, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out a floral organza dress with flouncing sleeves and a wide green sash. “You could even take lunch at the country club, since it’s so close.”
The country club. Philip Wilder might be there.
“You know, Elinor, I think that is an excellent idea.”
• • •
I skipped the university altogether. I didn’t know if Philip would be at the club or not, but he and his friends usually spent most of their days playing golf or tennis while working their way through hundreds of dollars of whiskey and opium. I also didn’t know what I really hoped to accomplish; it wasn’t as if I expected him to admit to assault and battery in the middle of one of the oldest gentry institutions in the city, but I did know that I couldn’t stand this nagging feeling that I wasn’t doing enough, that I was standing by as uselessly as those people in the old video files from the academy, who simply watched as victim after victim was forced into the gibbet cage.
The country club had been founded a century or so before the Last War, by a man named Nichols who’d developed much of Kansas City. Though he’d died before many of the Uprisen had even been born, he was revered as a man ahead of his time, pioneering the idea of an engineered society, of a leisurely and protected life for the upper class. A statue of him gazing gravely toward the world he’d helped inspire stood outside the country club.
I steeled up my courage and walked past the statue, into the dimly lit lobby, all heavy wood and stone and blank-faced servants. Inside, the shouting from the pool and the zipping sound of the hydrogen golf carts vanished, and was replaced by the sound of murmuring voices and clinking glasses.
I ordered lunch and waited for Philip Wilder to appear.
After I’d finished a light meal of roasted pheasant and jasmine rice, he finally walked in with Mark Everly and Stuart Lawrence, Tarleton’s brother. I stood, smoothed out my dress, and strode over to him before I could lose my nerve.
“Hello, Philip,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Would you like a drink?”
Stuart barked out a short, mocking laugh, but Philip looked genuinely surprised. I never talked to him—or to any of them—unless forced to while dancing or by an unfortunate seating arrangement. Mark Everly gave me a small but friendly smile. I tried to smile back, but found myself struggling with the effort.
Philip nodded to Stuart and Mark, then took my elbow and steered me to the bar. He looked a lot like Marianne—he shared the same wide eyes and high cheekbones—although he was much taller and broader. Strange to think that in the twentieth century the Wilders wouldn’t have been let into the country club with their dark skin, or the Lawrences with their ancient roots in Mexico, or even the Thorpes, who’d come from India two centuries ago. In fact, most of us wouldn’t have been let in back in those days. Our tradition of marrying only other gentry had given many of us mixed ethnicities, and so most of the gentry were now dark-haired and olive-skinned, like my mother, which made my own pale skin and eyes all the more unusual.
We sat at the bar and Philip ordered us each a glass of plum wine. Philip kept glancing between the glass and me, as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to start the conversation.
“I heard you and Tarleton Lawrence got in a fight a couple weeks ago,” I said after a few awkward minutes.
He shrugged. “We were boxing, and he cheated. He always cheats. And sometimes, I let my temper get the best of me.”
“Would you say you get angry often? Angry enough to hit someone?”
“What kind of question is that?” he asked, the irritation plain in his voice.
I gripped my glass tighter, fighting the urge to run away.
“Only if they deserve it,” he finally answered. “I hit people if they deserve it. And believe me, Tarleton deserved it.”
“Did Cara Westoff deserve it?”
His mouth dropped open, and I felt stunned myself. I couldn’t believe I’d just blurted that out.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked heatedly. “That I hurt Cara?”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe.”
“What the—” he stopped and, looking around, lowered his voice. “Why the hell do you think I would do something like that? Cara is one of my friends. Why would I hurt her?”
“I don’t know. Why would you? Did she refuse you or something? Did she turn you down?”
He gave a quick angry laugh. “Cara refuse me? Hardly.”
“Then what happened? Why would you say that you put Cara in her place and you’d do it again?”
“How do you know I said that?” He frowned. “Are you spying on me or something?”
“I am not spying on you.” I took a drink to hide the shaking in my voice. I wasn’t used to confronting people. “I want to know what happened. I think it’s a mistake to go after the Rootless; I think that they’re innocent. I know Cara’s lying about something to protect the gentry or to protect her reputation. I intend to find the truth and to tell everyone when I do.” I took a deep breath. It was getting easier, bit by painful bit, to push past my quiet nature.
Philip didn’t say anything for a moment. He just swirled the remaining wine in his glass. “I was going to meet Cara at Marianne’s debut that night,” he admitted. “She had seemed interested for a while, like she wanted to date, and then she asked me to meet her in the gallery, which would have been empty during the party. But I’ve got my eye on someone else and didn’t want to meet her. The Lawrence boys thought it would be a great prank to stand her up—you know, embarrass the great Cara who has humiliated pretty much every boy in this city.
“But at the last minute, I lost my nerve. I didn’t want to fool around with her, but I also hated the thought of her waiting alone. So I went up to the gallery to tell her that it wasn’t going to happen, that I wasn’t interested. But she wasn’t there and that’s when I heard the scream.” He drained the last of the wine. “I haven’t told any of the guys that I went to the gallery. I let them think that I had really tried to stand her up. Stuart and Tarleton and Frank, well, you know how nasty they can get. I guess I just got carried away joking around with them.”
A bleak smile. “The ironic thing is that if Cara was in the grove, then she was planning on standing me up, too. Guess it is a good thing I decided not to meet her.”
“Philip, I’m sorry,” I said. “That I thought . . .”
He shrugged a powerful shoulder. “I suppose that’s my fault. If people think I could be capable of something like that, then I must have done something to deserve it.”
I left him alone then, trying to sort through my thoughts. I had to readjust my impression of Philip. I’d always assumed he was cut from the same cloth as the Lawrence boys, but he wasn’t. He’d been honest and polite, much more like his sister, Marianne, than his friends.
And most importantly, if Philip was innocent, then the perpetrator could still be anyone and I was back to knowing nothing.
• • •
That evening, I paced the length of the observatory, watching the coming dusk through the glass roof and walls. Usually I would have been reading or preparing the telescope for the coming night, but at the moment I was unable to focus on a single task and was possessed by a need to move. The sunlight was glinting off the modern skyscrapers downtown near the river, but I turned my eyes
south and west, where I could see the windows of Glasshawke, the Glaize estate, reflecting the orange and pinks of the sun.
I stopped at one of the north windows and leaned my head against the glass. There was nothing I could do about Cara’s attack at the moment, but knowing that didn’t make me any less restless. I wanted to be out of the house, out of the endless churn of dances and dinners, away from the tedium that had followed the conclusion of my academy studies. And then I knew exactly what to do.
I walked downstairs and found Father reading in his study. The dusk filtered into the room, the orange light revealing galaxies of dust motes sparkling and swirling the air.
He set his book—an old one, judging by the worn leather cover—on a stack of similarly aged books and stood. “Care for a walk?” he asked, as I’d hoped he would.
“Yes,” I assented with a smile.
After leaving the house, we walked arm in arm down the wide stone steps to the gardens, Father quizzing me about Edmund Burke and different species of plants as we went.
“We have just received several black irises from Israel this morning,” he was saying. “I ordered them to be put in the greenhouse, but our gardener thinks perhaps next year we could attempt to grow them outdoors.”
I nodded, wondering how to phrase my question without seeming abrupt and overeager.
“I really find them quite striking. Jacob Landry is said to have bred black roses using some of the genes from the black iris, but unfortunately, those roses no longer grow on the estate. I wish that we still had some experts in genetics in the city who I could commission to breed them again, but as you know, there are none.” He sighed. “Of course, physics and astronomy are nobler sciences than biology, and so I don’t begrudge the fact that gentlemen limit their studies to these. But what is a man to do when he would like some black roses for his garden?”
“The vaccines and treatments require biology,” I murmured.
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