But Voleta steadfastly refused to alter her attire, though she had consented to Xenia’s insistence that she apply some makeup. In retrospect, that had been a mistake.
A few hours before the party, the two ladies sat at twin vanities in Xenia’s boudoir. Xenia presented her face to Ann, who applied layers of powder and tint with dainty precision, while Voleta sat for Iren, whose lack of experience with cosmetics was immediately apparent. Iren boxed Voleta’s face with a powder puff, blanching her face and leaving her wheat-colored neck and ears untouched, and applied the lip reddener with what Ann charitably referred to as a “broad stroke.” Attempting to save the charade, Voleta defended the efforts of her governess by assuring Xenia the slapdash style of makeup was all the rage in the ringdom of Japhet. It was of course a lie. Voleta only knew of Japhet because the Sphinx had mentioned the ringdom in passing, but the association was enough to ease Xenia’s mounting fears that her guest was a hopeless dummy.
And so, Voleta was introduced to the Marquis de Clarke’s bemused guests wearing clownish makeup and a gown that had been unpopular the first time she’d aired it. Lady Xenia, meanwhile, wore a dress in a blinding shade of persimmon that featured a prominent lace window for the advertisement of her bosom. The marquis wore a new wig that was even smaller than his first. Voleta wondered how it stayed on his head. Wallpaper paste? Roofing pitch? A thumbtack, perhaps? The marquis spent the early hours of the evening interrupting his guests’ conversations with witticisms that ranged from scatological double entendres to odious puns.
Voleta wanted to stick his wig in his mouth whenever he spoke.
Though his abominable small talk was almost preferable to the inquisitions of his guests.
She had spent hours with Byron preparing for this moment, and still the questions came so quickly it made her head swim. What did the Sphinx look like? What was his ringdom like? Did he really sleep on a cloud? How many wives did he have? How many heirs? Did he wear a crown? A mask? Did he breathe lightning? Had he ever eaten a disobedient child? Where had all of his wonderful machines gone? Why had he withdrawn? What was he hiding from?
Voleta repeated Byron’s prepared answers in fits and starts to a revolving audience half a dozen times over the course of the evening. Her story went something like this:
When she was seven years old, her parents took her along on a vacation to the Baths. She vividly recalled the sparkling reservoir, the girls selling oranges on the brick shoreline, the way their skirts bunched and swung. She remembered the wrinkled old men in fleecy bathrobes who hobbled across the pedestrian bridges to spend their day sitting in the steaming garden spire. She remembered the scene so clearly because it was where her parents had lost her. Or where she had lost them.
Whichever it was, the Sphinx found her with her feet in the water and her cheeks streaked with tears. After an exhaustive and fruitless search for her parents, the Sphinx had adopted her. He brought her home to his fortress in the clouds where he raised her as his own. Her childhood had been a happy one, if a little lonely.
As for the Sphinx, he looked like a man in the prime of his life. He attributed his longevity to an endless supply of work. He liked to say that he hadn’t time to grow old. He had a kind face and the physique of a man who’d labored all his life. He was an inexhaustible, ageless force. He had not vanished. Not at all. He had just been attending to other business in recent decades. Yes, he was still building wonderful machines. No, she could not describe them. No, not even for ten minas. No, not even for a thousand.
Privately, Voleta found the details of the lie curious. After some pressing, Byron had admitted the story was entirely the Sphinx’s invention. Something about the lost girl in the Baths rang truer than some of the other elements of her story. Perhaps it was the vivid details of the Baths; perhaps it was how readily the scene called to mind The Brick Layer’s Granddaughter, the painting with which the Sphinx was clearly obsessed.
The more Voleta parroted the story to the marquis’s half-invested guests, the more she wondered whether the girl in her tale and the girl in the paintings were one and the same, and both of them the Sphinx. If that were the case, then Voleta could only assume it had been the Brick Layer who had found the Sphinx after she was orphaned by the crowds, and the Brick Layer who’d given her a home and a purpose. It was strange to think of the wizened Sphinx as having ever been a lost child. But the more Voleta pondered the idea, the more certain she was: The Sphinx was the Brick Layer’s adopted granddaughter.
But why would the Sphinx give her such an obvious clue about her past? Unless that had been the point. Perhaps she had wanted Voleta to know the truth. It seemed a roundabout way to communicate a history—wrapping the truth inside a lie. But it didn’t feel out of character for the Sphinx. More importantly, it seemed to signal that the Sphinx hadn’t cut Voleta entirely out of her life.
Voleta was surprised to discover how happy the prospect made her.
While Voleta was off mingling her vinegar with the room’s oil, Iren lurked at the periphery of the great hall. Behind her, an immense tapestry covered the wall, depicting a dense forest scene of curling branches, contorted roots, and shafts of yellow sunlight. Ann stood beside her, watching her youthful charge flit about the room like a butterfly. The two governesses were doing their best to be invisible, an effect that was a little spoiled by the startled yips of guests when they spied Iren for the first time—as one did now. A red-nosed young man with gin-sharpened breath shook a caviar sandwich at the giantess and said, “Has anyone ever told you, you look like a shaved bear?” His starched dickey had come unpinned and protruded from his jacket like a fat, white tongue.
Looming over him, Iren plucked the sandwich from his hand and growled, “Would you like to see my cave?”
The nobleman swallowed hard, blinked unevenly, and bid a hasty retreat.
Ann hid a smile behind a cupped hand and said, “I think you’ve probably scarred the Earl of Enbridge for life.”
“Oops,” Iren said, and pressed the earl’s sandwich into her mouth.
“Oh, it’s all right. He’s a horrid man. Though I can’t say he’s the worst either.”
Iren smacked her lips and tried to decide whether she was tasting fish or some sort of brackish jelly. “Really? Who’s the worst?”
Ann sobered and glanced about to see who was near enough to overhear. She located Xenia, bouncing circles about her father, who was holding a pair of grapefruits to his chest, his face already flush from wine. Apparently reassured by their distraction, Ann decided to speak. “King Leonid’s nephew and third in line to the throne: Prince Francis Le Mesurier. He’s the worst. It seems like he gets into trouble every season. Sometimes, the scandal makes the paper, and when it does, his father, the king’s treasurer, ships him out on some scientific expedition until everyone pretends to forget what a cad he is. Prince Francis has been sent off to count birds so often, last year King Leonid appointed him the royal ornithologist. Personally, I doubt he could tell a bullfinch from a barn owl.”
Ann paused to allow a guest, who was holding her dish of champagne under her nose because she “liked how the bubbles tickled,” to grow tired of staring at Iren. When the guest wandered off, Ann continued: “Recently, though, Prince Francis found trouble even in exile. The latest is that he was indiscreet with one of the maids on his chartered ship. The next morning, she threw herself overboard in front of the captain and crew, half of whom were her relations.”
“Why?” Iren asked.
“The poor maid left a note behind that said the prince had forced himself on her. The Le Mesurier family denied it of course. Since the editors of the Daily Reverie are in the treasurer’s pocket, they tilted the headlines in his son’s favor. One editor went so far as to suggest the maid had ended her life out of disappointment when she realized she could not keep the prince she had ‘snared.’ There was no evidence that was the case, but the paper echoed the conspiracy into fact. Her family promised to pursue a trial, but last I hea
rd, they had failed to convince a single magistrate to consider the evidence. Then the usual social amnesia set in, and now the prince is back, and his dance card is full again.”
“That’s not right,” Iren said, her scowl deepened by the shadow of her bonnet. She was thinking of Voleta, fearless and unsubtle, falling prey to such an unaccountable villain. The thought made her furious and fearful, and the feeling didn’t abate even when she located Voleta amid the crowd, trying to smile while Xenia pumped her arms and shrieked with laughter.
“No, it isn’t right,” Ann said. “But it’s why you and I will always have a job. The world is full of wolves and lambs, but precious few shepherds.”
Chapter Six
No. 81: Because youth is fleeting and cannot be savored in retrospect.
No. 82: Because your enemy has RSVP’d, and you wish to make a scene.
—101 Reasons to Attend My Party by Lady Sandbom
If it had not been for the parrot, the evening might have ended as a reasonable success. Voleta and Iren might’ve retired to their room, crawled into bed, and slept like a couple of well-fed infants. The Marquis de Clarke might’ve grimaced through his champagne headache the next morning, content in the knowledge that his home had briefly been the pivot of Pelphian society. And Xenia’s heart might’ve swelled with hope that her star was finally on the rise.
Were it not for the parrot.
The parrot—a large, yellow-breasted macaw—sat upon the highest ledge of the building across from the marquis’s balcony. One of de Clarke’s guests, a woman with dark ringlets of hair snaking from under a yellow turban, pointed out the bird and remarked how it seemed to be glaring at her—no, leering at her. It was probing her very soul with its bottomless eyes. She dramatized her horror until she had attracted a small pod of amused guests. They pressed against the balustrade alongside to observe the criminal, the villain, the lecherous cur. The parrot, after a long silence, gave a creaking cry and said, “Out the window! Out the window!”
“Oh, what a beast!” the traumatized guest said. She raised a wrist to her forehead and swayed as if she might faint.
The parrot lifted one wing and rifled through its feathers like a man searching for his wallet.
At that moment, the Marquis de Clarke was having what he believed was an immensely successful conversation with General Andreas Eigengrau. Their heady back-and-forth had attracted an audience of two earls, half a dozen viscounts, and a dozen young noblemen. He knew some of those lords were only angling for an opportunity to distinguish themselves in the eyes of two of the Coterie’s foremost members. But de Clarke didn’t care. Whether it was heartfelt or contrived, all applause rang the same.
Eigengrau was much taller than the marquis, more imposing, and had a head full of thick hair, but de Clarke was sure they were intellectual equals. In fact, at the moment, de Clarke believed he’d struck upon an idea that had not occurred to the venerated strategist. He said, “I’m telling you, Andreas, that ruddy great battleship sitting on our port isn’t a threat, it’s a treat. It’s a new year’s pudding. We should take it! We’d own the sky if we did.” De Clarke’s attention briefly flitted to a bowl of pickled quail eggs. He popped one into his mouth, then spooned several more into a napkin.
De Clarke did not notice the general sigh, nor the subtle deflation of his posture. “I don’t think this is the venue for shouting out stratagems, milord. Think of your honored guest.”
“The girl? She’s off chitchatting somewhere. And if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that young ladies are as deaf as bats to the conversation of grown men.”
The general seemed about to correct the marquis on the nature of bats but decided against the effort. “Regardless, milord, I believe you’re misreading the situation. The Sphinx—”
“Don’t give me that Sphinx stuff! It’s just another ringdom with a funny name and a spooky mascot. There’s no lighthouse keeper up there looking down on us. There’s no boogeyman under the bed. I’m telling you, it’s just a ship. And we could take her by surprise.”
“As I was saying,” the general said more forcefully, “you forget, milord, the Sphinx forged our beloved Wakeman Haste. One of her is worth ten of my men. If that ship held a dozen more like her, I guarantee our advances would be rebuffed. We would lose the skirmish and lose it badly. And what would stop them from firing on our port then? That gunship could blow our city gates clear off the face of the Tower.” The general rattled the ice in his empty tumbler. “It is not only an impolitic plan; it is an unwise one.”
The marquis was about to argue his case further when he felt the attention shift in the room. Suddenly, there weren’t as many men observing his conversation with the general. He looked about to discover his party was moving to the balcony. He could only chase after the shifting fascination, but to make it seem as if he were leading rather than following, he announced, “Excuse me, General. I am needed on the balcony!”
When de Clarke saw the turbaned woman, he knew he was in for a scene. Her name was Fortunée Wilk, the royal thespian, a woman of inarguable talent and unbearable personality. She wore her moods like an old woman wears scent—to grand excess. Everything she did was tinged with desperation. But she was still the Crown’s leading lady and an actor in the royal troupe. Despite her tarnished beauty and diminished talent (an unlikable rasp had crept into her voice), she still had enough fans to make her presence at de Clarke’s party an absolute necessity.
Lady Fortunée threw herself at him, and he was just sober enough to catch her. She clutched his arms and said, “There’s a perverted parrot ogling me, milord. He’s over there on that rainspout. Do you see him?”
The marquis did his best not to smile. She was hamming it up a bit, but he liked the gist of the scene. He decided to play the part of the gruff stoic. “Well, what do you expect me to do about it, Lady Fortunée? Throw a shoe at it?” He gave the joke room to breathe. “Or perhaps we shall chase it off with a little wit. Nothing discourages a Peeping Tom so well as laughter!”
“Your Grace!” Lady Fortunée said, flattering him with the elevated title, which he liked. “If you have any regard for my safety, you will not let that beast escape. Please, you cannot allow it to prowl the city. It is a beaked devil, a winged assassin! It would peck out my throat!”
The marquis looked into her eyes. They were red from the wine but not insensible or unlovely. He wondered if she might be talked into staying for an intimate after-party.
He threw out his arm and barked at the nearest porter, “You there! Put down that blasted champagne and fetch me my gun!”
The manner in which the porter paraded the long rifle through the penthouse was enough to bring a second wave of guests to the balcony.
Xenia, who had been trying to explain to Voleta why orange was the very best color in the history of history, broke off when she saw the bayonet flash above the crowd like a herald. “My goodness! Is there to be a duel? Oh, how I would love to see a duel!”
“You don’t duel with one rifle. That’s just an execution,” Voleta said.
“Of course. How stupid of me. Stupid, stupid!”
Xenia seemed to expect an argument, but Voleta wasn’t really listening. She was too busy wondering what sort of local parlor games could possibly include gunplay. “Come on. Let’s go see who’s getting shot,” she said.
Voleta wound her way through the clumsy, drunk revelers and reached the balcony rail in time to see the marquis snatch the rifle from the porter. The marquis handled the firearm ably enough. He pulled the powder horn stopper out with his teeth and began to fill the barrel.
“You can’t fire a gun in the city, milord,” Eigengrau said.
“Can’t I? That bird is terrorizing my guest.” The marquis added the wadding and the shot and tamped it all down. “I’m defending her honor and my home.”
“It’s just a bird,” the general said wearily.
“Sir! It is not just a bird!” the leading lady said. “I am absolu
tely certain when I go home that beast will be sitting outside my window, glaring at me in my underthings!” Fortunée struggled to hide her pleasure at the growing crowd. She appeared to bite back a smile before voicing a single sharp sob. “Oh, it has the evil eye!”
The parrot opened his wings, refolded them, and began to preen.
The marquis drew the rifle to the shoulder of his flame-embroidered jacket. “If you must arrest me, General, then arrest me. But I shall defend my guest!”
Eigengrau finished off the watered-down gin at the bottom of his glass. “Just try not to miss, milord.”
“Wait!” Voleta shouted. The crowd parted. Her purple dress stood out like a bruise against the wall of orange.
The marquis lowered his rifle in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t shoot him. He’s not hurting anyone.” Voleta took advantage of the clearing to draw nearer to him.
“But he’s disturbing my guest,” de Clarke said with all the authority he could muster.
“Pettiness does not suit a man of your standing, milord,” Voleta said, a diplomatic volley that Byron would’ve been proud of.
“I’d hardly call duty a petty thing!”
“But it’s not for duty,” Voleta said, her taste for diplomacy already exhausted. “You’re just envious because the bird is better dressed.”
The guests gasped. The marquis looked bewildered. “My dear girl, these clothes were made by Rolf de Witt, the de Witt. He is to cloth what the sun is to the sky. These girdle ribs are made of whalebone. My wig is made of garden silk. My stockings were imported from Berm, and my boots are sturgeon, sewn by the cobblers of Herriot and Son. I am the very spring from which all fashion flows!” His guests made supportive noises and smirked at Voleta.
The Hod King Page 23
