“And yet, milord, you know how quickly even your finest fashion spoils!” Voleta said in a voice that rose over the burgeoning laughter. “I mean, what is fashion but the desire to clothe yourself with the herd?” She adopted the constrained posture of a lecturer, her hands behind her back, her brow knitted, a pose she had learned from Senlin. The guests who had murmured a moment before now listened. “We pretend fashion exists to express our inner character, but for something created to distinguish, it certainly does seem to encourage a lot of conformity, doesn’t it? To be fashionable, we must pretend that what looks good on the mob looks good on ourselves. And we make-believe that we all look good because we are afraid of being judged ourselves. We are afraid of being singled out.”
“I always stand out!” the marquis huffed. “My closet is the soul of avant-garde.”
“But fashion doesn’t change because we’ve discovered a better way to dress. No, it evolves to make us all feel anxious and old and out of touch. Fashion exists to exclude those who’re too poor to afford it and to shame those who’re indifferent to the whole fussy business. But why should we punish a parrot for our insecurities? I think he looks handsome in his blue sleeves and yellow vest. He didn’t fly out and buy an orange cape just because everyone else did. He is perfectly himself, perfectly at home in his own feathers. I think he is better than fashionable. He is confident in his own beauty.”
The marquis glared at her in the silence that followed. He seemed to have forgotten what the scene had originally been about. Handing the rifle to his footman, he reached into the gulf between city blocks and clapped his hands over the street three times sharply. The parrot tested his wings upon the air, then swooped away down the lane.
“There. The beast is gone,” the marquis said mirthlessly. He announced that he was serving port and strawberries in the parlor and shouldered past Voleta without looking at her.
The attention Voleta had briefly commanded crumbled. As it did, she saw how many of the faces around her were wrinkled with offense and revulsion.
Lady Fortunée pierced the dwindling crowd and confronted her with a sneer so severe it cracked the makeup around her mouth. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You’re not clever; you’re just rude!” The lady inhaled as if she meant to spit, then hissed, “And if you ever interrupt one of my scenes again, I’ll cut off your nose!” She pulled up the train of her dress and strode away with her chin in the air.
As Voleta watched her go, her eye fell upon Xenia, standing by the porch doors with her fists balled at her sides and her lower lip jutting. Voleta started to say something to her, but Xenia cut her off, shouting, “Why are you so stupid?” The young lady stamped her foot, then ran off with her face buried in her hands.
Voleta felt the creeping nausea of regret. Her success at bluffing her way into the king’s good graces had given her an inflated sense of her own charm. But in one fell swoop, she had frittered the little goodwill she had accrued. She had insulted the pastime and industry of half the ringdom’s nobility. She could’ve easily pleaded for the bird’s life, asked the marquis to spare it as a favor to her. But instead she’d chosen to needle the marquis and his preoccupation with fashion because she found him fatuous and his passions silly. She had mocked him for conflating his inclination with his duty, but had she done any different?
Voleta looked for Iren over the heads of the guests inside. She found her friend standing before a gloomy forest scene. Voleta felt a pang of shame when she saw the expression on Iren’s face. She could see at once that Iren had observed the whole ill-conceived scene. The amazon looked disappointed but not surprised.
If Voleta had wished for a reprieve from the other guests’ interrogation, she got it. She was snubbed for the remainder of the party, which seemed to wind down more quickly than the marquis would’ve liked. As the guests began to collect their coats and stream toward the exit, de Clarke ran about with increasing agitation, assuring all that the party was far from finished. They could play charades, or cards, or a Game of Oops. He could bring out his collection of rare brandies. Xenia could give a recital, and they could dance on his furniture. None of his efforts delayed the exodus. It was still hours shy of midnight when his last guest squirmed from his embrace and ran out the door.
The mops and brooms came out, and the marquis’s staff began to clean the spectacular mess the guests had left behind. The marquis announced he was going to bed but first stopped to urinate in the fireplace. Ann showed Voleta and Iren to their room where their luggage, finally released by the customs office, awaited them in a tidy pile. Xenia sent Ann to tell Voleta that she would not be coming by to say good night, a snub that Iren’s continued silence seemed to punctuate. Voleta couldn’t decide whether Iren was being quiet because she didn’t know what to say, or if she knew exactly what she wanted to say but didn’t wish to say it for fear of starting a fight. Though Voleta wouldn’t have argued with her. She knew she deserved the scolding she had coming.
Their bedroom was large and well furnished, including a small bed in one corner where the governess traditionally slept. It was clear at once that Iren would never fit, and since the main bed was immense, Voleta insisted they share it. She hoped the gesture would spark some conversation, but to no avail. Voleta tucked Squit into a little nest of scarves on the bureau and Iren turned down the lamps. They changed into the nightgowns Byron had sent with them, both long and white and warm. They climbed under the ornate bedclothes amid the tall battlements of the bedposts, and Voleta peeped out a “good night.” Rather than reply, Iren heaved a great sigh that shook the mattress.
It wasn’t long before Iren’s breath deepened and slowed, coursing like ocean surf. Soon, she was fast asleep, abandoning Voleta to her guilt.
She felt suffocated by the heavy blankets, gagged by the foreign stink of linen water, and smothered by the cosmetics that still clung to her skin. She bore the agony as long as she could, and when she thought she would scream, she slid from the warm sheets and set her bare feet down on the cool woolen rug. She breathed along with Iren for several minutes in the dark before tiptoeing to the curtained door to the balcony. Voleta cracked the door open, plugging the gap as best she could with her body, and slipped through.
Outside, the city seemed to shout at the stars, and the sky, being very near, shouted back.
Chapter Seven
Smiles are like candlelight. They can warm and cheer the bleakest room. But we would be wise not to forget: Even the brightest candle hides a blackened wick.
—Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie
In her white gown, Voleta vanished against the peaks of the city like a snowflake into a drift.
Four stories down, the streets seemed even fuller than they’d been during the day. It was nearly midnight, and the city appeared to be just waking up.
The leaps between rooftops were tricky enough to be enjoyable. She stumbled on patches of crumbling plaster, slipped on slick tiles, and wobbled on loose bricks in the masonry. A ledge gave out when she leapt upon it, and she narrowly managed to catch hold of a rainspout after falling half a story. The thrill of it was so intense she couldn’t help but laugh as she looked down at the alley she’d very nearly bombed. She scrambled up the peak of a decorative turret and looked up at the constellations—a thorny rose, a wagon wheel, a crib, and a bear all crowded together like stamps on a steamer trunk. A draft made the stars twinkle. She thought of the wind and how much she missed it. It felt as if she’d walked from one airless prison straight into another.
Every rooftop she came upon seemed to contain a celebration, but the crowds were so drunk and full of themselves, it was easy enough to skirt discovery. She hid under gables and crawled behind guardrails. When the rooftops were too congested, she dangled from cornices and window ledges, inching along by her fingertips. Through the staging of well-lit windows and conspicuously undrawn curtains, she glimpsed trysts and spats and sobbing fits.
But she was invisible. It was such a luxury to
be unseen and on her own.
Though it wasn’t quite enough to eclipse the memory of the marquis’s party, or her poorly conceived defense of the parrot, nor the disappointment in Iren’s eyes. Voleta suspected she would have to climb over ten thousand more rooftops before she forgot that.
The real trouble was, most of the time she struggled to understand people’s motives. Everyone was just so small-minded, so obsessed with observing and being observed, obsessed with popularity and reputation, with approval and romance, none of which meant much to her. It was exhausting to be constantly forced to validate so many people, all of whom held more sway in the world than she did. But it seemed to her, the more established the majority was, the more fearful the slightest divergence made them. It wasn’t enough that they held all the power. No, they demanded adoration as well. It wasn’t enough that he possessed you and lorded over every minute of your life; not enough that he watched you dress and stood at the foot of your bed and stared at you while you feigned sleep. No, you could never be small or apologetic enough. You had to thank him, and pretend to love him, and …
She didn’t like where that train of thought had carried her and derailed it with a shake of her head. Her present distress wasn’t about Rodion, her once captor and tormentor. No, she was irked by these Pelphians and all their blasted customs. The more these people banged on about politeness and popularity, the more she heard the underlying tremble of insecurity. She made them nervous because she did not take them as seriously as they took themselves.
“What are you doing down there?” a voice with a precise, cultivated accent asked from above. Voleta looked up to see a young man peering over the handrail at her. “Are you wearing a nightgown? Who are you?”
Seeing no reason to hide any longer, she stood and put her hands on the rail as if it were a fence in a yard and she were not standing on a ledge four stories above the street. “Oh, hello! My name’s Voleta, and I’m … I’m a gargoyle inspector.” She patted the lion-headed grotesque on the corner of the rooftop. “Yes, yes, a fine specimen. Good shiny coat.” She ran a finger over its exposed fangs. “Teeth are good, as well. This gargoyle is in perfect health.”
“Why are you prowling about my roof?” Her discoverer was handsome and youthful. He looked as comfortable in his tuxedo as she was in her nightclothes. He had one hand tucked halfway in his pocket; the other cupped a coupe of champagne. His hair was tawny, almost blond, and his eyes were as blue as moonlight.
“Technically, only my toes are on your roof. Most of me is standing on public air.”
“What if I told you I own the air, as well?” he said.
“What about the wind?”
“The wind, I only lease.” He squinted and sipped his drink. He seemed to be deciding whether he was amused or annoyed. “Wait a moment, you’re the young lady who came on the Sphinx’s ship, aren’t you?”
Voleta inhaled through her teeth as if she’d just grasped something hot. “Look, if you’re going to interrogate me, the least you could do is invite me aboard.”
“Of course. Permission to come ashore.” The handsome young man offered her his hand.
Ignoring his hand, she climbed over the balustrade on her own. It was only when she had her bare feet on the marble floor of his terrace that she realized he was not alone. Perhaps a dozen men and women in jackets and gowns mingled about looking bored with the evening and weary of one another. It seemed a very exclusive party. The guests refused to acknowledge her presence, as if doing so would be paying her too great a compliment. Only the blue-eyed noble continued to watch her. “Do you usually run about the rooftops in your nightgown or is this a special occasion?”
“I like to think I’m just being a thorough tourist. Are you telling me that when you travel, you just crawl along the ground?” She walked past him, clasping her hands behind her back.
“Certainly not.” He turned to watch her pass, his gaze lingering and low. “I like to see all angles.”
She spun on the ball of her foot. The superior guests continued to reserve the compliment of their full attention, though she noticed some watched her from the corners of their eyes. “Then we’re kindred spirits, milord.”
“It’s Your Highness, actually. I’m Prince Francis.”
Voleta barked an unseemly laugh. She shook her head, disbelieving her awful luck. He would be a prince. He couldn’t just be a lowly knight or an overdressed aristocrat. No, of course she had to barge in on a real noble. She couldn’t even take a walk without stumbling into scandal. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. My name is Xenia. That’s spelled Z-E-N—”
“You already told me your name, Voleta.”
“Oh, that’s right, I did. Well, I think I’ve eaten enough of my own feet for one evening.” She sprinted at the balustrade, leapt upon the rail, and sprang across the gulf. Her nightgown fluttered, and when she landed on the adjoining roof, she tucked into a ball and rolled onto her feet.
She gave the prince a hasty, uneven curtsy and said, “Sorry to have interrupted your soiree, Your Highness. Please tell the other gargoyles I said good night.”
Voleta woke to Iren in her bonnet looming over her. She held a breakfast tray, which in addition to eggs, ham, fruit, toast, and tea included a single pink carnation in a fine little vase. Voleta wondered what the hour was. After her jaunt across the rooftops, she had come back to bed and collapsed into a dreamless slumber.
“Ann sent this up.” Iren set the tray over Voleta’s lap roughly, making the dishes clatter.
Voleta stretched and rubbed her eyes. “I’m glad to see we’re talking again. I’m sorry about that scene last night. It’s sort of funny how upset everyone got, isn’t it?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Iren picked up the entire slice of ham and fit it into her mouth. She spoke as she chewed. “After breakfast, I’m taking you back to the ship.” She pointed at a wedge of toast. “Are you going to eat that?”
Fully awake now, Voleta squirmed under the tray, trying to sit up straight without upsetting it. “What? Why? Everyone will have forgotten the parrot by lunchtime. Let’s not blow this out of proportion.”
“Where did you go last night?” The amazon smeared all the butter onto a slice of bread and stuffed it into her mouth.
“Where did I—?”
“Look,” Iren said, nodding toward the balcony. With the lamps in the room lit, Voleta saw what she had missed in the dark: a trail of dirty footprints emerged from behind the curtains and tracked across the rug to her side of the bed. “I thought we were going to be honest with each other.”
“I went for a walk,” Voleta said, snatching up the last piece of toast before Iren could get to it. “I just had a little look around, cleared my head, and came back to bed. Don’t tell me that you’re going to scuttle our mission because I stretched my legs.”
“You can’t stop, can you? You’re just determined to be reckless. Determined to lie.”
“I’m sorry, Iren.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I keep believing you.”
“I never mean to upset you. That’s the last thing I want to do, but sometimes it just feels like I’m choking to death. No, it feels like someone is choking me. The trouble is, it’s just a feeling. I can’t hit it, or yell at it, or drive it off. No one can help me because the thing that’s choking me isn’t real. It isn’t here. The only thing that helps at all is running, climbing, moving about, getting my heart in my throat. I want to stop, Iren, I do.”
“Is that why you picked a fight with the marquis?”
Voleta sighed heavily. “That was a mistake. I know it was a mistake. I was just feeling so—”
“Contrary?” Iren gave her a long and level look. Her bonnet had a curious way of trumpeting her gaze, and Voleta had to stop herself from looking away. “I don’t think you mean to be bad, Voleta. I think you’re—what’s the word you used—wounded?”
“I wasn’t talking about me. You know I wasn’t talking about me.”<
br />
“All right. Whatever you want to call it, I’m worried you’re going to hurt yourself trying to get that feeling out of you. I’m not taking you back to the ship to punish you. I’m taking you back because I don’t want you to run yourself to death.”
“Oh, I don’t want to die, Iren! I want to be cured. And maybe the only cure for it is walks and talks and a scare or two. Or maybe there isn’t any cure for it at all, and I just have to be comfortable with surviving.”
Iren drew her mouth into a thoughtful pucker. “Did anyone see you on your walk last night?”
Voleta cleared her throat, picked up her teacup and twirled her hand in the air. “I may have run into a nobleman.”
“A nobleman?”
“Just some aristocrat in an expensive suit,” Voleta said evasively. The fact that he had been a prince made the whole blunder seem worse. The king really seemed to have liked her, and she didn’t want to spoil his opinion of her just yet.
Squit bounded across the bedclothes and leapt onto her chest. Voleta put down her tea to cuddle her. “Iren, please don’t take me back to the ship. I really think this is better for me. I was going crazy in that cage. And I have to redeem myself anyway, don’t I? After last night’s terrible performance, I have a lot to make up for if I’m ever going to get invited to Marya’s parties.”
Iren squinted and said, “Next time you need to run, you take me with you. No more midnight walks on your own.”
“That’s absolutely fair.” Voleta held out her hand. “Shake on it?”
As Iren shook her small hand, she added, “And tonight I’m going to tie you to the bedpost.”
“You’re going to tie me to the—?”
The bedroom door flew open under a hail of rapid, delinquent knocks. Xenia stomped into the room clutching a newspaper in one raised fist like a victory flag. Ann was two steps behind her, her prim bun bouncing from the jog. She shut the door as her lady ran to Voleta’s bedside, speaking in a rush: “Look, look, look! You’re on the back page of the Reverie. It’s all about your little defense of the parrot, and everything you said to Papa, and oh, he’s still furious at you, but a little less so now because everyone is talking about his party, and it’s been a while since they did.” Lady Xenia stuffed the paper in Voleta’s face as Iren lifted away the breakfast tray. “Here, read it! Read it to us! Ooh, I’m so excited!”
The Hod King Page 24
