“That is a lie, milord,” the spectacled man at Voleta’s elbow said. “Hobson’s waltz plopped upon the floor like a dropped pie. No one applauded. Hobson got disconsolately drunk. He had to be carried home in a friend’s sedan.” The professional gossip, whose expression was avuncular and warm, had a voice that was as cold as high air.
“But the rest, Mr. Tut?” the marquis asked.
Mr. Tut wiped his clean mouth with his napkin. “The lady was a hit.”
The table broke into constrained applause. The marquis folded the paper and presented it to Voleta. “For your collection, milady.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Mr. Tut said, turning in his seat so he could better observe Voleta. “What is your opinion of the young woman who died?”
“The young woman who what?” Voleta said, looking about to see if she was the only one who was confused.
“It’s not in the morning edition, but it will be all over the evening post, I’m quite sure.”
“What are you talking about?” the marquis said, feeling undermined by the change of mood of his celebratory breakfast. “I didn’t invite you to eclipse our moment of triumph with your own filthy gossip!”
“It is related, milord.” Tut held his hands up in a show of deference. “A young lady fell from the roof of her home late last night. She was wearing a white nightgown.” He watched with undisguised interest as Voleta’s amiable smile first cracked, then shattered.
“My goodness!” Xenia cried with a practiced quaver of grief. “Who was it?”
“Commissioner Pound’s daughter, Genevieve.”
“The poor man,” the marquis said automatically, his thoughts already moving ahead to the more important implication. “His daughter was mimicking our guest, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t wish to speculate needlessly, milord,” Mr. Tut said with false humility.
“Please.” The marquis shifted the handkerchief, which had slipped farther back on his head. Voleta stared down the line of gossips, chewing air and watching her with unfriendly smiles. She had never wanted to scream so badly in all her life.
“No one knows what feelings reside within an unbeating heart, but among the living the consensus is that Lady Genevieve was paying homage to Lady Voleta.” Mr. Tut adjusted his spectacles. “The Reverie editors are of the mind that your ladyship may be the next Mermaid. Actually, they’ve already coined a name for her. They’re calling her the Leaping Lady.”
Voleta watched as a maid set an eggcup before her, the soft-boiled egg already uncapped, the yolk inside shining like a wound. She thought of the young woman splayed upon the bleached cobblestones and wondered what her last thoughts had been. Had she time to grieve or regret as she fell? Had she thought of her life, her family, her loves, her hopes … or did she think only of the morning post? Her life was no more than a rumor now, spoken once by strangers over breakfast—a tragedy that would become a trifle before lunch, and by dinner, be forgotten.
Voleta stood up, surprising everyone, and walked from the table in a daze.
“You all witnessed that,” the marquis said with a sweep of his finger. “That was the moment the Leaping Lady first heard her name!”
Voleta gazed down from her bedroom balcony at the people coursing through the streets. The dominance of the color orange had broken overnight, and no one seemed sure what should replace it. They wore every hue, every cut of dress, every accessory. The dispelled uniformity seemed a source of great anxiety. The citizenry dashed about with swiveling heads and darting eyes, searching shopwindows and one another for the new consensus.
Voleta felt a great welling up of pity for them; it was a cold and useless feeling.
She saw the evidence of her influence peeking through the waning orange. She saw women in simple silver dresses and white nightgowns, their hair shorn close to their head or slicked down to appear so.
She was distantly aware that Xenia had walked into her room without knocking. The marquis’s daughter had spent a moment clucking and cooing at Squit, then she gave a surprised yip that made Voleta smile softly.
Xenia drew up beside her on the balcony, sucking her finger to soothe the spot Squit had just nipped. “Why would you have a pet that bites you? It’s like having a maid who makes messes for you. Or a cook you have to feed. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“She’s not a pet,” Voleta said, closing her eyes. “And she doesn’t like being picked up by strangers.”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t either. How stupid of me! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Xenia said in a singsong as she slapped her cheek lightly. She waited for Voleta to argue with her dramatic self-recriminations. When Voleta offered none, she went on: “Oh no! Are you sad about the girl who fell?”
“Why did you cut your hair?”
Xenia felt along her newly uncovered neck and up the back of her head. “I just wanted to count the lumps. You know what they say: One lover for every lump. I have eight. Eight lumps.”
“Stop that. Why really?”
“Because I have staked my name next to yours, silly goose. We are gossip sisters. Sisters in ink. I took a gamble on you, you know. I offered you my friendship. I stood by you when you made your mistakes. I think it’s only fair that I share in your successes, too. I’ve not been a bad host after all.” Xenia tried to arrange her pretty face into some expression of sincerity, though Voleta thought it looked more as if she had something in her eye.
“You’re angling for an invitation, aren’t you? You’re trying to get into the prince’s box at the Vivant.”
Xenia huffed indignantly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about! I’ve never been so insulted in all my life! Here I am, having an innocent conversation with my friend, and, and …” Xenia blinked her cow-like eyes. “Yes, I suppose I am. I mean, there’s got to be room for me.”
“It’s the last place you should be. That man is probably a fiend. You do realize that, don’t you? You have to know what they say about him. Why would you ever want to be in the company of a man like that if you could help it?”
“Because he’s a prince!” Xenia all but wailed. A trio of soldiers in black uniforms looked up to find the source of the outburst and tipped their caps as one. Xenia waved until she jiggled and then blew them a kiss.
Voleta slapped the rail top. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Xenia said, still waving at the soldiers who had already lost interest and were vanishing again into the crowd.
“Why do you throw yourself at every man you see?”
“Because I have self-confidence.” The lady’s smile seemed to freeze upon her face.
Voleta blurted out a laugh. “Confidence! You are the most insecure person I’ve ever met. You’re forever running yourself down, hoping someone will correct you. You need constant validation and approval and attention! I swear, if you ever do find a husband, you’ll let him kick you around like a ball, just so long as he tells you you’re pretty once in a while.”
“What a horrible thing for a friend to say.”
“We are not friends! I’m just a roll of the dice to you! I’m your gamble! Would I be a hit? Would I be a flop? Would I get you invited to better parties? You only cared about me because you thought I was a good bet. Well, let me tell you, my friends—my real friends—don’t think of me as long odds or good odds or as any odds at all!”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because somehow you’ve turned all this prosperity and opportunity into a prison! I don’t know how you did it, but you did. This is a horrible way to live! And you could walk away from this nonsense tomorrow. You have the means to go as you please. If you could just squeeze that big head of yours through the bars of your parties and your princes and your morning posts, you could escape!”
“You don’t know the first thing!” Xenia said, her voice snapping like a whip. “And if we’re not friends, then I’ll have to speak to Papa about your staying here any longer. Eating and drinking us out o
f house and home. Your little rat bit me!” Xenia held up her finger, showing off the invisible wound. “I don’t like you. You’re a dum-dum who didn’t even smile when a prince kissed your hand! I saw you standing there like a corpse on a stick. I can’t get anybody but fat old earls to look at me. But you! Prince Francis came to you like a called dog! And you wouldn’t even dance with him. You are such a dummy. I wish you had been the one to fall off that roof!”
“Excuse me, ladies.” Ann stood at the balcony door. She held up a stiff envelope like a white flag. “Prince Francis has sent his greetings to your father, Xenia, who was very pleased to receive them. The prince has also sent a ticket for you to join him and Lady Voleta in his box this evening.”
Xenia gave Voleta a scorching look and said, “Please inform the prince that I humbly accept his offer.” Voleta rolled her eyes. “And, Ann, please thank him for thinking of me. Tell him I expect to be in a rather lusty mood this evening. Sign it for me, please. Your signature is so much better.”
“Milady,” Ann said with strained patience.
“A lusty mood!” Xenia squawked back. She stormed from the balcony and made a great show of slamming the bedroom door.
Ann sighed and smiled at Voleta. “I hope the lady’s … mood doesn’t spoil your evening.”
“Thank you, Ann. It’s fine. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Voleta said, her temper cooling quickly.
Crossing back through Voleta’s bedroom, Ann’s attention was drawn to the large, curiously patterned moth that was perched on the lid of the jewelry chest. The coloring on its wings appeared to be eerily similar to actual paisleys. “What a queer little thing,” she murmured, picking up a folded copy of the Daily Reverie. She raised the newspaper over the insect. Its wings pressed together, as if in prayer.
Voleta swooped in and gathered the insect in her hands, startling Ann in the process. “Got him!” Voleta cried.
Catching her breath, Ann laughed at herself and said, “You do realize moths are a housekeeper’s mortal enemy? Though we have lots of mortal enemies. Mice, crickets, dogs, or really anything else that likes to roll around in the street. We are friendly with cats, though.”
“Well, they do eat mice,” Voleta said gamely, raising her cupped hands. “I’ll put the enemy outside.”
Ann was still smiling when she turned and bumped into Iren, who was returning from her bath. She smelled like she had doused herself in rose water. Her uniform was wet about the collar and in patches across her hips. Her hair stood out in porcupine quills. “Don’t you look nice!” Ann said.
Iren pulled at the excess fabric around her middle. “I think Byron thinks I’m fatter than I am.”
“Who’s Byron?”
“My … tailor.”
Ann put her hands on her hips, holding her head at a contemplative angle. “Well, far be it from me to criticize another’s work, but I’m reasonably deft with a needle. If we took in a few inches here and some more right here,” she said, pinching the uniform elbow. “I’m sure it would fit much better.”
“I don’t know,” Iren said, drawing out the phrase.
“You still haven’t forgiven me for the wig, have you? Well, that’s fair enough. I haven’t forgiven myself. It was an awful idea. But the good news is that your young lady has blazed the public trail for short hair. So perhaps you can dispense with both the bonnet and the wig and just go as yourself. As you probably should’ve from the beginning. Anyway, if you’d like to test your luck with my needle, come by my room after tea, and we’ll have a quick fitting.”
“Oh, she’ll be there! It’s a wonderful idea,” Voleta said, still clutching the moth that continued to flap and tickle her hands. “Now, Ann, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, we need to discuss my evening wear.”
“Of course, of course. And I’ll see you after tea.” Without waiting for an answer, Ann pulled the door closed behind her with such practiced care it scarcely clicked.
“These people are insane,” Voleta said in a very different tone. “Throwing themselves off roofs, blaming me. No, actually they credit me. I blame myself.”
“Ann told me about the girl. She was Pound’s daughter.”
“I don’t want to have to feel sorry for that man. Why is everyone here so determined to ruin themselves, just for a little attention? I’ve never met so many vain and desperate people in my life, and I lived in a brothel!”
“Everyone except, you think, for Marya?” Iren said.
“Marya is different. You’ll see. Now let’s hear what Byron has to say for himself.”
Voleta twisted the moth’s wings about its body, then turned its head. Byron’s voice buzzed and pitched about like a fly in a jar. Iren made a bowl for the device with her hands, amplifying the recording. Byron spoke in veiled terms, so if the message were intercepted, its meaning would be unclear.
“To whom it may concern. The man in charge of the white city has agreed to return the master’s picture. It would be wonderful if you two could wrap things up a little early, if possible. The captain thinks we should skip the long goodbye. She sends her regards. The master sends the usual assortment of reprimands and compliments.” The recording seemed to end, but a moment later there was a shuttering sound, and Byron spoke again in a quieter voice. “Post script. The captain showed me the latest Reverie. I must admit, while I failed to turn you into their sort of lady, you somehow managed to turn them into your sort of crowd. Well done! Give my best to our imposing friend. And wear the moon, for goodness’ sake. I might need to get a message to you in a hurry.”
“There you have it,” Voleta said, slapping the lid of the jewelry box open. She withdrew the velvet pouch and shook the silver chain and lunar pendant into her hand. Opening the clasp, she drew the Sphinx’s necklace around her neck. “It’s tonight or not at all.”
“And what happens if Marya says yes? What if she wants to come?” Iren asked. “If we’re caught with her—”
Voleta waved these details away, saying, “We’ll put her in a wig or throw a coat over her. We’ll be subtle.”
“Not really our strength, though, is it?” Iren slid the dormant moth into her uniform’s pocket. “And we are absolutely not going to kidnap her.”
“No, I’m not going to kidnap her!” Voleta made a great show of looking insulted as she straightened the necklace in the mirror. She stopped mid-act, arrested by her own appearance. For a moment, she saw herself in the light of her new fame: the hair, the dress, the jewelry. She looked herself in the eye, stuck out her tongue, then turned to face Iren. She held up a finger to punctuate her declaration. “But I will persuade her.”
Ann slowly circled around Iren’s waist, pins clenched tightly between her lips. Ann’s bedroom was small, tidy, and warmly lit by a single gas lamp that fluttered loudly enough to be heard.
It wasn’t a particularly tricky job—all she needed to do was take in enough to trim the baggage without puckering the seam—and yet she worked with such deliberation and care, Iren couldn’t help but feel a little flattered by it.
“I love this fabric. It’s called bombazine. Isn’t that a lovely word? I know some people think it’s a little coarse to the touch, but I think it’s the perfect texture. Some ladies like to wear nothing but silk and satin because it’s so oily soft, but I don’t care for that myself. It slips and slides and sticks to you. I’d take bombazine or a nice wool any day. Something firm enough to feel.” Ann spoke in such an unguarded way, it almost seemed as if she were talking to herself. Iren didn’t find the experience unpleasant. In fact, for the first time in a very long time, she found that she didn’t feel the tug of vigilance. She wasn’t thinking of Voleta or Senlin or the Sphinx’s stupid plan. She wasn’t really thinking about anything. She felt almost sleepy, though she wasn’t tired. This, she thought, must be what relaxation feels like.
“My mother is a seamstress and a homebody who has never once in her life given a single fig about climbing the ranks or being seen and all that,” Ann said, s
ettling into a new topic. “She is a wonderful mother. She was a patient wife, too. My father was always so nervous about being liked at work and putting in enough hours. It was never enough hours.” She sighed and shook her head, seeming to find the memory sad but familiar enough to no longer ache. “My mother still likes to sit at the kitchen table and snip out silhouettes after she gets home from work.” Ann nodded at one of the walls where a pair of black profiles hung in oval frames. “She made those. That’s my father and her.”
Iren looked at the profiles, marking the man’s sharp chin and the woman’s high forehead. She saw a little of Ann in both.
“I was an only child, a good student all eight years,” Ann continued. “When I finished school, I didn’t want to sit at home. I had to work. I didn’t want to wait to be called on by whatever suitor decided to settle for me. Marriage just seems like business and politics tucked into bed. It never appealed to me.” Ann cut her eyes up. Iren looked down. Strangely, she felt as if she were staring down a mountainside rather than her own chest. “You’re not married, are you?”
“No,” Iren said.
“Don’t hold your breath, dear. You’ll pop all my pins out. There we go. That’s better. I started working as a governess when I was seventeen. In the past thirty years, I’ve raised five children for three employers. Some turned out better than others, but so far, I’ve not raised any absolute ninnies. Not absolute.” Ann pressed upon Iren’s hip and she dutifully shuffled in a circle until Ann stopped her and began pinning again. “Xenia was a different person eight or nine years ago. You wouldn’t recognize her. She was kind. Curious. Simple, but not fatuous. Just an honest, plainspoken girl. She had this way of twisting up her mouth whenever she came upon something that puzzled her. She was such a theatrical little thinker!” Ann laughed around the pins in the corner of her mouth. “She would rub her chin and scratch her head and pace back and forth until she solved the puzzle or gave up trying. She rarely gave up. But that was then. Now … she’ll be married before the year is out. The marquis will shake my hand, perhaps give me a mina for my years of service, and shut the door. That’s always a strange moment.” Her voice dipped and slowed to something that sounded like a dreamy mutter. “It’s odd to be so intimately involved and relied upon, and then after years and years of being essential, to suddenly become—” Ann stopped abruptly, shook her head, and patted the last pin she’d laid. “I’m sorry, how long have I been going on? What did you ask me?”
The Hod King Page 28
