The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  Iren’s brow wrinkled with thought. “Did I ask anything?”

  Ann put her stool away and stuck the leftover pins back into their cushion on her bureau beside a vase full of dried, colorless flowers. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where all that came from. I suppose I—”

  “I liked your story,” Iren broke in. Now that she was free, she looked at herself in Ann’s dressing mirror. The glass didn’t show all of her, but what she could see, she liked. The chains she had worn about her waist for years and years had made her seem one shape. Now she was a different shape. She didn’t know if she liked this shape better or worse, but it was interesting to look at. She turned until she could see her back. “Your family sounds nice.”

  “Thank you. But, um, but what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You know: Where were you born? Did you like your mother? Were they mean to you at school?” Ann gave Iren a pleasant but oddly pleading look. Iren had no idea what it meant, and the fact must’ve shown on her face because Ann explained. “I feel a little exposed, dear. Couldn’t you tell me something about yourself, so I don’t feel like such a—” Ann stopped, searched hopelessly for a better word, and finally said, “Fool.”

  All at once, Iren thought of a thousand things she could never confess. Not only because it might out her and her friends as frauds and pirates, but because Iren knew it would also make her very difficult to like. Ann’s life had been all uniforms and silhouettes. Hers was all violence and thievery.

  But looking at Ann, seeming so vulnerable and uncomfortable, she knew she had to tell her something. She racked her memory for some happy moment.

  “There was a kitchen that gave soup out to whoever showed up before the pot was empty. They did it every, I think, Thursday night. I used to go there when I was a little girl, seven or eight years old, about this high.” Iren put her hand at the bottom of her hip. “The cook who made the soup and doled it out refused to give me any the first time I went. I was so hungry and angry, I almost left, but then he said, ‘Soup!’”—she wagged her finger, rehearsing a very clear memory—“‘Soup’s too thin for a growing boy.’ He said, ‘A growing boy needs a full belly!’ And he gave me an enormous wedge of cornbread, bigger than my hand, and a big beer stein full of milk. He stood there and watched me eat it all to make sure no one tried to steal it.”

  Ann smiled, but her eyes glistened with a different emotion. “We’ve led very different lives, haven’t we?”

  Iren tried to keep from looking at the floor, but it seemed to draw her gaze. “I don’t have a home. I’ve never had friends or a family. Well, not until a little while ago. This is all … very new to me.” Iren spoke carefully, as if she were feeling her way along the edge of a cliff at night.

  “You’re here to protect Voleta, aren’t you? Not just as a governess. You’re more of a bodyguard, I think.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’re very good at it, too. I certainly wouldn’t want to cross you. And I don’t think that you have to be like other governesses to take care of someone, especially someone like Voleta. Half of the governesses I know are so bitter they don’t even pay attention anymore. Their girls are essentially on their own. Like so many of us are. And look, it’s none of my business either way. I’m not judging you, and I’m not going to mention anything to anyone. I just wanted to tell you that I think Voleta is much better off for having you around.”

  Iren barked a laugh.

  “No really. She respects you, as do I, regardless of what you’ve had to do. I’m sure your work comes with all sorts of hardships and … regrets.” Ann carried the stool back out and set it down again beside Iren, where she stood, holding her breath, needled by the pins in her clothes.

  Ann stepped up on the stool. “You must be very strong to withstand so much pressure. Yes, very strong and very brave.” She held onto Iren’s shoulder and stood on her tiptoes, raising herself to eyelevel. Iren wore a startled grimace, and her gray eyes were wide. “And quite pretty, too.”

  Ann leaned in and kissed her on her tightened lips.

  “There,” Ann said, wiping her lipstick from Iren’s mouth. “Now all our cards are on the table.”

  Chapter Eleven

  There is little less charming than a spurned woman. I’d rather be cornered by a house fire than a heartbroken girl.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  If hubris had a temple, it would look like the Vivant.

  The famous music hall was overbuilt and underthought and forever caged by scaffolding. It loomed over the piazza like a sickly patriarch: pale and gaunt and proud. The limestone that composed its bony spires, walls, and steps was as soft as chalk, and it rubbed off on all who touched it. A scuff of white on one’s jacket was considered a mark of distinction, especially among the middling hordes that scrabbled desperately after fame and influence. In its history, the Vivant had witnessed the melding of fortunes, the drafting of wars, and the rise and fall of many kings. Its stage was reserved for only the very best players at the height of their careers. No one retired to the Vivant, though many a swan song had been sung there. It was said that from its high stage, a starlet could look out and see exactly how far she had to fall.

  Lady Xenia and her guest shuffled with the well-dressed, perfumed, and coiffed masses across the piazza, inching toward the hallowed hall. Everyone was squeezed together like toes in a boot. With the narrow crags of the city blocks behind them, the sky seemed larger, the air more abundant.

  The fact that Xenia was getting attention amid so much traffic and so many novel fashions filled her with a warm sense of worth. It had been the right choice, she was sure, to cut her hair, though her father had wept when he’d first seen her. (Her father could be so sentimental!) Her dum-dum guest was drawing a lot of attention, too, but of course she wasn’t enjoying it at all. The sour little foreign girl had made her father send away the sedans he’d hired especially for the occasion. Lady Voleta had said it was undignified to be carried around on another man’s back. “Undignified,” said the girl who lived with a rat in her blouse and jumped from roof to roof in her nightgown. Undignified! Xenia was quite sure there was nothing more dignified than riding in a sedan, with one’s ankles at eye level to all the world. Everywhere she looked, there were ladies riding upon rented chairs, their dresses as visible as flags, their expressions perfectly tranquil, as if they were just waking from some superior dream.

  Xenia stamped her foot on the cobblestones and said, “Why can’t you at least smile? This is the greatest night of our lives, and you look like a great sulking cow!”

  The moment before, Voleta had been thinking very hard about what she would say to Marya when the time came. There seemed no good way to phrase what she had to say: I’m here to take another crack at rescuing you since our last effort fell short. Assuming you want to be rescued, of course. Oh, you don’t? All right. Is that because you’re having the time of your life or is it because the duke has you over a barrel? Who am I? Just some girl your husband rescued from a brothel. But I’m sure Tom’s already filled you in on all his errors and questionable friends …

  Then Xenia called her a sulking cow, and Voleta’s head swiveled to find the lady’s painted face pressed over her shoulder. Voleta’s first instinct was to say something biting, but she knew there was no advantage to antagonizing her host, especially not now. She needed Xenia to distract the prince long enough for her to get in Marya’s ear. Voleta couldn’t afford to be petty. If there was ever a time for self-control, this was it.

  But before Voleta could respond, their attention was stolen by a sharp shriek and then broad laughter. Just ahead of them, a young woman in a strapless gray gown began to spin and rise over the crowd. For a moment, it seemed as if she were being sucked up by a leisurely tornado, then the pedestal that lifted her became visible over the crowd. The curious column was threaded like a screw and engraved with beautiful arabesque whorls. Voleta spotted a plaque affixed to
one side of the pillar. Her eyes were keen enough to just make out the words contained there: WILL-O’-THE-WISP: GIFT OF THE SPHINX.

  The pillar stopped rising at last with a little bump that made the lady atop it give another a shriek, though this time it came between fits of laughter. No one seemed alarmed by the unscrewed monolith. Though when its edge cracked open, there was a mad dash to get into the chamber inside. After a tussle, the door into the pillar shut again, and the crowd sighed in shared disappointment.

  “What is that thing?” Voleta asked, as the column began to twist back into the ground, lowering the young lady back to the arms of her escort and burying whoever was inside.

  “It’s a Will-o’-the-Wisp. Some folks call it a Wishing Box,” Ann said from behind Voleta. “They’re an old amusement.” The governess, who was no taller than Voleta, wasn’t shy about clearing space for herself. She dug her elbow into a drunk dandy who’d blundered too close before continuing. “You see them all over the city. They pop up now and then at random.”

  “It shows you things,” Xenia added. “Some people say they see nice things inside them. They see their future or their dreams or dead loved ones. But I don’t like them. I think they’re nasty. I went in one once, and I saw a wrinkly old hag. She stuck out her tongue at me. I thought she was going to try to lick me. I screamed my head off. I couldn’t sleep for a week. I don’t know why people like them so much. You should try it, though. You’d probably rather kiss a hag than a prince.”

  Voleta wanted to know more about the Sphinx’s “wishing box,” and perhaps have a go in one herself, but there wasn’t time for that now. She needed to prepare Xenia for her part in the evening’s antics. “I’m sorry, Xenia. I know I’ve been in a foul mood.” Voleta did her best to sound contrite. “The truth is, I’m just nervous. The prince is so handsome and cultured. I can’t help but feel like I’m a little outclassed. What would a girl like me even do with a prince?” Voleta stole a glance back at Iren, stalking behind her. When she caught her eye, Iren tried to rally a smile of support, but Voleta could see her hackles were up. The amazon was on edge. Good, Voleta thought. “I just don’t think I’m ready for such a big romance,” Voleta concluded with a heavy sigh.

  Xenia beamed at her. “Oh, it’s not entirely your fault that you aren’t ready.” They reached the first of many stairs leading up to the hall. Xenia lifted her skirt and began to climb, talking at a near shout. “You’ve just not had enough experience in polite society. I mean, you were pretty much raised by airmen and mudbugs, weren’t you? All that travel! And we all know why girls travel. It’s because their families can’t stand them. But foreigners make such terrible babysitters. It’s a wonder you can hold a spoon the right way round, honestly. I’ve been preparing to marry a prince my whole life, and I only today feel truly ready.” Xenia, who’d been smiling radiantly a moment before, suddenly scowled. “Is that really your best jewelry?”

  Voleta’s wrists and ears were bare. Her only adornment was the Sphinx’s necklace. The modest moon pendant hung above the neckline of her simple black dress. Xenia had put on all of her best jewels; she spangled like a lump of jam. Her dress was swoop-necked and made of silver cambric. When she surmounted the last step to the Vivant, buffeted on all sides by the throng of ticket holders, Xenia stopped, turned, threw up her arms, and said in a gay shriek, “Your future princess has arrived!”

  The gentry looked up briefly from the stairs below, squinted at her with a bland sort of irritation, then clambered on.

  Ann gave the lady a little shove, and then they were inside.

  When Voleta had been very young, nearly younger than her memory could reach, her father had taken them all on a trip to the seaside. She recalled only snatches of the day: a skittering red crab, a blue-green wave, and the castle they built by dribbling watery sand from their fingertips, making little spatters that grew into spires that stretched into palisades.

  The lobby of the Vivant looked as if it had dribbled from the fingers of a giant. There was an undeniable whimsy and gracefulness to it, but Voleta no longer wondered why so much of the Vivant was pinned up with scaffolding. It was a frail sort of elegance.

  An usher approached, bowed, and asked for their tickets, which Ann presented at once. Seeing they were bound for the prince’s box, the usher gave a second, deeper bow and began to clear a path to the mezzanine stair. Xenia puffed up at this special treatment, though it seemed she couldn’t help but stop to rub her shoulder upon a chalky pillar like a cat upon a leg.

  After a few turns upon a coiling stair, their usher pulled back the black velvet curtain on the prince’s box. Xenia nearly spun Voleta around in her bid to be the first one in.

  The dim box looked more like a gentleman’s den than a balcony. There were dark rugs on the floor, several worn settees, and a short bar near the rear of the room. An exotic flock of stuffed birds decorated the walls. Voleta thought the morbid decor an ominous choice for a man who’d been charged with studying the magnificent creatures.

  Prince Francis Le Mesurier and Reggie Wycott, the Earl of Enbridge, leaned heavily upon the mahogany bar, their hands walled about tumblers of gin. Their black tuxedos were relatively staid, a symptom of the changing vogue. Behind them, a great barn owl hung with wings spread as if in blessing. When they saw the ladies and their governesses, Francis and Reggie both straightened and took to tugging their cuffs and smoothing their hair like a pair of guilty children. They were emphatically not drunk. They had merely been preparing for the evening. At worst, they could be accused of being a little overprepared.

  The hellos were made a little awkward by Xenia’s insistence that she speak for the Lady Contumax and Prince Le Mesurier, as well as for herself. She slipped breathlessly between the three roles, changing whenever Francis or Voleta opened their mouths: “My father sends his warmest regards, Your Highness, and I’m sure you wish to return them, and also we must express our undying gratitude for this honor, especially Lady Voleta, who has been a complete basket case all afternoon, worrying about what to say and do, but I told her Your Highness is famously gracious, and also she is lucky enough to have me here to demonstrate how a lady behaves while in the company of a prince.”

  This left out only Reggie, who stood awkwardly to one side of the trio, laughing like a winded dog for no apparent reason.

  While Xenia blathered, Prince Francis’s gaze darted back and forth between Voleta and Iren. Voleta could tell Iren made him nervous, though he seemed to be doing his best to appear unaffected.

  Meanwhile, Xenia was still talking. “—but this is so fancy, Your Highness! Oh, look at that pretty thing. Is it a duck? I only know ducks. They all look like ducks to me. Are others coming, or am I to have you all to myself?”

  “Others?” The prince smiled at her at last. “I know some poor devils have to resort to hiring gossips, but I’ve always found the practice pathetic. Isn’t that what friends are for—to witness one’s triumph? That’s why I’m so glad you and Reggie could join the Lady Voleta and I this evening.” Prince Francis didn’t seem to notice the crestfallen expression that settled on Xenia’s face.

  Hoping to distract from Xenia’s dejection, Voleta said, “What a view!” She waved an arm at the cavernous theater beyond the railing. The white aisles, dark orchestra pit, and black stage seemed very far away. Their box felt as private as a nest on a cliff.

  “What would you care to drink, Lady Voleta?” Prince Francis asked.

  “Do you have any rum?”

  “Rum?” The prince laughed. “You really are full of surprises. A lady like yourself tipping back rum!”

  “You don’t have any?”

  “Of course I have rum! I love rum.”

  “I love rum!” Xenia said.

  “Well then. Rums all around. How do you take yours?”

  “In a cup,” Voleta said, much to the prince’s amusement. He promised to use the joke in the future and, in a grand show of humility, went to make the drinks himself.

 
While they waited for his return, Reggie did his best to impress Xenia with his wit. He remarked on the interesting fashion of her hair, saying how it reminded him of an infant, a comparison that Xenia did not like in the least, which sent Reggie spiraling into a series of apologetic revisions: her hair was fine, keen, beautiful, it was a golden dandelion! He brushed the fringe of his own thin hair up his forehead, his cheeks glowing with embarrassment.

  Prince Francis returned carrying a tray. As he distributed the drinks, he said, “Don’t blow so hard upon the embers, Reg. You’ll put the fire out.”

  “I am ablaze already, Your Highness!” Xenia exclaimed. “Feel how my heart burns!” She took the prince’s hand, still cold from the ice, and pressed it to her bosom. “Feel how it pounds!”

  “Steady on,” Reggie said, looking miserable.

  A change in the murmur that filled the auditorium drew their attention to the balcony rail and the theater below. They gathered to the rail, though the glasses in their hands kept them from joining in the applause. The prince seemed content to let others do the clapping for him.

  The Mermaid burst through the house curtain and ran across the stage at a tilt. She fell upon the black piano bench awkwardly and lay there panting like a castaway spat up upon a shore. Her long blue dress lay tangled about her feet. Her auburn hair was wild, and her cheeks were pale beneath the rouge.