The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  The maid began speaking at once, “I’m so sorry, milady. I know I’m terribly late, but the duke kept us so long. He said I shouldn’t even bother to come, but I knew you’d want to see her even if only for a moment.” The maid passed the gently fussing infant into Marya’s arms. “She had a long nap, and she ate well.”

  Marya’s face glowed with an affection that dimmed the whole world for a moment. She kissed the infant, nuzzled her, and said, “It’s all right. I know how he is. Thank you, Molly.”

  Voleta stared in amazement at the child. “Who is that? Wait, is that—”

  “Be quiet,” Marya said. She kissed the infant again and then slid her back into the maid’s arms. “Take Olivet home, please. I hope not to be late, but don’t keep her up on my account.”

  “Yes, milady,” Molly said, wrapping the infant up again in the hall.

  Marya shut the door, keeping Voleta inside with her. The whole attitude of her expression changed. Her former confidence and austerity were in shambles. She clutched Voleta’s arm, her stare stretched by fear. “You must not speak of this.”

  “How have you kept this a secret?”

  “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

  “Who? The duke? Wait, does Senlin know? Is that his child?”

  Marya didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. The truth was stamped upon her face. “Swear you’ll never tell him.”

  “Why would I keep this from—”

  “Because it’s the only thing keeping us safe.”

  “From the duke?”

  “Of course from the duke! He has agreed to raise Olivet as his daughter so long as I sing, and smile, and … give him a son next. As soon as I give him a son, he’ll adopt my daughter publicly, formally. He’ll say she’s an orphan, but I’ll get to have her.” Marya looked away. “The doctors said we had to wait three months before trying for another child. Three months are nearly gone.”

  “That’s all the more reason to flee! You have to come with me. Marya, we can protect you from the duke. My friends are very—”

  “No, no, you can’t. He’s rich beyond understanding. He can move fleets and drum up armies. He has allies everywhere. Even if I could slip away, he would not stop until he hunted me down and dragged me back here. He would kill Olivet. He would kill me. He is a jealous, merciless man.”

  A sharp knock on the door startled them both. Someone shouted through the door, “Two minutes!”

  “Please, please, I beg you for the sake of my child, for the sake of his child, do not tell Tom. Please. Just let us be.”

  Marya gathered up the train of her gown and opened the door of her dressing room. The hall was a flurry of commotion. Marya was about to step into the current of bodies, but hesitated long enough to say, “You should go. Go before they decide they want to keep you. Once they decide that … it’s too late.” And then she was gone.

  Voleta stood in the Mermaid’s dressing room, dazed and searching. In the corridor outside, the rush to the stage crested and then began to wane. A tardy violinist rushed past with one arm in the sleeve of his flapping tuxedo jacket. Then there was no one, and she was alone.

  She realized her hand ached, and she opened it to discover she had been clenching the wooden backstage chit so hard she’d driven all the color from her hand. “Oh, fun,” she said, remembering who had given her the token.

  She looked up to find Prince Francis blocking the open door. An ugly leer curled his handsome mouth; his eyes looked black under his lowered brow. “Fun, indeed,” he said.

  “Oh. Hello. Come to walk me back, milord?” Voleta said, a thrill of fear rolling across her scalp. He shut the door before she could move to stop him. “Or are you trying to start a rumor?”

  “Have you ever felt the torment of love?” the prince said, running his hand over the robes that hung from the coat-trees. There wasn’t enough room for her to skirt him and get to the door. She thought, perhaps if she drew him in a little farther …“Back when I was a youth, I knew a young lady named Cordelia Tantalus.” He spoke the name as if it were an exotic spice. “I was completely smitten with her. I pined for her for years and years. Her parents were friends of my parents, so we grew up in each other’s company. She was beautiful, clever, quick-witted. She called me her confidant. She would sit on my lap as if I were her favorite chair and tell me all about her fascinations for other men.” The prince took up the silk sleeve of a hanging blouse and pressed it to his cheek. Through the walls of the dressing room, they heard the rumble and trill of the orchestra. The performance had resumed. The framed stars rattled on the walls as if in excitement. Voleta took another step back. “She made me call her Cory as if she were my sister. She was an expert at finding ways to torment me with cold affection and warm flirtation. She could say she loved me, but in just such a way I knew it meant she never would.”

  Keeping her expression attentive, Voleta inched to one side, hoping to get a better angle at the door. She should’ve expected this. She had misread the trap in her eagerness to see Marya. She felt like a fool for allowing him to corner her. She could call for help, but no one would hear her through the closed door and over the blast of the orchestra.

  Prince Francis made a sudden expansive gesture, and she jumped back, jarring the dressing table. “And yet I hoped, and I endured, and I suffered, believing that she would one day wake and realize that her presumptive brother wanted more than anything to be her lover.” He reached over Voleta’s shoulder and plucked a feather from the vase. “So it went for many years: I, without the courage to be frank; she, without the decency to love me.

  “Then one day, not long after my seventeenth birthday, I found myself standing on the bowsprit of one of my father’s airships, gripping a scarf that I had stolen from her neck while she napped.” He stroked the feather under his chin. “I felt like such a worthless wretch! I was a man without birthright. My head was full of self-destruction. If I could not have her, then I would give myself to the void! Then, while I was imagining what sort of crater I would leave in the earth, a gust of wind blew up and snatched her scarf from my hand.” The prince waved the ostrich feather about then touched the plump end to the tip of Voleta’s nose. “The wind didn’t ask if it could or should. It didn’t say please or thank you. The wind just came and took what it wanted.”

  “We’re missing the show, milord,” Voleta said. He pretended not to hear her.

  “The wind isn’t hopeful or jealous or wicked. It is transparent. It is purely itself.” He reached out and stroked the side of her head above her ear, pressing his body against hers. “I am the wind, Voleta, and you are my exotic little scarf. And I shall carry you off as I please.”

  She fixed him with an unwavering stare, and said, “Francis, I’ve blown stiffer winds out of my arse.”

  She brought her knee up with such force it stole his breath.

  He doubled forward, lowering his head as he wheezed in agony. She snatched a powder pot from the table and smashed it upon the back of his head. A plume of talc billowed out as the prince grasped his head and staggered backward. The cloud of powder roiled across the floor and bunched upon the walls, vanishing the coatracks and the jealous stares of the dead stars. The stifled beat of a timpani rang in the distance as they coughed.

  Pale as a statue, Voleta leapt atop the dressing table and kicked at the white-faced prince. She clipped his ear, knocking loose a puff of talc from his head. Though stunned by the blow, he was quick enough to catch her foot. He twisted it about, throwing her facedown upon the table. She crashed among the vats and brushes with a shout of frustration and pain. He grabbed at the skirt of her gown and pulled, trying to drag her from the high ground and get her onto the floor. She kicked with her free leg, catching him in the gut with her heel.

  The prince staggered back among the coats, stirring up a thick cloud that enveloped him.

  Voleta wiped at her floured face; her agitated eyes streamed with tears.

  She hurled a ceramic vat of rouge
into the fog, and heard it pop uselessly upon the wall. She threw another makeup pot and heard a splash of shattering glass. A picture frame clattered to the floor.

  Realizing that the cloud gave him cover, the prince endeavored to stir up the powder even more. He shook the cloaks and fanned the fog until the air was as white and opaque as a bedsheet. Voleta attacked the smoke screen, pitching a pot of blue eyeshadow, a silver comb, a plated brush, and anything she laid her hands on, targeting the sound of flapping capes and rattling coatracks. She thought she struck the mark once or twice, though it was hard to tell amid the chaos. She picked up the heavy glass vase, dumping ostrich plumes everywhere, and raised it above her head.

  The prince charged from the murk, catching her about the waist and driving her back against the mirror. She lost her grip upon the vase, and it rolled down his back and cracked upon the floor. Ignoring the flash of pain in her back, Voleta locked his head under her arm. She stretched and squeezed his neck against her ribs with all the strength she had. He tried to lift her, to raise his arms to get at her, but she hooked one leg over his back to give more leverage to her weight. She pinned one of his arms to his side. He grunted in frustration and heightening alarm. He seemed to have not anticipated such a fight. He had used the clumsy tactics of a bully who’d won more fights through surprise and intimidation than ability. She felt his panic, his gasping, the trembling of his hands, and knew she would squeeze his throat until he lost consciousness, squeeze until he turned purple then blue then white again. And only then would she think about letting go.

  The twin-barreled pistol, no larger than his palm, seemed to appear out of nowhere, though he must’ve pulled it from his pocket. The prince waved the gun blindly over his trapped head, trying to point it at her as she craned out of the way. The first shot cracked the air, deafening them both. The boom of the orchestra shrank into a muted rumble.

  The small caliber bullet punched a star into the mirror behind her head. The muzzle added a bitter whiff of smoke to the sweetly scented cloud that possessed the room.

  As she wrenched his head like a stubborn weed, she wondered what the morning post would make of this. LEAPING LADY CHOKES PRINCE UNTIL HE SOILS HIMSELF!

  She could only hope the fashion would catch on.

  Voleta did not hear the second shot, nor did she see it, nor did she feel the bullet when it pierced her head.

  Then there was no room, and there was no light, and there was no her anymore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Only people who go to bed early believe in happy endings. We night owls understand that happiness does not dwell in finales. It resides in anticipation, in revelry, and in worn-out welcomes. Endings are always sad.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  Half an hour earlier, Ann Gaucher had been trying to decide whether she should say something to her charge about her shocking lack of self-respect. The lady was letting the prince pet her like the family dog. But then, the moment Iren and Reggie left to find and revive Voleta (the poor dear!) the prince seemed to lose all interest in Xenia. He dropped her hand as if it were a dead fish and went to the bar to make himself another drink. Ann noticed he did not pour from the same decanter he’d been tipping all night but pulled a dusty rarity from behind the bar. He splashed the honey-colored liquor into a snifter and inhaled it as if it were a rose.

  Xenia pursued him, seeming confused by his sudden change of mood, but nevertheless determined to throw herself at him.

  “Now that we’re alone, Your Highness, you can tell me what you really think of that funny little foreign girl. She’s an absolute shock, isn’t she? Always dressing like she’s going to her own funeral. She can hardly hold a fork, and she’s a terrible flirt. I must’ve seen her kiss a dozen men since she arrived.”

  “You have not,” Prince Francis said, smiling as he sipped and savored his brandy. “I understand why you don’t like her, though. She’s competition, and you aren’t up for much competition, are you? The marquis has been squandering your inheritance for years. Oh, I’d like to see his books!”

  The insult seemed to gore Xenia, and Ann watched as she flinched and paled.

  “All those lavish parties just begin to smack of desperation after a while, don’t they? And he still hasn’t managed to scare up a willing spouse for his daughter. What are you now, Xenia, twenty-five, twenty-six years old? Thirty is just around the corner!” He leaned his elbows on the bar and addressed her casually, indifferently, as if she were his little sister. Xenia grimaced in despair. “Do you ever feel like your life is a balloon that has a hole in it somewhere? You can’t find it, but you can hear it hissing, and you can feel the ship going down, down, down.” He swirled the liquor up the walls of his snifter. “Really, you could do a lot worse than Reggie. In fact, I think you ought to be grateful for a chance at an earl.”

  Xenia’s bottom lip trembled, and her eyes glazed with tears, but the prince gave her no mercy. Realizing the effort was wasted, Xenia moped back to the balcony rail, where she hung and writhed like an overtired child. The prince watched her with faint amusement.

  A moment later, Reggie returned from the hall, out of breath, but composing himself quickly. He patted down his fringe of hair, thin as an eyelash, and tested his sour breath in the cup of his hand. He approached Xenia with what seemed renewed purpose. Xenia found a smile for the wretched earl, who at least was better than a count.

  Reggie announced that Voleta was quite all right now—fully recovered, in fact. The chilly air of the fur cooler had worked its magic. The Lady Contumax had decided to go on to meet the Mermaid, and she had taken her monstrous governess along with her.

  Xenia said, “Oh, I’m so glad,” though she looked miserable.

  The prince tossed back the last of his commemorative drink like a man steeling his nerves. He pulled a second wooden token from his waistcoat, flipped it with his thumb, and snatched the backstage pass from the air.

  “All right, Reggie,” he said. “Time to warm our hands on the fires we’ve built.” The prince slapped his friend on the back, pulled the curtain over the door aside, and was gone.

  “Alone at last, milady!” Reggie said, taking up Xenia’s hand. He moistened it with a kiss, and she giggled dutifully.

  Overlooked and all but forgotten, Ann observed the prince’s abrupt exit from under the wing of the great owl. She frowned to herself. The whole situation made her terribly uneasy, though she didn’t have long to ponder the cause of her apprehension because Xenia put her to work with a dozen petty requests. “Ann, can you freshen our drinks, please. And pour them the way Papa does. I like mine with a little more lime. And can you do anything about this light? I feel it’s a little high, a little severe, isn’t it? Can’t we shade the lamps a little more so the earl doesn’t have to squint? It’s such a magnificent visage, milord! I could stare at you all day. Is there any candy? I would love a piece of candy. Could you have a look behind the bar, Ann? Yes, even a cherry would do. I love cherries in syrup, don’t you, milord?”

  While the earl and her ladyship flirted, Ann spent the intermission dashing about, feeling whipped by her worry. It wasn’t until the earl stoppered Xenia’s mouth with a flurry of noisy kisses that Ann had a moment to sit and think. The prince had always had two tokens, yet he had sent Voleta to meet the Mermaid alone. Why? To make the lady feel at ease? Surely not. To separate her from Iren? That would make sense, but then wasn’t it convenient for the prince that Voleta had fallen ill, otherwise Iren would never have let him out of her sight, and he never would’ve had an opportunity to use the second pass. Unless Voleta hadn’t fainted at all. Perhaps the original usher had been prompted to interrupt the evening with news of Voleta’s sudden illness, a lie whose sole purpose was to draw Iren out. It had already been established the lady’s governess could not accompany Voleta backstage. So why hadn’t Iren returned? Where was she? Iren would never have allowed the prince to use his pass unless she—

  Ann sprang from her seat at the
realization. Working to keep the panic from her face, she marched over to Reggie and Xenia, canoodling upon the rail.

  “Excuse me, Lady Xenia, shouldn’t we go check on your guest?”

  Xenia looked dazedly at Ann. “Don’t be silly, Ann. Can’t you see I’m talking to the earl?” The earl’s mouth crawled along her neck like a snail upon a garden wall.

  “Milady—” Ann began, but Lady Xenia cut her off.

  “You’re not my mother!”

  Ann’s patience snapped. “Look, you spoiled brat, either you come with me right this minute and drop this salivating hound, or I will go alone, and you will never see me again.”

  Reggie looked up with dampened cheeks, his irritation tempered by his lust. He seemed to elect to let the lady handle her staff.

  Xenia coughed through her indignation and finally spat out, “You can’t talk to me like that! You’re just a maid! I’m going to tell Papa what you said. He’ll put you out on your ear!”

  Ann regarded her charge with pity, her affection finally exhausted. She said, “Lady Xenia, I hope you’re still happy with your choice in a year’s time. I think I shall be happy with mine.”

  Out in the corridor, Ann heard the thumping almost at once. She followed the drumming down the curving hall, lined on either side by eroded urns and chalky curtains to the other exclusive boxes. She came upon the same broom-thin usher who’d come to fetch Reggie, now stationed in front of a door plated in steel and trimmed in punched leather that led to the fur cooler. He was sweating and pop-eyed and could hardly look at Ann when she halted in front of him with her fists on her hips.

  “I’m to say there’s an ape loose in the fur room, ma’am, and you can’t go in there,” the usher said.

  “Look, I’m going to open this door. That’s not in question.” The door bumped fiercely behind them, and the youth jumped. “The question is: Do you want to be here when I do?”

  With hardly a moment’s deliberation, the usher retreated down the hall at an undisguised sprint.