“Come by my dressing room after curtain call,” said Aristide as the lights began to lower. Twin spots wheeled across the stage and backdrop. The orchestra vamped, waiting on his entrance. Liesl was probably swearing, wondering what was taking him so long. But Ari was a master of stagecraft—he knew the audience liked the anticipation as much as the reveal.
* * *
Ari’s dressing room door was closed when she showed up. Behind it, she could hear the murmur of conversation. Her knock put a damper on that. When Ari opened the door, he didn’t open it wide.
“Would you give us just a moment?” he asked. He had a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.
From behind him, a low voice—could have been a woman, or a man—asked a question.
“Just another associate.” Then, to Cordelia, “Half a breath, really,” and shut the door in her face. She wrinkled her nose and leaned into the frame.
Ari wrapped up his meeting within thirty seconds, ushering out a short, broad-shouldered woman in a wide-brimmed hat. She had it pulled low at the front to hide her face. At the back, a few inches of freshly shingled salt-and-pepper hair curled over her neck. She didn’t acknowledge Cordelia when she passed.
“Imp-p-possibly sorry, darling.” Ari drew Cordelia across the threshold and sat her down on his battered velvet settee. He swept up a folder full of papers and paged through it. “I didn’t realize she’d be here tonight.”
“Who was it?”
His glare came at an angle, over the tops of his spectacles. “Nobody important.” The snap of the folder closed the conversation. “This, however”—he pulled an envelope from inside his dressing gown—“rather is.”
Cordelia reached for it, but Aristide pulled it away. “Ah! Instructions first. Zelda’s shop will be shuttered. There’s a b-b-bell rope in the alley. Pull it. One of her runners will let you in by the fire escape. Give this letter to Zelda, and only Zelda. Understood?”
“I got ears, Ari.”
“Only. Zelda.” He sliced the air with the edge of the envelope to emphasize.
“And don’t forget to lock the door when you get in.” Cordelia rolled her eyes and snatched the envelope away. “Don’t worry, Ma. I clock you.”
“I’m sure you do.” He peeled one of his false eyelashes away, fastidious as a grooming cat. “But it never hurts to take care.”
* * *
Zelda fronted as an art dealer, and kept a little store in the heart of the southwest quarter, just up Elver Street from Station Way. Cordelia got off the trolley and hiked the few blocks north through the crowds of night revelers until she saw the sign for Peronides Fine Arts and Antiquities. It hung from a wrought-iron hook at a dark second-story window. Instead of ringing the bell at the front, she went down the alley, like Ari had told her, and pulled at a length of tattered rope looped casually from the fire escape.
Nothing happened. She pulled a second time. And a third.
Just as she was turning away, thinking Ari had been wrong and Zelda must be asleep, or out, a thick-armed man in black jersey slipped from an open window and lowered the fire escape. Despite its weight, it moved quietly on well-oiled tracks. She climbed up, taking his helping hand when she could reach it. He fairly hoisted her onto the platform, and slid the ladder up after her.
“I got a letter for Zelda,” she said. He said nothing in return, just waved her through an open window. She parted curtains onto a dark room filled with shrouded sculptures and furniture. Muffled voices came through the walls. He came in after her, and pulled the curtains to. Blindly, she followed his grip on her arm. When he opened a door onto bright chaos, she blinked and threw up a hand against the light.
“Marto, what’s—oh, stones, just set her in a corner.”
Cordelia was duly pushed into an ornate chair with threadbare velvet upholstery. She peered through dazzled eyes at the uproar around her. Marto, the barrel of a man who’d brought her in, had gone to a table at the center of the room, where a woman with nubbly knots of dreaded hair was stretched over the green leather desktop, hissing against the strap between her teeth. Her bloody cotton sailor’s shirt was in a pile on the floor. Bruises mottled her torso. A sawbones pulled his curved needle through the flesh of her left breast, drawing the edges of a wound together. A blush boy with a black eye sat in the corner, holding a steaming cup in his hands. He stammered excuses to a small, swarthy woman in culottes and a brocade smoking jacket. The woman had plastered careful sympathy overtop of deep annoyance, but the annoyance looked to be breaking out faster and faster as the blush boy talked.
“Came out of nowhere. Thought they were ACPD, but the uniforms was wrong. All black, no blue. And no badges. We took the hooky in through the back door of the place, like you said, and the madam was real happy with it. Had those rubies round her throat faster than you’d credit. She let us stay on for a little fun, and when we came out—”
Here, the woman in the smoking jacket interrupted. “Out where? The front? Did you come out the back or the front?” She looked like she wanted to slap him.
“Front,” he said, meek as a mole. “And the blackboots got us good. One had a knife. Then the real hounds came round to break it up and clocked Duriyah for your gal. We had to scramble, but quick.”
The woman in the smoking jacket looked at the wounded runner on the table. “Duriyah’s been with me a long time,” she said. “And you’ve only just started.”
The blush boy flinched, like he was waiting for bad news. But all the woman said was, “She should have known better than to go out the front. And you both should’ve known not to come back here!” Cordelia thought the woman really would slap him now. Her hand was stiff, drawn back slightly from her hip. But an intercom crackled from the desk, beside Duriyah’s foot, and she whirled to listen instead.
“Hounds coming down the street,” said a high, fuzzy voice. Sounded like a kid.
“Everybody shut up,” said the woman in the smoking jacket. “Keep quiet. And Marto? The lights.”
Marto flipped the switch at the doorway, and the room was plunged into blackness. The only sound was Duriyah’s shaky breathing.
Cordelia’s toes curled. If she ended up in the trap for delivering a letter she hadn’t even read, she’d lay every curse she knew on Ari’s curly head. Not that it would do her much good.
Thirty tense seconds later, the intercom crackled again. “S’good. They gone past.”
Marto brought the lights back up. The blush boy had his eyes tight shut, his hands like claws around his cup. The doctor’s face was unreadable, but he was already reaching for his coat. The woman in the smoking jacket, who must be Zelda, finally got an eyeful of Cordelia.
“And who are you?” she snapped.
“I’m here from Aristide,” she said. “I got a letter for—”
“Of course you do. Right now, of all times, and he had to send a new girl.” The scorn in it left Cordelia gaping. “Upstairs. Marto, show her.”
Cordelia was ready to smack the envelope into Zelda’s palm and be done with it, but Marto took her arm and drew her through another door, into a narrow hallway, and pointed her at a set of stairs that kinked ninety degrees halfway up. He jerked his chin at the steps, and then left her standing at the foot of the runner.
The attic was crammed with dusty artifacts and cobwebbed chandeliers lying at odd angles on the floor. A stuffed leopard growled from behind an ironbound sea chest.
At the far end of the room, where a grand brass bed was pushed against the wall, two women sat in deep conversation. One, dark skinned and heavy around the hips, perched on the bed with her legs crossed. The other had tucked herself into the dormer window, a plain white pyjama shirt pulled over her knees. The curtains were drawn, but billowed in the soft night air. Cordelia was willing to wager open windows were against Zelda’s rules, but the stuffy attic smelled powerfully of mold.
“Hello?” She stepped onto the first creaking floorboard.
The women both looked up
, startled. Their faces were vaguely familiar, and Cordelia wondered if maybe they were punters. Ari’s clients came by the Bee sometimes.
“Who are you?” demanded the woman on the bed. Her northern burr was even thicker than Tory’s. “One of Zelda’s people?”
Cordelia took a step forward, and both women flinched. She held up her hands. “I got a message, from Aristide Makricosta.”
They didn’t relax. If anything, they wound up tighter.
“What does it say?” The woman in the window stood and came toward her, bare feet silent against the plain wood. “Is it about Taphir?”
“I didn’t open it, all right?” She took the envelope from her pocket and handed it to the younger of the two, who tore the paper with shaking hands. Her companion hurried over, crowding her.
Inside the envelope was a postcard of a hunting party, hounds gathered around the heels of horses. As the woman flipped the card over, Cordelia got a glimpse of Ari’s decorative scrawl.
“Charming day yesterday,” read the woman in the nightshirt. “Though utterly a wash. The hounds gave good chase and cornered him, but he slipped them in the covert.”
It didn’t sound good, but the women were smiling. The younger covered her mouth with a delicate hand.
“Oh, blessed stones of the cairn and temple. Oh, Mab, he’s out.” She threw herself into the older woman’s arms, sobbing. Cordelia looked away, embarrassed.
But she wasn’t going to get out that easy. The crying woman dragged herself up, leaving wet splotches on Mab’s shirtfront, and turned to Cordelia. “Thank you. Oh, thank you so much.”
“It’s all right,” said Cordelia. “Really, it ain’t no trouble.” She took a step back, angling for the stairs, but the woman put a hand on her arm.
“‘The bringer of joy must be given joy in return.’”
Queen’s sake, the woman was quoting scripture at her.
“Mab,” she went on, “Mab, what have we got left, from mummy’s jewels?”
“There’s the pearls,” said Mab. “But Sofie, that’s a bit … well, they’re a mite showy, nay? Even Zelda said she’ll have half a time moving them.”
Sofie nodded. “But the earrings, the citrines…”
Mab took Sofie’s arm and bent to speak in her ear—not even quiet enough to save Cordelia an insult. “She’s just gwine to pawn them, Fee. Might as well give her a wad of cash.”
But Sofie waved Mab off, and the older woman went to rummage in a knapsack by the bed. “They’re not worth much, but won’t you please accept what little we can offer?”
Mab returned and opened her palm, revealing two pear-shaped citrines set in yellow gold, topped with tiny … diamonds? Not worth much. Where did this girl come from?
“I really … I don’t think…” Cordelia backed away again, but Mab pressed the stones into her hand.
“It’s like Sofie says. You brought brightness to us when we saw dark. It’s only an even trade if we return the favor.”
So Cordelia took the earrings, with intent to wear them. They sounded like hooky. Pawning stolen goods was stupid unless you knew the right shops. Cordelia did, but her pride was stung and she aimed to prove Mab wrong.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Insistent pounding on the door forced Cyril’s head deeper into the cavern of his folded arms. The top of his desk smelled strongly of leather, and his own rancid breath. He’d spent three days scrounging in the ACPD secretarial pool, looking for scraps he could use on any of the four assistant commissioners. He’d won over Harlee, and Karst was wobbling. Tembu and Eronov he hadn’t even tried—they were Taormino’s through and through.
His nights he’d spent awake, and largely drunk. Inspiration had not come. Müller remained beyond his reach. His midsummer deadline was a scant few weeks away. He didn’t want to find out if there was a penalty for missing it.
Who in the Lady’s name could be banging on his door at this hour? He groaned and pulled himself upright, dragging his palms across his face. The clock told him the hour was reasonable; the only thing untimely was his own disarray. He’d shaved last night, at least, at his own peril. His hands had been less than steady.
Another volley landed on the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Mother’s tits, give it a rest.” Why hadn’t they just telephoned? They’d have his landlord up here any minute, with this racket.
Damnation. Maybe it was his landlord. Cyril wondered what could possibly be so urgent. Opening the door, he was ready to face any number of grim eventualities. He was not prepared to find Cordelia, draped in a fringed calico wrap, holding a bottle of cheap plonk and a grease-spotted sack that smelled of cardamom.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, surprise making him blunt.
“Dragging you out for an airing,” she said. “And good thing, too. You’re clearly in need of one.”
“What—”
But she pushed past him into the flat and closed the door behind her. “Go put on something fresh. And eat these.” She put the sack in his hand. “Sometimes I marvel any man survives outside his mother’s womb. What have you been doing to yourself these past few days?”
He pulled out a puff of deep-fried rice dough, crispy and still hot, dripping with almond syrup. The steam burned his mouth, but the flavors roused his appetite. “Work.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s quitting time. Thought we’d take this to the park.” She gestured with the bottle. “But you look more in need of a big meal and strong coffee. Where’s good eating around here?”
Cyril swallowed another fritter and licked his sticky fingers. “The Stones and Garter isn’t bad.” And it was dark and cool. Given the hangover clawing its way up his neck, and the scorching sun outside, the park was the last place he wanted to be.
“Perfect. Now go get changed.”
In his bedroom, he chucked his rumpled shirt onto the bed, grimacing at the sweat stains he’d left on the fine white cambric. A splash of bitter lime cologne, a new shirt and collar, and a blue seersucker jacket saw him out the door with Cordelia on his arm. They left the champagne behind.
* * *
“You were right,” he said, throwing his napkin across his empty plate. “I needed that.”
“After one too many all-night-ups, you’re not getting anything done worth doing.” Cordelia finished her tomato juice and set the glass down. “Feeling up to a little sunshine yet?”
His headache had abated with the food and coffee, and yes, he was. She was right: He’d got nothing done in three days of panicked scheming he couldn’t have gotten done in a single, well-planned afternoon.
They walked to the wide lawn above the Loendler Park amphitheatre. A team of bowlers was practicing at the flattest part of the field, white shirts and trousers blinding in the sun. The rhythmic thuds of pins hitting the grass and the laughter of the players came faintly across the green, reassuring background noise. Cordelia spread her wrap in the dappled shade beneath a fragrant linden tree and settled onto her belly, kicking off her shoes. Cyril sat beside her, heedless of his trousers on the freshly cut grass.
If he could just stop time, right here, before everything went pitchforked … He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the shivering light play on his eyelids.
Cordelia said his name. He ignored her. She kicked his knee, and said his name again, drawing it out in an exaggerated whine.
“I love the way you say that.” He opened his eyes, looking up into the branches of the linden. Pinching his nose, he imitated her. “Cyrilllllll!”
She sat up. “Don’t make fun,” she said, but she was laughing. “Queen’s sake, it’s getting hot. Wish we’d brought that fizz after all.” Lifting her hair away from her neck, she twisted it into a knot. When she lowered her arms, a shifting spot of sunlight struck a golden flash from the jewel at her ear.
“What’s that?” asked Cyril, reaching for it.
“Hm?” Cordelia tilted her chin, so he could
get a better look at the heavy citrine hanging from its gold-and-diamond setting. “Oh, just some new sparkle. Do you like ’em?”
He cupped a hand behind the stone. Honey-colored light pooled in his palm. “Where did you get these?”
“Why?” she asked. “Jealous?”
“Just curious.” He kept his voice calm, but blood roared in his ears. He knew these stones. He’d last seen them casting golden halos against the aged throat of Nuesklend’s richest matron.
“Present from a friend,” she said. “You ain’t the only one I got.”
“What kind of friend?” If Ari was paying her in stolen goods now, Cyril would kill him.
She laughed, uneasy, and pulled away from him. “Cyril, what’s the matter?”
“Did you know they were stolen?” he asked. He’d kill her, if she was brash enough to wear hot jewels around the city. “Those are Minna Keeler’s earrings.”
The color drained from behind her freckles. Shock or guilt, he didn’t know.
“Queen and cairn and temple bells.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I knew she looked familiar.”
“She?” Cyril caught his voice before it rose. The bowlers were far enough away they wouldn’t overhear a conversation, but shouting might draw their attention.
Cordelia realized she’d given him too much. Her bright lips drew to a thin, hard line. She opened the watch hung around her neck to check the time. Her movements were quick and sharp. She stood and gathered her wrap from the ground. “Better go or I’ll be late.”
But Cyril stood too, and stopped her from leaving with a hand on her wrist. Not hard, not closed, but enough to keep her from stepping away. “Cordelia.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“I don’t want to know anything.” He relished her surprise, her relief. It was nice to let someone’s secrets lie; under Ospie supervision, it wasn’t always as easy as this. “I really don’t. But—”
Her eyes narrowed, and she tried to step back. Now, he did close his hand. The bones of her wrist pressed against his fingers.
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