The King of Infinite Space

by Lyndsay Faye

  “Moma, there are chicken feathers where I sleep.”

  “Nothing gonna protect you from jinxes, hag-riding, and witchcraft quite like frizzly black hen feathers, believe you me.”

  “This is witchcraft.” Lia battles not to laugh. “What protects me from this?”

  Moma’s eyes sparkle obsidian-black. “There maybe you have a problem, for sure.”

  “And the rabbit’s foot?”

  “You ain’t stupid, baby girl. Everybody and their sainted mamma know those is for luck. You can get them at the Seven-Eleven.”

  “So you’re fixing me with herbs,” Lia surmises.

  “Nobody fixes you. We give you the ingredients. You’re the one does the root work.”

  “OK, now this is just sounding like therapy.”

  “Allons-y!” trills a musical voice. “Lateness does not become us at these prices, sisters of mine.”

  Mam’zelle arrives, resplendent in an Ulla Johnson–resembling dress in fuchsia, bare shoulders gleaming golden and lace bouffant sleeves brushing the doorframe. When she sees the table, her ripe mouth forms an O.

  “Well, je suis scié!” she exclaims.

  “That’s what I said, my sister,” Moma informs her.

  “Chère petite, what’s happening here?”

  “Somebody left a pantry of occult dry goods under my bed,” Lia reports.

  Mam’zelle’s hand flutters. “I can assure you, I would never—”

  “She knows, her,” Moma interjects with a crooked grin. “You might not. But we would.”

  “The hour ripens. Rots on the vine.” Maw-maw’s grizzled head pokes over her taller sister’s shoulder. “Oh. Damnation.”

  “Exactement,” Mam’zelle tuts, frowning.

  “Pretty much,” Moma concurs.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s not like you’re trying to turn me into a newt.” Lia slides the objects back under her bed. “Here! Look, I’m not thwarting your, your skillfully wrought charms or whatever.”

  “That’s the spirit, petite chou!” Mam’zelle laughs.

  “Damn straight it is!” Moma chimes.

  “Leave what will be to be,” Maw-maw approves.

  Meanwhile, Lia’s head spins.

  Can this Louisiana craziness actually make me dream my ex-fiancé’s dreams? Or invite him into mine?

  She doesn’t ask. Asking would get her silken smiles and gentle portents. Anyway, there’s something both starkly intimate and ephemeral about those visions. When she’s there with Benjamin, it’s for them alone. And when she isn’t, it plays back like silhouettes across sheer curtains.

  “Sacre coeur, I haven’t seen your early work in too long, chérie!” Mam’zelle exclaims.

  When Lia recalls that the bed is covered in glossy prints, her frustration returns.

  “Yeah, on to the more important issue. Someone has been in my room.”

  Three sets of eyebrows tilt as if to say . . . and?

  Lia throws her arms wide. “I’m fully aware you are giving me space rent-free in exchange for services. Playing weird-ass tooth fairies is cool. Really! Going through my portfolio isn’t. That’s private, it’s . . . it’s mine. It’s me.”

  Frowning, the trio edge inside. There is barely space, so Moma slumps catlike against the wall, Mam’zelle perches on the bed, and Maw-maw plants herself on the threshold.

  “Now, that ain’t right.”

  “Nous n’aurions jamais.”

  “Not by these two hands.”

  “Wait, none of you messed around in my art files?” Lia demands.

  The sisters glare, an emphatic denial.

  “Let’s be very clear here, all of you didn’t rummage through my art files?”

  “Would you borrow my lingerie?” Mam’zelle huffs.

  “Would you plunder my potions?” Moma sniffs.

  “Switch my sugar and salt?” Maw-maw growls.

  And no, Lia wouldn’t. There’s a difference between tucking a rabbit’s foot under a friend’s care-furrowed brow and outright snooping. The sisters may make inscrutable pronouncements, believe that sprinkling graveyard dirt in your shoe will ward off trouble. But they don’t lie.

  At least not as such. They give you questions back, not answers.

  Anyway, it’s been two years—who’s to say she didn’t do this herself during a tear-sodden fugue?

  “They’re all out of order, especially the coffins.” Lia sighs. “Remember those?”

  Moma’s serpentine body tenses. Mam’zelle darts a suspicious look at Maw-maw, who glowers. All three sisters saw Elegy, every single day of it. Twelve times, Lia found their signatures in the guest book, and twelve times, she discovered three antique New Orleans subway tokens in the garbage.

  “Her signature work, that is,” Moma notes.

  “We’re late,” Mam’zelle announces, rising.

  “But—” Lia attempts.

  “On y va, chère petite, come! We will get to the bottom of this, mark my words. Maw-maw, you leave your pipe alone, comprends-tu? And behave yourself, or I swear on Mother Mary, I will curse your sourdough starter.”

  With wide-eyed horror, Maw-maw backs away. They can hear her dire auspices as she clomps downstairs.

  “Wait, you know what’s going on, don’t you?” Lia accuses.

  The silence is pregnant. Moma ties handfuls of braids behind her head in half a square knot. Mam’zelle picks at the lace bow cinching her hourglass figure.

  “It’s not clear yet, but soon enough will be,” Moma replies. “Where’s your mamma’s scarf at? You wear it like religion.”

  “It’s gone missing. Maybe at my dad’s place, I’ll look again. I feel . . . different without it. Less like me.”

  The sisters exchange glances in a language Lia doesn’t know. Mam’zelle sighs; Moma sets her teeth in a tiny snarl.

  “Wait, did you take it for some reason? Why can’t I find it?”

  “No, we certainly did not, and we’ll find out, us. Move you along now, baby girl,” Moma orders. “Bring your things.”

  “Where the hell are we going?” Leaning, Lia swings her bag over her shoulder. “You haven’t even told me that much.”

  “Over Gramercy Park way, to meet with Miss Jessica. She gotta approve that sketch of yours, otherwise how I’m gonna charm it?”

  “Plus there’s the final payment to collect,” Mam’zelle adds as they make for the stairs and the honey-yellow wall sconces. Carpeting runs through the middle of the dark wood steps, a plush stream trickling downhill in blues and corals.

  “Ain’t no contract saving the final payment delivered,” Moma concurs.

  “She’s paying you even more?” Lia marvels.

  “Oh, no more in currency, chère, it’s just a matter of the blood,” Mam’zelle muses.

  “Just a little blood,” Moma adds by way of reassurance.

  “Une trace de sang.”

  “The blood?” Lia squeaks.

  When they reach the stairwell, sunshine pours from the skylight to feed the leaves of philodendrons and Boston ferns. Mam’zelle picks up a little bundle of flowering quince. “You remembered your sketchbook, my chouchou, with the plan for her bouquet?”

  QUINCE: Symbol of life, fertility, and happiness in love in the Balkan states, where a tree is planted in commemoration of newborns; posies can protect one from harm.

  “It’s right here.”

  “I need to study it over in the cab, s’il t’plait.”

  Wordlessly, Lia passes her art pad over. She and Moma created this, but Mam’zelle is the star saleswoman.

  “Just rest your mind and keep your ears open,” Moma advises. “I’m a true apothecary, me. Have we ever steered you wrong yet?”

  And they haven’t, Lia admits as they walk out the front door. Not yet.


  But again, this isn’t a promise.

  It is only another question, not unlike the way Robin peppers everyone with questions, and Lia puzzles again over how, if you’re on opposing sides of the same circle, you could ever possibly know where you really are?

  * * *

  • • •

  Jessica Anne Kowalski’s lacquered nails dig into her palms. “It’s not exactly second thoughts. It’s just . . . maybe I overreacted to a bad breakup, is all?”

  She sounds miserable and looks pricey. Frosted hair flipped under, aqua cap-sleeve Badgley Mischka dress pristine. It’s way too much outfit for her. It should be the first female president’s. Her lips are bitten raw under the petal-pink gloss.

  “Overreacted?” Lia repeats, incredulous.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, me,” Moma dismisses.

  Mam’zelle shifts, crossing strappy gold sandals. “Why, if we’d imagined this were merely a frivolous crime passionnel on Mr. Jeremy’s part, we’d never have taken on the assignment. It is much plus sérieuse, you understand. Oh! Here’s a bit of lagniappe for you, courtesy of the shop.”

  Mam’zelle beams as she passes Jessica the nosegay of quince.

  “Yeesh,” Jessica hisses. “Sorry, didn’t know there were thorns. This is really pretty, though. Thank you.”

  “Je suis désolée,” Mam’zelle apologizes.

  She produces a tiny antiseptic packet, delicately captures Jessica’s hand, and cleans her finger, collecting a single drop of blood.

  “Et voilà!” she coos, putting the square in her purse. “Good as new.”

  “Thanks.” Jessica takes another healthy swallow of wine.

  What the actual fuck? Lia thinks.

  They meet at the National Arts Club, a favorite of the sisters, who are all members in VIP standing (they must be for Moma to get away with a crop top and denim by adding a Smythe mini-blazer). The Arts Club looks like them, in a less-enchanted, less-feminine sort of way. Mullioned everything, walls mummified in portraits, a freshly cut arrangement or a leafy palm in every corner. The sun glows cooler over Gramercy Park, softened by the age of the window panes, the darkness of the carved walls.

  “Miss Jessica, how I’m gonna unveil our bouquet while you’re this wound up?” Moma says gently. “How can we help?”

  “We worked so hard on it,” Lia adds, encouraging. “But I can understand why you wouldn’t want to, to deliver something to him face-to-face.”

  Pick a card pick a card any card pick a card.

  Jessica emphatically does not want to see Jeremy at the lavish party they’re attending on behalf of the hedge fund, especially not now that he’s sleeping with that trashy Brittany bitch from client solutions.

  “Brittany’s from Newark,” Jessica moans. “She wears Gap Factory.”

  “Mon Dieu, the disgrace of it,” Mam’zelle breathes. “All the more reason to settle this, mais non?”

  The hunch of Jessica’s shoulders is too sharp to be about anything so petty. She’s just afraid. Simple, and yet so impossible to admit.

  “More important, he hurt you,” Lia supplies. “You don’t owe anyone anything—not him, not us. It’s your choice. But what do you think of helping to stop him from doing it again?”

  Jessica’s Rolex ticks and the world turns. She stares through pooling eyes at her empty wineglass. “He hurt me, and he could . . . he could hurt her, too. Yes. I want to settle this.”

  Mam’zelle’s mouth curves in approval. Moma leans forward with fingertips tented. Jessica will be perfectly safe. The sisters will be nearby, ready if needed to assist instantaneously. Jessica must look Jeremy in the face and say the phrase written on the card for a bouquet this powerful to take effect.

  “But I can’t speak to him!” Jessica pleads, freshly agitated.

  “You can, sure as anything I ever did know,” Moma vows.

  “I don’t even want to be in the same building with Jeremy, let alone talk to him. This is not what I’m paying you for!”

  “Oh, but it is, chère,” Mam’zelle assures her. “And it always was, from the first day. You’re paying us to find out what you can do, not what you can’t.”

  Lia shifts, unsettled. This feeling of Jessica’s rings far too familiar.

  Jórvík Volkov, apart from being an excellent custodian, card sharp, and prestidigitator, also dabbled in tricks to do with fire. Flames leaping from his palm, spitting orange flares, setting ice cubes alight, immolating hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t perform them often, but he wriggled in childish delight when he did, saggy chops fixed in a grin as he waved smoking fingers before Lia’s and Ben’s rapt eyes. As much as Lia cannot stop thinking about his card tricks, the school photos that carved this hole in her, she doesn’t think about his fire magic. Ever.

  Trying not to think about something, she has discovered over many many years, can be the most exhausting work imaginable.

  The change in perception of time as you age makes perfect sense if you think in fractions, Ben used to say. Like, what fraction of a life is a year to a five-year-old kid? It’s a fifth. To a fifty-year-old man, it’s a fiftieth. No wonder middle-aged people feel like the brakes have been cut.

  “What if Jeremy causes a scene?” Jessica sniffles. “What if he freaks out and ruins me professionally, since he already . . . since personally . . . since we aren’t together anymore?”

  Since he probably raped you, Lia supplies, jaw tight.

  “And here you are, then! Corking, and Miss Lia as well. Absolutely brilliant!”

  Robin sweeps into their private circle, edging between the gold-patterned couch and the coffee table. The lamps all give a sizzle and then gleam dully again. He’s as dashingly coiffed as ever, his dove-colored shirt unbuttoned beneath his pin-striped suit and vest, though Lia has only ever seen him in a cravat previously. A few needles pierce his lapel where a boutonniere ought to be.

  “How you making, Robin?” Moma inquires through her teeth. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Were you? Anything complimentary?” The gold-dust shine in his eye brightens.

  “Why, you’re absurdly early, Robin!” Mam’zelle exclaims. “Ça alors!”

  “Just wrapped up with my client in midtown, thought I’d pop over.” He pivots to Jessica. “Charmed, absolutely charmed. This is the client, you said?”

  “We didn’t,” Lia snaps.

  “Hello,” says Jessica. “Who are you?”

  “We ain’t even shown her the rendering yet, and here you come traipsing in like a carpetbagger,” Moma volleys at Robin.

  “Robin Goodfellow, event planner.” Brandishing a business card, Robin sits too close to Lia. He smells of sandalwood and snipped threads. “Apologies for dropping in like this, Miss Kowalski—the sisters and I are business associates.”

  The sisters regard Robin in silence. They could be sitting in a cabin putting a puzzle together or deliberating over a verdict of murder. It’s tough to tell sometimes.

  Robin clasps his knees. “The grand reveal! Fair to assume that Miss Lia executed the drawing, isn’t it, you lot always were rotten artists—”

  “Hey!” Lia shouts, almost wrestling Robin to the ground in front of Jessica Anne Kowalski.

  Quick as a white-furred fox, he has unzipped Lia’s bag and spilled the contents onto the ornate coffee table. Wallet, keys with her Bowie “Rebel Rebel” fob, a colored pencil case, all tumbling out. Hot fury gushes into Lia’s throat.

  “You can’t—”

  A photograph printed in stark black and white and muddy grey. A man and a woman. Unmistakably infatuated with each other. Robin gives another shake and the compromising picture of Trudy and Claude Dane hemorrhages from her satchel like guts from a kill.

  Lia’s mind stutters. She stares.

  What the ever-loving fuck have I done?

  It’s been quite some time sinc
e she had to ask this question. She does not miss doing it.

  What’s this bruise about? Who’s this stranger emailing me? Where is my credit card/MetroCard/house key/cell phone/mind?

  She remembers taking this picture from the pile on her dad’s coffee table though, all too clearly.

  Robin whistles. “What the devil do we have here?”

  “Them’s the Danes,” Moma says, glancing swiftly at Lia. They’ve met at numerous gallery openings. Well, all of the openings. “Years and years back, from the looks of it.”

  “But the wrong ones,” breathes Mam’zelle.

  “You got more dog in you than the Humane Society,” Moma growls at Robin.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, darling duck,” Robin chuckles. “Now! Ah, here.”

  Lia watches, aghast, as he flips through her sketchbook. It feels like he’s lifting her blouse, like he’s upskirting her. Finding the bouquet at the end, he brandishes it in front of Jessica. Their overdressed client looks more confused than ever, which Lia hadn’t thought possible.

  “What style, what flair, eh? Your bouquet, presented for your explicit approval,” Robin trills.

  “Wait a sec,” says Jessica.

  “What are you doing, you bastard?” Lia snaps at last.

  “Why do you have a picture of Trudy Dane?” Jessica questions. “The fundraiser for her theatre, the Empire Stage or something, that’s the event where I’ll see Jeremy again. And, well, deliver this bouquet. Have you been researching me? That’s pretty thorough work. But what’s this photo about?”

  “Well, what a world,” Robin reflects, allowing the sketchbook to drop. “As it happens, the Danes are clients of mine as well! I’m to organize the, shall we say, more official portion of the grand event. And now we’ve all seen this . . . rather remarkable snapshot. Possibly it was meant to be kept private. Apologies! Well, back to the business at hand, what say you?”

  He whisks the incriminating photo away, beaming at the women assembled as if he’s a man who’s performed sleight of hand. Which he has, Lia understands. Because she knows exactly what it looks like when tricks morph into terrors.