by Lyndsay Faye
Ben crosses his arms protectively. “Yeah? Thanks, man, do tell.”
Ariel, with his set of universally magic keys, had glanced at the theatre company’s financial records himself. He’d been right—while Paul’s nerves were understandable, New World’s Stage wasn’t nearly underwater yet, though water was sloshing steadily up the bow.
“But then I get to thinking, go back further, see what you can see, you feel me? And turns out, the old World’s Stage was in some deep shit. And wouldn’t you know it, that was right before we lost the place to the fire.”
It’s not that Ben is surprised. He’s just feeling steadily sicker, like a light fever has exploded into chills. “It . . . you . . . is that why the insurance companies sniffed around for so long? I was too young and awkward to get any nuances of human interaction at that time.”
Ariel lifts a shoulder. “Gotta be the reason, Benny. And no way I’m saying this is proof, but—”
“But someone probably torched it like a marshmallow.”
Ben shoves his fingers into his eyes. Jórvík had the skill and was a psycho-clown child-serial-killer freakshow pyromaniac. It should be him. Lia said so, after all. But for what cause? The theatre was his sanctuary, as far as Jórvík was concerned, why would you torch a sanctuary, a killing ground, what the hell is going on?
Ben has only one suspect in mind: his late father, the revered Jackson Dane, whose gravestone read:
JACKSON JEFFERSON DANE
DEVOTED HUSBAND AND FATHER
RENOWNED ENTREPRENEUR
REQUIESCAT IN PACE
But should be changed to:
JACKSON JEFFERSON DANE
POOR MONEY MANAGER AND ARSONIST
KIND OF A DOUCHE
REQUIESCAT IN PACE
“So we’re, like, saying that someone was definitely looking for a clean financial slate for the theatre.”
Ariel presses Ben’s shoulder in sympathy. “Can’t say as I’m finding any likelier scenarios myself.”
“Thing is, you can be super-duper certain about something and still be bass-ackwards wrong. Aristotle was super-duper certain that men have more teeth than women do, probably because he just thought it would be cooler to have more teeth than either of his two wives. Neither of whose teeth he bothered to count.”
Ben answers the buzzing summons of his phone.
Not to imply you’re dawdling
but do have a little pity and get your arse back here?
Smirking, Ben types:
so you want MY arse now
is that it?
To which he quickly receives:
I will absolutely walk out of this hellscape if you keep this up.
Which can only merit:
as you must have noted I can keep it up pretty well
don’t get your knickers in a twist I’m coming
“Hey, Benny?”
“Sorry, Horatio is making dirty jokes, it’s completely uncalled for. Yeah?”
Ariel’s eyes flick away. “You heard about Paul going missing, yeah?”
“Whoof, have I ever. Where the hell is that guy, this is his freaking Beatles live at the Washington Coliseum, nineteen sixty-four.”
“Sure is, sure is. You got any theories, son?”
“Not a one!” Ben exclaims brightly. “Hey, Ariel, thank you for uncovering that, uh, petrified turd piece of evidence, yeah? I gotta go, and please by all means, keep insulting this crowd and deliver unto us a solid Rickroll. I’ll give you my swag bag.”
Not pausing over goodbyes, Ben darts off into the crowd of Broadway aristocrats. Jewel tones in taffeta and silk swirl around him. The centerpieces loom. They’re in an enchanted forest, this is a fairy ball, and they’ll be trapped here dancing till their shoes fill with blood. His pocket trembles.
Not just now, but you WILL be.
A few seconds are required for him to realize Horatio is answering his previous text—but when he gets it, he yaps a helpless laugh. Ben takes another pill, not bothering to check what it is, and while he’s still looking down at his phone, almost slams straight into his mother.
“Hi, Mom,” Ben attempts.
“Oh, Ben, honey, I was starting to worry when I couldn’t find you.” Trudy envelops him with lotioned arms. “You look so handsome, precious boy. Isn’t it awful about Paul? We’re all going frantic with worry about him.”
Cornflower-blue eyes bore into his identical ones, and Ben can’t help but stare back in wonderment. Trudy might not have tried to kill him. She might not know he killed Paul. She might not know he ever saw the papers eliminating him from the board of directors. But she obviously knows he’s onto the Marlowe twins, and here she’s smiling at him like a pediatric nurse.
“Benny, hey there, looking sharp,” says Uncle Claude, sliding a hand around Trudy’s torso.
“Uncle Claude, what a terrifically unpleasant non-surprise. Anybody confuse you with one of the catering staff yet?”
Claude just smiles indulgently. He is so nice, and that is maddening.
“Ben, don’t be vile,” Trudy sighs. “We’re here to celebrate tonight, yes? To put all that ugliness behind us so we can be a family again.”
Ben whistles, rubbing at his leathered wrist. “Ugliness? Wow, it’s a good thing you asked me to do the eulogy-to-Dad part, because sounds like you mighta struck the wrong tone.”
Trudy touches the emeralds at her neck oh-so-sadly. “We love you, Ben. And we loved your father. You are going to deliver such a fantastic tribute, I’m sure we’ll both be crying all the way through it.”
“That’s the goal.”
“And here we have him at last!” Robin Goodfellow croons, thrusting out his hand. He is impeccable in a tux that’s so dark an eggplant it’s nearly black, though oddly he has a number of needles thrust through the lapel. “Everything shipshape? Smashing look on you, I must say, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Benjamin,” Trudy interjects, biting her lip. “This whole wretched Paul business—”
“There you all are, hullo.”
Ben nearly startles as an arm snakes around his waist. Then he smiles brighter than
COMMON NAME
DISTANCE FROM EARTH
ABSOLUTE MAGNITUDE
SPECTRAL TYPE
Betelgeuse
700 light-years
-7.2
M2Iab
Horatio carries two champagne flutes in one hand, cane neatly tucked under his arm. Snaking further into Horatio’s side, Ben accepts a drink, sipping with angelic innocence.
“Folks, you all know Horatio here.”
Uncle Claude looks almost encouraging, Trudy shocked, and Robin Goodfellow absolutely over the moon.
“Honey!” Trudy gasps. “Oh, that’s wonderful, that’s just so . . . I can’t even imagine a nicer surprise than this one.”
“Me neither,” Uncle Claude parrots.
“Absolutely topping development,” Robin rejoices.
“There they are! Excuse us, Mr. and . . . well, Mrs. Dane?”
It’s a fresh-cheeked pair of BroadwayWorld reporters. Trudy hesitates, but Horatio urges, “Oh, please don’t mind us, do go on,” and Robin shoos them toward the press chirping, “All part of our agenda, what?” and Uncle Claude says, “Time to face the music, pumpkin,” and the new pair of Danes are gone.
Robin ducks toward Ben’s ear, murmuring, “So jolly good to see you lovely young men together. And no doubt your eulogy will be positively unforgettable.”
Then it’s Ben who’s being herded—which is just as well, since he feels as unwieldy as a baby deer—and they’re back behind one of the fountains of artificial jungl
e. Horatio is saying something.
Horatio is saying something.
Horatio takes Ben’s face in his hands and the volume comes back on. “ . . . was admittedly distressing. Benjamin, speak to me, you’re driving me spare.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Ben wants to cry, or possibly set something on fire.
“What specifically?”
“Ariel says the old World’s Stage was in financial ruins, so someone must have torched it.” Ben can’t breathe. “Lia said Jórvík was the culprit but couldn’t explain why. Mom, she—did she try to kill me or just disinherit me? Fuck. Vincentio says Robin’s poison, but Robin sounds like he’s into my presentation, so I guess he’s seen it, he’s the event planner, and sure, he’d like it if he’s pure chaos, but that doesn’t bode well does it, and was Dad the real force behind the arsonist and if so did someone murder him for it and why did he think it was Uncle Claude or is it all coincidental?”
“Right, look at me.”
“This is worse than knot theory,” Ben moans.
“No, for the love of Christ, don’t—”
“Are these descriptions of two different knots, or of the same knot? Is it actually more than one knot entangled together? Do I need to apply hyperbolic geometry? Did I, like, make all of this shit up and while it looks infinitely complex, it’s only twists and layers, not a knot at all, it’s an unknot, or what you’d call a three-dimensional circle? Like the geometric version of a run-on sentence fragment. Can I project it onto a plane and count the crossings? Which Reidemeister move—”
“Benjamin,” Horatio says, calm as a frozen lake. “I know many things about you, and some fluctuate, but one is a constant. When you start talking knot theory, you are finished for the moment.”
“But—”
“Hush. Let’s find some coffee, or water, and—”
“Lia!” It all snaps back into place—the suggestion she gave him in the dream, listen to the waiter.
It doesn’t exist anymore.
“What about Lia?” Horatio looks close to tears himself.
“She can help us. Look, I can try to ask her—”
“You cannot talk with Lia Brahms, Benjamin!”
There’s a foot of space between them, but it doesn’t feel like air, the gap feels as solid as a fortress.
“I’ve been talking to her for weeks, so why the hell not?”
“Because that’s in your sleep, love,” Horatio says, broken. “And you’re awake, you’re here with me, and Lia has been dead for two years.”
“But I can’t—”
“This isn’t about Lia anymore, Benjamin,” Horatio whispers, pulling him closer. “You loved her so, and I loved her too, but please. She doesn’t exist anymore.”
LIA
I would rather dance
hoodwinked with the devil
than be alone.
—Morgan Parker, “The History of Black People”
After Lia woke from the dream—even she couldn’t tell whose—she put on her dress. Since Ben gifted it for one of her show openings, it was a ridiculous garment: a grey Marchesa gown with rivers of translucent fabric. Its bodice and sheer sleeves were covered with violet flora in crystal, glass, embroidery, beadwork. This dress screamed that a fairy godmother was about to free you from a wicked stepmother.
OK, Destiny. Lia finishes her mascara. Bring it.
She drops necessaries from keys to her mother’s carefully folded scarf into a beaded purse, fetches Jessica Anne Kowalski’s bouquet, eases into a cab. She frets over whether Benjamin visited City Diner and wonders what the old waiter had to say about his homeland.
It could be Moldova or the Moon, but it has significance. I know it does.
Lia seeks the gala’s side security entrance when the cab pulls up. The one for sound engineers and head ushers, the people who don’t get swag bags. Once inside, she squints in disbelief at the prows of heavenly balconies jutting outward, the frillions of dollars’ worth of haute couture, and finally at the centerpieces.
What the hell, she thinks.
PINK LILY: Riches, prosperity in abundance, excessive success.
WILLOW BRANCHES: In Celtic, used to heighten psychic power; adaptability and survival; wands are powerful guides for underworld journeying.
MONSTERA DELICIOSA: Used for honoring elders in Chinese culture, but bear in mind represents death in others due to its intense growth and dangling roots.
These are some outwardly glam, deeply fucked-up arrangements.
Lia soon spots Jessica, who looks like it’s her first dance at a new middle school. She wears a forgettable classic black princess gown, holding a martini nearing the end of its days.
They’ve prearranged for Lia to place the bouquet on a banquet table at precisely this time. For a tense two minutes, Jessica is preoccupied by her Louboutins. Then she looks up, startles, and makes a graceless dive for the flowers. Her expression is queasy, as if she’s cradling a newborn who can’t hold up its head yet.
That wheel is spinning, but the hamster may be dead.
Navigating the crowd is a nightmare—but there’s a balcony that’s still a good vantage point, and Lia climbs on simple silver heels. When she reaches the chrome rail, the perfect spot opens. The scent of the pink lilies drifts upward, rich as money, and willow branches truly do enhance powers, because this air tastes crammed full of promises.
“Utterly charming, just as expected, my dear.”
Lia allows Robin Goodfellow to kiss her hand. He’s immaculate, of course, a purple sheen to his black tuxedo, and the sinister tools of his trade pierce this lapel, too.
“If it isn’t the Needleman.”
“Oh ho!” Robin exclaims. “Topping! Given you a cursory briefing, have they? Much more forthcoming myself. One more chance to glory in the exotic world of event planning, what say you? Bali’s next on my ticket.”
“Save your breath.”
Robin leans his forearms on the rail. “Can’t blame a chap for trying, can you?”
“Actually, I kinda can.”
“Well, did my best. Where are my beautiful sisters?”
“They said they’d appear when the time came.”
“Typical. Good luck getting anyone to talk to you other than me. Robin to the rescue then, for I am nothing if not a hapless romantic!”
“I am persona non grata to a few of these attendees, but seems like I have my pick of two or three hundred other people. Why shouldn’t any of them talk to me?”
“Why, because you’re dead, of course.” Robin chuckles. “But my stars! You didn’t know, lambkins?”
Below Lia, figures flicker in and out as if they’re in a horror film. Black, grey, muddy-grey, searing white, charcoal. She should be waiting for Benjamin’s appearance, on guard against any violence from Jeremy. But with a few words, Robin switched the world to ghastly monochrome. He’s had this effect every time she’s seen him, she realizes. Lights in the shop, clouds in the street. When he approached tonight, for the first time, she wasn’t frightened.
She’s never been more terrified now.
“Oh, my dearie darling duck, what fun!” Robin’s eyes are as yellow as a rabid tom’s. “Didn’t fuss over telling you, did they?”
Lia’s lips tremble. “You’re lying.”
“Not much fun in that unless there’s a smidge of truth present, though.”
“And the sisters are on my side, they’re a bit weird but—”
“Aaaah, yes, the Weird Sisters.” Robin explores the railing. Up and down, up and down, leading her eyes up and down. “Rather callous even for them, if you ask me. Suspected as much, though. Reason I made my offer in the first place. They truly didn’t tell you? You are passed on. You rest in . . . not exactly resting in peace, are you, love?”
Lia stumbles backward, nearly trippin
g on her beautiful dress. No, this dress is precious. You cannot damage this dress. She’s going to faint right here, swan dive over the balcony rail. Robin turned the Technicolor back on, but she sickly suspects he’s been doing the strobe effect every time he sees her for a reason.
The world doesn’t look like this anymore. Not to you.
“It’s not true.” She hates how her voice shakes.
“Surely you aren’t surprised. When’s the last time anyone had a chin-wag with you, then?”
“I’m talking to you right now!”
“Ought to have seen that one coming, humblest et ceteras. A human person. And please don’t come off a complete nitwit by suggesting the sisters are Homo sapiens.”
“No, they’re . . . much older. This is horseshit,” Lia growls. “I . . . I can touch things, I just delivered Jessica’s bouquet. I get supplies at the flower market.”
Robin lifts a single finger. “How long was it after the sisters found you that you even tippy-toed out of the flower shop? A month? Two?”
“Longer,” Lia whispers, ashamed.
“Oh, my heartstrings. Well, they made you their little errand girl, didn’t they? Bound you to them somehow. Betting that outside the shop, you never manipulated anything but flowers, did you?” Robin inclines his head. “Naturally you can handle flowers—they wanted you to, and it’s your oeuvre. Disgraceful how speedily they trained you into their lackey. Never were early risers, those three.”
“The picture!” Lia gasps.
“Always appreciated the word ‘lickspittle,’ it’s gone out of fashion but—”
“The picture of Trudy and Claude, I took it from my dad’s coffee table.”
“Didn’t you just!” Robin trills. “That’s all to do with who you are, I’m afraid. Or what you are. You’re coming into your own, and I’m positively awash with feeling. Should you prefer I plan a celebratory bat mitzvah, or go rogue with a quinceañera?”