“He was already dead when they slew the tsar,” Winterglass said in his softest falling-snow voice. “He had been ill, and Narodnaya Volya hunted me to Fedya’s doorstep. Or hunted the man I pretended to be. In those days I went by the name of Snezhan Leonidovich Raskolnikov.”
“Raskolnikov?” I repeated in a half whisper. “Why does that ring a bell.”
“Crime and Punishment,” Caryl replied softly. “The name evokes shattered glass; Dostoyevsky apparently found it pleasing.”
“I stayed in Petersburg,” Winterglass went on, lost in his reverie. “Even after Fedya left us, I stayed to protect his king from these animals, because I had promised. I promised! But the people”—he all but spat the word—”they were worse than children: children with fire! They threw it at his carriage, at him when he tried to flee. His legs were shattered. So much blood . . .”
Winterglass stared out the window but didn’t seem to be seeing the city.
“That’s a hell of a memory to carry around,” I said as gently as I could into the silence.
“Memory,” he said with a bitter laugh, “is the splintered glass that keeps me on the throne.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel for you, I do. But—”
Caryl cut me off with a sharp gesture before I could continue. I turned to her in irritation, but she only shook her head. She rose from her chair and went to his side. To my shock she reached up and began to comb her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes.
“My poor king,” she said in a velvet voice. “No one should have to carry the sorrows, the responsibilities, that sit on your shoulders.” She slid her hands beneath his hair to massage the shoulders in question—bare, perfectly sculpted shoulders. This had suddenly gotten very hot, very fast.
“Only an animal avoids responsibility,” said Winterglass, but the venom had left his voice.
Caryl slipped her arms around him and leaned her head against his back, cheek resting on his satiny hair. “You know I would not ask this of you if I did not believe it could save you and everything you love.”
“Narodnaya Volya thought murdering their king would save them. And look what has become of Russia. Once a center of art and faith—what has come from it since the ‘people’ had their way?”
I decided that bringing up ballet and space travel and about a thousand Olympic gold medals was probably ill-advised. And I did see his larger point.
“I am not asking you to trust the people, Your Majesty,” said Caryl. “I am asking you to trust me.”
Winterglass pulled free of her arms and turned to face her, slipping a hand beneath her jaw to tilt up her gaze. I had a sudden erotic terror that he was going to French-kiss her right there in front of me, but instead he touched his lips to her forehead, fatherly, and then gazed intently into her eyes.
“You know I would do anything you ask,” he said sadly. “Please do not ask this of me.”
“I have no choice,” Caryl said. “But I promise, I will ask nothing more of you. If you can see to it that a facade is made for Throebrand in time, then I will consider you free of your debt to me.”
His eyes filled with tears again. “What if I do not wish to be free of it?” he said.
“You cannot punish yourself forever,” said Caryl. “Not for Fedya, not for the tsar, and not for me. Let me settle this debt for you, lighten your burden at least a little.”
He seemed to consider it for a long moment, stroking Caryl’s cheek with infinite tenderness as he did so. At last he nodded.
“I trust your promise,” he said. “You are, I think sometimes, more fey than human.”
“I’m sure he means that as a compliment,” I said, reminding them pointedly that I was there. “How fast can you have this thing made?”
He turned back to the window. “Give me two days,” he said. “I will return to Arcadia first thing in the morning, and disable your friend’s wraith on my way out.”
24
On Friday I could barely keep my eyes open. So of course, as luck would have it, I got called into Inaya’s office just before lunch and informed that the entire staff of Wendigo had been subjected to drug tests as part of the big buyout, and everyone who had failed had been let go. Including Rahul. So we’d made a deal with a ghost, and guess whose job it was to deliver the news to Naderi in person.
Somehow her numb, quiet resignation was worse than the anger I’d expected.
“That’s it, then,” she said, settling into a cushy chair in her office while I remained awkwardly standing. “Nothing left to do but go on hiatus until we have enough in the can to keep going.”
“I’m still working on stage 13,” I said. “I’m not going to give up on this.”
“Radical acceptance,” Naderi said bitterly to a painting of an antelope getting its jugular ripped out. “This is the reality. We yank the show off the air before the cliffhanger I’d planned, and hope the fickle fans are still around when we get back.”
Somehow, when it came down to it, it was me who was having trouble accepting the finality of the defeat.
“They will be,” I said, unaccountably morose. “It won’t be a long hiatus, and it’s a hell of a show.”
Naderi stared at the doomed antelope for a moment longer. “This is one of those days,” she said, “when anyone else would just break open a bottle of whiskey.”
“I don’t drink either,” I said. “Want to take off early and get totally not-smashed together?”
Naderi gave me a hard sidelong look without even moving her head. “You’re trying to make friends with me right now?”
“Despite what you think,” I said, “we’re on the same side. I hate this whole situation.”
“Hole situation,” said Naderi, with a punch-drunk little chuckle. “Because of the soundstage floor. You ever going to explain what happened in there?”
Half of me wished I could and was exhausted enough that I was tempted, but she wouldn’t believe me anyway. I shifted my weight awkwardly. “Vivian Chandler was doing something in there before she died. Can’t very well ask her what it was all about now, can we.”
“I wonder if it was something for me,” Naderi mused.
A weird feeling crawled across my skin. My Arcadian-bullshit sense was tingling something awful. “Why would you say that?” I said, my gaze drifting back to the disturbing painting.
“Eh, just thinking out loud. About six months ago, back when we weren’t even sure Maneaters would get picked up and they were still building Valiant here, Vivian said she had a huge surprise for me once the construction was finished.” Naderi glanced at me again, and this time her gaze latched on. “I’m sorry—were you and she close? I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh no, we weren’t. God no.”
“Okay. Because you look like you just sat in a bowl of ice.”
“It’s—unrelated,” I lied. Less smoothly than usual, judging by her steady gaze. “I—remembered a thing I forgot. Kind of a crisis thing actually. I hate to be rude, but—”
“Go then. I’m sick of looking at you.”
Of course no one at Residence Four would take my call. Caryl must have locked herself back in the basement like a good little prisoner. I thought about calling Alvin, but even if I succeeded in reaching him, I couldn’t figure out a non-incriminating way to lead into the revelation I’d just had. So I had to mentally commando crawl through the rest of that agonizing day as though my brain weren’t tumbling in circles. I went back to Wikipedia and every other link I could find, and just as soon as I could leave work I took a cab straight to the Residence.
Of course when I got there, Phil wouldn’t let me in. He pulled aside the little curtain on the front door, took one look out onto the porch, and walked away.
“Damn it, Phil!” I yelled, and pounded on the door some more. “Open up! I’ll give you back your phone!” Nothing.
So I kept pounding. When one fist got tired, I used the other. When they were both throbbing, I turned around and surv
eyed the porch for a likely bludgeon. Nothing looked suitable, but I did spot an abandoned teething ring, which made me remember Song’s baby, which made me remember the sliding glass door at the east side of the house not far from Song’s room. I circled around the wraparound porch, found the side door, and pounded on the glass.
Eventually a bewildered and slightly miffed Song appeared, baby on her hip, to open it and find out what the hell I wanted. She stood so as to block my entrance.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to Caryl, and Phil’s being an asshole and won’t let me in.”
“Boo,” said the baby, tugging his mother’s hair.
“I’m not supposed to let you onto the property,” Song said with her usual lowered eyes and apologetic tone. “I got a call from Alvin; he’s on his way back from—”
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, taking care to keep my voice calm. “A bunch of invisible terrorists are going to blow up Arcadia in a little over a week. The manticore knows stuff, and I know how to get it out of him, but Alvin won’t listen to a damn thing Caryl or I say, so we’re on our own. Please, Song. Remember what happened when they told you to fire me last summer? I saved the day anyway. Don’t be the bureaucrat this time; that’s not you. Don’t make saving the world harder than it has to be.”
Song teared up. “I’m sorry,” she said, cradling her son close. “I need this job. I can’t let you in.”
“Song—”
“But!” she blurted desperately. Then she lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “Sometimes Stevie uses this door and forgets to lock it behind her. If you were to come and find the door unlocked, and sneak past me when I was busy with the baby, that wouldn’t really be my fault.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I said.
“I’m not saying anything,” she said. “I’m going to my room to try to get Sterling to nap.” Sterling. That was his name. Poor kid.
Song closed the door in my face, but by an astounding coincidence, she left it unlocked.
Out of consideration for her sense of propriety, I waited for her to disappear into her room before quietly sliding the door back open, letting myself inside, and locking it behind me. I kept a sharp eye out for Phil as I headed for the basement, but he must have gone upstairs.
The basement seemed especially dank and musty today, or maybe it was just my mood. Caryl summoned Elliott at the sight of me, then sat cross-legged on her sleeping cot, spine straight and expression attentive. “Do you know Alvin is returning?” she said.
“Someone might have mentioned it.”
“How did you get in?”
“The side door was unlocked for some reason.” Might as well get used to the half-truth while it wasn’t crucial. “Caryl, I think I know what Vivian promised to Throebrand. I think she was going to introduce him to his Echo.”
“His Echo?”
“Don’t laugh,” I said, as though she were in any danger of doing that. “That’s what Vivian did, right? Echo matchmaking? And manticores are creatures from ancient Persian legend, which suggests that they’re common in that part of the world, or what’s parallel to that part of the world. Right?”
“Yes.”
“This particular manticore came from his homeland ‘half a human’s lifetime’ ago? Around the same time Parisa Naderi and her family oh-so-coincidentally moved from Iran to Los Angeles.”
Caryl’s gaze took on a sharp, fixed quality that could almost be mistaken for excitement. “This would explain why Throebrand suddenly became eager to work with us when he found out that Claybriar was your Echo.”
That one threw me a little. “It would?”
“This world often parallels Arcadia, you see, at least roughly, in events and relationships. Claybriar is Throebrand’s current nemesis, and so Throebrand would have reason to believe that you might have a similar relationship with his Echo.”
“So he wants me to give the tour because he thinks I’ll lead him straight to her without even knowing.”
“And you could. Purposefully, now.”
“Should I?”
Caryl considered. “This is powerful. We can use this as leverage. If he knows we can deliver what Vivian promised, then there is likely little he would not do to see it happen.”
“I know this is a weird thing for me to balk at, given my history, but—I don’t want to promise this unless I can deliver. My pride smarts at all that crap he said about humans being liars. Can we actually introduce them? It’ll be good for them both, won’t it?”
“I—honestly cannot say,” said Caryl. “Those with Unseelie Echoes tend to lead miserable, chaotic lives. Dostoyevsky is one of the few who died by something other than his own hand, and that, I think, only because his Echo is—well, you have seen his peculiar sensitivity.”
I wrapped my arms around myself uneasily, then shook my head. “Naderi is strong. She’s managed to keep some kind of moral center despite years in the entertainment industry, and she has nerves of steel. She’s gotten this far in life without an Echo or really much support from anyone; I think having access to a powerful partner could only make her stronger.”
“To say nothing of the fact that it would end the problems that Throebrand has been causing in Skyhollow.”
“Claybriar wouldn’t have to kill him anymore?” I said. “Then there’s no debate. Let’s do this.”
“The first step of the plan is already underway,” said Caryl. “In the meantime, we still have another problem to address.”
“Alvin?”
“Alvin. He is returning from London this evening, and I understand that he will be bringing Dame Belinda with him.”
My jaw went slack. “Whaaaat?”
“Phil did not say why, exactly. I think the only reason he even informed me of that much was in hopes of frightening me.”
“Did it work?”
“Quite effectively. Dame Belinda is intimidating enough on a laptop screen; I am not looking forward to meeting with her in person.”
“Maybe she’ll be shorter than you and smell like prunes.”
“I fail to see how that will matter, as she has the power to order my execution.”
I inhaled sharply, then slowly exhaled, relaxing hands that were trying to curl into fists. “I’m not letting that happen, Caryl.”
“It’s touching that you would say that, but I hope you realize you have absolutely no power to prevent it.”
“People are always telling me what I can’t do, and it hasn’t done much to stop me.”
“Yes, well, as commendable as your confidence may be, let us not forget that it comes with occasional collateral damage.”
For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath. That was the problem with logical-Caryl; when she was disconnected from her emotions, she disconnected from everyone else’s as well, couldn’t see the way her words might ricochet into ugly places. I knew she hadn’t explicitly meant to blame me for Gloria’s and Teo’s deaths, but if she’d had her heart in its proper place she’d have known better than to say something that would catapult me directly to that conclusion.
When I finally got air into my lungs, my eyes flooded, and Caryl studied me, one brow lifting about a quarter of an inch.
“I’ve hurt you,” she said. “I apologize.”
“For someone who claims to love me,” I said, “you sure don’t mince words.”
“How many times must I apologize?”
“For what? Loving me? Saying so? Or reminding me of shit I’m already sick with guilt about?”
“I do not wish to have this conversation.”
“If we were in a relationship, it would be your responsibility to have this conversation. So keep that in mind next time you want to get all starry-eyed at me.”
“I dismissed Elliott at the soundstage because it was the only way to help you,” she said. “The repercussions were not entirely under my—”
“You said you didn’t want to talk about it, so le
t’s not talk about it,” I said, well aware that I was being an asshole as I flounced out of the basement. Sometimes you have to assist people a little bit in the process of getting over you.
I did stick around the Residence for a while, though. Neither Song nor Caryl had said exactly when Alvin was going to arrive, but I had a feeling he’d be stopping by as soon as he could, due to the irregularities that had been going on with this particular Gate.
I was a little relieved, to be honest, when he came through the front door alone, just before nine p.m. I’d spent the intervening time chewing my nails to the quick at the prospect of meeting the Grand High Pooh-Bah of the entire Arcadia Project; now I just had to cope with Alvin’s look of mingled shock and outrage when he saw me relaxing on the larger of the living room sofas.
“How did you get in?” he asked.
“The side door was unlocked for some reason.” Practice had helped; it was butter smooth.
“Well, this saves me the trouble of calling you,” he said. “You and I need to have a conversation.”
“Is this a conversation about trespassing that’s going to end with me in jail?”
“I don’t think I could make a trespassing charge stick,” said Alvin, sitting on the other couch opposite me, “given that your pal Caryl’s name has been on the house deed since shortly after her eighteenth birthday.”
“Well, there we go. So assuming Phil tattled somehow, that only leaves you yelling at me about unauthorized use of the Gate, but that’s debatable too. The only reason Caryl isn’t in charge right now is a false accusation that we’re in the process of disproving. She had every right to schedule an emergency trip.”
“But not to bring an uninitiated human to Arcadia. That’s a serious infraction no matter how you try to spin it, Roper.” His words were grave, but there was something in his eyes that put me at ease, maybe the cinnamon-toast color, or maybe a little spark of amusement lurking in their depths. I had the sudden certainty that everyone in the New Orleans office adored him. I always seemed to find myself facing down people who had way more friends than I did.
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