The night arrived, and August, dressed all in black, walked downtown. As he was going to the Village, his crepuscular attire wasn’t in the least conspicuous. A person wearing a sheer robe who called herself Twilight had just put a hand to his cheek and told him she would be married to him in their next life, so an all-black ensemble hardly merited comment.
It had been unbearably hot earlier that day, but now the sky turned an ominous purple, thunderclouds threatening. This was of no concern. If it rained, people were even less attentive than usual, blinded by umbrellas and too concerned with ducking under awnings or hailing cabs to notice a jewel thief in their midst. Also, a good old-fashioned thunderstorm might cool the air a bit, which would be such a goddamned relief.
A quick survey of the brownstone proved the Kingsleys weren’t at home. No cars, no lights. Nothing. August smiled and headed a few blocks south.
The encyclopedic tour August had been given over a month ago had been agony at the time, but because of its thoroughness, he knew of a window in one of the lesser guest rooms that stood a few feet above a neighboring rooftop. With a boost from a well-placed dumpster, he was slipping his fingers into mortar cracks, slowly working his way up the side of a building five blocks down from the Kingsleys. His fingers were wider than they’d been as a malnourished teenager, so the task was no longer as simple as climbing a rope, but he had kept in good practice, and it wasn’t long before he gripped the iron security of a fire escape. After hoisting himself up, August climbed the staircases up to the rooftop and leapt across the small gaps between the buildings until he was standing beneath the window of a fourth-floor guest room at the Kingsley residence.
The window was locked, of course, but it was old. With the careful application of a small crowbar, August was able to implement enough pressure to break the weakened lock and get a grip on the bottom of the frame with his free hand. The window creaked loudly as he shoved the sticky frame upward, but eventually he was able to slide inside. He wanted to release a triumphant laugh, but he was a professional. Caution prevailed, and he settled for a smug Cheshire grin.
Standing still and silent for a moment, he got a feel for the house while regaining control of his breath. Not a sound. He made his way to the music room and Greener Pastures.
The guitar that housed the emerald was still hanging where Kingsley had first plucked it from the wall. August lifted it off its mount and took it to a hideous divan so that he might fiddle with it in relative comfort.
A grumble of thunder complained outside.
August had known cracking the safe would be the trickiest part of his operation, and he’d decided in advance not to get frustrated with the mechanism. He had plenty of time, and if worse came to worst, he could just smash the damn thing open and make a run for it. Ideally, however, he would pick the lock, steal the emerald, and place the guitar back on the wall in pristine condition so that it might be weeks or even months before Greener Pastures was reported missing. Then it might still take a great deal of time for the Kingsleys to put it together that Simon Helmer had known of the jewel’s location. By that time Simon Helmer would have disappeared off the face of the earth, his particular combination of wig, mustache, and ear extensions never to be seen again.
August sat on the couch, messing about with the guitar. He’d thought from watching Kingsley that the secret to opening the thing was in the tuning pegs on the guitar’s neck, but he’d rotated each of the things with painful attention to detail and hadn’t felt even the slightest catch.
Without letting discouragement overtake him, he tried to remember what exactly had happened that night of the dinner party. The trouble was he hadn’t been paying Kingsley any heed when his host started strumming the guitar; he’d been depressed about his failure to locate the safe. And then Kingsley played a chord that had made the most awful racket.
Maybe that was the answer! Maybe the right chord had to be struck before the tuning knobs would operate. But what chord? August had about as much musical talent as a fountain pen. And even if he were some sort of savant, how would he remember a random chord that he’d heard over a month before?
Another crack of thunder sounded, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning.
Perhaps Kingsley had simply strummed the strings, not played an actual chord. August tried, as quietly as he could manage, and then turned the knobs every which way. No luck. He tried again, trying to mimic guitarists he’d seen by placing his fingers randomly on the neck of the guitar. Another strum, another go at the tuning knobs. Nothing.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
August was at the knobs again when a voice from behind interrupted his efforts.
“What are you doing here?”
August nearly threw the guitar into the air as he jumped up with fright. He turned to see who had caught him in the act and was surprised to find the silly redheaded girl from the dinner party staring at him.
“You?” said August. Then, remembering he’d been in disguise when they’d met, he amended his statement. “I mean . . . who are you?” A bit weak, but to be fair, he was under duress.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed, and August was again thrown for a loop. The redhead of the party, whatever her name had been, was not the sort of person inclined to hissing. She was more the sort who favored making wishes on flower petals and whispering secrets to acorns.
He tried to recover. “There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding, miss. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Well, that’s interesting, because I’ve seen you,” she whispered, throwing a harried look over her shoulder and out the door, which she moved to shut. “Though last time we were introduced, you were dressed for a costume ball.”
August tried to reply but only managed, “What . . . how . . . why?”
“Please,” she said, raising her voice slightly after she shut the door. “I’ve never seen a cheaper-looking wig in my life. And when you turned in profile, I could see the light through your prosthetic ears. Pathetic.”
August slumped back onto the divan in shock. That this woman, whom he’d thought to be as vacant as Christ’s tomb on Easter, should have recognized him so easily was possibly the greatest surprise he’d ever received in his life.
“I knew you were after Greener Pastures that night,” she said, taking the guitar out of August’s hands. He put up no resistance. What was the point? “Honestly, all that talk of a tour? You couldn’t have been more transparent if you tried. Luckily, Kingsley’s an even bigger idiot than you are and just showed us the damn thing, no questions asked.” She’d put the guitar back on its mount and was now standing back a few paces, studying the instrument, getting perspective. “It’s no use opening the safe. I’ve been trying for weeks. And I’m sure as hell not letting you have the emerald after all the work I’ve sunk into this operation.”
August was coming to and desperately needed some clarity. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think to say was a reprise of his earlier convoluted question. “What . . . how . . . why?”
The thunder was really rolling now, the drunkest person at the party.
“Eva?” came a voice from the hall. “Eva, are you in here?”
“Shit,” she swore. “Behind the couch. Now!”
“The couch or the divan?” he asked, for they were distinctly different pieces of furniture.
“I don’t care if you crawl under the fucking ottoman, just hide!”
He didn’t waste any time arguing. Discovery would be terrible, of course. The authorities would become entangled in his business; he might be sent to prison. But what he honestly feared more than incarceration was upsetting this Eva woman, a person he’d come to greatly admire in the past few moments. August dove behind the couch, hitting the ground with a thud just as Mr. Kingsley entered the room wearing a ridiculous silk bathrobe.
“Darling,” he said, mercifully tying the robe shut, “what are you doing in here?”
Instantly the sharp spa
rk of intelligence abandoned Eva. Dewy as a May morning, she replied, “The thunder woke me. I was frightened.” Then, sobbing real saltwater tears, she collapsed onto Kingsley’s breast.
Sensational.
“There, there,” Kingsley soothed, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Charles!” came a monstrous voice from downstairs. “I know you’re here!”
Kingsley, who seconds before had assured Eva that there was nothing to fear, screamed like a child and threw the young woman onto the couch as if she were a hot iron.
“Good god,” he whispered, pale as a ghost, “she’s here!”
“There’s no use in hiding, Charles!” came the banshee call of the rampaging termagant, her malice underscored most effectively by the bellowing thunder. “I’ll find you and the little slut!”
“Quick,” Kingsley said to Eva, “hide behind the couch.”
Eva hastened to obey and, with a sprightly leap, landed squarely on August’s rib cage. August, quite naturally, cried out in anguish, thus alerting Kingsley to his presence.
“What the devil is going on?” Kingsley asked, astonished.
It was Eva’s turn to mutter the now popular refrain, “What . . . how . . . why?”
Kingsley soldiered on. “And just who are you, sir?”
“A burglar,” August replied, eschewing good sense in the face of such barefaced madness.
“A burglar?” Kingsley cried.
But there was no time for further questioning; the alarming screams of the executioner were drawing ever closer. “I’ll cut off your cock and feed it to you, you adulterous bastard!”
Petrified for the future of his genitals, Mr. Kingsley dashed to the balcony doors and threw them open. “Leave! Both of you! At once!”
“But Charles,” Eva wept, “I’m scared of the rain!”
“And I’m scared of my wife! Now get the hell out of here before I throw you off the balcony.”
Eva dropped the ingenue act and slapped Charles Kingsley hard across the face. “Goddamn you! You’re a silly, silly man and a horrible lover.”
Mr. Kingsley was more than shocked at Eva’s sudden shift in personality, but August had grabbed her by the waist and was carrying her out the balcony doors.
“Don’t mind her,” he said. “Hysterical and all that. Lovely to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” mumbled Kingsley, at a loss.
Climbing down the face of a building wasn’t easy, especially when a thunderstorm was in full scream and a feisty person was applying several feisty kicks to his shins. Still, August kept his head and his footing, and descended the brownstone safely. The following altercation was overheard from upstairs before he was out of earshot.
“Where is she?”
“Darling, a burglar! Just scared him off! You wouldn’t believe the fright I’ve had!”
“A burglar, is it? Well then, I’ll just go to the bedroom and make sure he hasn’t taken any of my brooches.”
“Er . . . avoid the bedroom, dear. He’s ransacked the place something awful. Especially the bedsheets. He’s even strewn some women’s clothing about. An absolute madman!”
Gripping Eva’s wrist, August charged uptown, leaving the Kingsleys, their marital strife, and their emerald behind him.
* * *
Eva pulled her wrist, slick with rain, from August’s grip and marched west, away from him.
“What’re you doing?” August chided, chasing after her.
She whipped around, mad as the thunder, tendrils of her hair clinging to her face. The rain had changed her hair’s coloring so that it was now blood-dark, and the pieces plastered across her cheeks looked like deep angry gashes.
“What am I doing?” she shouted. “I’m leaving! Do you have any idea how much work I put into that job? How much time that cost me?”
August shuffled in the rain.
“Months,” she answered. “Months of planning. Months of preparation. And then finally, over a month of fucking that son of a bitch just so I might get a chance at opening his safe. Then you come along with your latex ears and mustache that wouldn’t even fool a child, sit through one dinner party, and ruin everything!”
August didn’t think she was being quite fair. He had, after all, endured drinks with Kingsley at a very pretentious gentleman’s club. When he mentioned this to Eva, she turned redder than her hair.
“I fucked him!” she screamed. “I let him have sex with me! Did you fuck him at your club while you were playing checkers?”
“We never played checkers, just cards.”
Eva slapped him, and August didn’t protest. He deserved it, he felt.
“God!” she screamed, heading west again.
August caught up to her and put an arm on her shoulder. “Wait.”
“Don’t touch me! Who are you? Why are you still talking to me?”
“I live nearby. If the Kingsleys do end up phoning the police, you’re probably the only person who’d match the description they’d put out.”
Eva took stock of herself, saw that she was wearing nothing but a sopping dressing gown, and balled her fists in fury.
“Fine,” she said, obviously restraining a number of violent impulses, “take me to your place. But if this is some kind of trick, I swear to god—” But her threat remained unfinished; she seemed to be literally choking on her anger.
“Fair enough.”
They couldn’t catch a cab, and the rain never let up the whole walk home.
* * *
August unlocked his brownstone on East Twenty-Third Street, ushered Eva inside, and immediately went in pursuit of a towel. When he returned to Eva, even the water pooling about her feet seethed in resentment.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, handing the towel over.
Her only answer was a skeptically raised eyebrow; Eva was making no effort to hide how ill at ease she was at being alone, nearly naked, with an admitted criminal in his apartment.
Taking her bitter silence as consent, August dashed off and threw the kettle on, then fussed over which tea he might serve. Living with Sir Reginald had made him somewhat of a snob when it came to tea, and he now maintained an extensive collection of leaves and such from all over the globe. Eventually he settled on a mild monk’s blend—not the most robust of brews, but it couldn’t be beat for comfort.
While the kettle worked up the mood to whistle, August bounded up the stairs to Miss Butler’s old room. He hadn’t changed a thing, not having a need for space, so the closets were still full of Eugenia’s garments.
Though she’d been old, Miss Butler had been a gifted seamstress, and had an eye for clean lines and flattering cuts. And though Eugenia Butler had been taller and thinner than Eva, the simple cotton frock he picked out would certainly be preferable to the dripping robe the young woman was currently donning. And she’d look lovely in this shade of green. At least he thought so. Or hoped so.
The kettle sang as August ran down the stairs, skipping every other step. He poured the tea, and while it was steeping, offered Eva the fresh garment.
“Thanks,” she said, distracted. The towel had restored her somewhat and, no longer sopping, she was surveying the brownstone with a furrowed brow, her tongue worrying the inside of her mouth like she was digging in her cheeks or individually counting each tooth.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Eva replied, leery.
As soon as she was gone, August ran back to the kitchen and set the tea on one of Miss Butler’s cozier serving trays, artfully fanning some of the sweet biscuits Sir Reginald so adored across a china plate. Carefully carrying the whole display to the living area, August laid out the tray on the table where it would receive the most advantageous lighting, then seated himself nearby and crossed his legs. Then uncrossed them. Then crossed them again. And what to do with his arm?
Good lord, but he was atwitter! And whatever for? Perhaps it was because he rarely had guests. Well, that wa
sn’t entirely true. August often had guests of the feminine variety, but not this sort. They were dalliances, candy. But currently changing into one of his adoptive mother’s dresses was a full-course meal. Steak, potatoes, and dessert.
God, what an awful thing! To compare a woman to a dinner. Just what was he thinking of?
He uncrossed his legs as Eva entered, still toweling herself off. But what was this? Her hair had changed color completely, and was now a dark mess of chocolate tangles.
Eva saw the confusion on his face. “What? You think you’re the only person who uses wigs? It’s drying in your sink right now. I swear to god if the rain ruins it, I’m charging you. That thing cost a fortune.”
August mumbled some inane response, too concerned with studying Eva to make simple conversation. He’d been right, she looked radiant in the green dress he’d picked, even with her new hair color. But there was something else. Now that she was no longer bewigged, Eva had an entirely different air about her. The mass of springy red curls had made her seem daffy and silly, an impact she no doubt intended. But the brown? Though it was currently matted and frizzed, it grounded her somehow. Gave her an earthy quality that was most becoming. And her jawline—how had he not noted it sooner? Striking, yet familiar in a way. Where had he seen its like before?
“Is this whole place yours?” Eva asked. She’d helped herself to the tea tray while August was lost in analysis, and her mouth was presently filled with biscuit.
“It is,” he replied, joining her in the tea.
“All four floors?”
“Five, actually.” August was generally of the opinion that size didn’t matter, but if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Was he mixing adages? No matter.
“Hmm,” was Eva’s only remark. They sat in an uncomfortable silence that Eva eventually broke by asking, “Aren’t you going to change?”
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 16