“Oh,” I said, “she’ll find an excuse.”
“Don’t they always,” said Bessie.
CHAPTER
18
I HAD NEVER BEEN to the opera house. I had passed it many times, knew it as a landmark, an icon of the city, but it represented a version of the world in which I had no place. The prospect of going there now both thrilled me and so stirred my guts that I had to pretend to tie my boot just to sit down for a moment and breathe.
The building itself was a vast domed oval, every door and window ornamented with carved patterns and theatrical masks, every area of wall decorated with heraldic animals and coats of arms from the north. This was white Feldesland, and the carved beasts adorning its elegant and imposing exterior were as far from the creatures that roamed the bush only a few miles to our west as I could imagine.
Outside was cool, polished stone the color of pale sand, but inside were darker, richer colors: cobalt blues, emerald greens, and coral reds, all lavishly gilded. There were soft couches in grottoes, upholstered in thick velvet and trimmed with gold braid. Rich mosaics and bold statues filled every alcove, and they were executed not in the elegant northern style but as if they were copies of Mahweni and Lani subjects described to a sculptor who had never seen the originals. Here was a golden fountain in a turquoise pool decorated with Mahweni river spirits. There was a Lani monkey god covered in gold leaf, dancing on top of an elephant. It was luxuriant, even seductive, but strange, dreamlike.
I stood quite still, jostled by the crowd of ticket holders, blinking at the bizarre sumptuousness of the place, and feeling more than usually isolated. I kept my bonneted face turned down like a threatened tortoise.
“Isn’t it just darling!” whispered Dahria. “The music is mostly a bore, but the place is so much fun that I come from time to time anyway.”
I said nothing.
At one end of the great curved lobby, between a pair of gilded columns, was a bar where fastidiously dressed ladies and gentlemen were congregating before going in to the performance. We drifted in that direction, surrounded by the cream of Bar-Selehm’s high society. I saw faces I recognized from the newspapers—aristocrats, businessmen, and politicians—but the biggest shock came rather closer to home.
A man was reporting that the government had withdrawn its ambassador from Grappoli in the ongoing spat over the theft of the Beacon and that street protests were expected tonight in the largely black Morgessa District, which had always been a hotbed of political activism.
I turned, curious why the Mahweni would care about a diplomatic row with the Grappoli, and found myself inches from my sister Vestris. She looked radiant in wine-red silks trimmed with silver that evoked her Lani past while blending perfectly with her newfound status. She was in a circle of white men and women, one of whom, laughing loudly, was Stefan Von Strahden. I stared for a second, shocked and confused, and in that moment, Vestris turned absently to him and plucked a thread or hair from the lapel of his jacket without a word. He said nothing in response, and if he even looked her in the face, I did not see it.
I turned away before she saw me, my mind racing as fast as my pulse. I had to speak to her.
You are a servant, said a haughty, irritating voice in my head that could have been Dahria’s. You will embarrass her. If people realize she is related to the likes of you …
But I had to at least let her see me. If we could just make eye contact, she would find a way to talk to me.
“You turned your back on me,” Dahria muttered into my ear. “May I remind you in what capacity you are here?”
“Sorry,” I whispered, though I did not turn.
“What is the matter with you?” Dahria hissed, her irritation mounting. “Turn around, girl! Why can’t you—?” She hesitated, as if she had just seen or realized something. And then cooed, “I see. You do aim high, don’t you? But I told you that the Right Honorable Mr. Von Strahden already has a lady in his life.”
It took a moment for me to realize what she was saying, and another moment not to correct her. I liked Von Strahden well enough because he was kind to me and treated me like a person, but that was all. What Dahria’s remark also revealed was that she didn’t know Vestris was my sister.
In the instant I decided that it was better that way.
At my back, the group laughed politely and I felt again the glow of Vestris’s presence and the annoyance of being outside it. I turned abruptly and raised my bonneted face just enough that my sister’s eyes fell upon me.
They widened, and her glossy lips parted in the smallest gasp.
Something flashed through her face, something more than surprise, and then she was excusing herself and moving quickly away from the group so that Von Strahden looked after her, his brow furrowed.
I lowered my head and followed, muttering apologies.
Vestris left the busiest part of the lobby and vanished behind one of the massive ornamental columns by an empty tea salon. As soon as I rounded the column, she was whispering feverishly into my ear. “What are you doing here, Anglet?”
“I’m working as a lady’s maid,” I said, barely suppressing a giggle, like this was a game we were playing while we waited for Papa to come home from work.
“A maid?” Vestris demanded. “To whom?”
“Dahria Willinghouse,” I said, still grinning.
Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” I said. “Not like a real job.”
“We can’t be seen together,” she said. “Not here.”
“Oh,” I said. She was right, but I was still a little crestfallen.
“I’m sorry, Ang, I really am, but reputation is everything with these people. If they knew … If they even thought…”
I saw the anxiety in her face and realized just how fragile her position was in this strange, elevated society, the Lani girl who made good. It was like being up on the chimneys. One false move …
“I know,” I said, meaning it. “I’m sorry. I just saw you and had to talk to you.”
“I understand,” she said, relaxing fractionally.
“I sent you a message, but you won’t have got it yet,” I said.
“What?” she asked, still flustered.
“Just a note,” I said, “so you could contact me. I sent it to the address on the card you gave me.”
“Yes,” she said. “Right. Ang, I’m sorry, but I really have to—”
“I know,” I said. “Go.”
She relented a little at that. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Do you need money? Is there anything I can do?”
And that was all I needed, that look of concern, that willingness to help. I was in the glow again, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. “I’m fine,” I said, smiling. “I don’t need anything. Go back to your friends.”
She leaned quickly under my bonnet and kissed me on the cheek, leaving once more the aroma of sandalwood and violets, and then she was gone.
I just stood there, cherishing the memory of her presence, her desire to help; then I took a breath and returned to Dahria, head bowed.
“There you are!” she said as I slid back to her side. “Where have you been, you maddening creature?”
I was about to mutter something about the toilet when I became aware of someone making a speech behind me. There was a patter of applause, and then the light changed, producing a soft intake of awe-inspired breath from the assembly.
I turned and glimpsed a large blond woman, middle aged and dressed in yards of pleated green taffeta that made her look like the prow ornament of a ship, beaming at the crowd, her arms open. At her throat she wore a pendant so bright that, even at this distance, it was hard to look directly at it.
“I think we just found the Dowager Lady Hamilton,” said Dahria.
There was more applause, heartfelt this time, and then the dowager adjusted something around the necklace, reducing its brilliance by two-thirds or more, and permitting closer inspection by her admirers. The
re was no sign of Vestris or Van Strahden.
“We need to get a closer look at that necklace,” I whispered.
“My area of expertise, I believe,” said Dahria, drawing herself up and slicing through the crowd like a clipper.
I followed, head down, one hand touching the trailing fabric of her dress so I didn’t lose her in the throng, but we had gone only a few steps when a bell rang. Dahria hesitated and I almost walked into her, stepping back as the crowd began moving en masse. The performance was about to begin.
Dahria made one last push to reach the dowager, but we were swimming upstream. I got a look at the great lady as she drained her glass, looking flushed and slightly ill at ease in spite of her expansive smile, and then she was steaming into the auditorium.
Dahria scowled after her. “We’ll have to catch her between acts,” she said. “I have a feeling she’ll want to bask as publicly as possible.”
We took our seats in the center of the dress circle. As I massaged my throbbing feet as best I could through the cramped shoes, Dahria scanned the gilded hall and eventually located the dowager in a side box. She had muted the brilliance of her necklace still further, and I could no longer see it at all. Around us, those wearing luxorite jewelry were doing the same, closing tiny shutters around their pendants, placing earrings in cases or rotating finger rings till the stone could be placed safely in laps. When the gaslights were turned down, there were only a few pools of light that had to be hastily doused, and only one that required the intervention of a deferential but firm usher. When the stage was bathed only in the pearly glow of the gas-fueled footlights and the above-stage chandeliers, an orchestral prelude swelled from the pit. Then the warmer ambience of aging luxorite torches shone through directional lenses flooded the stage, and with the entrance of the actors, the opera began.
Dahria was only partly right. For all the spectacle; the lavish, spangled costumes; and the opulent glow of the performers, the performance was wooden, dull.
But the music!
Where Lani music is all heart and gut, this was head and soul, and it sounded like the voices of angels, barely within the realm of human possibility. It was high and carefully fitted together like the workings of a pocket watch, but it was also air and spirit and water, remote and beautiful so that tears started to my eyes because I knew that like all good and wonderful things, the sound would eventually stop. In that remote and unearthly music, I felt all that made me different from the people who now employed me, and I felt it like sorrow, like loss. Again, my thoughts went to Rahvey’s baby, to Berrit, and to Papa, and I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from weeping.
So I was almost relieved when, after twenty minutes, Dahria nudged me with her leg. Up in the curtained box, the dowager had risen from her seat and seemed to be ducking out.
“Too much wine,” Dahria whispered.
I got hurriedly to my aching feet and, ignoring Dahria’s hissing protests, excused myself and pushed through a dozen pairs of outraged, well-dressed legs until I was in the aisle and making for the exit, leaving behind a ripple of indignant muttering.
It was strange to be in the lobby now that it was deserted, and with the lights dimmed the looming statues had a new air of menace. I moved to the stairs closest to where the dowager had been seated, pushing past the red velvet rope and climbing a flight of wide, carpeted stairs to the upper gallery. There was no evidence of movement, but there were signs to the LADIES’ FACILITIES. I followed them.
Another flight of steps, marble this time, and the sound of echoing movement ahead of me.
I moved lightly, trying to decide what I would do or say when I met the dowager. I could hardly play the society lady merely interested in the necklace, dressed as I was. I would need to be direct and trust that she would want to help solve the death of a Lani boy. It didn’t feel promising, and I hesitated on the stairs, catching the slightly fusty aroma of perfume in the stale air. Perhaps it would be better, less intrusive, if I didn’t corner her in the bathroom itself…?I dithered. Everything about the place and the people in it crowded in on me, made me feel like a rat in an elegant kitchen, or a siltroach frozen in the light of a lamp.
You do not belong here. You cannot do this.
I balled my fists and tried to think, and in that instant, I heard something from the restroom below, a kind of strangled gasp that was almost a cry.
My body took over. In three vaulting strides, I had reached the foot of the stairs and was bursting into the well-appointed sitting area, which gave on to the bathroom itself. There was no sign of anybody here, and I kept moving, slamming through the swinging door into a bright, white-tiled room of sinks and toilet stalls. One of the doors was wobbling on its hinges. On the floor beside it, purple-faced and wheezing, was the dowager, sprawled on her belly like a stricken rhino, panting, her eyes wide with shock and terror.
I grabbed hold of her and tried to roll her onto her back, but she was too heavy. I took her right arm and pulled till she shook off some of her paralysis and pushed herself over and up on one elbow. The pendant was gone, and the spot where it had hung at her throat was pink and inflamed.
“Came from above,” she managed, her eyes flashing back to the toilet stall with something like horror.
I looked, but there was no one there.
She shook her head violently and gasped, one hand at the wattle of her throat. “That way!”
At the far end of the row of stalls a panel was missing from the ceiling: a ventilation shaft. I bounded over and looked up. There was a broad corrugated duct that turned in on itself. I couldn’t see round the bend, but it was certainly wide enough for a man to climb through, and now that I was directly beneath it, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of effort.
He was still in there.
As the dowager coughed and sobbed, I stepped onto the toilet seat, cursing my voluminous skirts and the absurd bonnet, and tried boosting myself into the ceiling opening, but it was impossible. I tore off the bonnet and shrugged my way roughly out of the dress, leaving it where it fell. The action had cost me valuable seconds, but it felt good to feel the air on my arms. Clad only in my chemise, drawers, stockings, and those infernal high-heeled shoes, I hoisted myself into the vent.
It smelled faintly of rust, and as I pulled myself inside, it shook, scattering black-and-orange flakes of old metal and dried insect parts. I spat, clawed my way around the corner, and crawled till the tube opened into a dark shaft, which went straight up. There were ladder rungs set into the wall, so I began to climb. I don’t believe I had had an actual thought since I heard the dowager’s strangled cry from the stairwell.
I could see him above me. A man in close-fitting dark gray clothes with a bag slung across his chest. I could not see his face, and my sense that it was a man came solely from the speed and strength of his ascent.
Though my heart was pounding, this was the first moment since arriving at the opera house that I did not feel alien and inadequate. The shaft was brick, not sooty like chimneys, but scarred, dusty, and irregular: my environment, even if these weren’t my clothes. I didn’t know what I would do if I caught up with him, but I felt no fear, no uncertainty as I snatched rung after rung, pulling myself up.
When you are used to ladders, they provide a kind of rhythm, your body becoming a machine swinging from side to side like a swimmer. I felt rather than saw my quarry pause for a fraction of a second, looking down at me, and I could almost smell his surprise. I was gaining on him.
The shaft went far higher than I had expected, and it occurred to me as I powered on that we must be moving up through the concert hall’s external walls. The higher I climbed, the more I became aware of music, distant at first, but swelling strangely as I neared the top. Another twenty or thirty feet and I was out, standing on a narrow metal gantry, the music from the opera stage below, all around me. I peered into the gloom, my hair falling in my face. There was no sign of the thief, but there were lots of places he could have hid.
Ropes and pulleys and great wood-framed canvas flats were suspended in front of me. I was in the rigging for the scenery. Below the gantry I could see nothing but the front lip of the stage and the first rows of orchestra seating, fifty feet below. I took a steadying breath and grabbed hold of a cool brass pipe.
The action saved my life because I didn’t see the kick arcing out of the darkness till it made contact with my jaw.
My legs gave, and I sagged, head spinning, but somehow my right hand remembered to hold on as I began to fall. For a moment, the world swam, the darkness above the stage switching places with the brightness and color below. My attacker moved toward me, but all I could do, hanging by one hand, was watch with horror as he turned and looked down into my face.
He wore slim-fitting gloves and was—I was chilled to see—masked. His head was wrapped with dark fabric, but the centerpiece was rigid, shaped out of what looked like gray leather and molded so closely to the face that I could see nothing of its features. The eyes looked hard and dark, but I could not be sure of their color, and my head was full of what he might do as he reached me.
I hung there, dimly aware that the music below had sputtered to a halt and there were cries of consternation from the actors, the only people who could see me clearly. I did not look down. I had seconds of strength left. The masked figure above me paused, staring into my desperate face, and raised a single index finger.
One chance.
Then he was gone, moving along the gantry and farther upstage.
I snatched a breath, flung my other hand up, and caught desperately at the pipe. For a moment, I just hung there, taking the weight off my exhausted right arm, and then I hauled myself up, panting like the dowager I had left on the bathroom floor.
I got unsteadily to my feet. My attacker had raced coolly across the catwalk and now stood above the wings. He seemed to be staring over the stage to the far side, and I followed his gaze up to where a ladder led to an access hatch in the roof. There was no way across but the pipes and ropes from which the lights and scenic flats were suspended, but I knew what he planned to do.
A Novel Page 15