by Allison Pang
Outside, the streetlights flash past. I stare at my reflection in each hazy, golden glow, wondering at this stranger who lights up with every passing street. I suspect even Rory wouldn’t know who I was if we crossed paths this evening.
Disguises have never been my forte; I’d never had the opportunity or the resources to pull it off. But here, in this place, I am a painted whore, not a Moon Child.
A nudge along my leg brings me back to myself. “Did you hear anything I just said, Magpie?”
I blink at Martika. She sighs, frustration flitting over her features, and she smacks me hard on the knee. “When we get there, follow the other girls’ leads but try not to get too caught up. I’m assuming you’ve never been to one of these affairs?” She catches herself the moment she says it. “Of course, you haven’t. Anyway, it’s not like it is at the Conundrum. You’re expected to mingle. Everyone will assume why you’re there, and the Moon Child costumes are going to cause a stir.”
“How will I find him?” My palms sweat in the gloves, and I struggle not to remove them. I stab the cigar into the silver bowl. “I fail to see how I’ll manage to get away to search without being terribly obvious.” I exhale sharply, trying to swallow my panic. “This is a crap idea.”
“It’s the best one we’ve got at the moment.”
It’s supposed to sound reassuring, but her answering smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself, and there’s nothing particularly optimistic about that.
I glance out the window, not recognizing any of the streets we’re passing now. I’ve never traveled this far from the Warrens. The houses here are massive, made of brick and stone and stucco. They are set back from the road, ensconced on plots of land and flanked by the rotting remains of trees, their branches wavering in the shadows. Bones of the earth, poking through the sooty skin of the city.
We have no trees in the Warrens. Not even as much as these relics.
The rest of the carriage has grown silent, the other women quiet. Are they preparing themselves for what they must do? Or perhaps it’s merely anticipation. I lick my lips, grimacing at the taste of the paint Martika applied.
“Don’t,” she says absently. “You’ll smear it.” She points out the window. “Look. We’re slowing down.”
And we are. The hum of the carriage has become a discordant putt putt putt as the brakes are applied and we turn onto a gravel road. In the distance, Lord Balthazaar’s house looms, lit up on the outside with a great many lanterns.
Molly was right. Even if I can manage to get Ghost and me onto the roof of this place, we’ll have very few choices as to how to get down, and nearly all are exposed. I scan the second and third levels. Would they keep him upstairs in an attic, perhaps? Or below in the wine cellar? Or maybe they merely hold him hostage in a bedroom.
My mind veers from other possibilities. I’ve got enough to try to manage without worrying if he’s injured, too. My lips compress, but the carriage pulls into a curved courtyard, coming to a halt with a great puff of steam. We’re here now. Anticipation fogs the inside of the vehicle as the ladies gather themselves.
Martika nudges me. “Remember to smile. Protocol among the gentry requires discretion, so you can expect a bit of courting before anything is expected to happen. Do your best to slip away when you can.”
“Aye.” I attempt to open my fan experimentally. It snaps shut on my fingers, and I grunt. There’s no more time for talk. The carriage door swings open, and I catch a glimpse of the bowed head of a footman outside.
Martika exits first, exchanging a few words with a manservant standing at the door. He nods and disappears into the manor, and she gestures at us to come forth. I let the others go before me and linger at the stairs leading down to the ground, trying not to gape at the extravagance.
Heavy stone walls surround the manor, and golden light pours through thick glass windows, as if Lord Balthazaar has somehow managed to capture the sun within his home. There are no torches here—everything is electric, from the wall sconces flanking the austere, wooden front doors to the massive crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer.
I can barely take in all the rampant largesse as the footman assists with my descent from the carriage. My booted heels wobble in the gravel, and I lean on the poor man heavily to keep from tripping. His face flushes, and I abruptly let him go.
Led by Martika, our little band of ladies sweeps into the foyer. I bring up the rear. A murmur of surprise greets us. All around us are men and women of the Upper Tier, all sumptuous fabrics and glittering jewels, polished boots and neatly oiled mustaches. Their gazes sweep over us, filled with amusement or outrage, and sometimes a combination of both.
“Oh, how deliciously scandalous,” snickers an elderly matron, sitting in a wingback chair, a thick walking stick resting upon her lap. She tracks us with an eager smile, her wrinkled fingers clutching the stick.
“She’s looking to beat one of us,” one of the younger whores whispers to me. “I’ve seen her before. I’d avoid it unless you’re into that sort of thing . . . or she pays a fair bit.”
I shudder. “I’d rather not.”
“Ah, well, here.” She presses a sachet into my palm. “In case you find yourself in a situation you can’t get out of.”
“What is it?”
“You are new, aren’t you? Molly Bell’s a strict madam, but that doesn’t mean she’s keen on having us raped. Ruins the merchandise, if you know what I mean. A bit of this blown in someone’s face will knock them out long enough for you to run away. It’s not much but it will do in a pinch, and it’s better than the alternative, aye?”
I don’t have to be told twice. I tuck the sachet into my bodice and give the girl a nod of thanks before we’re herded into what appears to be a ballroom. No one is dancing, but a string quartet made up of automatons plays a subtle melody oozing with sedate properness. The light shimmies off their swiftly moving mechanical fingers. Their cogs whirl quietly, and they’re as neatly dressed as the gentry, hiding their emotionless faces beneath wide-brimmed hats.
What would Copper Betty think of her higher-class brethren, I wonder. And then I realize I’m standing by myself. The other girls have dispersed into the crowd in a swirl of long legs, swaying hips, and glittering smiles, working their trade; Martika is nowhere to be seen.
Damn her. I’m being studied curiously by a mutton-chopped man in a wool suit, probably because I’m staring at everything like the street rat I am. I turn toward him and give him my best attempt at a seductive smile, scowling when he abruptly changes direction, his face paling.
So much for that.
I sigh and head for the far end of the room where there appears to be a buffet laid out.
One of the fine ladies sniffs when I approach, nibbling a crust of well-buttered bread. The amount of food is staggering, almost obscene with its freshness—breads and cheeses, vegetables and choice cuts of meat.
“Taking advantage of the buffet, are we?” a masculine voice drawls. A gloved hand swoops past me to snag an apple from a silver bowl. “As do we all.”
I stiffen. It’s Inquestor Caskers.
Swallowing the fury and fear that threatens to erupt from me, I keep my face pointed down. I am merely deciding which apple to choose. Will he recognize me? He thinks me dead, but he’s not stupid.
And that’s assuming Rory didn’t go and tell him I was still alive in an attempt to curry
favor . . .
The corset seems to constrict around me, a cage of whalebone and laces, and I pray he doesn’t see through the smoke and mirrors that are lace and rouge. I take an apple, biting into it to hide the tremble of my jaw. The juice runs down my chin, and I murmur something noncommittal at him, chewing slowly as I lift my face.
He’s in full regalia; metals and pins and stripes that must mean something to someone adorn the smart fit of his crimson uniform. A decorative sword hangs on his hip, but there’s no sign of his pistols, which means he’s
here for pleasure and not business.
He squints at me for an instant, and I can see those beady, black rat eyes working it through. It’s clear he knows he’s seen me before, but he can’t quite place where. Finally, he simply hands me a handkerchief to wipe my mouth with.
He bows before leaving me to my own devices once more. I clutch his handkerchief, my heart pattering over and over with an ugly whirring hitch-click of a beat.
The music has somehow grown louder, and couples are taking to the dance floor, their steps perfect and precise. One of the whores cocks a brow at me when she sees me wallflowering, but I can’t dance. And hells . . . no one is coming to ask me anyway.
Back to my mission. I linger in each room, munching on my apple in a way that hopefully makes it look like I’m too busy to participate in idle chatter. Martika is still nowhere to be found, and a thread of fear inches its way down my spine. Surely we haven’t been found out already?
A low hum of anticipation ripples through the crowded hall, and I turn to see Lord Balthazaar striding into the center of the room. There’s a handsomeness about him, but it’s the kind that’s accentuated by his surroundings—from the oiled hair to the manicured fingers to the smartly trimmed beard. He’s dressed in sumptuous clothing, too—a fine linen shirt and a silken waistcoat, a fur-lined cape draped over his shoulders. He carries a goblet of wine in one hand and a silver-tipped cane in the other, an ornate wolf head adorning the top. Its sinister eyes are glittering rubies, at odds with the cheerfully seductive illumination of another great crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Aside from at the theatre, I’ve never seen him up close, but sometimes he would make random inspections at BrightStone’s main gate when a food delivery was arriving. It paid to linger about when he did so as occasionally he would share his largesse, throwing hats full of copper pennies into the air. I’m not ashamed to admit I’d scrambled over the muddy cobblestones with the rest of the crowd, ignoring his spiteful chuckles as he smirked at us from his private carriage.
But tonight he plays the proud host, nodding and greeting the guests with all the airs of a Meridian. From the responding simpers, it’s clear everyone knows where their bread comes from. He beams more and more with each tip of a hat or curtsy, collecting their fawning gestures like coin. If I hadn’t overheard how little he wanted to be holding this particular party, I would assume he was delighted to be here.
His smile falters a bit when he sees me and the other girls, but he hides it quickly. “How droll. I shall have to thank Ms. Bell for being so very . . . insightful.”
He takes a seat in a high-backed chair at the far end of the room. It’s not a throne exactly, but it might as well be for all its golden inlay gleaming from the woodwork. One of the manservants approaches him with a platter of fruit, but Balthazaar waves him off. He sets his drink down on the small table beside him and beckons to one of the other whores, his smile growing cruel.
Before she has time to think, he snatches her onto his lap, gripping her arm tightly enough to bruise. To her credit, she barely makes a sound. “Well now, aren’t you a lovely bird,” he croons, tugging at her wig so it nearly falls onto the floor. The girl wriggles inside her corset and swishes her skirts, showing an expansive bit of thigh as she does so. The men whistle appreciatively and even Balthazaar’s brow raises.
As a distraction, I’ll take it. I slip through the crowd, only to have my own wrist snatched by a drunken guest. “Here now, this one’s trying to leave! Come on, girlie,” he slurs. “Show us what you can do.”
I shudder in distaste at being touched, but I keep a smile plastered on my face all the same. With any luck, I’ll scare this one off as easily I did the first.
“Here, lass.” An arm cuts between me and the other man, steering me away from the others. I glance up to see Lucian standing there. I raise a brow at him, but he feigns ignorance at my recognition. Inwardly, I sigh. More subterfuge. If any more comes my way, I’ll drown in it.
Lucian gives me a courteous bow, introducing himself as though we’ve never met, and pretends to give me a moment to fix myself up. He thrusts a goblet of wine into my hand. He’s dressed in dapper fashion, his waistcoat made of cloth several degrees nicer than what he normally wears, complete with a top hat and scarf to rival the fashions of many of the other guests.
“Not that I don’t admire your sense of style, Magpie, but you make a lousy spy. The idea is not to attract attention to yourself, right?” He rolls his eyes, but the amused tone softens his chastisement.
Wait a minute . . .
“What did you call me?” A sharp thrill runs through me. I’ve caught him at last.
He stills. “Magpie,” he says weakly. “It’s what we all agreed to, wasn’t it?”
“Is it?” I sip at the wine. “Mmm. Don’t recall seeing you in the main hall of the Conundrum when I made that particular announcement. Martika was the one who agreed to it in the carriage.” An impossible thought slams into me. “For that matter, I don’t recall a single time I’ve ever seen the two of you together . . . One of you always leaves the room to retrieve the other. It’s a tad suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
He gapes at me and lets out a gasping chuckle. “You’re ridiculous . . . and right. I’m sorry for the deception.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “It’s all right, you know. I’m sure I don’t care if you like prancing about in ladies’ smallclothes. After all”—I gesture at the other guests—“some people like to pretend they’re futtering Moon Children. Perhaps you might want to consider giving that one a try, as well?” A strangled sound emerges from his throat, and I bite back a small laugh. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He swirls his glass, rubbing his thumb over the brim. “And I don’t prance. It’s a necessary disguise.”
“How so?”
“It started out as a method of hiding when Ghost was small. When I ended up with Molly, it seemed only natural to continue the charade a bit longer, and before long, Martika was but another of her employees. Molly finds the conceit rather quaint, I think. Hiding me in plain sight appeals to her vanity.” A grimace crosses his face. “The voice modulator is a tad uncomfortable, I’ll admit. There’s a reason I always wear high-necked dresses.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, if you ask me.” I roll my eyes.
“Like everything else I’ve tried, I’ll admit it’s spun out of control. But how else would I have attended this party? I certainly didn’t have an invitation. This way I can poke about without too much interference and change again before we leave.” He bows gallantly and takes my hand in an elegant gesture. “No one will associate my dour alter ego with the dashing doctor who danced with the Moon Child whore after purchasing her services for the evening . . .”
“And you have, so to speak.” I down the rest of my wine. “In a moment. My boots have come loose, stupid things.” Lucian waits while I tie the lacings again. He plays the bored paramour well, sipping his wine with a dull expression on his face as he continues to scan the crowd.
The other whores have dissipated into the mass of gentry again, but none of them appear to be hurting from lack of attention. Even Lord Balthazaar deigns to acknowledge me with a curt nod, but after a short amount of time, he removes himself from the ballroom.
An uneasy suspicion creeps over my skin, and I share a look with Lucian.
“Come on.” He grasps my hand tighter. “Follow my lead and play along.”
He pulls me onto the dance floor but ignores my feeble attempts at waltzing with a grace I don’t deserve. The steps make no sense to me. What time have I ever had to learn? But it doesn’t matter anyway. The doctor guides us across the room in as polite a fashion as we can manage, wincing when I crush his toes beneath my boots.
“Dancing lessons next time,” he mutters in my ear.
“When you can climb on the rooftops, I’ll consider it,” I retort, earning me an amused snort in
return. “Don’t suppose you discovered the whereabouts of . . . ?”
“Not exactly. I’ve poked about here and there, but I suspect we need to check below. I’ve noticed a rather sharp increase in his personal guard lingering about the stairs to the kitchens.”
“Maybe he’s guarding the food,” I jest. “If I were here on my own, I’d have pillaged an entire hamper of sausages by now.” My stomach actually rumbles thinking of it, echoed by Lucian’s soft chuckle.
“Yes, well. Not all of us are as practical as you.”
When we reach the place where Balthazaar disappeared, I expect us to split up, but Lucian surprises me by keeping a tight grip on my hand. “If anyone asks, I’m your patron for the evening. We’re looking for . . . er, a quiet place.”
“Don’t expect anything fancy. That’s extra.” I blow him a kiss.
He lets out a stuttering cough, and I hide a smile, nearly stumbling when he stops suddenly. I glance up to see Lord Balthazaar walking down the corridor with the High Inquestor at his side. The two of them turn the corner and are out of sight.
The doctor stares in their direction and then squeezes my hand. “After them.”
Together we amble down the hallway, as though merely strolling without purpose. His arm wraps about my waist, fingers lingering over my hip. The only one who sees us is a frazzled-looking scullery maid, her arms full of dirty plates as she hurries toward the kitchens.
There’s no sign of Balthazaar, and I’m beginning to worry they’ve found a private room where we can’t follow, but then the low murmur of deep voices has me flattening against the wall. The shadows of the two men dance opposite from the alcove where they hold council.
“. . . Tithed as soon as this little charade is over. I’ll inform the Salt Temple in the morning.”
“And the anomaly?” Balthazaar’s voice burns with a curious anger.
“Needs to be made an example of. Moon Children masquerading as common citizens is a recipe for disaster.” I share a look with a rapidly paling Lucian.