When Thalia woke, she was huddled in an uncomfortable heap on the walkway. She was soaked. Her clothing was heavy with water, her hair a sodden tangle around her shoulders. She was shivering. She was human. She was a Trader.
Thalia leaped to her feet, narrowly missing another fall into the pool. “I am starving,” she said aloud to nobody. She went up the staircase to the nursery. It made no sense to talk to empty space, but she was so glad to have regained the power of speech, she didn’t care. “What time is it? Is there breakfast?”
It turned out to be ten in the morning. As Thalia changed out of her wet clothing, she saw that someone had tended to the doves and the snake for her. There really was no limit to the luxuries a Trader household supplied, she thought gratefully.
The marvelous plumbing beckoned. Once she was clean and dressed, Thalia was too hungry to wait for her hair to dry, so she braided it, pinned it up, and tied a scarf around her head to conceal the worst of her dishevelment.
By the time Thalia was ready to emerge, Nell was in the doorway. “Nat says you did it! Congratulations!”
Thalia smoothed her white lawn shirtwaist as she tucked it into her dark serge walking skirt. “Thank you for letting me use the Changing room. It worked.”
“You are welcome, of course, but you did the changing. The room has no magical powers. That’s all you.”
“Is there any breakfast left?” Thalia winced at the whining, plaintive note in her voice. “I’m sorry I overslept.”
“You must be quite hollow.” Nell beckoned Thalia to accompany her. “I slept the clock around the first time I Traded deliberately. Tell me, how did you manage it?”
Thalia felt her face and ears get hot. “I tripped over your brother’s jacket and fell in the pool. I thought I was going to drown. I Traded. That’s how I felt in Philadelphia when I thought the sword would drop on me. Apparently that is what it takes for me to Trade, the imminent threat of death.”
“How inconvenient.” Nell looked intrigued. “But perhaps not insurmountable. How about Trading back?”
“I couldn’t. It’s lucky I got out of the pool before I fell asleep. I suppose if I’d stayed in the pool, I might have Traded back while I was floating in the water. Oh!” Thalia covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m afraid your brother’s jacket is still down there. I forgot about it.”
“That’s all right. Nat can fetch it for himself next time he goes down.” Nell ushered Thalia into the breakfast room. “What shall I ask Cook for? Coffee, of course. Eggs?”
Thalia gulped. “Not eggs. Not today.”
Nell went to see about the meal while Thalia took a place at the table. The contrast with Mrs. Morris’s boardinghouse dining table could not have been greater. No reach and grab from fellow diners here. Thalia was certain that no one in this house would mock her for the careful table manners Nutall had drilled into her.
When Nell returned, she was carrying a linen napkin and a china cup of coffee on a saucer, which she set before Thalia. “Start with this. The rest will be up soon.”
Thalia took a sip of coffee and savored its warmth. “Thank you for having someone see to my doves. And the snake. I appreciate it.”
Nell shook her head. “That was Nat, not me. He did it himself.”
Thalia paused, cup in midair. “What do you mean, he did it?”
“I mean he tended to your doves and your snake,” Nell said, “with his own fair hands.”
Thalia searched for a solution to this mystery. “Does he like doves or something?”
“No. Nat isn’t squeamish, but it was quite out of character for him to do someone else’s dirty work. Also, take this into consideration. He positively dislikes snakes.”
Thalia’s breakfast arrived, borne by the cook herself. There was a small bowl of brandied cherries along with plates bearing toast, three sausages, and half a steak, accompanied by a bowl of oatmeal that must have been prepared for someone else’s far earlier breakfast. Even the Rykers’ cook could not prepare oatmeal in the time since Nell had been in the kitchens.
“That was helpful of him.” Thalia applied herself to demolishing her breakfast.
“I think Nat expected you to take much longer to Trade. You might have been down there for days for all we knew. Nat has strong opinions about people who neglect animals.”
Thalia touched her lips with the napkin and took another sip of coffee. “Does he have pets?”
Nell laughed. “Traders don’t have pets. Solitaires need to keep animals around to help them remember that they’re animals too. We’re Traders. We don’t need reminding.”
“That’s not why Solitaires have pets,” Thalia began.
Nell waved her protest aside. “Don’t tell me. I know. Your doves and the snake are part of your stage act. Nat won’t let you neglect them, but he wouldn’t order a servant to do something like that. I think it is quite possible that he likes you.”
“Now that I’m a Trader,” muttered Thalia. The oatmeal was still too hot, so she moved her attention from the toast to the sausages.
“He liked you before he knew you were a Trader,” Nell confided. “Aren’t you going to try those cherries?”
Thalia’s mouth was full, so she simply pushed the bowl across to Nell, who ate one with her fingers.
It was a slow process, for there was a great deal of food, but by the time the clock struck eleven, the plates were as clear as Thalia intended them to get. Hunger dealt with for the moment, Thalia finished her coffee and settled back in her chair. “Thank you. That is so much better.”
Nell gave Thalia a long, measuring look. “Are you ready for the newspapers? Von Faber’s death is filling up the Solitaire papers but in the Trader press, all the headlines are about the manticore.”
Thalia rose from the table. “Show me.”
Nell took Thalia to the music room, where a dozen different newspapers were spread out. Nell had been correct. The manticore dominated the Trader newspapers. Photogravure images of the triumphant Skinner of New York adorned every front page.
“Oh, my.” Nell regarded the likeness of Tycho Aristides with interest. “Don’t you think he has lovely eyes?”
“Yes. Definitely. He also has a lovely knife. That’s what I liked best about him.” Thalia folded the Transformer and reached for the biggest Solitaire newspaper, The Times.
“A keen eye,” Nell said appreciatively, “and a steady hand.”
Von Faber’s murder, The Times proclaimed, was all but solved. David Nutall, the prime suspect, was now under guard at the Sylvestri embassy, the Dakota. The Sylvestri ambassador himself had posted bail, a truly extraordinary sum, and informed the press that Mr. Nutall was a kinsman of his. Mr. Nutall was innocent. He could never have committed such a heinous act. The ambassador’s family had already engaged the best legal representation available for Mr. Nutall. The Sylvestri ambassador would not rest until the truth had been revealed and the actual murderer, whoever that would prove to be, brought to justice.
When Thalia had finished reading that news story, she did not lower the newspaper. She wanted to hide her expression, even though she could not tell exactly what her expression was. She could feel that her face had twisted strangely. She knew she must be blushing. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t control herself better. Why couldn’t she just deal calmly with the situation at hand?
Her thoughts would not stop circling. Nutall was Sylvestri.
Nutall—her father’s companion, her mentor, her vade mecum of trustworthy advice on all matters of importance—was not a Solitaire after all. All her life, Thalia had been mistaken.
What a stupid person Thalia had turned out to be. She had been wrong about herself all her life. She wasn’t a Solitaire. She was a Trader, of all ridiculous things.
Now Nutall wasn’t a Solitaire either. Some small things fell together into a pattern. Nutall’s extraordinary patience wasn’t so extraordinary if he was Sylvestri.
The Sylvestri had an understanding of tim
e and space that they claimed was not the same as the Solitaire worldview. Nutall’s patience, always deep, was never more evident than when he stood in a line waiting for something.
The Sylvestri knew nature intimately, every flower, tree, and bird in the sky. There was little need to identify trees on the vaudeville circuit, so Thalia could not attest to any particular skill Nutall possessed in this area. He did understand the tides, she knew, and the phases of the moon. Once, when their train had stopped for hours in the Delaware Water Gap, he had demonstrated a surprising knowledge of rock formations.
Nutall’s abstemious ways fit as well. Sylvestri, as a rule, never drank alcohol.
Sylvestri held themselves aloof from Solitaires and disliked and distrusted Traders. It was true that Nutall didn’t fully trust Traders, but that was mere common sense. Even Traders, Thalia suspected, didn’t trust other Traders.
Nutall had often said he considered an opportunity to haggle to be an experiment in Solitaire nature. Had that kill-fee conversation with Manfred been such an experiment?
Thalia was thrown out of her reverie when, from the doorway, Ryker announced the obvious. “Miss Cutler, you’re back.” He seated himself next to Thalia, who held the newspaper at an angle that concealed her face from him. With sudden concern, he added, “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right, thank you.” Thalia knew her voice sounded strange, but she couldn’t help it. To her absolute consternation, Ryker put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake that was strangely comforting. “Mr. Ryker! What are you doing?”
“You aren’t all right, are you?” Ryker let Thalia go on holding her newspaper, but he crumpled it enough to peer at her around the edge. “Thought not.” From a pocket, he produced a handkerchief, took her hand, and put the handkerchief in it.
Thalia put the newspaper aside, took the handkerchief, and put it to good use. When she could speak clearly again, she asked Ryker, “Why are you being so good to me?”
“You Traded,” Ryker said gently. “You even Traded back. Cause for celebration, I’d say.”
“‘Celebration,’” Thalia echoed bitterly. “Not the word I would have chosen.”
“You’re alive. You’re a Trader. Soon you’ll be in control of yourself.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Thalia said. “I may be forced to accept your hospitality forever.”
“Doubtful.”
“I ruined your jacket,” Thalia confessed. “I’m sorry. I’ll replace it when I can.”
“Forget it.” Ryker waved any concern for his clothing away with an airy gesture. “You have bigger problems. You’re involved in a murder investigation. Yesterday you narrowly escaped death by manticore for the second day running. I suppose you’re right to wait to celebrate until your affairs are less—complex.”
Thalia blew her nose.
“Any word from our imaginary lawyers?” Nell inquired.
Ryker turned his attention to Nell. “I’ve received an apology and a promise that they will be here shortly.”
“What good is having an entire law firm on retainer if they don’t come when you call?” Nell sounded unimpressed.
“I’m sure they will answer that question for us,” Ryker replied. “Start a list of your other questions while we’re waiting.”
“I think I will.” Nell set aside her newspaper and left the room.
“Where were we?” Ryker asked Thalia.
Thalia tried to maintain a facade of calm but it kept shaking loose. Finally she let out a deep exasperated breath and told the truth. “I’m a Trader, a manticore tried to kill me, and my father’s closest friend, who has been looking after me almost half my life, turns out to be Sylvestri.” Thalia shook her head. “He never trusted me enough to tell me.”
That gave Ryker pause. “Miss Cutler, I don’t know what to say. That must be—confusing.”
“It is.” As an afterthought, Thalia added, “Yesterday I discovered that I can only Trade when I think I’m about to die.”
“Good lord.” Behind his spectacles, Ryker’s eyes went wide. “Don’t let Nell know. She has a fertile imagination and she likes to be helpful. If she decides you need to believe you are about to die, I’m not sure what she’ll do about it.”
Thalia gave that thought due consideration. “I will add that to my list of troubles. It’s possible that one of the people helping me might decide I need to believe I’m going to die.”
Ryker nodded. “Best to be prepared.”
Rogers the butler appeared in the doorway. “The lawyers have arrived, sir.”
“Show them in, Rogers.” Ryker muttered to Thalia as he stood, “At last. This will take some time. We might as well be comfortable here.”
Thalia followed his lead, heartily wishing she’d done something different with her hair.
“Mr. Aurelio Tewksbury and Mrs. Sylvia Hopkins of the law firm Tewksbury, Giorgione, Hopkins, and Associates.” Rogers ushered in a cross-looking elderly white man without a hair on his head and a middle-aged black woman with kind eyes. Both were dressed for an afternoon call in the most elegant of clothing. Thalia assumed they were both Traders.
Ryker did the honors. “Mr. Tewksbury, Mrs. Hopkins, allow me to present Miss Thalia Cutler.” He made sure his guests were seated comfortably. Nell slipped in quietly and sat on the nearby piano bench.
Thalia held Mrs. Hopkins’ gaze as she made her most polite curtsy to the older woman.
Mr. Tewksbury spoke first. “I must observe, Miss Cutler, you don’t look like a Trader.”
“Don’t be rude, Aurelio. Neither do you.” To Thalia, Mrs. Hopkins continued, “When the police returned yesterday, they had a warrant for your arrest. Fortunately, you had Traded to a swan. Well done. Excellent timing.”
“Even the dimmest policeman knows not to arrest a Trader in her alternate form,” said Mr. Tewksbury. “They’ll be back for you, of course.”
“Of course they will,” Mrs. Hopkins agreed. “But we’ll be ready for them.”
Ryker cleared his throat. “I’m sure we will, but it would have been helpful to hear from you yesterday. May I ask what was the delay?”
Mr. Tewksbury made a rumbling noise of disgust. “We were both with our respective spouses in Newport, I’m sorry to say, attending something the Mellons called a house party. It didn’t deserve the name. Chaos, I tell you.”
Mrs. Hopkins continued, “When we received your wire, which had been forwarded from our office, we immediately made our farewells, and returned to the city. Given the nature of your difficulty, some research was required.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Mr. Tewksbury leaned back in his chair. “Any chance of refreshments, my boy? Dry work, research.”
“Nell?” Ryker turned to his sister, but she was already up and on her way out of the room. He turned back to the lawyers. “Trader law is clear on the subject of arrests while transformed. I am surprised your research took so long.”
Mr. Tewksbury barely suppressed a guffaw. “That wasn’t what we were researching.”
“We wished to explore the finer points of the case.” Mrs. Hopkins seemed not to notice Mr. Tewksbury’s amusement. “The police are interested in you only because of the circumstances of Von Faber’s death, Miss Cutler. Nothing more.”
“She knows that,” Ryker pointed out. “Did you need to investigate her background before you agreed to represent her?”
“Because Tewksbury, Giorgione, Hopkins, and Associates is competent and well thought of, Mr. Ryker, your family has had our law firm on retainer for many years,” said Mrs. Hopkins gently. “We would not have the excellent reputation we do if we failed to do our homework. It was necessary to familiarize ourselves with the facts in the case.”
Nell returned, followed by three servants, each bearing a tray laden with refreshments: coffee, sandwiches, and cake. Mr. Tewksbury rubbed his hands delightedly.
Ryker did not let the distribution of refreshments distract him. “You are h
ere. At last. Therefore you and your firm are equal to the challenge. What happens next?”
“Three or four of these excellent little sandwiches,” said Mr. Tewksbury through a mouthful of crumbs. “A sip of coffee, a morsel of cake, and we’ll prepare Miss Cutler for her interview with the police.”
“The Von Faber case is clear-cut.” Mrs. Hopkins had ignored the sandwiches, but she was already on her second cup of coffee. “The police have hired an expert gunsmith to examine the weapon. That gunsmith is prepared to testify that someone tampered with the firing mechanism. Originally the chamber was designed to ignite only the charge in the lower cylinder. Some kind of tool, possibly a small metal file, was used to breach the barrier that prevented the upper cylinder from discharging.”
“Sylvia means that somebody buggered up the gun so both the fake charge in the gun barrel and the tricky bit beneath it fired at the same time.” Mr. Tewksbury helped himself to another cup of coffee. “That’s what killed the poor devil.”
“As you may imagine, the number of people who would know how to sabotage such a weapon is limited.” Mrs. Hopkins nudged Mr. Tewksbury’s cup with her own and he refilled hers as well. “Not only is Mr. David Nutall one of those people, not only was he at the theater on the night before Von Faber’s last performance, but he actually threatened Von Faber. Several witnesses agree.”
“Who are these witnesses, exactly?” Thalia demanded. “How do we know someone hasn’t paid them to agree?”
“What excellent questions. I have obtained a list.” Mrs. Hopkins handed Thalia a sheet of paper from the portfolio she carried. “See if you can recognize any names.”
“It took special knowledge to rig that murder weapon,” Mr. Tewksbury said. “Nutall had the knowledge. He had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. Nutall did it. Plain as the nose on your face.”
Thalia dropped the list as she sprang to her feet. “That’s not true.”
Mrs. Hopkins was calm personified. “Every witness agrees that Nutall told Von Faber that he would regret it if he didn’t drop the noncompete clause. Von Faber had interfered with Nutall’s livelihood. That will make an impression on the jury it could be hard to counter.”
The Glass Magician Page 14