Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(34)

Vestris considered me seriously, then reached into her sari and drew out a silk purse with a silver clasp and a single pearl of luxorite that shone like a gas lamp as she unveiled it. The stone was shaded with smoked glass to soften its brilliance but still cast hard shadows for several feet all around, and in its light, my already beautiful sister became ethereal, angelic.

She handed me an embossed card with gold trim. “You can send me word at this address,” she said. “You can still write, I hope?”

She beamed at me, and I nodded enthusiastically.

“Don’t come,” she said. “They won’t let you in. But write to me and we will arrange a meeting. Till then—” She took my hand and emptied the contents of the purse—three silver coins—into it, smiling again softly.

“Thank you,” I said, not looking at the money. “There’s food—”

Vestris’s smile shaded a little, became kindly but also sad. “I cannot stay, little Anglet,” she said. “This is not my world. But write to me.”

“I will,” I said. “I can walk with you now for a moment—”

But she shook her head. “Remember, little sister,” she said, “that I love you.” She leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek, bringing with the motion a delicate aroma of violets and sandalwood—and then the unearthly light was gone with the empty purse and she was making her way back to the sedan chair and whatever version of the world awaited her elsewhere.

I gazed after her wordlessly, unable to think, almost overwhelmed by the impulse to run crying after her, to beg that she take me with her.…

The crowd parted silently before her once more, as if she were a benevolent queen visiting her subjects, and some of them peered at me, the nondescript girl who had been so unexpectedly touched by her beneficence.

I pressed her card to my chest.

She had said I could write to her. We would meet. We would talk. Everything would be all right.

I watched her leave as the various well-wishers paid their respects to Berrit’s grandmother, though the old woman was probably wishing they were paying her with something more tangible. When it was my turn I pressed one of Vestris’s silver coins into the old woman’s hand as if I were my sister, elegant and wealthy.

She didn’t thank me, but as I was turning away, she plucked me by the sleeve and pulled me back. “Let me see that!” she said. She stabbed with her bony index finger and I winced, expecting it to find my midriff, but it connected instead with the folded newspaper that was sticking out of my satchel.

Baffled, I pulled the paper out and she ripped it from my hands, holding it so close to her face that it almost touched her nose.

“That’s him,” she said matter-of-factly, thrusting the paper back at me. “That’s the chalker who came looking for Berrit. The one with the fancy shoes.”

I looked at the image in the paper. It was the photograph accompanying the obituary for Ansveld, the luxorite dealer. I stared at it.

So there is a connection.

“Ang, sister mine,” said Rahvey. A summons.

Berrit’s grandmother was already beetling away toward the barbecue fires. I turned to my sister.

Rahvey waited for me to approach, her lips thin as she gazed out to where the pyre blazed and the sun set. “What did she give you?” Rahvey demanded.

“Who?”

“Vestris, of course!” she snapped. “What did she give you?”

I showed her the remaining coins that I still had tight in my fist.

She snatched my wrist and helped herself to one of the silver crowns. I tried to wrench away, but she dug in with her nails and hissed, “Call it back payment for services rendered.”

I snatched my hand away, my fist tight around what was left of Vestris’s gift, then pocketed it. I drew the sleeping child carefully from my satchel and handed it to her. Rahvey swept it hastily under her mourning black and moved it to her breast with a cautious glance around, as if she didn’t want people to see. That bothered me.

“What did the elders say?” I asked.

“We have not spoken to the elders,” said Rahvey, eyes on the flames still.

“What?” I demanded, incredulity raising my voice so that Rahvey gave me a sharp look. “Why not?”

“Florihn said it was best we didn’t,” said Rahvey.

“This isn’t Florihn’s decision!”

“You are right. It’s mine.”

“So what are you going to do?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Nothing,” said Rahvey, looking away again. “It is already done.”

I stared at her, aghast.

“You will raise the child yourself, or you will take it to the nuns at Pancaris,” she said flatly. “I will help feed her when I can,” she continued, as if she were being more gracious than I deserved.

“It’s your child!” I shot back.

“Not anymore,” she said. “You took the oath. Sinchon says you are to do your sisterly duty.”

I looked over to where Sinchon was talking to one of his tinker friends. He was holding a chicken leg in his hand, and as I watched, he laughed suddenly, then took a bite.

Rahvey read the anger in my eyes.

“So delicate, sister mine,” she said. “So unready for the world.”