Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(48)

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A man was reporting that the government had withdrawn its ambassador from Grappoli in the ongoing spat over the theft of the Beacon and that street protests were expected tonight in the largely black Morgessa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.