Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(49)

“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. There 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.