The Last Housewife (56)

“Tonight is Cynthia’s punishment party,” Nicole said.

Up and up we climbed. “Her what?”

She shot me a quelling look, so I changed tack, lifting a hand to my temple, where I could still feel the Lieutenant’s grip. “Why aren’t the men wearing masks tonight?”

She gestured at me to hurry. “Each gathering is different. You’ll see. The Paters are inventive. It’s part of the appeal.”

“That’s why you do this? The sex?” That made sense. There was an impishness about Nicole, an air of strength, that made it hard to imagine her buying into the idea of female subservience, no matter what the Lieutenant had said. She must be here because it gave her a version of BDSM she couldn’t get anywhere else. Rawer, realer, undiluted, like she’d said at the Sparrow. A place without safety nets.

She stopped, and her expression hardened. “I’m going to the Hilltop.”

“What is that?”

“You’re not supposed to know yet, so keep this between us. The Hilltop’s mecca. Out here, we only get gatherings once a week, sometimes less. For some of us, that’s not enough. You end up living for the few hours you’re here.” Her voice softened. “But at the Hilltop, you give up life outside and live with the Philosopher. Total immersion. No more dead-end jobs, no more struggling to make rent on your shitty apartment, no more drunk, good-for-nothing family. Nothing but escape.”

I’d been wrong. Nicole was a true believer. “The Philosopher… He’s in charge?”

She nodded, striding down the dim hallway. “The founding father.”

“What’s he like?”

“I haven’t met him yet. He rarely leaves the Hilltop, and daughters only get chosen to ascend if they’re very good. It’s what I want most in the world.”

No wonder Nicole was recruiting at Tongue-Cut Sparrow. She was trying to prove herself, and bringing in new girls must buy her points.

Massive double doors with round iron handles stood at the end of the hallway, the kind on castles in storybooks. I could hear the strangest sound from behind them—soaring music, like from an orchestra. Nicole swung open the doors.

The Pater Society spanned before us, filling an enormous room, rich red curtains hanging at sharp angles over skyscraper windows like guillotine blades. The moody expanse was lit with cream-colored candles, flame-light flickering over instruments circling the perimeter: cellos, violins, a golden harp. In the corner, a man bent over a piano, fingers flying over the keys, filling the room with melancholy music. It looked like an aerie, a piece of heaven.

It was a cocktail party. In the center of the room, men and women mingled, talking and laughing, picking glasses of wine and canapés off trays passed by women in old-fashioned dresses who moved silently through the crowd. At once, all the faces turned in our direction, and my heart jumped. But the Paters’ attention quickly resettled, and Nicole tugged me in the direction of the back wall.

The men wore suits again tonight, paired with gleaming wristwatches and polished shoes, well heeled and well coiffed. Unmasked, they were a mix of old and young, every height and shape. The masks had been part of a game, then, not a regular precaution. A costume.

All the better for me. I tried to commit each of their faces to memory.

The women leaned younger than the men. There were so many of them, more than I’d expected. As we wove through the room, I tried to catch their eyes. I wanted to ask Why are you here? Why do you like this? What does it give you?

I wanted to know these things about myself.

The entire room buzzed with dark anticipation. Their eyes kept flitting to a four-poster bed, jarringly out of place against a far wall.

We made it to the opposite wall and Nicole leaned against it, her gaze locking on the bed like everyone else’s. “We’re in black tonight to mourn Cynthia,” she said. “Normally we have a dress code. Always dresses, with a hem that falls below your knees. Never straps. Always heels and pantyhose. You should be feminine and modest. It’s what the Paters like.”

I knew exactly what they liked. I’d been the prototype. So I didn’t bother asking, Feminine—what do you mean by that? Because the daughters, in their prim dresses, were old fantasies made flesh and blood. Molded to fit an idea of women plucked from history, from Paters’ heads.

“Nicole,” I whispered. It was too soon, and I would risk showing my hand, but I had to know. “Did you know a daughter named Laurel Hargrove?”

She didn’t react with suspicion. In fact, she didn’t react at all. Her gaze remained on the bed. “I don’t talk to the other daughters, and I recommend you don’t, either. Half of them are here for the wrong reasons, and the other half you’re in competition with for the Hilltop.”

“What are the wrong reasons?”

She snorted. “Money. Clothes. Jewelry. All sorts of things. The Paters aren’t supposed to, but you’d be surprised what you can get once you’re in someone’s service. Enough to make a living.” She shook her head. “It’s better than most other ways around here.”

“Are you in someone’s service now?”

“I’m working on it.”

As if it was a promotion. The daughters as entrepreneurs. I shook my head. I needed to focus on Laurel. “But if you could just remember—”