A-Splendid-Ruin(5)

“There you are! Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. You should be in the receiving line with me and Papa.” Her scold was light, but loud enough that those nearby turned to look. She held two glasses of punch, handed me one, and led me to the door where my uncle greeted his guests. I had managed to miss the arrival of most of them.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to my cousin.

Goldie whispered back, “Never mind that now,” and turned to greet a woman swathed in silk with lace and fur trim.

It soon became obvious that my aunt was not present, either. Almost everyone asked about her—“And how is dear Florence?” “She missed our last two luncheons! I do hope she’s better soon.”

So she’d been ill for a little while, but there was no time to wonder; I was too busy responding to a dozen choruses of “Welcome to San Francisco!” and “How do you find our fair city?” The punch, sweet and potent and seemingly bottomless, made it all much easier, but by the time Uncle Jonny said, “Why don’t we join our guests?” I was unsteady on my feet and all too aware that I had not eaten since the train.

“Where is Mrs. Hoffman, Papa?” Goldie asked.

“Oh well, as to that”—Uncle Jonny cleared his throat—“I’m afraid she’s sent her regrets.”

“Her regrets? When?” Goldie’s voice was sharp.

“A few hours ago. I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to seeing her, but there’s no help for it.”

Goldie tightened her lips in obvious vexation.

It was equally obvious by my uncle’s uncomfortable smile that he disliked displeasing her. Placatingly, he said, “My darling, why don’t you take May about? She is the guest of honor.”

“Of course.” Goldie took my arm, muttering beneath her breath, “She sent her regrets. Yes, no doubt she did.”

I offered, “Perhaps she was feeling unwell—”

“She was shopping just this morning. I saw her myself.”

I had nothing to say to that. I didn’t know who Mrs. Hoffman was, or why Goldie would be upset at her absence. Goldie snagged two more glasses of punch. She gestured toward the statue. Now I could see that the golden maiden leaned languorously on a staff that some tiny gilded putto crawled up. “Don’t you just love it?” Goldie asked. “It’s French. A bacchante. It’s a copy of a Gér?me.”

“It’s very nice.” Like everything in the house, the statue seemed too much, this time rather obscenely so.

But Goldie was done with the bacchante. In a low voice, she said, “Have you seen Mr. Bandersnitch anywhere?”

It took me a moment to remember that he was the Bulletin society columnist. “What does he look like?”

“No one knows. He’s very anonymous.”

“Then how should I know if I’ve seen him?”

She scanned the crowd as if she might somehow divine his presence. “Of course he must be here. He simply must. Where else would he be? It’s the party of the night, even without Mrs. Hoffman.” Goldie’s face fell, then snapped into joy again. “Oh, there’s Linette, thank God.”

She hurried off toward a young woman laughing with two men. I knew I should follow—the key to being comfortable was feigning it—but my light-headedness had become nausea, and I could not negotiate another introduction. I put aside my empty punch cup and took a toast spread with something pale and unappetizing from a passing waiter, but the smell of whatever it was only made my nausea worse, and I abandoned it on a candlelit gold salver and headed for the garden door, suddenly desperate for a breath of air.

The garden was no relief. I was immediately disoriented as I stepped out. I’d had far too much punch. Here, too, dozens of candles flickered inside their glass lamps, creating a maze of the stone benches and statues—so many statues that twice I stumbled right up to people, thinking they were made of marble, interrupting those who had escaped the ballroom looking for privacy. I walked along the wall until I found another set of French doors, which opened into a darkened room. I hurried inside with relief, relishing the coolness. I could no longer hear anything from the ballroom.

I’d come into a small sitting room, one crowded with shadows. Light from the garden glanced upon the mantelpiece—two eyes flashed at me, and then another two, small, like those of mice. I tensed, but they were only jeweled eyes, a glass menagerie stalking across the mantel, some glowing red, others blue, others in prism. The room reeked of patchouli. This must be my aunt’s private parlor. Or Goldie’s. But no, Goldie’s would have smelled of jasmine, as did her room, as did her entire self.

Almost the moment I had the thought, the room became suddenly oppressive; I wanted only to be out. I didn’t want to go back into the garden, so I crossed the room, avoiding the shadows as best I could, and opened the door, not into a bright hallway, as I’d expected, but a dark and eerily silent one. Had I not known that the ballroom just now held a hundred people or more, I would have thought the house empty. I half expected to run across dusty cobwebs, to hear my footsteps echo, but then, no—it wasn’t desertion I sensed, but something else, something more unsettling. I couldn’t help shivering.

There were no tables in this hallway, no mirrors or paintings, no decoration at all. I had no idea where I was. Anxiously I remembered the many hallways I’d noted earlier branching off one another. How many rooms were in this mansion? Thirty? Fifty? More?