Wicked as They Come
Page 51

He tossed his wrinkled cravat to the floor and turned to me, his shirt open over an old man’s honey-colored skin, peppered with little white hairs. Rafael’s face was contorted in anger and sadness, but it was Criminy’s eyes skewering me through the heart.
“Of course I’m angry. I’m about to risk my life—again—to get my own locket back so that you can leave me behind. And you’ve set it up so that if we don’t get the locket back, you’ll leave me anyway.”
In a tiny voice, I said, “I’m sorry.”
He kicked the stag in his stocking feet, and it rolled over and sagged.
“Of course you’re sorry. It’s a losing bet, love. What did you tell that Pinky girl at the caravan? ‘Tell your father not to bet on the black horse?’ I won’t be betting anymore.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, my voice low and wracked with more guilt than I would have liked.
“No, you haven’t,” he said. “Because you don’t know what you’ll find when you get back there, to your world. You’ve got to go feel it out, taste it, roll it around on your tongue, and compare it with the taste of Sang. See how it holds up.”
I scooted toward the headboard and picked up a pillow, snuggling it against my face to stanch my silent tears. I was glad he couldn’t see me crying. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me and put his head in his hands.
“I would burn down the world for you,” he whispered fiercely. “Your world or my own. I would rip down this entire city with my bare hands without a second thought. I don’t need to taste anything else, I don’t need a comparison. I always thought that when you came to me, you’d feel that way, too.”
“Did you ever think that maybe I wasn’t worthy of such love?” I whispered.
“Not until you brought it up, no,” he said softly.
I sniffled.
“But it still doesn’t change my feelings,” he said, standing up and shaking himself back into his flinty, hard mood. “And we’ll have to see what happens when your choices are laid bare. Now, wash up and get decent, because we’ve got a party to attend.”
Lacing a corset was difficult and uncomfortable. Lacing an invisible corset on an invisible body was like taking the SAT blind, in Sanskrit, with a stubby crayon, during a hurricane.
By the time we had found all of my clothing and gotten it back on me using only the sense of touch, we were fifteen minutes late for the party, and I was hopelessly mussed. I helped Criminy straighten his shirt and picked the lint off the velvet jacket that stretched over his own shoulders but appeared to droop somewhat over Rafael’s hunched body. The difference between what my eyes saw and what my hands felt was disconcerting.
Next, he shook some sort of powder all over me.
“To dull your scent,” he said.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Exactly.”
“But why don’t Pinkies use this stuff all the time?” I asked, thinking about Casper and wondering how much blud he’d ingested for just such an effect.
“Because it’s expensive, involves complex magic, doesn’t last very long, and is made of … well … you don’t want to know,” he explained, avoiding my eyes.
“Ew?”
“Letitia, this is important, love,” he said, feeling around to grasp my hand. “We’re trying to gather any information possible. However they do it, Coppers are at this party. Without Pemberly, I’m flying a little blind. Your job is to stay out of the way and watch people. Listen to side conversations. Lean in if anyone whispers. Look for holes in the wall or eyes in paintings, where they might be watching.”
“I can do that,” I said through a mouthful of cold wrappy that I had pulled from our sack. I watched in the mirror as the burrito disappeared bite by bite into thin air. I was more than starving and hunted around the bag for tangerines.
“Above all, don’t touch anyone. Don’t knock anything over. And don’t make a noise. Just find a quiet corner and stay there.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” I said, licking my fingers.
I was actually looking forward to it—being invisible at a party of Bludmen. I didn’t have to worry about introducing myself, or figure out what to do with my hands, or talk about the weather with boring people. I could stare and eavesdrop to my heart’s content, collecting the information that we hoped would tell us more about Goodwill’s game.
I followed Rafael downstairs. The yappy Bludwoman hostess shooed him into a room that reminded me of the Billiard Room in Clue, from the white-checkered floor to the wood-paneled walls and bookshelves crowded with leather volumes. A pool table with eight pockets dominated the space. Red velvet drapes bracketed the windows and doorways, and sickly potted plants loafed in the corners. Miniature vials of blood warmed in buckets over braziers on every table.
The people were even more interesting—all Bludmen, of course. Men and women of all ages wore the typical brightly colored clothes and chatted in small clusters. A few of the wealthier lodgers had clockworks, including monkeys, snake baubles both smaller and larger than my own, and a beautiful jeweled peacock. Rafael ventured toward a knot of older men playing poker. I drifted to a corner behind some young dandies playing billiards.
Time to play spy.
A hen party of women stood near me in fashionable gowns, chatting about bonnet styles and ribbons. Not helpful. On a couch a little apart from them, a middle-aged couple in outdated clothes sipped blood from their snifters in bemused silence. Snippets of conversations floated past, but I couldn’t pull any meaning from the words.
Instead, I focused on scanning the room for clues. There were paintings, but they were mostly large landscapes of coursing bludmares and fox hunts. Instead of foxes, there were humans cowering in fear before the riders. Not a single fancy portrait had white eyeballs glinting through holes in the canvas.
I was just about to tiptoe across the room when I noticed Master Holofernes sitting in a wing-backed chair, his face impassive and dark. He was one of the few people not drinking from a snifter. People avoided him and cast odd glances at him, but for the most part, he was ignored, so I ignored him, too.
I waited until the nearest young Bludman had made his shot and set down his cue, then darted around the billiard table to the other side of the room. A teenage girl sat down at a harpsichord and began playing a sad, soft waltz. Her music was going to hinder my eavesdropping, so I slid around the wall to a group of older ladies huddled around teacups.
“It ain’t right, that’s what,” said an old biddy in a gown that was worn and several centuries out of style. “My cousin was in Brighton, a milliner, not even a factory slave. No one in my family’s drunk from a body in two hundred years. And what’s the thanks we get? Fire.”
“Hush, Tavia,” said her friend, nudging her in the ribs. “Don’t say such things.”
“I’m a paying guest, and I’ll speak free.” Tavia sniffed. “Besides, we’re all among kin here, are we not?”
“It’s dark times,” said an old lady with a tall beehive of white curls, “and I plan to live through them. Again.” She got up and sashayed to a bookcase, swinging her padded hips.
“Cowards,” muttered Tavia.
“We have to be, dear,” said her friend, patting her hand.
I looked for Rafael and found him trying to speak to Master Holofernes, who just wagged his head and remained silent. Rafael shrugged good-naturedly and moved toward the harpsichord, but he was waylaid by the talkative desk clerk, who urged him toward the refreshment table.
I moved closer to hear the interplay.
“I brought my own blood from home and already drank, miss,” said Rafael. “Waste not, want not, my mother always said.”
“Nonsense, then, Mr. Fester. You’ve paid your coppers, same as anyone, and you’re entitled to your blood. Didn’t you say you were going to indulge yourself? Half a vial will sit right nicely. And soon Judith will sing!”
“I couldn’t possibly—” Rafael began, but he turned to face an opening door and stopped talking for a moment. Then he swallowed and continued in a lower voice, saying, “Really, I couldn’t, miss. You’re too kind. Please excuse a peculiar old man’s small-town ways.”
Ignoring her pleas, he sidled away to the far corner to examine the bookshelf and make polite talk with the old lady with the beehive hair. The girl at the harpsichord finished the waltz and started playing another sad song and warbling along off-key. Casper was right—he could make a killing here, if that was his only competition.
I was blocked by the men at the billiard table and couldn’t see what had spooked Rafael. I began to edge along the wall, anxious to get around the screen of bodies. Then a voice rang out over the harpsichord player’s softer soprano, and everyone turned to look. The old men parted, and into the room strutted Miss Tabitha Scowl, singing like an angel.
And around her snow-white neck was my locket.
32
I had never hated anyone the way I hated Tabitha Scowl.
She was tiny and effortlessly beautiful. She had an amazing voice, whereas when I sang, it sounded as if I was gargling with concrete. She had poise and style and confidence and passion.
And, most important, she had my locket. And she probably didn’t even know how to use it.
Swishing the long teal bustle of her gown behind her, she put on a coquette’s smile as she finished the song and approached the two youngest and most handsome Bludmen in the room. They abandoned their game, holding their pool cues nonchalantly as they chatted with the belle of the ball. I moved closer to listen, but it was just ridiculous flirting. Nothing helpful.
But why was she there? Why did Goodwill trust her with my locket? Was she one of the reasons the Coppers always knew what transpired at this party? And if so, why wasn’t she saying anything interesting?
I edged closer to her and leaned in, but she was just complimenting a young Bludman’s well-muscled arm. Mere feet away, the locket glinted at me, hanging just below her corset-enhanced bosom. She was too small for it to hang over her heart, as it did on me. I was transfixed, watching it sway as she moved, lovingly noting the deep crimson of the ruby and the interesting engravings on the shining gold.