“I want to handle this personally; it’s crucial that we keep Berenbaum happy, as he’s our primary donor. I don’t require a partner; Elliott serves a similar function for me.”
“But I’m guessing Elliott can’t give you information you don’t already know. Maybe you should take me with you. I was there for the conversation with Berenbaum; I might spot a clue you can’t.”
“This would defeat the punitive purpose of your suspension.”
“Negative reinforcement doesn’t really work with Border-lines.”
“Then how do you suggest we improve your functioning?”
I sighed and tried to remember what Dr. Davis had explained to me. “Dr. Davis says BPD has something to do with sensitive people being raised in ‘invalidating environments.’ Whatever that means. So I guess, you know, don’t invalidate me.”
Caryl looked at me for a long time. I would have given anything to know what she was thinking. Sometimes the first thing laypeople learn about Borderlines is that they can’t be trusted, and after that, further learning isn’t too likely.
“Be ready at four a.m.,” she finally said. “If you are not dressed and waiting when I come by, I will leave without you.”
? ? ?
Even for a morning person, being ready for a road trip at four a.m. was a little harsh. And since we were planning to run into the viscount, I didn’t want to just slouch in there with my hair sticking up every which way.
I started to put on the same outfit I’d worn to meet with Berenbaum, as it was my nicest and still fairly clean, but then I thought of the slim possibility that Berenbaum himself might show up at some point and decided not to risk the embarrassment. I chose my only other skirt and a matching knit top, then girded myself to face down the mirror.
I went through yesterday’s makeup ritual, trying to convince myself that it was a little easier this time. I used styling wax to make it look like my hair was messy on purpose, and even tried on a pair of earrings before I started feeling a -little too much like crying. I sponged a bit more makeup on my left arm and decided that was as much whitewash as this mud fence could handle. I went to the living room to wait.
Caryl arrived at one minute till four, looking as put-together as always. After a brusque greeting, she handed me a pair of glasses like Teo’s. “I am lending you these,” she said. “If you behave yourself, you can keep them.”
I took them in the hand that wasn’t holding my cane and slipped them on, noting once again the odd purplish-green haze that surrounded Caryl. “I’d rather have a phone,” I said. At this hour I sounded almost as hoarse as she did.
Elliott attached himself to my shoulder, and Caryl pressed a fat file folder into my hand. “Familiarize yourself with that during the drive,” she said, and headed for the door, giving me little choice but to follow.
“Does this mean I’m back on the case?”
“For the moment.”
“This file . . . I actually get kind of queasy if I try to read in a moving car.”
“Then bring a bag if you like,” she said, “just so long as you bring the file.”
I got into the car, belted myself in, pushed the glasses to the top of my head, and settled the folder into my lap, watching Caryl as she backed out of the driveway. “What kind of a name is Vallo?” I said. “Italian?”
“My father is Czech-Indian and my mother is of Moroccan Berber descent, if that satisfies your need for ethnic categorization.”
It didn’t, really, and then Caryl turned on some baroque harpsichord music at a punishing volume to discourage further small talk. Reading was hard enough for my rattled brain at the best of times; now I was squinting in the narrow glare of a reading light, trying to block out complicated melodies and keep down a bargain-brand bear claw.
To keep myself from ruining Caryl’s leather seats, I mostly looked at the pictures. Some were stills from a recent film I had apparently missed due to either being in an anesthetic coma or locked up in the loony bin. There were reviews tucked into the file, too; they mostly praised John Riven’s ability to look stunning in various kinds of light.
From what I could pick up between long, restorative bouts of staring out the window, Rivenholt had been visiting our world regularly for forty-seven years, and every decade or so he changed his human identity. He always favored pale hair and skin and always appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties.
“Hey, Caryl,” I said over the music. “Is it possible that Rivenholt could have changed his face since you saw him last?”
“Not without returning to Arcadia to replenish his essence, and not without a human’s help.”
“Because they don’t really get what we’re supposed to look like.”