‘Whatever are you all talking about?’ came a drowsy voice from the doorway. ‘Do you want some coffee? I’ve had Anna brew me some. My own silly fault for going back to bed halfway through the morning. Paris was so much fun, but I’m absolutely pooped.’
It was Dina, looking rumpled. A cashmere dressing gown hung loose over her shoulders and she cuddled her unconscionable pug, Stinker. Bouda hadn’t even heard her sister open the door, she’d been so focused on the discussion.
Whittam looked murderous. Bouda knew he believed Dina to be a spoiled little girl and a liability. It was unfortunate that she’d wandered into this conversation, of all the things they could have been discussing. Bouda would have to explain, yet again, that DiDi’s idea of challenging the regime was to address slaves by their given names. That, and lavishing Daddy’s hard-earned cash on so-called human rights organizations, which doubtless blew every penny on swanky offices and drinks parties for the international media.
She went over to her sister and put an arm round her to steer her back towards the kitchen.
‘We were just prepping for tomorrow’s debate, darling, but we’re done now. And yes, I’d love some coffee before we make tracks for Grendelsham.’
‘Stinky woke me up,’ Dina said, looking at her sister anxiously. ‘He’s got a funny tummy. I guess I shouldn’t have fed him so many escargots. I don’t think snails agree with him. Or garlic.’
Bouda looked at the dog with alarm. Stinker had earned his name ten times over in his short life. The pug looked back, its boggle eyes swivelling with unmistakable guilt.
‘Why don’t you put him down,’ she suggested. ‘Let him have a little run around the sitting room. I’m sure that’ll help sort him out.’
Scooping the dog from her sister’s arms, Bouda set it on the floor. She gave its belly a sharp nudge with the pointed toe of her shoe, which she hoped Dina didn’t spot. It sent the pug yelping and skittering into the room where the lord and his heir stood.
Then Bouda closed the door.
After coffee and goodbyes came the long drive to south Wales and Grendelsham. Just as the First and Third Debates took place on the great equinoxes of autumn and spring, the Second Debate was held on the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Bouda always timed her arrival for sunset.
As the car swung round a bend, the sandy expanse of the Gower Peninsula stretched ahead. And there atop the cliffs, bathed in the last fire of the sinking sun, was Grendelsham. It resembled a box of pure, pulsing, rosy light. Skill-built, the mansion was made entirely of glass. Gorgeous and wholly impractical, it was the first and only example of the so-called Third Revolutionary style. Nicknamed the ‘Glasshouse’, it resembled the sort of pretentious art installation that Dina liked to sponsor at the Southbank galleries. But this was a hundred times bigger and more breathtaking.
Bouda couldn’t take her eyes off it. You never knew what colour the Glasshouse would be: blue as the sky on a summer’s day; a buttery yellow in mellow sunshine; frosty lilac at dawn. And the colour was still shifting now, as the sun downed. The rosy pink deepened, darkened, became a hot fleshy red – turned, unmistakably, the colour of blood.
Bouda shrank back in her seat, suddenly unnerved. With a stab at a button she wound up the tinted car window. She’d been reminded of the photograph of the Millmoor Administration building daubed with a massive scarlet ‘Y’, ‘E’ and ‘S’. The paint had been sprayed on in great slashes, as if carving the word into skin. Then there were the confiscated leaflets. ‘WE BLEED beneath their WHIP,’ one had read. Crude propagandist trash, Bouda had thought. As if anyone used whips these days.
She was glad that it was finally dark by the time the car pulled up at the house, and under the black sky Grendelsham shone brightly from within. Bouda wove through the thronging Equals, dispensing and receiving greetings and kisses as she went to find her allotted room. Grendelsham’s bedrooms and bathrooms were also glass-walled (although, thankfully, curtained). The Second Debate was notorious for the indiscretions and intrigue it provoked. Bouda reminded herself to secure her door that night, in case Gavar Jardine was inspired by the house’s reputation.
She summoned a slave to help her into a dress that was slashed to the small of her back. It was so narrow that Bouda had no idea how to put it on – couture brought from Paris by DiDi that she hadn’t had the heart to refuse. She needn’t have worried. It fell from her shoulders to the floor in a glittering spill of silver, an effect so pleasing that Bouda didn’t even chastise the slave who piped up unbidden to voice her admiration.
She enjoyed the turn of heads as she went back to the reception downstairs and plunged into the press of dinner jackets and evening gowns. Her father and Rix were enjoying snifters on an uncomfortable-looking chrome-and-leather sofa. Daddy was already several sheets to the wind, while her godfather cackled over her account of the latest events in Millmoor.