“Dearest Angela’s grandfather built it,” she said to Gabriel, through a plastered-on smile.
“Why? Was he a hemopath?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. Can you imagine the scandal of a hemopath in the Haversham family?”
“Worse than one in the Wells family?”
“Much worse,” she said. “The Havershams have been anti-hemopath since before it was fashionable. About ten years ago, Angela’s father published a bunch of essays arguing that the hemopath affliction should be studied further, and the bodies of dead hemopaths should become government property for scientific experimentation.”
Corinne paused as a footman in a smart uniform jacket waylaid them to take their coats.
“No one paid him much attention,” she continued once he had gone. “But no one actively disagreed with him either—other than hemopaths, of course.”
“Are the rumors about the asylum true, then?” Gabriel asked, his voice low. “Jackson said the basement is being used for something other than storage.”
His expression was strangely conflicted, like the topic wasn’t something he wanted to broach at all but he felt he had to. A far cry from the scandal-mongering at her parents’ party. Corinne wasn’t sure how to reply. She’d asked Ada about the basement, but Ada didn’t know any more than anyone else. Just gossip and tall tales. There was something happening down there, though. That was where the HPA agents had taken their prisoner. Another one for the basement, they’d said.
“We’re late,” she said, instead of answering him. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Even the looming promise of hours of brutal small talk and pointed questions sounded better right now than continuing to dwell on Haversham and its mysteries. Corinne leaned momentarily on Gabriel’s arm. Her feet ached in her new shoes, and one of the tiny silver buckles was biting into her ankle. She managed to loosen it slightly, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Gabriel was watching her with an eyebrow raised, and Corinne couldn’t understand why her face prickled with warmth, despite the goose bumps on her arms. The dress her mother had bought her was nothing but cream silk and frothy lace, embroidered with pale blue and pink roses. The low waist and capped sleeves were stylish, at least, but there was little to protect her from the chill.
“Shall I carry you, then?” he asked.
She realized she was still gripping his arm. She released him and ran her fingers down his sleeve to smooth the wrinkles.
“It might come to that— Wait.” She looked him over with narrowed eyes. Then she leaned in and whispered, “Are you armed ?”
“How can you always tell?”
“You fidget,” Corinne said.
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“I can also feel the iron in it.”
That explained the tingling under her skin when she touched him. She felt strangely vindicated.
“I’m not going anywhere near a ritzy hotel full of the degenerately wealthy without a weapon.”
Corinne rolled her eyes and took his arm again, this time so they could enter the ballroom in proper fashion.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure Aunt Maude will be a real threat, what with her rheumatism and trick hip.”
The ballroom was brighter than the foyer, if that was possible. The crowd was already thick, threaded with waiters in white jackets serving champagne and dainty hors d’oeuvres. Corinne could feel the body heat and furtive stares and, as always, the sources of iron in the room. A hundred pinpricks of pain, scattered across her consciousness.
“You’re the one who wanted me to come,” Gabriel said.
He was surveying the room with a grim expression that wouldn’t have been out of place at an executioner’s block—not that Corinne could blame him. This event was a rehearsal dinner only in name. It was really an excuse for the Wellses and the Havershams to rub elbows and revel in their status.
Corinne wondered idly what it meant to gird one’s loins and whether she should do so now.
“Just because I— Oh cripes, here comes my mother. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Go get me a drink,” she said.
“Shouldn’t I—”
“Go.” She shoved him away just as her mother arrived. She was flushed a pretty pink from excitement and looked after Gabriel with her mouth slightly ajar.
“Corinne, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“He’s just fetching me a drink, Mother.”
“You didn’t say you were bringing someone.” She studied Corinne with shrewd eyes, and Corinne had the oddest feeling that she suspected something was amiss. Or maybe her mind had already drifted to a separate crisis, like the color of the roses or the quality of the crystal. It was hard to tell with Mrs. Wells.
“Hamish Everett will be so disappointed,” her mother said. “He was looking forward to being your escort when we go in for dinner.”
“He’ll survive, I’m sure. Gabriel is just a . . . friend.”