I wait in the resulting quiet. The whole first floor must have heard that, probably the next three up. Old Mrs. Divs at the very least. I glance down the hall to the first suite door on the left. No gray head pops out, wanting to know what all the fuss is over. Maybe she slept through it.
Maybe she doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than the House Lord’s death. We were all up for that one. Even ancient Mr. Sana, wandering the hall in only his socks and boxers, repeating nothing but “Lord Galton, Lord Galton” over and over. A couple of years ago, it was “Lady Galton, Lady Galton,” when the now late Lord’s mother died. Rumor had it her son poisoned her so he could gain his inheritance and control our House.
He certainly could have. Lord Galton was a ruthless bastard of the first order, but not subtle enough for poison. When Yonni started a betting pool on who killed the Lady—members of the ruling House family never die unaided—I put my money on Lord Galton’s wife, Lady Genevieve. Blonde, gorgeous, and forever smiling on the feeds with the perfect gracious response? Absolutely.
Yonni laughed and the rest of the residents rolled their eyes, but Mrs. Divs backed me up. Put two reds on Lady G. I like a long shot, she’d said.
Two weeks ago, when Lord Galton died, no one took bets on anything. The Lord had no children, so our House has no Heir. No ruler. Lady Genevieve married into the family, but she isn’t “of” the family—wasn’t born into it. Only bloodlings can rule. The late Lord had no siblings, neither did his mother. Or her mother, come to that. The Enactors are searching for the surviving bloodling Heir, but if the family line has died . . . I don’t know what will happen. At least Yonni won’t have to see it.
She didn’t have to see Mom’s stunt, either. Guess there’s an upside to everything.
No one comes to chew me out for Dee’s racket, so I ditch the lobby for the stairwell. I swear something died in the elevators once, and you can always spot visitors by who hits the call button.
The fifth-floor hallway matches levels one through ten—a universal drab brown except for the digiswitchprint walls with their stock designs. Stripes, dots, or florals that used to change every week. They’ve been dark since the first power-out after the Archive blew.
My suite’s the fourth door on the left. I swap the building’s keypass for my personal one and let myself in.
Yonni’s place opens on a mini hall that turns into a big living room. The suite is mostly living room, with a small open kitchen off to the right and a narrow bedroom door to the left. Minimal furniture, a couple of bare bookshelves that used to hold mementos. Tiny, pretty things that held surprising value because Missa, Yonni’s last lover, never gave shoddy gifts. They all reflected Yonni in a dozen little ways.
I would know. I pawned them all.
I round the island countertop and enter the kitchen. It’s small but smoothly compact.
My flipcom buzzes in my pocket.
Dee probably, needing a second last word.
I open the icer, slide out my flipcom, and press it to my ear as I reach for the juice. “What?”
“Miss Franks?” asks a clipped, professional, male voice.
Great.
I press my forehead against the icer’s chill inner shelf. It burns. “Yeah?”
“Is this Kreslyn Franks?”
“What do you need?” I ask.
“This is the Investigative Enactment Office. We have a few questions for you. Could you come into our main branch tomorrow at eight?”
I close my eyes.
This was coming. I knew this was coming. It’s been three days since the Archive, and no one’s come banging on the door.
I’m Millie Oen’s daughter and the last person to see her alive. Probably.
Not that they know that.
I don’t think.
My palms burn, but my mouth’s dry. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, we appreciate your cooperation.” His pitch is perfect, a recording-level quality.
He hangs up.
The juice jug chills my palm, weighs as much as a tower. The flipcom in my other hand could double for a brick. I set both in the icer and close the door, which brings me face-to-face with my magnetized quotepad. A two-year anniversary gift for being the Gilken Museum’s most dedicated and reliable tour guide. I was on the fast track for a scholarship. The scholarship that would get me off-planet. Scholar Gilken set it up himself, two hundred and eight years ago, for anyone who wanted to learn. And the scholarship still has funds because Gilken built the data system our House still runs on—he founded and oversaw the creation of the official House Archive.
The one Mom blew up.
The quotepad blazes its cheery yellow. “All data, mundane and divine, is a grand investigative saga. Not to uncover why a man has died; but the darker secret of why he lives.”