“Find a way,” said Willinghouse.
“Really, Josiah!” exclaimed Von Strahden. “So churlish in front of a lady! Don’t you find him churlish?” he asked me. “You’d think a politician would be better at talking to people, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m trying to talk to her,” Willinghouse inserted, sparing me the responsibility of responding. “So if you wouldn’t mind—”
He was interrupted by the door opening briskly. A young white woman with hazel eyes and chestnut hair stood in the doorway, her face taut with an exasperation at odds with her elegant formal wear.
“Mr. Von Strahden,” she said, somehow managing to sound both bored and irritated, as if the world had let her down, as was to be expected. “Cook says he will not serve dessert until at least one of the male guests is actually at the table, and since I would prefer not to starve to death this evening, I ask that, for the sake of common courtesy, you leave whatever you are doing here immediately.”
I was standing right in front of her, but she didn’t seem to see me at all.
“Oh,” said Von Strahden. “Right. I was just meeting your brother’s new associate.”
He nodded in my direction, and I, not knowing what else to do, extended my hand toward her. Her eyes found me at last, moved to my hand, and lingered on it, her posture still rigid, her head held high so that she had to peer at me down her perfect nose. Her hands, which were gloved in lace, remained at her side. I lowered my hand, wiping it on my dirty trousers.
“Charmed, I am sure,” she said in a brittle voice before turning back to Von Strahden. “Now, Mr. Von Strahden, if you can tear yourself away from my brother’s foundlings, I really am rather hungry.” She turned on her heel and left.
I lowered my gaze, my face hot with anger and humiliation.
“Ah,” said Von Strahden. “Yes. Well, Willinghouse, I will see you shortly. You, my dear steeplejack, I will see when next our paths cross, which will be, I hope, soon.” He bowed, smiling at my blushes, and left.
Willinghouse continued to frown. “Stefan is…,” he began, but could not conclude the sentence. “I don’t know what he is. A force of nature, perhaps, but a good man for all that. I will try to keep him at bay as best I can.”
“I’m sure he was just being polite,” I said.
“Making up for my sister, you mean,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “Indeed. I apologize on her behalf. Believe me when I say that it is not the first time I have done so.”
“Is she always that rude?” I asked, made bold by my anger.
“Dahria is rich, and beautiful, and spoiled,” he said, “in a world that expects nothing more of her. She is not a bad person, but she has no purpose in life and is therefore lost. One day she will, I hope, find herself. But till then, I would say that her existence is of questionable value.”
“She is still your sister,” I said, taken aback by his candor.
“Yes,” he answered, giving me a frank look. “Which is why I know her worth.” He smiled at my shock. “This is not the Drowning, Miss Sutonga,” he said. “There are things more important than family, even for one who has recently taken a blood oath.” He indicated the slash marks on my face with one finger, and I flinched away.
So he knows more of the Lani way than he has implied. How?
“That is not your business,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “Nor do I want it to be. Your private life is of no interest to me, and I would prefer that you keep it to yourself. You may stay here,” said Willinghouse, “or I can have my coachman drop you—”
I raised a hand to silence him. “There is something I have to say,” I said, marshaling the words. “Whatever else might be going on, Berrit is the reason I am working for you, and his murder will be my primary focus. It may seem like a small thing to you, merely the tail of the lion. It’s not. Not to me.”
“I thought you didn’t know him,” said Willinghouse.
“I didn’t,” I said. “And that doesn’t matter. So if you attempt to redirect my investigations, our … understanding will come to an end. Clear?”
I am not sure why I felt the need to say it, or why—surrounded by such evidence of power and influence—I felt I could say it, but I did, and felt better—doubly so when he did not argue or smirk or express incredulity that some street girl should dictate terms to him. He nodded, and I felt some kind of hurdle had been cleared.
It was only later, as I climbed back into the darkness of his carriage, cradling a purse weighted with my “expenses” and surrounded by the hollow, uncertain noises of the night, that I wondered if my righteous bravado had not, in fact, played directly into his hands, committing me to perils I could not yet imagine.
CHAPTER