For a moment he looked as if he was going to say something significant, but thought better of it. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he said.
I was waiting to be driven back to Crommerty Street when I caught the unexpected sound of music drifting down the hall: not the raucous, folksy music of the Drowning or the sensual, drum-heavy music of the Mahweni. This was music from countries north of Feldesland—precise, layered, and complex music played on a keyboard and a tenor viol, over which came the voice of a woman, high and exquisite, touched with melancholy so piercing that it stopped me in my tracks and made me strain to catch the words. It was music like Willinghouse’s porcelain through which you can see the sun, music like filigree or finely cut crystal, like luxorite. It sounded like longing, and I who was not born to such elegant sophistication, such poignant and heavenly reach, was suddenly overcome by images of Berrit, of the child I had left with my sister, of Papa, whom I needed now more than I ever had. I moved quietly to the door through which the sound was coming, fighting an urge to weep.
The song—if that was not too inadequate a word—ended in a patter of polite applause. Suddenly there was animated conversation from within, women’s voices, though I could not catch what they were saying.
As I leaned closer to the door, it opened.
It was Dahria, Willinghouse’s rude and haughty sister. The sight of her burned off all my tender feelings in a heartbeat.
Her hazel eyes were large and surprised, and as she took a startled step backwards, the conversation in the room behind her ceased abruptly. There were two musicians, young, white, and male, and the woman I took to be the singer, who was older and fuller in the body. Seated on a sculpted couch were two other girls, both white and blond, who, with Dahria, I took to be the audience. All three of them wore pale tea gowns with bustles and low necklines in delicate fabrics with ornamental trim, and they looked less like people than like elegant confections made of spun sugar.
Their eyes raked my drab and dirty appearance, and one of the seated blondes put a hand to her lips as if alarmed, but Dahria recovered her composure quickly.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she demanded, chin elevated so that she looked down her nose at me. She gave no suggestion she had ever laid eyes on me before.
It was a withering look, and I, badly out of my element, flushed and shook my head. I took a couple of hurried steps back along the hall, and the girl watched me before going back into the room and closing the door. There was a momentary rush of whispers and then the unmistakable sound of badly stifled giggling.
I moved as far away from the room as I could, feeling stupid and awkward, and was relieved when another door opened and Stefan Von Strahden appeared in the hallway, his arms full of papers. The politician gave me his decidedly unpolitical smile, blue eyes flashing with unabashed delight.
“Miss Sutonga!” he said amiably. “You do have a way of cropping up, don’t you? How wonderful! Is Josiah keeping you busy?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Please don’t call me sir,” he said with a mock grimace. “Call me Stefan. We are all equals under the skin.”
It could have been patronizing, but his manner was welcoming. After my run-in with Dahria and her society friends, I was glad of it, though I could manage only a nod.
“Here to work?” he asked.
“Waiting for the carriage.”
“Then our plans align perfectly!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I have to be at Parliament in an hour. You shall ride with me. Give me ten minutes to gather my fusty, bureaucratic nonsense, and we shall be on our way. I don’t mind telling you that Willinghouse’s coach was refurbished last month. Unlike mine, which makes one sore in ways I cannot, with propriety, describe, it’s like sitting on a drawing room sofa all the way. You’ll barely know you are moving. What do you say?”
He gave me that expansive smile, so direct and hearty, so unlike Willinghouse’s shrewd, shadow-play caution, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
“Thank you,” I said. “Yes.”
He tucked the papers under his arm and held up both hands, fingers splayed. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Less if I can find Josiah’s seal without having to summon the undead butler. Wait for me in the kitchen and we’ll sneak out the back.”
I grinned, and he bounded off down the hall. I followed slowly, moving to an open area with a staircase and on down a plain corridor to the kitchen, where a servant was washing dishes noisily at one of the great sinks.
I had been there only a minute when the kitchen door opened and Dahria entered, alone. She stood there, considering me, and when the servant at the sink caught her eye, she gave the tiniest nod, causing the girl to shut the water off, dry her hands, and bustle out with a speedy curtsy.