“Like who?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“Oh, I don’t get to see them,” said Bessie. “If he knows they’re coming, we’re kept out of the way. They usually show up in the house anyway, not in the shop. Couple of weeks ago, some black fella came in. That was a first. Just wandered in from the street, big as life! And not a local black either. One of them ’unter types from the plains. Old bloke. Scared me ’alf to death, he did. Macinnes kept ’im talking for like a hour as well! I thought they’d just throw ’im out, but he was still ’ere when it came time to close.”
“But no Lani,” I said, guiding her back to the original question.
She shook her head definitely. “There,” she said, looking up from the dress and smiling, proud of herself. “That looks like it’s got it.”
“Very nice,” I said. “No wonder Billy is so keen.”
She laughed at that, but her question—“You think he’s keen?”—was real enough.
“Absolutely,” I said, thinking of Billy’s two purses and his sweet and silly notion of not soiling Bessie’s ring with stolen money.
“Well, that’s nice,” said Bessie, pretending she didn’t really care and smoothing my pinafore. “Just launder it as usual when you get ’ome and Her Ladyship shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”
“Oh,” I said, “she’ll find an excuse.”
“Don’t they always,” said Bessie.
CHAPTER
18
I HAD NEVER BEEN to the opera house. I had passed it many times, knew it as a landmark, an icon of the city, but it represented a version of the world in which I had no place. The prospect of going there now both thrilled me and so stirred my guts that I had to pretend to tie my boot just to sit down for a moment and breathe.
The building itself was a vast domed oval, every door and window ornamented with carved patterns and theatrical masks, every area of wall decorated with heraldic animals and coats of arms from the north. This was white Feldesland, and the carved beasts adorning its elegant and imposing exterior were as far from the creatures that roamed the bush only a few miles to our west as I could imagine.
Outside was cool, polished stone the color of pale sand, but inside were darker, richer colors: cobalt blues, emerald greens, and coral reds, all lavishly gilded. There were soft couches in grottoes, upholstered in thick velvet and trimmed with gold braid. Rich mosaics and bold statues filled every alcove, and they were executed not in the elegant northern style but as if they were copies of Mahweni and Lani subjects described to a sculptor who had never seen the originals. Here was a golden fountain in a turquoise pool decorated with Mahweni river spirits. There was a Lani monkey god covered in gold leaf, dancing on top of an elephant. It was luxuriant, even seductive, but strange, dreamlike.
I stood quite still, jostled by the crowd of ticket holders, blinking at the bizarre sumptuousness of the place, and feeling more than usually isolated. I kept my bonneted face turned down like a threatened tortoise.
“Isn’t it just darling!” whispered Dahria. “The music is mostly a bore, but the place is so much fun that I come from time to time anyway.”
I said nothing.
At one end of the great curved lobby, between a pair of gilded columns, was a bar where fastidiously dressed ladies and gentlemen were congregating before going in to the performance. We drifted in that direction, surrounded by the cream of Bar-Selehm’s high society. I saw faces I recognized from the newspapers—aristocrats, businessmen, and politicians—but the biggest shock came rather closer to home.
A man was reporting that the government had withdrawn its ambassador from Grappoli in the ongoing spat over the theft of the Beacon and that street protests were expected tonight in the largely black Morgessa District, which had always been a hotbed of political activism.
I turned, curious why the Mahweni would care about a diplomatic row with the Grappoli, and found myself inches from my sister Vestris. She looked radiant in wine-red silks trimmed with silver that evoked her Lani past while blending perfectly with her newfound status. She was in a circle of white men and women, one of whom, laughing loudly, was Stefan Von Strahden. I stared for a second, shocked and confused, and in that moment, Vestris turned absently to him and plucked a thread or hair from the lapel of his jacket without a word. He said nothing in response, and if he even looked her in the face, I did not see it.
I turned away before she saw me, my mind racing as fast as my pulse. I had to speak to her.
You are a servant, said a haughty, irritating voice in my head that could have been Dahria’s. You will embarrass her. If people realize she is related to the likes of you …
But I had to at least let her see me. If we could just make eye contact, she would find a way to talk to me.
“You turned your back on me,” Dahria muttered into my ear. “May I remind you in what capacity you are here?”