ARC: The Buried Life (11 page)

Defeated, Jane allowed Fredrick to usher her again toward his destination. When they moved into range, a group of three elderly women looked over and smiled politely, awaiting their introductions. They were older than many of the other attendees, and more showily dressed, dripping with jewels. As Jane noticed their ring-laden fingers, she realized what Fredrick had meant when he’d warned her about their claws. Their nails were easily four inches long and as strong and sharp as daggers. Jane rarely saw anyone take the whitenail tradition to this extreme, and those who did came from old families and old money. Lots of it.

“Jane, allow me to introduce to you the honored and esteemed Lady Myra Lachesse, Madame Francine Attrop, and Madame Lucinda Clothoe. Ladies, may I present my very dear friend, Miss Jane Lin.” They gave Jane a polite appraisal while she executed the much-practiced five-step curtsy. Fredrick glowed with pride.

“How charming,” said Madame Attrop.

“It is always a pleasure to meet somebody new,” Lady Lachesse said. “We so rarely do at these events.” Madame Clothoe only smiled and nodded.

“Where do you come from, my dear?” asked Lady Lachesse.

“I live on the east side, next door to Mr Anders.” Jane avoided mentioning its proximity to the factory districts.

“How delightful. And where are your people from?”

Fredrick cut in. “Ah, yes, Miss Lin and I go way back, and you could even say–”

“Hush, Freddie, we’re talking to her,” Madame Attrop said. The trio looked back at Jane, and Fredrick blanched apologetically, avoiding her eye.

“It’s OK, Freddie. I was an orphan,” Jane said. “I don’t know much about my family.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Lady Lachesse said. “And I’m also sorry that our mutual friend thinks we would shun a nice girl like you based on uncertain connections. Heavens, Freddie, how archaic do you think we are?” she asked, turning to him.

“Well, we’re certainly ancient enough,” Madame Attrop said.

Fredrick glanced over his shoulder. “Well, as it appears that you are just getting acquainted, I will leave you to it while I nose around the movers and shakers. Ladies, I thought I would leave Miss Lin in your charming company to save her the tedium of following me around.”

“Certainly, certainly Mr. Anders,” chimed Madame Clothoe. Her creaky voice rang with surprising exuberance for her age.

Lady Lachesse smiled. “Do what you must. Our play is your work, after all.”

He bowed low and turned to face the rest of the party, his ears pricked for activity. With her advocate gone, Jane felt at a loss surrounded by these benign old tigresses. They eyed her more toothily now, and there was something shrewd behind their pleasant and aloof smiles.

“Is this your first society event, Miss Lin?” Madame Attrop asked.

“Yes ma’am, it is.”

“You must be overwhelmed to be surrounded by so many strangers.”

Jane didn’t bother mentioning that she had encountered more than a few of the partygoers. Even without Fredrick’s warnings about well-meaning corrections, she knew better than to volunteer the fact that she was a professional laundress.

“How do the festivities strike you, my dear?” asked Lady Lachesse.

Jane turned her eye to the dancers swirling to the music, many wearing more finery than most of the people in her neighborhood had ever seen; to the hobnobbing backslappers darting between islands of people; and to the hub of councilors, secluded behind a phalanx of guards. This brought her mind back to Ruthers’s commanding introduction, which, she realized, had not addressed the purpose of the South Haveners’ visit.

Thinking of all of this, she again remembered Fredrick’s coaching. “It’s very pleasant, Lady Lachesse. I cannot think I have ever seen anything quite like it. I’m enjoying myself very much.”

Lady Lachesse had a dark, genteel face that moved only in small gradations. Everything about her suggested exact measurement and calculation. Her finely arched eyebrows twitched precisely and deliberately in response to the people and conversations around her, like two blinds discreetly lifted and adjusted over the soul’s windows. Upon hearing Jane, she waved a bejeweled hand. “Come now, that is what you are supposed to say. You’re a friend of Fredrick’s, aren’t you? Surely you must have something more interesting than that.”

Jane blinked a couple of times. Though taken aback, she remembered her encounter with Roman Arnault and refused to be flustered by the aging dames. “There’s a layer of gloss over people’s words, over the scenery. It seems as though everything here takes on a hidden meaning.”

Lady Lachesse nodded. “You would do well to keep that sensibility about you in a place like this.”

Satisfied with their new companion, the ladies drew Jane into polite chatter. Once she had worked past the initial awkwardness, Jane found them to be disarming, if extravagant. Lady Lachesse was obviously the alpha of the group, and possibly, she suspected, over a significant number of others in the ballroom. Madame Attrop possessed a merry and cutting wit that she exercised throughout the conversation, and Jane noticed her peculiar habit of clutching at her many necklaces with the palm of her flattened hand as she talked. It could have been a dainty gesture but for her thick fingers and timeworn hands, not to mention her formidable fingernails. It seemed as though she were constantly checking to satisfy herself that her many baubles were still in place. Or perhaps she meant to refer to herself, only the modest direction of a few fingers was too simple. She required the whole of a stretched hand.

Madame Clothoe appeared to be the most touched by her age. She had a way of stringing out a nod or an inane bit of conversation until directed by one of her companions. Her tiny eyes sparkled with glee from her crinkled face. Half the meaning of the conversation seemed to float past her, and she watched it go with her constant, oblivious smile.

For all their refined cordiality, however, Jane sensed a more devious instinct coursing through their veins. It was a killer’s instinct, selected and trained in them and their caste, and though the mellowness of age might cover it, it waited just beneath the skin. Jane enjoyed their company and conversation now, but she felt grateful that she had not met them in their younger days.

As they continued to chat, Jane found herself once again scanning the ballroom for her mysterious friend. After several furtive glances toward the banquet table, she saw him standing in another corner, talking with a shorter man in simple dress. Something in her eyes must have given her away, for Lady Lachesse smiled knowingly.

“My dear, I take it you have your own acquaintances at the gala tonight?”

She blushed. “I recognize a few familiar faces, Lady.”

Madame Attrop’s eyes narrowed with a fierce grin. “Is there anyone you would like to inquire about, Miss Lin?”

Jane felt the heat rise faster in her face, but she sensed her resolve give way before she even opened her mouth. “Perhaps there is something you would deem worthy to tell me about Mr Roman Arnault.”

Three pairs of eyebrows arched in unison as Jane pronounced his name, and the women erupted in delicate titters. Jane did not know whether to be amused or embarrassed. Madame Clothoe spoke first.

“I must say, Miss Lin, you manage to make rather interesting acquaintances.”

“To better answer your question, might I inquire as to how you met?” asked Lady Lachesse. Jane reviewed the incident of their first encounter, omitting the details of the overheard conversation. The ladies nodded with some kind of understanding, except for Madame Clothoe, who continued to nod at nothing in particular.

“One might best describe him as a classic opportunist, the product of our bureaucracy system and of his own specific upbringing,” said Lady Lachesse.

“What do you mean by that, my Lady?”

Lady Lachesse tilted her head toward Jane. “I mean, my dear, that when men and women of power need to accomplish certain ends, Roman Arnault can be relied upon to provide the means.”

“Oh.” Jane’s brow creased. Surely the charming stranger she had met did not deserve such a sinister-sounding description. “Do you mean to say that–”

“Mr Arnault and I do not run in the same circles,” Lady Lachesse said. “Not anymore. We have a limited acquaintanceship, so far be it from me to paint him as the boogeyman.”

Madame Attrop cleared her throat a little too noisily.

Jane eyed him again. “He looks like…” she paused, trying to think of an appropriate term “…a man of leisure.”

“Not exactly,” said Madame Attrop.

“He’s too cynical to be a playboy!” Madame Clothoe said, using the word that had originally occurred to Jane. Jane reached for a vial of sparkling wine as the waiter passed.

“He’d have to have some fun for that,” Madame Attrop said. “As careless as he looks, Mr Arnault does nothing without calculating and doesn’t leave much room for anything else.” The other women pursed their lips sagaciously, and Madame Attrop continued. “But there’s more than that. People avoid him. Even disreputable women avoid him. There is something ominous about him, Miss Lin, like a hint of ruin. I would not propose to tell you what to do, but allow me to advise that you exercise caution.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Jane said, finishing her drink.

“One would almost call him a workaholic,” Lady Lachesse said, “were it not for that practiced air of carelessness.”

“What exactly does he do?” asked Jane.

Madame Attrop lifted her shoulders. “It is difficult to say with certainty what Mr Arnault does. But rest assured, he does it very well.”

Lady Lachesse raised her own glass, holding it steady as she gazed around the ballroom. “He is an agent in the employ of the Council. His official title is ‘consultant’, whatever that may mean. More precisely, he is the hatchet man of the regime and, as Madame Attrop has assured you, brilliant at his job.” Jane nodded with feigned understanding as something inside her growled restlessly.

So absorbed was she in conversation and contemplation that she was startled to hear a voice behind her purr, “My lady.” Turning, she beheld Roman Arnault, more familiar to her now through half-conscious and quickly banished daydreams than through real encounters. With a fluttering mixture of delight and chagrin, she smiled and greeted him. Her companions continued to look on through masks of polite neutrality.

“Miss Lin, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

“I came with a reporter covering the event. A friend,” she added quickly.

“Then I’m glad you did,” he said with a slow, spreading smile. “Would you like to dance?” he asked, looking toward the center of the white-marbled floor. Couples were already sailing across the ballroom in slow, stately waltzes. The faces of the dancers and, indeed, of nearly everyone in the room betrayed little emotion. Jane felt like she was surrounded by chiseled porcelain masks, painted and weaving amongst one another. The only features that betrayed a life were the eyes, which flitted and flared.

Jane accepted Arnault’s offered hand, and they glided across the seamless tiles. Comfortable in the dance and coasting through the steps, he focused on her with the same combination of amusement and intensity that she had noticed at their first encounter. She found his naked gaze unnerving, but the tension dissipated once they began to talk.

“So, Mr Arnault–”

“Roman.”

“This isn’t your first society event.”

He grinned. “Unfortunately not.”

“You seem to spend a lot of your time in the company of councilors and their like.”

“Correct again. Not unlike yourself, I’d add.”

“I’ve met Councilor Hollens once or twice. You drink with people like him and Councilor Ruthers. It’s different.”

Roman frowned. “What gives you the impression that I know Councilor Ruthers so well?”

“Well, you work with him. Or for him. Something like that, right?” Slowly turning around the ballroom, they coasted past the stage and the black-clad musicians.

“That’s a close enough description of it.”

Jane shrugged. “Anyway, you know your way around these crowds. What do you do?”

“I do whatever the Council tells me to do, Jane.”

“That sounds pretty vague.”

His eyes drifted across the ballroom. “So is my mandate.” She grinned despite herself as they continued their dance in slow, sweeping circles. His expression was guarded, but not in the stiff, formal way of the other guests, she noticed as she watched him study the socialites and bureaucrats around them. A fellow outsider, she thought.

“It seems,” she said, “that everyone here has secrets.”

Roman’s eyes darted back to hers. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve seen the way you watch everybody.”

He smiled in defeat.

“‘I knew the mass of men concealed

Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed

They would by other men be met

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

I knew they lived and moved

Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest

Of men, and alien to themselves – and yet

The same heart beats in every human breast!’”

Her face lighted with recognition. “‘The Buried Life’,” she said. “It’s from Matthew Arnold.”

He cocked his head. “Impressive, especially for a laundress.”

She colored and looked over his shoulder at nothing in particular. “I’m an avid reader, Mr Arnault.”

“Roman. And you’re quite an observer, too.” Jane bit her lip to avoid a nervous smile. His dark blue eyes positively bored into her now. “So tell me,” he said, “how does an orphaned laundress become a student of the poets?”

She looked up, startled. “I never told you I was an orphan.”

“You forget the extent of my connections.”

Jane nodded, not certain whether she should be thrilled or alarmed. “Maybe it’s because I was an orphan. My parents died when I was two, and I spent as much of my childhood as I can remember surrounded by strange people and strange smells. The orphanage was miserable, and I was always looking for an excuse to spend time away from it. One day, when I was about seven, I found that excuse. One of the caretakers took a group of us to the Municipal Library – it’s right next to the Quadrivium.”

“I know it,” Roman said. Located near the schools, it kept volumes upon volumes of books deemed safe for public consumption.

“It was quiet as a tomb. I had never been any place before where the sound of my own breathing was loud. It was wonderful.” She paused, smiling at the recollection. “It gave me a reason to get away from the orphanage, so I applied for a special permit. Every afternoon after classes, I would leave for the Municipal Library and lose myself in the stacks and shelves until nightfall, when the custodian chased me out. It was orderly, peaceful, and with no one but the characters in the books to trouble me, I felt at home. Is that strange?”

“No,” he said quietly.