Redlisted (33 page)

“I never
thought a world traveler such as yourself would be impressed by a
place like this,” Mirabel said, leading me towards the edge of
a lagoon in the center of the courtyard.

I smiled, still
entranced by the spectacle of it all. Around us, young men and women
darted in and out of the shadows in pairs, snippets of their
whispered conversations floating on the breeze. Mirabel latched onto
my forearm; I willed myself not to recoil from her touch.

“It’s
beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s
especially romantic at night, or so I hear.”

I nodded, gazing
down at the little lights dancing like fireflies on the surface of
the water.

“It will be
our anniversary in a few days—yours and mine.”

“I suppose
you’re right.” I sighed. “Well, I’m sure
Markham wouldn’t mind too terribly much, should you care to
visit.”

“I would
like that,” she said.

We stood quietly
for a few moments.

“Will you
tell me the story of you and Lucien once more?” Her voice was
uncharacteristically tender. “I’d like to imagine he’s
here with us...”

I closed my eyes,
forcing a neutral expression, wondering if she knew even half the
pain she caused me just by speaking his name.

“Please,
Julian?”

Whether she was
entreating me out of heartsickness, cruelty, or some combination of
the two, I couldn’t tell—but in the case it was the
former, who was I to deny her those memories?

I opened my eyes
and started the story in the same way I had so many times before:

“I first met
Lucien back in the forests of the Old World, down in the labyrinth
beneath the twin pools...”

///

My story finished,
Mirabel took me back to the side entrance of the fair, where we
parted ways. She hailed another cab; I traveled on foot towards the
second address the Wardens had provided.

The walk took me
through a sporting district—the first chance at fresh blood I’d
had since leaving New York. I took out the first of my stipend and
looked for a donor. I always sought out the same type: someone who
looked healthy, perhaps a little heavy-set, with red cheeks and
lips—someone who could afford to give what I was taking. They
were almost invariably women; the boys in these districts—and
they were always boys, never men—were universally underfed.

Having satiated
myself, I continued on to a street full of identical brownstones. It
wasn’t difficult to determine which belonged to my patron: all
but one of its windows were shuttered, and, despite the hour,
candlelight flickered from the only open window.

I walked up a
brief flight of stairs to the front door, paused for a moment, then
knocked twice. I folded my hands behind my back and looked at the
tips of my shoes as I waited to be allowed inside, listening for
footsteps. After quite a wait, the door opened. Standing inside the
threshold was an adolescent girl, a mortal, her delicate features
framed by twin black braids. She carried a candle in her left hand.

“Are you Mr.
Radcliffe?” She looked up at me with wide eyes.

“I am,
indeed.”

She stepped
sideways, making room for me to pass. “Please, come inside.”

“Thank you,
Miss...” I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to ask
for her name.

“My name is
Mariah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Radcliffe.”

“Likewise,”
I said, smiling without teeth.

She shut the door
behind us. “I’m Mr. Markham’s ward,” she
said. “He was a friend of my father, before my parents passed
away.”

She shook her
head. “It’s quite all right. Please, let me show you the
guest room. May I take your luggage?”

“Oh no,
that’s not necessary,” I frowned. “Is your guardian
at home?”

She led me to a
flight of stairs. “I apologize. He’s visiting a colleague
at the moment. We weren’t sure when to expect you,” she
said. “He will be back by sunrise, of course.”

“O—of
course,” I said, taken aback by her apparent familiarity with
our condition.

Mariah showed me
to a small room on the second floor. She lit an oil lamp on the
bedside table with the flame of her candle, then lingered in the door
frame as I set down my bags.

“Are you
hungry, Mr. Radcliffe?”

I bit the inside
of my lower lip. Was she offering for me to drink from her? “No,
thank you, I’m quite all right.”

“Would you
like me to come for you when Mr. Markham returns?”

“That would
be excellent,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure.
“Thank you.”

“He will not
be long, I hope. Please let me know if you need anything.”

I nodded, wishing
more than anything that she would stop making offers.

With that, she
slipped back into the hallway. I was glad for her absence.

Waiting for
Markham to return, I made a record of the night’s events in my
journal, placing my hand against a blank page and imprinting it with
a vision of my memories. When I finished with the manifestation, I
opened the glass and shutters of the room’s only window. The
summer wind smelled of smoke and horse droppings and reminded me of
my loathing for cities.

Soon the sky began
to lighten, but the passage from night to day brought no sign of
Markham’s return. I shuttered the windows in time to avoid the
sunrise, perplexed.

The Wardens hadn’t
told me much about Zenas Markham. All I knew was that he was an
illusionist, like myself, but far more accomplished than I was. The
more I thought about his ward’s behavior, the less eager I was
to meet him. It was difficult to imagine trusting a man who treated a
child in such a way.

Shortly after
sunrise, Mariah returned to my room, knocking at the door despite it
being open. “Mr. Radcliffe? I’m sorry to disturb you...”

“Not at
all,” I said, standing and meeting her at the door rather than
inviting her inside. “Is everything all right?”

She wrung her
hands. “I must apologize. I just received a letter from Mr.
Markham. It seems he was called out of town—something to do
with his mother.”

“I see.”

“He should
return within the week. I do hope this doesn’t inconvenience
you.”

“Oh, no,
it’s not a problem. It will be a few days before my supplies
arrive, in any case.”

“Well,
that’s good to hear,” she said.

I nodded,
waiting—hoping—for her to excuse herself.

“Should I
prepare your breakfast?”

“Mariah,”
I said, frowning, “do you realize what I—do you
understand... the nature of the condition I share with your
guardian?”

“Of course,”
she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

I brought a hand
to my mouth. “I—well, thank you for the offer, but that
won’t be necessary.”

“Very well,”
she said, interlacing her fingers behind her back. “In that
case, please feel free to move about as you please. It’s quite
safe. I’ve closed all the drapes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re
welcome,” she said, smiling, then took her leave once more.

I closed the door
behind her and decided to spend the rest of the day asleep.

///

I spent the next
two nights in disguise, stalking Mirabel, gathering whatever
information I could about her current projects. I could determine
little about her research, aside from the fact that she was working
with a man named William Dickson, a photographer in Edison’s
employ, on something called the Panoptikon. I didn’t imagine
she understood the reference—she had never had much interest in
social reform—but I was unnerved by the discovery nevertheless.

I spent my days in
Markham’s brownstone, drafting a field report to send back to
the Wardens and sleeping, doing my best to avoid the peculiar girl
with the wide blue eyes.

///

On the third
night, a courier arrived at nightfall, bearing the crate with my
painting materials. Mariah showed me to a space in Markham’s
sitting room he had designated for the sessions, then watched me as I
began reassembling the easel. I glanced around the room as I worked,
hoping to avoid meeting her eyes. Scores of portraits hung on the
walls, so many they nearly obscured the striped wallpaper behind.
They were all of Mariah, every single one.

I suddenly felt I
understood the nature of Markham’s relationship with the girl.
It was not uncommon for our kind to groom our heirs from a young age.
I’d never before objected to the idea; it seemed logical to
offer the chance of eternal life to someone you’d already
learned to care for. Confronted with the reality of the practice,
however—and it was all I could imagine their arrangement to
be—I found it revolting. Would he ask her to commit suicide
once she’d reached a certain age, or would he murder her
himself? How would he determine when the time was right? Would he
expect her to continue on as his maidservant, or whatever she was to
him, in perpetuity?

I was so embroiled
in distaste that when a second visitor arrived I welcomed the
intrusion, despite the fact that it took the form of Mirabel. She
entered through the front door without knocking. With a particularly
sharp glare she whisked Mariah out of the sitting room.

“You’ve
been checking up after me, haven’t you, Julian?” she
said. “Looking in to my research.”

“I have no
idea what you’re talking about,” I said, turning back to
the half- finished easel.

“I’m
not sure what you think you’ll accomplish by denying it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I can only
imagine the Wardens sent you, but I can’t see why they’d
bother,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve been
sending them regular reports for three years now.”

I felt my mouth
twitch, betraying my surprise.

“Aha. I
understand. This must have been at Desmond’s direct request.”
She snorted. “You can tell him that any time he has a question
about any of my technological advancements, he can feel free to speak
with me directly. Do that, will you, for me? I know you’re fond
of him. Tell him the longer he ignores me, the shorter his tenure
will become.”

“I
appreciate the suggestion,” I said, keeping a straight face.

She removed a pair
of gloves from her handbag, pulling them on one at a time. “I
can see you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” she
said. “I know how important your work is. After all, what would
Markham do without one more of these in his collection?” She
gestured grandly towards the portrait-saturated walls.

I swallowed a
retort. “Very well.”

“Oh. One
more thing,” she said, snapping the closure of her purse.
“You’d be best served if you never return to New York.”

With that, she
showed herself out as abruptly as she’d entered.

Her departure left
me feeling directionless. How could I continue my investigation if
she knew that I was spying on her? And what was the point, if she was
already submitting reports to the Wardens? Was I to spend the rest of
my summer here at Markham’s estate to finish out this contract,
despite having only taken it as a front? The idea of being trapped
here with the bizarre pair for months with nothing to occupy my time
was daunting.

I returned to my
easel simply to have something to do. A few minutes later, Mariah
slipped back into the room. She sunk down into high-backed chair and
once again seized me with her eyes, seldom blinking.

“Who was
that?” she asked.

“That was my
daughter, Mirabel.”

She nodded
thoughtfully.

“I apologize
for her behavior. I hope she didn’t frighten you.”

“Not at
all,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought she was very
beautiful. I can see why you chose her.”

I forced a polite
smile.

“I’m
sorry,” Mariah said in a small voice. “I’ve said
too much, haven’t I?”