face of the fencing dummy. Secrets
flashed and darted in the shifting currents of her green irises. Give
nothing away, he thought. Show the world a face empty of everything
except that which they want to believe of you. He felt suddenly,
disastrously weary, exhausted by the poisons of fatigue and
adrenaline. He wanted to rest, to stop his thoughts from spinning in
their unstable orbits.
“No,”
he told her. “Not for now, anyway.”
Chapter
Nine
S everal levels beneath the room where they had fought with Mikolas,
they found a large unoccupied chamber with whitewashed walls and
plaster angels that flowed from the molding in the corners of the
ceiling, their grave, contemplative faces seeming to guarantee the
sanctity of the space they overlooked; it was furnished with two
overstuffed chairs, a chest of drawers, and the wreck of an ebony
bed, one of its legs broken, its tented canopy half-collapsed, that
was big enough and sufficiently morbid in design—the frieze on
the headboard depicted a crowd of tormented faces—to serve as a
funeral barge. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling; when lit, they
burned with a pale constant flame. They wedged the chest of drawers
beneath the bed, succeeding thereby in placing the mattress on more
or less even keel, and once this was done, Beheim stripped off his
bloody shirt, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Alexandra, however,
went pacing about the room, and after five minutes or so had passed
and she continued to pace, Beheim propped himself up on an elbow and
asked what was troubling her.
“I’m
not troubled,” she said. “Just a little nervous. I’m
always a little nervous.”
“Are you
worried that the de Czeges will come after us tonight?”
“No.”
She leaned against the wall, hands behind her back. “They’ll
brood and plot and attempt to devise some ingenious trap, but in the
end, if they do anything, which is not a certainty, they’ll
lose their tempers and charge. That’s their way. They’re
incapable of subtle maneuvers.”
“Which
makes them excellent suspects.”
“In the
matter of the Golden?” She shook her head. “I don’t
believe it. Not that they wouldn’t be capable of the violence.
But this particular murder doesn’t seem the sort of outrage
they would commit. It would take some planning at least. And as I
said, they tend to act on the spur of the moment.”
Beheim examined
the sheet beneath him; it bore a delicate raised pattern, white on
white, of thorns and roses.
“I’ve
been thinking,” he said. “I’m not making any
progress like this. I’m going to do as you suggested. The
bottle cap is the one consequential piece of evidence I have. You
were right. I really don’t have a choice.”
“I thought
you’d see that.” Her voice was subdued.
“Will you
go with me to Felipe’s apartments?”
“I can’t,”
she said. “I can’t risk it. If Felipe caught me there, if
he discovered I was plotting against him, it would ruin everything.
You’ll need someone to keep watch, though. Your servant,
Giselle. Take her.”
Here we are, he
thought, here’s the part you have to shine a light on. Here’s
the fundamental discourse upon which all your decisions regarding her
must be based. “What exactly would it ruin?” he asked.
A petulant
expression came fleetingly to her face. “Everything I want.”
“Power?”
A hesitation.
“Yes, power.”
“But
there’s more.”
She nodded.
“You’re
not going to tell me, are you?”
“It’s
nothing important. Just some things I want.”
“How do
you know you’ll get them? Are you certain I’ll find
evidence implicating Felipe?”
“How could I be certain?” Anger made her voice shrill, stiffened her
shoulders as she paced across the room and stood by the opposite
wall. With her back to the whitewashed surface, the red tints in her
hair and the blue of her silk nightdress and the vivid coloration of
her eyes were all enhanced; it looked as if she were a
flashed and darted in the shifting currents of her green irises. Give
nothing away, he thought. Show the world a face empty of everything
except that which they want to believe of you. He felt suddenly,
disastrously weary, exhausted by the poisons of fatigue and
adrenaline. He wanted to rest, to stop his thoughts from spinning in
their unstable orbits.
“No,”
he told her. “Not for now, anyway.”
Chapter
Nine
S everal levels beneath the room where they had fought with Mikolas,
they found a large unoccupied chamber with whitewashed walls and
plaster angels that flowed from the molding in the corners of the
ceiling, their grave, contemplative faces seeming to guarantee the
sanctity of the space they overlooked; it was furnished with two
overstuffed chairs, a chest of drawers, and the wreck of an ebony
bed, one of its legs broken, its tented canopy half-collapsed, that
was big enough and sufficiently morbid in design—the frieze on
the headboard depicted a crowd of tormented faces—to serve as a
funeral barge. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling; when lit, they
burned with a pale constant flame. They wedged the chest of drawers
beneath the bed, succeeding thereby in placing the mattress on more
or less even keel, and once this was done, Beheim stripped off his
bloody shirt, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Alexandra, however,
went pacing about the room, and after five minutes or so had passed
and she continued to pace, Beheim propped himself up on an elbow and
asked what was troubling her.
“I’m
not troubled,” she said. “Just a little nervous. I’m
always a little nervous.”
“Are you
worried that the de Czeges will come after us tonight?”
“No.”
She leaned against the wall, hands behind her back. “They’ll
brood and plot and attempt to devise some ingenious trap, but in the
end, if they do anything, which is not a certainty, they’ll
lose their tempers and charge. That’s their way. They’re
incapable of subtle maneuvers.”
“Which
makes them excellent suspects.”
“In the
matter of the Golden?” She shook her head. “I don’t
believe it. Not that they wouldn’t be capable of the violence.
But this particular murder doesn’t seem the sort of outrage
they would commit. It would take some planning at least. And as I
said, they tend to act on the spur of the moment.”
Beheim examined
the sheet beneath him; it bore a delicate raised pattern, white on
white, of thorns and roses.
“I’ve
been thinking,” he said. “I’m not making any
progress like this. I’m going to do as you suggested. The
bottle cap is the one consequential piece of evidence I have. You
were right. I really don’t have a choice.”
“I thought
you’d see that.” Her voice was subdued.
“Will you
go with me to Felipe’s apartments?”
“I can’t,”
she said. “I can’t risk it. If Felipe caught me there, if
he discovered I was plotting against him, it would ruin everything.
You’ll need someone to keep watch, though. Your servant,
Giselle. Take her.”
Here we are, he
thought, here’s the part you have to shine a light on. Here’s
the fundamental discourse upon which all your decisions regarding her
must be based. “What exactly would it ruin?” he asked.
A petulant
expression came fleetingly to her face. “Everything I want.”
“Power?”
A hesitation.
“Yes, power.”
“But
there’s more.”
She nodded.
“You’re
not going to tell me, are you?”
“It’s
nothing important. Just some things I want.”
“How do
you know you’ll get them? Are you certain I’ll find
evidence implicating Felipe?”
“How could I be certain?” Anger made her voice shrill, stiffened her
shoulders as she paced across the room and stood by the opposite
wall. With her back to the whitewashed surface, the red tints in her
hair and the blue of her silk nightdress and the vivid coloration of
her eyes were all enhanced; it looked as if she were a
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