“I am the Ministre of Security in the Cité de Lumière. The City of Light. That is its new name, Miss Bellamy.”
“A new name or an Ancient one, Monsieur?”
“An Ancient name that is becoming new again.” LeBlanc’s voice was oily slick, so soft Sophia had to lean forward to hear his next question. “Do you study the Time Before, Miss Bellamy?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. My brother is the scholar.”
“That is good. Technology and the Great Death are not amusing subjects for a young lady. Does your brother seek the lost London?”
“Don’t they all?” Sophia kept her smile in place, trying to puzzle out whether LeBlanc thought young ladies should study only what was amusing. “But do let me thank you for coming, Monsieur LeBlanc. I am so flattered that you would come all this way for my Banns.”
“I only wish that were so, Mademoiselle. I am here on the business of Allemande.”
“Tedious business,” René commented, gaze wandering the room. Spear looked down at him askance.
“And what sort of business is that, Monsieur?” Sophia asked. “I hope it is more diplomatic than your usual tasks as Ministre of Security.”
LeBlanc’s smile was indulgent, as if she were an adorably curious child. “I am sure you would not wish to spend the entire evening learning about politics.”
“Oh, it would take the entire evening, would it?”
“Your pretty head is much better suited to your party, Mademoiselle.”
Sophia felt her brows go up, lips parting to say something sharp, and then René cried out, “My love! They play McCartney!”
Three heads turned to the powdered one.
“You must come and dance with me, Miss Bellamy! It is too good an opportunity to miss, yes?” He offered a hand.
“No, thank you.” Sophia looked back to LeBlanc, politeness restored. “And do you believe your business will keep you here until …”
“More wine, my love?” asked René.
“No. Thank you. How long did you say you would be here, Monsieur …”
“Cake?” René inquired.
“No. Please go on, Monsieur LeBlanc.”
LeBlanc was just drawing breath when René said, “Sugared plums?”
Sophia turned. “Yes. I would love nothing more than a sugared plum. Why don’t you go and get one for me?”
Half a grin was in the corner of René’s mouth, over eyes that were an exceptionally deep blue, a blue that was the hottest part of the fire. She wasn’t supposed to be looking at him. His grin widened when Spear said quickly, “I’ll get it, Sophie.”
LeBlanc’s eyes roved between the three of them, his smile predatory. He said, “And now I am sorry to say I must go. My ‘tedious’ business, as my cousin says, takes me back to my city this very night.” He bowed again over Sophia’s hand, though his gaze was now on René. “Ne sois pas stupide. Je pense que tu dois garder un oeil attentif sur cette fille,” he said softly. “My congratulations to you, Miss Bellamy. Long may you rise above the city.”
Sophia exchanged a look with Spear as Monsieur LeBlanc walked away, threading his way through the increasingly intoxicated crowd. Probably LeBlanc did not know that both she and Spear had spent most of their childhood summers in the Sunken City, spoke fluent Parisian, and were therefore perfectly aware of the advice he had just given René: to stop being a fool, and keep a close eye on the girl.
Sophia fanned her hot face. And what exactly had LeBlanc meant by that? Was he advising René to keep an eye on her as a fiancée? Or something more? She fanned harder, heart hammering against the tight bodice.
“My cousin,” René stated, “takes himself too seriously in some matters, and not seriously enough in others. He dwells constantly on his duties, when the duty he should really be considering is a conversation with his stylist …”
Sophia looked away, so she would not make the mistake of meeting René Hasard’s eyes again. She saw Tom standing not far away at the edge of the room, his gaze on LeBlanc’s back as he whispered discreetly to Cartier. Cartier worked the Bellamy stables; he also worked for the Rook, and, she assumed, was about to be following LeBlanc. She let her glance pass over them, and then to the silver button, only then recalling that René had been talking to her.
“Do you not agree, my love?”
She had no idea what he was asking her to agree to. Was he aware that she was aware of LeBlanc’s advice? Unknown. But if not, then she did not intend to enlighten him. Or let him keep any sort of eye on her. Sophia released her fan from its death grip and smiled.
“I’ve just remembered something I need to say to Father …”
“Do you want me to come with you, Sophie?” Spear’s brows were drawn down again, causing one slight wrinkle in his forehead. He thought she shouldn’t go alone, not with LeBlanc in the house.
“No need. But actually, would you do me a favor? Would you just ask Tom to check on those packages from yesterday? I wanted to be sure they were put away properly.” Spear nodded as she turned toward the gold brocade.
“Gifts,” she said to the button. “They’ve been arriving all week. Father’s friends are so very generous. I’ll see you later, Spear.”
She turned away before either of them could speak, anger propelling her through the crowd, helping her push a path through the people that stood about watching the dancers. She felt invaded, violated. Contaminated by something vile, something she should have never had to experience inside Bellamy House. And she needed to understand just how much danger she was really in. She had her gaze riveted on the approaching back stairs when she felt a hand on her arm.
“You are leaving, Sophia?”
The lined face of Bellamy, her father, looked up at her, full of concern. Bellamy had been sitting at one of the little tables set up along the walls, eating cake with Mr. Halflife and Sheriff Burn. They both nodded at her, a little grim. Sheriff Burn was probably worried he would soon have to arrest the man he was having pudding with; Mr. Halflife was probably worried that the coming wedding would prevent the arrest.
She looked back at her father. Surely he knew what sort of family he was chaining her to. Allies of a government that had legalized mass murder in the Sunken City. That had taken the very real injustices of locked gates, and poverty, and the fear that a return of technology would steal livelihoods and starve children, taken them and used them, whipping the Lower City into a mob of frenzied hate against the Upper. Execute the rich, seize their assets, disenfranchise their religion, use terror to control the people and create new laws to justify their actions. That was Allemande’s so-called revolution. And this was the family she was being sold to, blood relatives of the man that had sentenced people she loved to die beneath the Razor. And all because her father could not face reality or balance his own bank account. But Bellamy looked so uncertain, so miserable and guilt-ridden as he searched her face, that all at once her temper left her. Without it she was empty, bereft.
“Of course I’m not leaving, Father,” she said. “The party is beautiful, and everything is going so well.” She squeezed his hand, offering him a brief, false smile that she knew would make him feel better, seeing it tentatively returned before she moved away. She waited until Bellamy was distracted by the vicar, then made a dash up the back stairs.
She hurried through the gallery, clicking heels unheard in the din of music and reveling, past the Looking Man, up again, and then she was welcoming the quiet of a deserted corridor. Around she wound, through doors, past corners, and up more stairwells, some of them wood, some of them Ancient concrete, until she was in the long hallway of the north wing.
The hall was silent, a single candle left to illuminate the age-blackened paneling. Sophia took the taper from its sconce, poufy skirt rustling over the threadbare carpet, and quietly approached a door set back in its own columned recess. She stood still, listening. The Banns downstairs had everyone occupied, but René might have brought a manservant with him. He seemed the sort that would think himself incapable of carrying his own luggage. When she heard nothing but her own breath struggling against the restricting bodice, she reached up into the piled hair on her head, removed a silver key, and put it to the lock. She slipped inside René Hasard’s door without the first creak of a hinge.