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11: BROKEN GLASS AND GOSSAMER

Nanticook House sat atop the bluffs east of town: the same pricey neighborhood as my on-again/off-again Gretchen. But "neighborhood" was the wrong word-people there didn't know what "neighborly" meant. The estates were big enough that you could see the house next door only with a telescope, assuming your telescope could pierce the high brick walls around each property. Nobody cared to view or visit the folks nearby. The only sense of community came from the packs of guard dogs who patrolled these grounds; some nights, the dogs on all the estates howled at the moon in unison.

The humans, however, avoided contact with each other. That's the difference between the small-town rich and their city counterparts. The urban upper crust enjoy getting together: they hold masquerades, go to the opera, and try to outdo each other with big weddings as they marry off their children in strategic alliances. There's always a whiff of arrogance (and often jaded decadence), but the aristocrats in cities are sociable. They have fun with each other; they talk.

The wealthy in Dover-on-Sea were different. They'd chosen privacy over personal contact; they had secrets to hide. My Gretchen, for example, entertained many a gentleman visitor from out of town, but never left her own property. Nursing her secrets. And Warwick Xavier of Nanticook House apparently had secrets too… most notably, his position as Dover's Smuggler Supreme.

I'd passed his place often on my way to Gretchen's: his mansion was a two-story sprawl built around a big inner courtyard. From above it would look like a picture frame surrounding gardened greenery-a pleasant design for Mediterranean climates, but not very practical in Feliss winters. Every room was exposed to the elements on two walls, the outer and the courtyard side, so it must have been hell to keep the house heated. Most likely, Xavier walked around all winter in three layers of long-johns, looking like a wool-swaddled teddy bear. Then again, if he was Smuggler King, he could afford fireplaces in every room, plus warm-bodied companions who'd cuddle close whenever he felt a chill.

As we approached the estate, multiple chimneys were pouring out smoke. The wind blew toward us; soot had accumulated on the few piles of snow untouched by thaw. Though the wall blocked our view of the house, we could see lights shining up into the night. Warwick Xavier seemed to be awake, despite the late hour.

"Dear friends," Dreamsinger whispered, "leave your horses here. And please, please be quiet."

As I tied Ibn to a sapling outside the walls, I reflected how unnecessary it had been to ask us to shut up-we'd barely spoken a word since The Buxom Bull. I was the only one who knew where Nanticook House was, so I'd taken the lead; apart from the occasional "This way," we'd walked in complete silence. It would have been nice to speak to Impervia or the Caryatid, if only to ask what Dreamsinger looked like under the Hafsah illusion… but the most I could do was meet my friends' eyes and exchange plaintive looks.

Now the Sorcery-Lord moved to the front, making no sound as she led us forward. I wondered why she kept us with her. A Spark didn't need schoolteachers to protect her-if things turned messy, we were more likely to get in the way than provide assistance. Unless, of course, Dreamsinger needed us the way she'd needed Dee-James, as a holding tank for her mind.

But you don't walk out on a Spark, even when she's leading you into danger. So we all proceeded to Nanticook House's front gate.

The gate was wrought-iron, glossy black without a hint of rust. Sheets of wood had been fitted into the gaps between the iron bars, held in place by wires. The sheets were so thin, Impervia could have put her fist through them, but they weren't there as defense-just preventing gawkers from peering into the grounds.

Warwick Xavier must like his privacy.

Dreamsinger didn't bother to check if the gate was locked. She just made a gesture, her hands glowed red, and the wrought-iron frame flopped inward, as if its fittings had vaporized.

The gate didn't make much noise as it fell-with the gaps between bars filled in, it was like a sheet of light wood toppling over in a carpenter's shop, its descent slowed by air resistance. Nothing more than a breezy whump when it hit the ground. The sound still carried a short distance, but there was no one inside close enough to hear… no one anywhere along the gravel drive leading up to the house. No guard dogs either; with soot from the house's fireplaces filling the air, the dogs probably couldn't smell us, and by luck, they were all out of sight on the far side of the building.

The driveway was long and wide-over a hundred meters from the gate to the house and broad enough for two oversized carriages to pass each other comfortably. Xavier might be antisocial, but Nanticook House could accommodate guests if necessary. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised the Smuggler Chief had plenty of room for carts moving in and out; on occasion, the place might be as busy as a freight warehouse.

No carts were in evidence tonight, but something was definitely afoot. Every room on the ground floor showed lights, and not just a candle or two: the place beamed with lampfire, as if Xavier was hosting a dance-ball for everyone in Dover-on-Sea. No music played, however, and no gabble of conversation reached our ears as we drew near the house; I could see no movement through the windows.

Brightly lit houses are seldom so quiet. And when they are, it makes me nervous.

For a while, it looked like Dreamsinger would prance straight up to the front portico and tug on the bell. I think she considered it; she stopped on the stoop for a full count of ten-not, as far as I could see, listening for tell-tale sounds or using some sorcerous clairvoyance to peer through the door, but simply debating how brazenly she wanted to handle the situation.

While we waited, the Caryatid produced a flame from somewhere and began passing it back and forth nervously between her palms. Sister Impervia assumed what she called a "natural" stance-perfectly balanced, knees slightly bent, hands free at her sides-which is to say, a martial artist's attempt to look nonthreatening while still poised to dislodge your skull with a spinning hook kick. As for me, I'm sure I did something that showed my friends I was jittery as a June-bug, but I was trying to look nonchalant.

In the end, Dreamsinger was struck with an attack of discretion. She suddenly wheeled from the door and started to circle the house: moving quickly, peeking into every window we passed, but staying far enough out into the darkness that people inside couldn't see us.

We saw nobody in any of the front rooms; not a guard, not a servant, not even a parakeet. The decor looked costly but soulless-a lot of dark pine furniture and nondescript china on plate-rails. Each room (and there were a lot of rooms) held a single objet d'art: always a portrait painting, always undistinguished and always in murky colors, as if the painter had once seen a Rembrandt but could only remember it had dim lighting. None of the rooms showed any particular purpose; they were all generic parlors/drawing rooms/sitting rooms/lounges, rather than serving a recognizable function like a dining room, bedroom, or study. They were, in other words, strictly for show-the sort of rooms a real family would soon subvert with doll houses, billiard tables, and piles of Aunt Miriam's embroidery.

The side of the house was more promising than the front, with an honest-to-goodness kitchen and even two women at work. One woman was big, blonde, and bready, extracting the guts from a turkey. The other looked more decorative: young, slim, as dark as Impervia, and dressed in a short tight uniform designed for the pleasure of male viewers rather than the practical performance of scullery work. Still, she was diligently kneading a wad of dough, pushing it around the counter with experienced efficiency.