ARC: The Buried Life (12 page)

Emboldened, she continued. “I read whatever I could reach. Stories, poetry, even a bit of science. The Library became my haven – whenever I wanted to be alone, I was. And when I needed company… all I had to do was open a book.”

“An interesting way to make friends,” he said. Jane laughed.

“You have no idea. Actually, that’s how I met Fredrick. In the Library.” Jane looked for Freddie in the crowd and found him quickly, a drink precariously balanced in one hand while the other waved and chopped. He had joined a ring of bureaucrats and was talking with more than his usual animation.

Roman squinted in his direction. “He doesn’t look like the bookish type.”

“He’s not. But he buckles down when he needs to.” Even in the glowing ballroom, Jane could still see the crooked shelves and rickety writing tables, all coated with the stains and scars of years. “He’d just gotten a job at the paper, and he found my favorite reading nook. It became his, too, and he was there several times a week, sometimes reading, sometimes working on one of his articles. We started talking, and I guess we took to one another. His mother died when he was fourteen and he didn’t have much of a relationship with his father, so we saw eye to eye, if you understand what I mean.”

“That’s how you became friends?” Roman tilted his head forward, as if surprised that it could be so simple.

“There’s a bit more. When I turned seventeen, he helped me arrange an appeal before the Sponsorship Committee so that I could get a temporary housing stipend and a job. One that didn’t involve the factories.” Many orphans and unfortunates ended up working twelve-hour shifts on factory machines and assembly lines. The most anyone could say for it was that it was an honest paycheck, and that accident rates were the lowest they’d been in decades. “As a successful professional with a good record, he signed himself as my sponsor, and the Committee gave me a grant to set up shop as an independent laundress. I didn’t have any money, and without him, the most I could have hoped for was a maid’s position in one of the wealthy houses. More likely, though, I’d be a groundskeeper living in a bunkhouse.” Jane sighed, offering a small smile. “Freddie’s glib, but he’s a good friend.”

Arnault nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Now I’ve told you quite a bit about myself,” Jane said. “Earlier, though, yours wasn’t a real response – your lovely snatch of poetry. One would almost suspect that you have your own skeletons to hide.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re still thinking about that? Dear girl, there was nothing random about what I recited for you,” he said. “After all, it’s Victorian.”

“What’s that?”

“Matthew Arnold and his ilk, though who knows when they lived or what they produced beyond their poetry. Based on their writing, though, I can say that the Victorians knew a good deal about facades, though I would venture to say that we’ve learned more. It’s a poem about secrets.”

Jane knitted her brows. “Really? I always thought it was about people trying to connect. To figure who they are in relation to those around them.”

“A similar idea.” He leaned in. “Nothing is more defining than the things we choose to hide.” Jane’s eyes flitted to her fellow dancers, and she noticed that she and Roman seemed to have carved their own, private space out of the crowd. The other couples orbited at a safe distance.

“And what is it you choose to hide?” Jane asked. Once again, Roman threw back his head and laughed.

“Nothing gets by you, does it, Jane?”

She responded with what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. “I still don’t understand exactly what it is you do with these people. You don’t seem to have much in common.”

“That’s what makes our arrangement so simple. I don’t have the same ties or interests. As an outsider, I am the perfect… what would you say? Accessory.” He watched her nose wrinkle as she tried to make sense of his response. “That’s just precious.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” she said.

“No?” He chuckled. “Perhaps not, but I can guess quite a lot. You’re just like the rest of them.”

“The rest of who?”

“The nice girls of the world who try to fit in with the rest of us. You put up a show, but there are some things you’ll never understand,” he breathed, brushing her ear. Refusing to be baited, she looked over his shoulder and continued dancing as if she had not heard him. Without warning, he threw his arm and spun her outward, and she had to concentrate to keep her balance. Preparing for the return, she counted the steps as he pulled her back, the light skirts of her dress swishing against his knees. Tightening his grip around her waist, he doubled their pace, and she watched his eyes in hopes of anticipating his next move.

She didn’t.

Without warning, he swept her legs out from under her, and she fought the urge to plant them back on the marble-tiled floor. Instead, she straightened her posture and trusted his lead, finishing the dip with a gamely kick. He held her barely a foot from the ground.

“You’re bold but not too wise,” he said, looking down at her.

“You don’t intimidate me, Roman.”

“You don’t know enough to be intimidated.” He straightened and returned Jane to her feet.

Jane brushed at her dress. “That’s the way you wanted it. You’re like the people in the poem. You get others to assume exactly you want because you only show them the tiniest part of yourself.”

“For most people, that’s enough.”

She returned his piercing stare. “I don’t care who the Council thinks you are, what it is you do as their enforcer, what the whitenails say about you, or why everyone else runs from you. You don’t frighten me, and for all your fierce looks, you don’t have anything on me. Like you said, I’m an outsider.”

He held her gaze in his own and smiled faintly. Slowly, he brushed her ear again and whispered. “I could show you who I am, what I do, and why they run. But will you like what you find?” His words lingered like an alcoholic aftertaste, and the lewdness stung her better judgment. She looked up at him as the song ended, and their dance slowed to a halt. His eyes, his whole face was motionless, and it was only as she felt a hand on her shoulder that she turned away.

Fredrick blinked at her, dazed by drink and astonished at her company. “Jane, I was hoping you’d give me the next dance.”

She turned back to Roman, who had regained his sly smirk and cavalier posture. “It was a pleasure,” she said. He kissed the back of her hand, grinning roguishly.

“Until we meet again.” Something respectful fixed his gaze to hers, and they parted as two equals after a truce. Fredrick watched him go and whirled back to face her with the same look of poorly-hidden wonder.

He hiccupped. “Some interesting friends you’ve made tonight.”

“You knew we’d met already.”

“Yes, the night you nearly got your head bashed in, but I wasn’t aware that you two were so… chummy!”

She ignored him. “Come on, Freddie. You said you wanted to dance.” She held up an arm, waiting for him to assume the proper position. With a bemused shrug, he grasped her hand and they floated with the current of people.

They danced to a peppery waltz, hopping spryly about the room. Fredrick maintained his uncharacteristic silence, at times avoiding her gaze and at others glancing at her with cockeyed suspicion. Jane avoided thinking about why he would be annoyed with her and turned to her own thoughts. She thought about Roman, about what her new whitenail friends thought about him, and, most importantly, about whether she was as naïve as he seemed to think.

Fredrick spoke up. “Over there. Another friend of yours.” Jane turned and saw him staring at a woman in a shimmering silver and grey gown. Liesl Malone was hardly recognizable without her customary uniform, but the short, razor-like platinum locks; the hypnotic, pale eyes; and the statue-like expression, set her apart. The slimming gown hugged the womanly curves that Jane was a little surprised to notice Malone did, in fact, have. Judging by his expression, Fredrick was noticing the same thing. Jane had never thought of her as being a woman in a dress, yet Malone blended in with the glamorous crowd. Somehow, this made her more intimidating.

As the song finished, Jane and Fredrick returned to their acquaintances of earlier. The three women watched them with Cheshire cat smiles and glittering eyes. “So wonderful to see the two of you back,” said Madame Attrop with almost exaggerated politeness. “Fredrick, how did your inquiries go?”

He rolled his eyes a little too wildly. “Just the usual, Madame Attrop. Another convention to divide and re-divide the governorship of farming communes in the south. The only thing that’s interesting is how well the two sides get along when you put alcohol and crab cakes in front of them,” he said, smirking. Madame Clothoe giggled.

“And how did you enjoy the dance, Miss Lin?” asked Lady Lachesse. Her many jewels winked at Jane.

“It was wonderful,” said she. “Mr Arnault is an exceptional dancer.” The women smiled with still more feline ambiguity, and Fredrick looked again at her in disbelief.

“Such a strange young man,” said Madame Clothoe in her creaky voice. “And to think, he could have been a member of the Council. So much potential,” she mumbled, trailing off. Jane twisted her head at Madame Clothoe and hoped that someone would continue her thread.

Of course, she had hoped for someone other than Freddie. “I take it you aren’t aware of Mr Arnault’s history,” he said, eyeing her with malicious entertainment.

“I didn’t even know he existed until last week.”

“Perhaps the good Lady Lachesse would be so kind as to enlighten you. She knows more about these circles and histories than anyone here.”

“I know he’s got a shady reputation,” Jane said with a fierce glance at Fredrick.

“Shady?” He nearly laughed. “That doesn’t cover the half of it, my dear.” He nodded in the direction of the dance floor, and Jane followed his gaze. She saw Roman now locked in tight footwork with Inspector Malone, and she felt a flash of something uncomfortable that she could not definitely pin as jealousy or fear. To her chagrin, Fredrick was studying her with grim satisfaction, and she turned around, again trying to look as if she had not noticed.

“Roman Arnault is a uniquely static figure in that his history begins with as much mystery as that in which he now abides,” said Lady Lachesse, framing her words with painted lips. The others turned their rapt attention to her, and Jane realized that Lady Lachesse was probably accustomed to this kind of audience. “The boy, Roman Arnault, arrived in Recoletta twenty-six years ago with his parents. They came from somewhere overseas, though it was never clear exactly where they came from or why they left. Some speculated that the Arnault family moved to escape an impossible debt, avoid some bloody feud in their homeland, or simply fulfill a strange wanderlust that may have possessed them. Of course, later theories purported that some unknown atrocity or dark secret, attributable to the seven-year-old Roman himself, motivated their mysterious relocation, but this is based more in his highly developed myth than in fact.”

“What became of the family in Recoletta?” Jane asked.

“Their swiftly-acquired titles will give you some hint as to their prudence in the whitenail circles. Duke and Duchess Arnault, as they came to be called, were every bit as enigmatic as their son is now, and shrewd as well. They arrived with a fair sum of money and in the space of less than a year were the toast of the Vineyard. Very quickly the Arnaults became intimate friends with the illustrious Sato family which, I trust, you have heard of.”

Jane nodded. “Of course.” Though the last of the Sato family had perished years ago, their name was still more highly regarded in the city than even Councilor Ruthers’s.

Lady Lachesse lowered her voice and continued. “Duke and Duchess Arnault were their confidantes, and Councilor and Lady Sato formed an uncommonly close bond with them.

“Despite their enviable political connections, neither Arnault ever aspired to any overt power. Much like their son, they were content, even in their element, working their own potent magic in the background. They had titles, but those are more useful in the marriage market than anywhere else. The only title with real, fungible power in Recoletta is ‘Councilor’.” She took a breath. “The Arnaults earned a substantial income owning and developing real estate sites. The first of these were gifts from the Satos, and the Arnaults appeared every bit as suited to business as to behind-the-scenes politics.”

“Their removal from the system was part of what gave them so much power,” said Madame Attrop. “They stayed out of the political games.”

“How do you mean?” Jane asked.

Lady Lachesse shot an irritated glance at Madame Attrop and continued. “Councilors are politicians because they know how to ask and, in some cases, demand favors. The Arnaults were landowners, so they had plenty of favors to give but made a point of asking for few. When you own a cubic mile of the most valued property in Recoletta, there isn’t much else you need, after all.

“Twenty-three years ago, both Duke and Duchess Arnault expired from sudden illness, though many conspiracy theorists insist that poison was involved. Their deaths shook the city, and Councilor Sato lost both great strategists and close friends with their passing. Young Roman was already something of a loner, but this unforeseen loss plunged him much deeper into his isolation. The Sato family took him in, adopting the lone remnant of their strange and powerful allies.” She paused, a distant look in her eyes. “Whether this was a strategic or sentimental maneuver is still debated. As with most things, it was probably a measure of both. Many of the Arnaults’ secrets, including that of their mysterious origins, most likely died with them, but Roman would still have been too valuable to be passed along like a bad debt.” Jane felt a sudden pang of empathy for him, yet also wondered that his orphaning had brought him to a position so different from her own.

“I do not mean to paint an overly melancholy picture of Roman’s childhood,” Lady Lachesse said. “He was good friends with the single Sato child, Jakkeb, who was his junior by a year or two. One must, however, fit these tidbits into the greater context of our political world, where notions of familial affection are often secondary.

“Nevertheless, things went well for the newly extended Sato clan. Councilor Castor Sato, one of the most popular politicians in recent history, continued his personal golden age heading the Council with unprecedented success. Lady Luz Sato was an astute businesswoman, and her endeavors prospered. Jakkeb and Roman benefited from the finest tutors the city had to offer, and both excelled in their studies at the Quadrivium.” Here Lady Lachesse sighed, almost with weariness.

“It was at this time, just over fourteen years ago, that misfortune struck again. I am sure you will recall this event for the uproar that followed in its wake. Councilor and Lady Sato were killed one night by a mugger. He was, of course, quickly apprehended and executed by a unanimous vote almost before a trial could be finished, but the public was heartbroken over the loss of its favorite darlings. As if this were not enough, in a stupor of grief, Jakkeb Sato walked into one of his late mother’s properties, a textile storehouse, which he set aflame himself. He never walked out.

“And Roma – Mr Arnault?”

“After unforgivably surviving his second family, Roman was doomed to be branded a pariah for the persistence of his reputation,” she said.

“You might say he has a variant of the Midas touch,” Fredrick said. “Everything he touches dies.”

Again, Jane ignored him. “And that’s why he’s so reviled? Because he’s unlucky?”

“That is really only the beginning,” said Lady Lachesse. “The Roman Arnault that we see – or at least, that I see,” she said with a shrewd look, “is thoroughly enveloped in a myth of his own creation. He has never said or done anything to discourage his unsavory reputation. In fact, he invites it. It is his identity as surely as mine is a railway heiress and yours is a sweet-mannered laundress.”

Lady Lachesse plucked two fluted glasses from a passing tray, handing one to Jane. “But it isn’t the same. Because you and I can detach from these public personae at will, whereas Mr Arnault, I sincerely believe, cannot. Whether through grief or for security, he retreated so far into his dark image that it is impossible to tell the man and the myth apart. No, he could not disentangle himself if he wanted to, and it is for that reason that I pity the man who could have been a prince.” Her eyes turned upwards, and Jane saw a flash of bronze neck as Lady Lachesse tilted her head back to finish her drink.

“But what about his title and his fortune?” Jane asked. “Surely he could live a comfortable and quiet life if he wanted.”

“He relinquished his title after the death of the Satos. You must appreciate the effect that these events had on him – fame and luxury became an anathema to him when he saw how poorly they protected the people in his life. As for the fortune, conventional wisdom is that he has it squirreled away for an emergency, but he lives modestly on his income from the Council.”

Jane shook her head, running her thumb along the smooth edge of her own glass. In the background, a group of men and women laughed loudly. “Why even bother? Why get involved with the Council if he has the money to live a quiet life?”

Lady Lachesse gave Jane a long, sideways glance. “Security.”

Seeing Jane’s puzzlement, Madame Attrop spoke. “I think you’re missing the point of our story, Miss Lin. Someone in Roman’s position cannot afford to be irrelevant, so he chooses to make himself useful. He’s unassuming enough to avoid challenging anyone for power, but he’s resourceful enough to be indispensable to those that have it. Knowing what he knows, he has to be.”