Dearly, Beloved (22 page)

Soon I came upon Lopez’s. I had to return it to him somehow, even if he didn’t come to call on us. To keep Michael’s hankie had seemed romantic and intimate; I didn’t want Lopez to think I entertained the same notions about his. Not that he probably would. I’d never gotten a creepy vibe from him. But I wanted to avoid any hint of impropriety—more than that, any reminder of Allister. I’d already burned his.

Something struck me as I unfolded his handkerchief from the
pile, though. After a moment I started cursing myself for not having seen it before. His monogram was embroidered in faint, dignified gray—
E.N.L
.—but a narrow black border lined the edge. He was in mourning. Maybe he’d lost someone during the Siege. Poor man.

Just then I heard the doorbell ring, the squeak of footsteps. As useless as it was, I stopped and looked at the ceiling. “Good afternoon,” a deep voice said as the door opened. “Would your parents happen to be in?”

“It
is
you!” Isambard exclaimed. “Come in, Lord Lopez.”

This was it.

Hurriedly I ironed and folded Lopez’s handkerchief, before turning my eyes to the rows of empty, cocoonlike clothing suspended from the ceiling beams. Among them I found my blue lawn, which at least was good enough to be seen in at St. Cyprian’s. For a moment I contemplated changing into it in the middle of the basement. I was currently wearing an old chintz dress with cheap, scratchy lace at the neck and sleeves and a small patch on the back—my work clothes. I’d changed into them after church. And last time I’d felt so out of place, so dowdy, so … well, the way Cyprian’s had taught me to feel.

Something ultimately stopped me from reaching for the dress, though. It was the memory of my mother forcing me to “read” innocently in the parlor when we knew full well Michael was outside, preparing to call. Forcing herself to embroider in her rocking chair while he was there—my mother, the hard worker, the bootstrap-puller. Just so we’d resemble his idea of “normal,” of “respectable.”

Bile rose in my throat. I would never do that again. Never let her do that again. Not for a lord, not for anybody.

In the end I just shook out my long braids and pulled my hair back into an impromptu bun, sleeking down the strands behind my ears with water from the washer. Then, taking a breath, I
began my climb. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Lopez was saying. “I thought Sunday might be the best day to catch all of you at home.”

“Not at all! I’m not sure where my daughter’s run off to,” Dad replied. “But please, let me take your coat and hat, my lord.”

“Thank you. And please, Lopez alone will do.”

“Are you sure?” My father seemed confused.

“Very sure. Feel free to consider it an eccentricity.”

I came up behind them from the basement entrance, Lord Lopez’s handkerchief pressed protectively between my hands.
“Lopez!”
I exclaimed, doing my best to sound as if I’d been ignorant of his arrival. “How nice to see you.”

The man turned to regard me, his expression thankful. “Miss Roe.” He bowed. He was dressed all in black again, but subtle little differences convinced me his current suit was different from the one I’d seen him in before. The lapels were of black velvet, and his cravat was tinseled with silver thread.

“May I officially present my daughter,” my father said. “Although I’ll refrain from indulging in the three-ring name circus, if you don’t mind, seeing as you two already know each other.”

After curtsying, I walked forward and offered him his handkerchief. It was the perfect time to do it, with my parents watching. “I was just about to put this someplace safe. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

Lopez accepted it and tucked it away. “My pleasure.” My mother smiled at me approvingly.

“Please, join us in the parlor.” My father ushered everyone forward. “Is the tea ready, dear?”

“Very nearly.” Mom saw herself out.

Dad shut the screen off with the remote control as soon as he entered. Isambard was already inside, holding Jenny by the hand. My father clapped a hand on Issy’s shoulder and said to Lopez,
“And this is my son, Isambard. I believe that last time you saw him he was … alive.”

Issy bowed stiffly to Lopez. “I owe you my thanks, my lord.”

“Think nothing of it. I’m glad to see you looking so well, young man.” Lopez looked down at Jenny, who was staring up at him, her eyes like two headlights. “And who is this little lady?”

“Jenny Delgado, one of our neighbors.”

Lopez inclined his head at her. “Hello, Miss Delgado.”

Issy squeezed Jenny’s hand, whispering, “Curtsy.”

Jenny did no such thing. Instead she pointed at Lopez’s face and pronounced, “You’re wearing a caterpillar!”

Lopez straightened up, his hand moving to his moustache. After a protracted second, he chuckled. “Is it that bad? I have been away from civilization for quite some time.”

Laughing, I moved to pick Jenny up, relieving Isambard of his duties for a while. “Come on, Jenny-bear. Let’s find your crayons.”

I took her to the corner by the fireplace, where she had a tin pail of crayon stubs and a long roll of butcher paper to draw on. As I tore off a piece for her, Lopez took a seat on our satin sofa, glancing curiously about our poky parlor. I felt another stab of embarrassment, despite the fact that my mother had polished it obsessively upon learning that a
lord
might call on her—but a split second later he caught my eye and smiled kindly, and I found my embarrassment dissolving. Outside, it began to rain.

“We all owe you so much,” Dad said as he sat down in his usual chair. Isambard sat in Mother’s rocking chair for the time being. “My daughter told us what happened that night, but I’m afraid it still seems rather surreal. I never thought of attempting to locate you, to thank you, and that is a mark against me. Thank goodness you ran into her again.”

“Your thanks are happily accepted, but not necessary,” Lopez
said, addressing my father, his expression growing serious. “If I have performed my duty, that is enough. And I can only apologize for my repeated run-ins with Miss Roe without your knowledge.”

Dad shook his head. “No, no, never mention it again.” Upon hearing this, Lopez seemed to relax a little.

Mother came in with the best tea service then, and set it down on the table. “My daughter said you’re no longer with the army? Forgive my curiosity.”

“No. I was relieved at the pleasure of the government, following the death of my elder brother, Lord Atticus Lopez.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mother said, regret washing across her plump features. “Did he … was he infected?”

“No, though he did pass away during the troubles in December.” Lopez set his hands in his lap. “It’s not a story for little ears, I’m afraid. Nor do I derive much enjoyment from its telling.”

“Of course.” Mom started pouring. As she did, Isambard sent me a frantic look that told me how badly he wanted to get in on the conversation. Even in death his age prevented him from speaking unless spoken to. Mine did, too. It must have seemed terribly unfair to Issy—he could never actually grow up and reach the stage where he could speak with other men as a man in his own right. The fact that he wasn’t arguing against this very thing, fighting for a reevaluation of his social prospects, told me just how much death had changed him. The old Issy would have clawed his way up the social ladder tooth and nail.

I wasn’t sure whether to be proud of him or utterly devastated.

“I’ve been renting in the city since his funeral,” Lopez volunteered. Accepting a cup of tea, he joked, his tone dull, “You must correct me, madam, if I make any etiquette mistakes. I’m sure fifteen years in the army have taken their toll. You’ve obviously raised two wonderful children, and I’m sure I could benefit from your instruction.”

Mom smiled at him, and her smile struck me as being from another time, another place. It was a smile born of true sympathy, of pleasure at another’s kindness. I only had a few moments to enjoy it before Jenny tugged on my sleeve, calling my attention back to her. I helped her to hold her crayons as she worked.

The adults went on to speak in soft tones of many nontopics—the weather, the prices of things since the Siege, everything but the actual violence and events thereof. I listened compulsively, anxious that Lopez might still give me up, tell them about the real circumstances of our second meeting—but he never did. In fact, there was something calming in his demeanor, something about the way he phrased his statements that made them seem fair and just. It put me at ease. As he and my parents chatted, I could see it was having an effect on them, too. They joked a little. Their postures softened.

It was a priceless gift.

After a while Mother rose to light a few more oil lamps. Premature darkness was settling outside, the rain coming down harder, the blue walls of the parlor turning gray. As she did, Lopez addressed my brother. “Forgive me for being so forward, but may I ask after your health?”

Isambard scratched at his lip. “You mean about being a zombie, my lord?”

Lopez coughed. “Yes. After I left you and your sister behind, I confess, I wondered what fate I was consigning you to.”

“Well, after I reanimated and we got back to the house to hide, Dr. Evola went to work on me. He drained all my blood, put in my valves.” Isambard offered his wrist to show off his medication valve. “Because my heart doesn’t work anymore, you see.”

If Lopez was disturbed by this, he didn’t show it. “I see. And what are your plans now?”

Isambard thought about it for a moment before saying, “Just to … do what I have to. Jenny’s my responsibility. I don’t know.
I’d help in the bakery, but I can’t now.” He rotated his paper cup of water in his hands. “I used to never want to, ever. Now I do, and I can’t.”

“I understand that well.” Lopez looked over at me. “And you, Miss Roe?”

Jenny started struggling to her feet, and I helped her stand. “The same. To be with those I love.” I had no answer other than that. I couldn’t exactly inform him that my highest goal at the moment was to stop dreaming of death and destruction, stop jumping at every noise.

Lopez nodded minutely, before looking to the floor. “Ah, what’s this?”

As he’d spoken, Jenny had walked over to him, piece of paper in hand. When she finally neared him she stumbled over a slight hump in the carpet, and Lopez immediately reached down to take one of her hands and help her regain her balance. Once she had her bearings, she shook him off and proudly held up the page. She’d drawn, ostensibly, Lord Lopez. At least the drawing looked vaguely head-shaped, although the head sported a green caterpillar for a moustache, complete with legs and antennae. “You!”

Lopez’s lips spasmed, but he didn’t laugh. “I am honored, Miss Delgado. A striking resemblance! May I keep it?” She nodded happily. “Will you sign it for me?”

“One last awkward question, if you’ll permit me,” Dad said, as Jenny ran back to me. “Your surname is Lopez. As in the Lopezes of Marblanco?”

Lopez set down his cup. “I’m afraid so.”

This held absolutely no meaning for me, but my mother put the box of matches back on the mantel and slowly lowered her arms, staring at him. “Truly? How sad.”

My father attempted to shush her with a look. Issy and I shared a confused glance. Marblanco? What was Marblanco?

“Yes.” Lopez’s voice was now gruff, and I felt pins and needles in my chest again. I willed my parents to shut up.

“You have no other relatives, then, I take it, aside from your late brother?” Dad asked.

“None with whom I am close.” Lopez glanced at the mantel clock just in time to see it strike the half hour. “I’m afraid I mustn’t stay much longer.”

My father stood up and bowed. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I apologize for causing you any discomfort.”

“No, not at all.” Lopez gained his feet as well and extended his hand. “It was a long time ago. Your family is kind in the extreme. It’s been an honor to accept your hospitality.” Dad shook his hand, obviously relieved. Still, I felt at a loss, anxious about what he’d done. Whatever it was. I didn’t understand.

Neither did I understand the explosion that tore through my head the next time I blinked.

This time I knew it wasn’t fireworks, or thunder, or anything outside. The explosion echoed from under my feet. I gripped Jenny to me, her bird-sharp wail cutting through the sudden ringing in my ears. I could have sworn I’d felt the floor shift beneath me, but as my heart started to painfully pound, I wasn’t sure if that had actually happened or not.

Dad and Lopez flew out into the hall. Mom was screaming. I stood up, seemingly in slow motion, and pushed Jenny into Dad’s chair, ordering her to stay there. Issy moved to help with her, and I ran after the men, suddenly keenly aware of the weight of my dress.

Dad was at the open door. There was no panic outside; only a nondescript carriage racing down the dark, rainy street. It was going so fast that when it swerved to avoid another carriage, it teetered terrifyingly to one side. Someone was leaning out of the window, watching our house, and for a moment I thought myself mad—because that person had a beak. Like a giant bird.

Like the people who’d attacked Nora and Mr. Griswold.

Lopez opened the door to the basement and stepped back, yelling, “Down there!”

I turned. Dad grabbed my arm, as if he expected me to run down into the cellar—but I didn’t have to. I could see it. The door that led to the bakery was gone, a gaping hole standing in its place. I could make out more damage beyond—cracked flooring, destroyed equipment. Pieces of wall tile crumbled before my eyes, like sugar cubes in water. Dust and smoke billowed upward, small fires kindling in the corners.

Lopez turned back to look at me, his voice forceful. “Gather everyone into the street and call the police. Now.”

Without looking back, without even pausing for breath, I ran to the parlor. I was still unsure what I’d just witnessed. All I knew was that the very world was shaking apart around us.

Again.