Blood Spirits

  Phaedra stiffened.

  Cerisette lifted her chin, her little smile totally I’m-all-that.

  The secretary read out, “Introduced through Lord Karl-Anton von Mecklundburg on behalf of his mother, the Duchess of von Mecklundburg, on behalf of the people of Riev Dhiavilyi, and on behalf of the population of Dobrenica, a petition for the indictment of Statthalter Marius Alexander Ysvorod for criminal negligence that resulted in the death of Madam Statthalter Ysvorod, Aurelia von Mecklundburg by birth.”

  Tony was staring straight ahead, his mouth grim. Several of the Council members looked at one another, some of them uneasily; one shuffled, and cleared his throat.

  “What are they waiting for?” I breathed, my entire body shivering with horror.

  “They’re all waiting to see who will be the first to—”

  Alec raised his right arm, and the room stilled.

  “I second it,” Alec said.

  The silence after that was like a pistol shot.

  Yeah, I know pistols aren’t silent, but it felt like I’d been drilled right in the heart.

  He got his memory back, I thought. He drove while drunk, and he hates himself for it.

  Cerisette tittered softly, and the Duchess hushed her with a twitch of her elegant head. Robert smiled, nodding in evident satisfaction.

  Baron Ridotski made a sign and the Interlocutor droned, “The Prime Minister observes that the Statthalter’s second abrogates the necessity for the reading of preliminary testimony made by the witnesses gathered on behalf of Lord Karl-Anton.”

  “You find your own witnesses?” I whispered in disbelief.

  “They all will be examined. Sh!”

  The Interlocutor droned in a flat-tire tone, “An investigative committee will be appointed, to which committee may be submitted said testimony in hearing. Should the committee recommend, the question will go to trial before the Grand Council.”

  There was more stirring and whispering, until the Prime Minister tapped his bell and the secretary called loudly for the next item.

  My skull rang with shock. As usual, all I could deal with were the inconsequentials. “Tony is a duke, right?”

  “Not sworn yet,” Phaedra whispered.

  The next item was something about the budget. People seemed unable to stop whispering as the Interlocutor bored on, reading a list of numbers, but I didn’t hear a word.

  My gaze stayed on the three of them: Alec, who had completely masked himself. Beka, who stared into space, stricken. No, it was a lot worse than that. She looked like someone who’d had her heart ripped out by the roots. And Tony, whose expression was the same cold, intent anger I glimpsed briefly just before he killed Reithermann with a knife and when he came at me, sword in hand.

  TWENTY

  AS SOON AS THE SESSION was over, Phaedra jumped up and dodged deftly between people. I caught sight of her again as she bent over Honoré in earnest conversation.

  I tried to spot Alec, but he was completely surrounded.

  Now I understood why he’d been avoiding me. He’d already condemned himself. It was just a matter of the legal world catching up, and until then, the only thing holding him together was work. I stood there, unable to move, my head buzzing with sorrow, regret, helpless rage, and a bit of residual headache from that prism experiment.

  People moved about urgently, determined to talk, question, exclaim. A shoulder brushed my back, an elbow caught me in the side, after which the old man begged my pardon profusely, then went back to his conversation. Everyone seemed to have something to say to someone, but not to me.

  So I ducked, dodged, and ran down the stairs.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was at Nat’s. She was in the middle of eating lunch, so she had no patients.

  I told her everything. Halfway through she began pounding her fist into her palm.

  At the end, she jerked her head up. Gone were the laugh lines I had thought intrinsic to her face. There was no humor at all; I did not recognize this Natalie.

  “Do you know what this means?” she asked.

  “It’s just sinking in. This isn’t a hearing for manslaughter.”

  “Right.”

  “Or whatever the Dobreni call an accident.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s going on trial for murder.”

  “Right.”

  “Natalie, he wouldn’t have driven her to her death on purpose. But he seconded that horrible motion of Tony’s. Alec’s already condemned himself.”

  Natalie sighed. “Neither of us know what kind of political B.S. is going on, but there’s something.” Nat smacked her fist into her hand a couple more times, then said, “So what are you going to do?”

  I flapped my hands. “What can I do?”

  Nat pursed her lips.

  I said, “To tell the truth, I’m half ready to get on the train and go back to London. It’s too late to help Ruli. I get the distinct impression I’m a complication in Alec’s life. And I’m sure as hell worse than that to the rest of them. Well, at least to my relatives. Most. The duchess and—”

  “Kim. You’re gibbering. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Want Auntie Nat’s advice?”

  I folded my forearms across my middle. “Go for it.”

  “Look, I don’t know how you feel about Dobrenica, and life here. Maybe it’s not fair to ask because you’ve been here what, barely a week? And last summer, a month? But . . . well, it’s kinda like the wounded dog thing.”

  “Wounded dog thing?”

  “You know. You can have a tidal wave that kills millions, or talk about the ongoing suffering in African countries, and people throw up their hands, feeling guilty and depressed and helpless to do anything about it. But let some scumbag hurt a dog, which someone else vids and puts on YouTube, and everybody gets bent out of shape, demanding justice, because here’s a situation where justice can actually be done.”

  “Who is the wounded dog here? Alec?”

  “No! The wounded dog is anyone, or any thing, that people feel can be rescued. That can get justice. And you’re the one they’re gonna turn to. Last summer, to a lot of people outside the nosebleed league, you were a hero.”

  “Shouldn’t a hero feel heroic? I don’t.”

  “You were. Ask that kid Theresa and her posse. Ask the Vigilzhi. Ask half the city, last summer when you opened a can of whoop-ass on those thugs of Reithermann’s with your handy-dandy sword. And on your return? You not only saved a baron, but you saved his cats. Never underestimate the P.R. power of animal rescue.”

  I had to laugh. “Cat rescue aside, for the duchess and her crowd, I’m still the conniving gold digger who lies like a rug.”

  Nat grinned. “I think they want to believe it. I think they want you to believe it. I think they want the city to believe it. But at least some of them have to know, on some level, that that’s a load of cow patties.”

  “Yeah. I’m beginning to think that a lot of their attitude is because I stumbled in the way of their getting their pretty paws on the Dsaret inheritance. Money trumps even animal rescue—if you think that money should be yours. But all that can wait. Do you know what a trial means for Alec? I mean, the political side.”

  “From what I understand, he carries on as usual while the committee does its thing. But if he’s called to trial, then the Prime Minister takes over, and Alec’s suspended from his position.”

  My throat was so tight that for a second or two I couldn’t speak. I forced out the words, “So what do you think I can do so heroically?”

  “If I knew what to do, I’d be the hero.”

  “I can’t think past my nose. But I know who can. Nat, can you get me to the palace, to use the phone? I mean, without us causing a major photo op?”

  Nat’s eyes flashed wide, then she shrugged and grinned briefly. “Alec gave me a key long ago. I’ve been careful never to abuse the privilege. Somehow I don’t think this is abuse.”

  She g
ot up, then dropped back onto her old couch, slapping her hands onto her knees. “No. I’ve got a patient right after lunch—wow, that’s in four minutes! And also, if we take a cab to the palace, people will see us. Maybe not such a good idea right now. I think the best time to go is after the sun drops. The weather’s turning nasty. We’ll use it as cover. So meet me here at six.”

  Back at the inn, I looked around at the delivered clothes and the half-spilled canvas bag of my clean laundry. I could deal with trying to get all that into the wardrobe later. What I needed most was to find out what was going on, not just politically but also with the weird world of Vrajhus.

  The prism was sitting on the night table where I’d put it. I opened its box, which released a faint sharp scent. I lifted the prism out and set it down on the night table. Then I sat on top of my clean laundry in lotus position, hands on my knees to steady me.

  Practice. And control.

  I glared into the prism. “Okay, Ruli. I know this isn’t supposed to be able to talk to ghosts, but glass and mirrors seem to be my vector to the ghost-phone. Come on. Pop out and talk to me.”

  Nothing.

  I leaned closer. Tipped the prism this way, that way. Colors flashed—glimpses of unfamiliar faces, none staying long enough for me to catch and hold.

  One thing I knew: none of them were Ruli.

  So I got up, opened the wardrobe door, and experimented with that. No ghost appeared, not even Armandros. Next I tried balancing the prism so that I could see the mirror reflected in it. Finally I stood by the wardrobe with the prism in hand and tried staring into the prism via the mirror.

  All I got for my pains was the faint pangs of a headache.

  So I tucked the prism back into its case and left it on the nightstand. To clear my head I tackled the clothing problem. That, too, reminded me of poor Ruli and her mega-wardrobe up at the Eyrie. I couldn’t get all those new things into the wardrobe and still fit my old stuff, so I hauled out my suitcase and stuck my old stuff in that.

  I slammed the wardrobe door, then put myself through a full work-out. At first my body twinged and the bruises ached, but the twinges faded as I warmed up.

  When I was done, I sat down with the prism again, and this time tried the Zen approach, emptying my mind.

  Lights swarmed and twinkled as before, sometimes shifting through images too quick to catch. Nothing held, nothing made sense, though once I thought I saw myself at the window, wearing one of the Ruli dresses from summer.

  I put the prism away then discovered that I was hungry.

  Downstairs, I found Theresa and Tania near the counter. The way they looked up at me made me wonder if I’d been the subject of their talk.

  Tania’s expression was wretched. “I beg pardon, Mademoiselle,” she said almost inaudible, her gaze downward. “Madam Petrov sent me to collect for the prism.”

  Theresa’s indignant expression was more revealing.

  I said, “Did she think I was going to grab it and run off?”

  “Domnu Petrov would never make such a demand,” Theresa whispered angrily. “It’s her.”

  “She is his wife. The lens store is half hers,” Tania said.

  “Tchah!” Theresa said fiercely. “She would not have said that this morning. She is so stupid—” A quick, revealing glance my way.

  The truth hit me like a punch in the gut. “It’s this murder trial. Right? She thinks I’m implicated.”

  “She is stupid,” Theresa hissed. “Those who talk so are stupid. They have forgotten all about this summer, and how you rescued the baron days ago. And so the smart people tell them!”

  Madam Waleska came out then to ask if I wanted the goulash or the pörkölts with bean soup for dinner. Even she seemed subdued, her voice almost quiet.

  I returned to my room to count out the heavy stamped coins, which I brought back to Tania. I saw the evidence of tears as she pulled on her coat and left.

  I was glad I got that meal into me by time I’d been outside for five minutes. An icy wind had kicked up, special delivery straight from the North Pole.

  It seemed to take forever to get to Nat’s, but I finally stamped down her narrow hall, which smelled like chicken paprika and olive oil.

  She’d made fresh tea. It was still hot enough to scald my tongue. I gulped it down, then she said, “Let’s beat feet. The wind is rising. It’s only going to get nastier.”

  Nat had borrowed an ancient V.W. “No cab,” she called over the roar of a very old engine. “We don’t need the driver blabbing from here to Moscow. Everybody in town is talking about that freakin’ trial.”

  As the flying snow beat against the windshield in clumps, making the wipers struggle, Nat crouched over the wheel in exactly the same way I had on that horrible drive with Honoré, which seemed a thousand years ago. We bumped along slower than a snail.

  There were two cars in the lot at the far side of the palace. Nat peered at them and grunted. “Both belong to the Vigilzhi. Good. Their windows face that way, so even if this storm miraculously lifts, we won’t see them, and they won’t see us. I counted on Alec sending his aides home ahead of the weather. Nobody will be in the government wing.”

  I hid the pang of hurt at the mention of Alec’s name. He had way more serious things to deal with than me. I wouldn’t pester him and add to his burden.

  So maybe it’s time to give up and go home.

  Every instinct cried out against it, but emotional logic isn’t real logic, I thought grimly, as Nat pulled in close to the building and cut the lights. Though it can hurt just as much.

  There was one last thing to try, and I was here to try it. If nothing came of it, I’d find out when the next train was leaving.

  Nat had brought a powerful flashlight, which splashed the blizzard with a silvery beam. We bent into the wind and began to wade. She knew her way. I kept my eye on her back. We reached a wall, the wind whistling mercilessly along it. It seemed a thousand years later when she finally unlocked a door.

  We almost fell inside. The silence was peculiarly loud, after the moaning, hissing wind and snow. As Nat had predicted, nobody was there.

  The air was almost as cold as outside. Nat lit our way with the flash. We moved through a couple of rooms fitted with somewhat battered nineteenth-century furnishings, then reached Alec’s office. I felt his presence. I saw him in the fountain pen on the desk, the neat stacks of papers, the illuminated manuscripts on one wall, and a framed print of the Beatles’ Revolver album cover opposite, as Nat played the flashlight around the room.

  “There you go.” Nat opened her mittened hand toward the phone, which was an old-fashioned, thirties’-style desk phone with a rotary dial. “Want this to be private?”

  “Why? I’d tell you everything afterward. May as well save the effort.”

  “Good. This thing is at least tepid.” She dragged a visitor’s chair over so she could lean against the ceramic stove and kept the flash steady on the desk for me.

  The phone. What was Mom’s London cell number? Her voice whispered in memory, Your dad’s birthday and the license to your junker.

  “You are seriously hardcore, Mom,” I muttered as I pulled my gloves off long enough to dial.

  The phone sounds were so unfamiliar I didn’t know if it was ringing, or busy. Holding my breath, I waited. . . .

  And my mother’s voice came through. “Marie, here.”

  “Mom?”

  She whispered, “Darling! Hang on.”

  Then came those fumbling, squishy noises that you get when someone is walking around, muffling the phone with a hand. Some garbled whispers, and then Mom’s normal voice, “Okay, we’re outside on the porch, where no one can hear us. It’s freezing!”

  “We?” I said.

  “Your dad and I.”

  “Are you back with Milo, then?”

  “We never left. Milo and your grandmother decided . . . never mind that now. Listen, sweetie, Milo likes to eat early, and Emilio said we’ll be sitting down soon.”
/>
  “Do you know what’s going on? What happened to Ruli? And to Alec this morning?”

  Sound was garbled as she and Dad whispered. Then Mom said, “Yeah.” And in the background, Dad’s voice: “We got caught up the night you left, and we got another report this afternoon.”

  “What do you think I should do? Mom, I want to help but I think I’m only in Alec’s way. And as for poor Ruli—”

  “Hey, dude,” Nat whispered.

  I motioned for her to wait.

  “Tell us your side of things. Here, your dad is standing next to me, and I’m pressing speaker. Go ahead.”

  The phone made noises, and I could hear their breathing.

  “Kim?” Nat whispered.

  I glanced up as she pointed to the hallway, then killed the flashlight. “I think I heard something,” she whispered into the sudden darkness.

  “Besides the storm, I mean.”

  Darkness made it easier to talk, somehow. I gave my parents a fast rundown, telling them everything except the dire warning of possible madness for those with the Sight.

  When I finished up with the Council meeting I said, “So what do you think I should do?”

  There was whispering, then Dad took the phone. “Rapunzel, what does she want?”

  “The duchess?”

  “Yep.”

  “No idea. And there’s no way she’s going to tell me the truth. Power? Revenge?”

  Mom came on next. “Hon, it sounds like she—and Tony—have either wigged out or they’re after something. What do they want?”

  “Really, Mom. I have no idea. I’ve only seen the duchess once. She didn’t even invite me to the private part of the funeral. Not that I was all that hot about going. But I would have. She’s avoided me otherwise, and at the wreath party, the only thing she talked about besides why did I dare to show up was how much she wanted her chef Pedro back. Tony talks, but he only says what he wants you to hear.”

  There was more muffled mumbling, then Dad said quickly, “Mom’s filling your grandmother in, and—fewmets! Emilio just gave us the high sign. Hon, if you can figure out what they want, you should be able to make sense of what they’re doing to get there. What’s that?”