“I believe there are martinis in the pitcher,” said Alberta, pointing at the side table. “Door to the attic through there, lamp to the right at the top. Sheets and towels in the trunk.” She folded her arms, watching Helen with her perfect face. Helen dearly wanted to ask if her words from the night before had had an effect, but she knew perfectly well that if she asked point-blank Alberta would tell her no, and retreat. So Helen merely nodded, and poured a martini for herself and a tumbler of water for Jane, and pushed Jane before her up the steep narrow stairs to the attic.
A chill crept up her spine as she went up the stairs, but she told herself firmly to stop it. This was not the Grimsbys’ attic. She found the oil lamp where Alberta had indicated, turned the key, and then found with relief that this attic didn’t remind her of the Grimsbys’ in the slightest. It had a lot of stuff, true—didn’t all attics?—but there the resemblance ended. This attic was a long rectangle with steeply sloped rafters—you could really only stand up in the middle. And the stuff here was more theatre things—costumes, mostly—hanging on loops of wire nailed to the rafters. Dresses, slacks, blouses, feathered hats and boas, all different styles and decades, separated one cot from the next and afforded a bit of privacy. Trunks and hat boxes were wedged between the cots, but a big black trunk nearest the door had LINENS painted on it in theatrical red and gold. Helen went quietly down the narrow aisle to make sure they were alone, then took Jane and sat her down on the very last cot, where Jane would have to pass her if she tried to go wandering in the night.
“First some water,” Helen said, and handed the water glass to her sister, setting her own glass down on a trunk by the cot. Jane obediently downed the whole glass. “Now a swallow of this will help you sleep,” Helen said, and handed Jane her martini. Jane began to drink it, too, as though it were water, and Helen cried, “Stop, stop,” and snatched the glass away again. “That should knock you out,” she said. “Maybe you’ll sleep it off.”
“Sleep it off,” Jane said dreamily as Helen made up the cot and tucked her into it. She closed her eyes and rolled over.
Helen began making up her own cot, pondering what to do next. She had found Jane, but now what? Jane could not fix The Hundred in this state—nor could she restore poor Millicent Grimsby, even if they knew where to find her. Jane could not even simply be Jane. Helen would have to figure out how to restore her sister to herself, if a good night’s sleep didn’t do the trick. She peeked around the row of costumes. Jane appeared to be sound asleep.
Helen eased off her heels and sank to the cot. She carefully pried up the bandage on her palm to check the cut. It seemed to be doing well enough, though she thought she should see if Frye had some fresh gauze and tape. It was a shame that she’d done all that warehouse-climbing in that skirt—the seam was ripped open, her shirt was smudged, and mud had smeared across her side and rear. The seam she could fix, but the skirt would need careful soaking and reshaping. Yet that was all she had to wear tomorrow, unless Frye’s generosity extended to letting Helen borrow one of the dresses up here. Curious despite the problems pressing on her shoulders, Helen looked through the clothes that separated her cot from Jane’s, automatically cataloging what period each dress was, and what sort of person would wear it. Lavender sachets hung thickly between the dresses, perfuming the room whenever she touched them. There were plenty of regular Frye clothes in the mix as well—caftans and slacks, neither of which she was sure she wanted to try, even if they would fit. Frye was much taller and more broad-shouldered than Helen. Still, that peacock blue knit dress there could be cinched with the belt she had on and look rather nice. With a few more minutes and a needle she could put a couple of darts in, raise the hem, and have something rather chic.…
Thought became action, and Helen slid off her ruined clothes and slipped into the knit dress, adjusting it to get it to hang correctly. She crouched under the steep rafters to take the belt from her skirt on the floor, and stopped as something fell from her skirt pocket.
The telegram Mary had handed her that afternoon, just before Alistair walked in. Helen’s heart raced as she ripped open the seal. What would Mr. Rochart say about what she had told him? And now, Jane was back, and she would need to inform him of the new situation.…
“PER FOREST, SELF-STYLED BLUE KING IN CITY. MOVING FAST,” it read. “TAKING NEXT TRAIN FOR JANE. ROCHART.”
Her face paled as she deciphered the cryptic sentences. Blue King—the Fey King, that meant. Confirmation of what Niklas had said—a fey who called himself the Fey King was here, in the city. Rochart had learned it from his strange, dangerous excursion into the forest with Dorie. They must have just returned.
Helen stood, in a frenzy of what to do. She paced—no, there was no room to pace here, and things everywhere she turned— Energy sent her down the attic steps. The small party had drifted downstairs—they could be heard at the piano. Frye was still not there, nor was she in any of the other public rooms. Helen went back up the stairs and paced the second-floor landing, wanting desperately to talk to someone, to unburden herself, when Alberta stuck her head out to see what the noise was. Her hairdo was still intact, but she was in a pair of men’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, smelling of a clean citrusy soap.
“A telegram fell out of my pocket,” Helen said incoherently. “And things are happening fast, and if Mr. Rochart’s coming to find Jane, where is he going to go? Alistair’s, and I’m not there.…”
“Did you have too much gin?” said Alberta.
“None yet,” said Helen.
Alberta sighed. “Come to my room and tell me everything.” She turned and padded to the guest room, Helen behind her. The small guest room had a double bed, layered with several quilts, a dresser shellacked in shiny black, and hooks randomly spaced around the walls, two of which held a bright yellow and a bright orange dress. Under the window stood a battered metal music stand and an open case with a silver sax in it. Alberta plonked down cross-legged on the bed and passed Helen a silver flask. “That’s actually decent stuff,” she said, “and if you drink it all you owe me a bottle.”
Helen took a cautious sip and found that it was, indeed, a decent scotch. “Two nights ago Jane and I almost killed someone,” she said.
“That’s an opening,” said Alberta. She began taking down her hairdo with its silk poppy. “Go on.”
Another sip to loosen the tongue and it all came out, all Helen’s worries and fears and questions. “And I thought once Jane turned up I could go back to being her helper—let her make the big decisions. Except I don’t know if she was drugged or what but she’s definitely not deciding anything tonight. So now the question is should I go back to Alistair’s right now and try to meet up with her fiance or not,” she finished up. “I mean, if he’s there, he could take over. But even if I do go, I can’t take Jane with me. This is really good scotch.”
“Okay, back up,” said Alberta. “Now firstly, this fiance guy is a rich man. He’s not going to go straight from the train to your husband’s house, even if he is worried about Jane. He’ll get a hotel. Secondly, if he has the sense given to little green apples, he’ll know things might be touchy at your place. He’ll send a message ’round to you for how to reach him.”
“And Alistair will intercept that,” said Helen. “No, wait, Alistair has changed.” She took another drink.
“It’ll be coded,” put in Alberta. “Haven’t you ever had to be dodgy before?”
“Ppffft. Only when I was trying to get away from that doctor. And the creditors. And those men who would follow me around the dance hall and just watch, you know?” Helen waved a hand dramatically. “Just
“I’ll take that, thank you,” said Alberta, and she plucked the silver flask back from Helen, peered inside. “You owe me.”
Helen studied the pretty face sitting across from her on the bed. It was in fact very pleasant to feel warmed all over, and as though you could just say anything you wanted, without running through all those damn machinations of
Alberta ran her fingers over the patterned silver flask. “I don’t know,” she said, and there was a connection, an honesty to the words. “It seems to me I’m completely justified in staying this way.”
Helen nodded. “In fact that’s true,” she said. “Keep your iron and don’t mind me.”
“Why haven’t
“So I can convince people against their will,” Helen said. She suddenly grinned. “And so I can stay prettiest the longest.”
It was the first real smile she’d gotten from Alberta. “Wait,” she said, and she got off the bed, and padded in her blue-and-white pyjamas to the open saxophone case. From a velvet pocket she took out a cheap battered
