Winnie was dressed as Isis, sister-wife of Osiris. She rode down Park Lane in procession, atop a gilt-licked pyramid mounted on wheels, accompanied by a huge quantity of Mrs. Bone’s hired men, who were done up in grease paint and the tunics Winnie had sewn for them. They were preceded by two lines of camels, hired from Mr. Sanger’s circus, restless and golden, drawn by two dozen men in overalls with ropes looped to their waists. The other men carried drums, resounding with each step. Above it all, Winnie stood in white sequins, shimmering, her hands outstretched.
The crowd gasped, delighted. The traffic ground to a halt in every direction.
Winnie closed her eyes. She could feel sweat on her brow, but she didn’t dare touch her paint. The crowd applauded her, whooping. Winnie concentrated all her energies on being a queen. It wasn’t very easy to stay upright. The pyramid rumbled and rattled beneath her. She willed herself, Don’t fall, don’t fall. The structure was hollow inside, full of shelves and compartments. And more men, not seen: the relief party. She pictured them clutching the handles, wincing at every jolt in the road.
The other entertainments came tripping along behind her: jugglers and fire-eaters and dancing-girls with hoops. Men with accordions, angels carrying bells. The whole thing was splendid and discordant, as loud and extravagant as they could get it.
Her throat tightened as she finally descended from the pyramid.
“Here,” she whispered, collaring a man in a white tunic. “Can you take a message to Mrs. King for me?”
“About what?”
“Just say, Something’s up with the little bird.”
“She’ll understand?”
“Just tell her.” Winnie hadn’t liked Alice’s expression earlier. There was something working in the girl’s mind, something Winnie couldn’t easily interpret. It sounded the alarm in Winnie’s head. She needed a second opinion.
Mrs. Bone’s man looked at her in disapproval. “You realize you’re not really a queen?”
She ignored that. The men guarded her across the pavement, under the porch, through the gigantic front door. She had known she would falter when she smelled the inside of the house again. Wax on wood. Vinegar on glass. Those scents lingered over something vast and rotten underneath.
In you go, she told herself, and brought her warriors into the house with her.
The bell board was painted a dark shade of forest green, surmounted with gleaming brass bells, gilded labels naming the rooms: Mr. de Vries’s Study. Mr. de Vries’s Bathroom. The Boiserie. The Dining Room. The Oval Drawing Room. The Ballroom.
One of the bells set up a furious ringing.
“Alice?” a voice called. “Madam’s ready for you.”
Alice shot another glance at the bell board. She could see the brass shimmering, the clapper still vibrating.
Miss de Vries’s Dressing Room.
“Coming,” Alice said, smoothing her apron.
Miss de Vries met Mr. Lockwood in Papa’s bathroom. She expected results, and she intended to get them. She had already emerged from the water, wrapped herself up, was entirely decent. But her skin was still damp and flushed, and his eyebrows went up when he saw her.
“In here, Miss de Vries?” he said. “Really?”
The walls were the darkest oak, rubbed to an impossible shine, inlaid with a hundred mirrors and grotesque wood carvings. He eyed them now, wrinkling his nose at the nudes, the ivory statues, the phallic water jugs.
She pulled her shawl over her shoulders. “I wanted to speak in private. Have you finished the negotiations?”
He sighed. “Lady Ashley’s people are reviewing the finer points of the jointure.”
“They were doing that three days ago.”
“And they may well be doing it three days hence, Miss de Vries. Or longer.”
Miss de Vries emptied the water jug, watching the water explode against the sides of the sink. “I want this business concluded tonight.”
Lockwood set his mouth in a grim line. “So do we all. But these matters take time.”
Miss de Vries turned, faced him straight on. “I need surety, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “I need to make progress. I can’t wait forever.”
“You can wait three days.”
“Perhaps I can, but I won’t. Give them till midnight, or I’m closing the negotiations.”
Lockwood closed his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
She smiled. “No, I don’t mean that. But you’ll tell them I do.” She adjusted her mantle.
“I shall need a sweetener if I’m to turn the screws.”
“No sweeteners. You’ve made far too many concessions already.”
He tilted his head. “To Lady Ashley, perhaps. But you’re seeking a different quarry. Lord Ashley has his own particular weak spots.”
Miss de Vries rubbed her fist against the mirrored glass, clearing the steam, examining herself. “Then press them. Press any one you like.”
“It’s not so much about pressing.” Lockwood’s voice was soft. “It’s more about…presenting.” Lockwood smiled, eyes dead and unreadable. She felt a tingle in her skin.
“You mean a gift.”
“Yes.”
It had been coming for days. She’d felt Ashley hovering around it when he came for tea, and Lockwood had picked it up at once, his little lizard tongue flickering all over it. Tasting it for salty bits, for blood.
“I see,” she said.
“In normal circumstances I’d discuss this with your dear papa, but…”
She looked at him, silent.
He raised an eyebrow. “Miss de Vries?”
“Yes?” Her skin was hot, getting hotter. She’d never come this close to the business before. Never all the way to the brink.
He held her gaze. “Have you a name in mind?”
Alice took the stairs, not the lift. The hall was filling with early guests, the least important people, and the house churned and eddied beneath her. The marble glimmered as she passed, and in it she saw her reflection, a nervy little ghost hurrying upstairs.
I could run away, she thought. I could get on a steamer. I could jump off a bridge, for that matter.
Pull yourself together, she told herself.
Miss de Vries was already undressing, unpeeling her robe, freeing her hair. She looked pink, vulnerable in the lamplight. It twisted Alice’s heart.
“Yes?” Miss de Vries said, voice tense.
“It’s me, Madam,” said Alice, trying to keep steady. “I’ve come to sew you into your costume.”
Madam was nimble, like a wolf. She came across the room, hard, quick steps, arms out. “Unbutton me,” she said. “How swiftly can you do it?”
Her face was gleaming, rubbed with creams, yesterday’s fatigue smoothed away. Alice began unfastening Miss de Vries’s gown, her fingers fumbling.
“Hurry.”
“I have to be careful,” Alice said, and then added, “Madam.”
Miss de Vries wriggled out of Alice’s hands, vanished behind the screen, revealing a flash of whalebone corsetry as she went.
“Come and help,” she said, and crooked a finger, beckoning.
The bird women sat on benches in the corner of the park, scattering bits of stale bread on the ground. Mrs. King sat with them, hat tilted over her eyes, throwing her own scraps to the pigeons. She listened to the old women’s chatter, secretive and girlish, and felt the evening thickening with heat. She waited there, keeping the de Vries residence in the corner of her eye, gathering her strength for the night ahead.