A Novel by A. J. Hartley Page B

nothing—like Berrit, like all Lani street brats—except that I was less even in the eyes of my own people because I was the cursed third daughter.
    But here was this sophisticated and powerful man telling me I was special, remarkable as a two-headed coin.…
    And then there was what he had said about how the death of Berrit heralded crimes yet to come, troubling occurrences that would overwhelm us all if not prevented.
    â€œYour friend Berrit is the lion’s tail,” Willinghouse said. “A detail you spot but think is part of the bush until the beast pounces. There are larger things afoot here, Miss Sutonga. We stand on the very brink of disaster.”
    The goat curry was, as promised, remarkably good. It was served with tea in translucent china cups and saucers by a silent, elderly white man who I could only describe as butlerish, and I wolfed it all down as if I hadn’t eaten for days.
    Willinghouse watched me, fascinated, as hunger stripped me of pride.
    The door opened and another white man leaned in. He was tall, about Willinghouse’s age, and dressed in a slightly old-fashioned suit. He had sandy hair, no mustache, and freckles that emphasized his youth, as did the smile that lit his face when he saw me. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Our new employee! The steeplejack, yes?”
    I blinked at him and checked Willinghouse, who frowned with disapproval.
    â€œWe are still working out the details,” he said.
    â€œNonsense!” said the newcomer, striding over to me.
    I rose, flustered, wishing I had left my hair down.
    He took my hand and shook it vigorously. “Charmed and delighted,” he said, beaming. “I am Stefan Von Strahden. Call me Stefan. I’m a colleague of Willinghouse’s.” He had pale blue eyes and an infectious manner, but his familiar frankness was unnerving.
    â€œA colleague?” I managed.
    â€œIn Parliament,” he said, adding in response to my chastened look, “Oh, it’s not so grand as all that. Shuffling papers and making dull speeches most of the time. Powerfully tedious compared to what you do up there in the clouds! That must be extraordinary!”
    â€œShouldn’t you be at dinner, Stefan?” said Willinghouse icily, the scar contracting into a thin pink line.
    â€œI should,” he said, “but I just had to meet this talented young lady. And now I seem incapable of leaving her company.”
    â€œFind a way,” said Willinghouse.
    â€œReally, Josiah!” exclaimed Von Strahden. “So churlish in front of a lady! Don’t you find him churlish?” he asked me. “You’d think a politician would be better at talking to people, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œI’m trying to talk to her,” Willinghouse inserted, sparing me the responsibility of responding. “So if you wouldn’t mind—”
    He was interrupted by the door opening briskly. A young white woman with hazel eyes and chestnut hair stood in the doorway, her face taut with an exasperation at odds with her elegant formal wear.
    â€œMr. Von Strahden,” she said, somehow managing to sound both bored and irritated, as if the world had let her down, as was to be expected. “Cook says he will not serve dessert until at least one of the male guests is actually at the table, and since I would prefer not to starve to death this evening, I ask that, for the sake of common courtesy, you leave whatever you are doing here immediately.”
    I was standing right in front of her, but she didn’t seem to see me at all.
    â€œOh,” said Von Strahden. “Right. I was just meeting your brother’s new associate.”
    He nodded in my direction, and I, not knowing what else to do, extended my hand toward her. Her eyes found me at last, moved to my hand, and lingered on it, her posture still rigid, her head held high so that she had to peer at me down her perfect nose. Her hands, which were