Copperhead (8 page)

“Yes,” said Helen. “I’m her sister. But—”

“Helen!” she said. “How delightful. And so fashionably brave, too.” Her finger inscribed a circle around her own mask, indicating Helen’s lack of one. “I think someone beat us here. Do you know if Jane’s safe?”

“I don’t know where she is,” said Helen, swallowing the crushing disaster down, willing herself to find hope. “But she probably wasn’t here when this happened. I hope.” Her sister was tidy; Helen could not imagine the room being the way it was on Jane’s account. It was unheated and tiny; cot and table and woodstove all in one room, with a single door leading to what she supposed might be the rest of the house, possibly a shared bath. The woman had turned on an oil lamp, and it cast an orange glow around the wreckage of the room.

The room had been ransacked.

“Perhaps she’s out being brave and bold and doing good works,” said the woman.

“Maybe,” temporized Helen. She could not think. If Jane had not gone here, then where would she have gone? Helen and Alistair’s home? It seemed unlikely. What had she said?
I have my own plans.…

Helen sent tentative feelers out, wondering what the woman’s purpose was—and if anything could be deduced from her about Jane’s whereabouts. “I suppose you were here to see Jane? She’s trying to explain to you her—
our
noble goals? Talk you into letting her … you know. Work on your face?” she said. It was as tactful as she could manage around the frostbitten fingers and the tangled knots of worry.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” the woman said. “I’m dying to have my old face back. Let’s rip it off.”

“Really?” said Helen. “Most women have been very resistant. So far only—,” but she thought belatedly that perhaps she shouldn’t mention poor Mrs. Grimsby.

“Well, I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” the woman said decidedly. “I wouldn’t have done it except it seemed good for my career. But then the visions!”

“Did you have nightmares, too?” said Helen.

“Oh, my goodness. Did you have dreams where a bunch of beautifully creepy men and women stood around you in a circle and then it turned out they were all wearing your face?”

“Um. No,” said Helen.

The woman paced around the overturned chairs, setting them up straight for something to do. Her face went in and out of the shadows flung by the oil lamp. “I’m an actor, you see. But I always got the odd roles. The wacky maiden aunt. The cryptic fortune-teller. And then I heard about this man who would make you beautiful, and I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to be the ingénue for once?” Her brusque voice momentarily went wistful. “You see what I mean, don’t you?” She pulled off her iron mask to reveal an exquisitely strong, purposeful face. Striking and glamorous with the fey, and yet Helen could imagine the face as it must have been before—the sort of woman you might call handsome if you wanted a way to describe how her face made you feel—a woman with purpose and character in spades, but not a beauty.

“But it turned out you were the same inside as you were before,” Helen murmured.

The woman heard her and laughed, a strong laugh like a ship breaking through the sea. It displayed a nice white set of teeth, even except for a gap in front. “Well, I expected that, you know. I’m no fool. But I didn’t expect the voices in my head. The wallpaper swimming in. And that is not worth it in the slightest, and I’m ready to take my old face back and enjoy being the wacky maiden aunt again. Besides, between you and me, being the ingénue isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Drippy girls pining over young men who aren’t worth it. I had my fun—my rabid fans, my scandalous love affairs. Sat as an artist’s model for the bronze outside the ballet, you know the one—?”

“Intimately,” said Helen dryly.

The woman laughed again and put out a hand, strong and bold like a man’s. “I like you,” she said. “There’s more in you than one would suspect.”

Helen thought that might be sort of an insult, but it was said so forthrightly she couldn’t possibly take offense. She shook the woman’s hand heartily in her own. “Helen Huntingdon,” she said.

“Eglantine Frye,” the woman said. “But please, call me Frye.”

“All right,” said Helen. She had never met someone like this; she knew how to make bright and brittle small talk with men and women of all sorts but not hold a real conversation with this strong-willed woman in slacks who stood in her sister’s destroyed flat, joking about ripping off her face. “Frye it is.”

“Great,” said Frye. “So tell me. How soon can you replace my face?”

Helen looked at the woman in shock.

“I’m serious,” said Frye. “Jane’s not here but you are. She wanted to do me last week. I shouldn’t have beat around the metaphorical bush, but I wanted one last good carouse before going back to my old life. So here I am, high on courage and gin and no Jane.”

“You don’t want me to do that,” said Helen.

“I don’t want this face anymore,” Frye said adamantly. “I’m in danger with it.”

“You’re in danger if I try,” said Helen. “Beyond the fact that I don’t know how—that’s how Jane disappeared tonight. She was doing a facelift and something went wrong. Besides, you wouldn’t want me even if I thought I could do it. I’m…” I’m silly, she wanted to say. I’m not sensible. And when I make big decisions, like marrying Alistair, I think maybe I ruin everything. How could you trust me to do something big like this, something important? “I’m not Jane,” she finished lamely.

“Hold everything,” Frye said. “You’re saying Jane actually disappeared?” She whistled like a boy as she surveyed the wrecked flat. “This is looking grimmer by the moment.” Frye seemed to do nothing by economy. She swung back around to look at Helen and her whole frame followed the motion of her glance. “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find Jane. No! To find clues—to track her down. She must have gone underground, gone into hiding. Say no more. I’ll help you search.”

Frye fell to with a will, sorting the small room to rights. Helen fell in beside her, sorting through the shadows. Gone into hiding, she thought. Yes. That’s all. Jane has gone into hiding—
I have my own plans
—and Helen would find a clue here to where that hiding place was. She was not sure exactly what that clue would be, but surely something would turn up if she just kept standing up chairs and hanging up clothes. Not that there were many clothes to hang up. Two dresses, both dark—and probably only that many so Jane wouldn’t have to stand in her slip and wash her only change of clothes in the communal sink. None of the pretty things she had given Jane. No, this was sensible Jane from head to toe, and Helen thought again how useful she could have been—would still be—to Jane in her quest. Those women didn’t want their savior to be sensible and plain. Nobody trusted sensible and plain. They trusted smart. Turned out. Fashionable.

“Whoever wrecked this was looking for something,” mused Frye, her penciled eyebrows knitting together. “But what could you hide in a room this small?”

“Or maybe they wanted to disguise whatever it was they were doing,” said Helen.

“Mmm, like in
The Ruby Dagger of Deidre,
” said Frye. “You come back after the second act to find the heroine’s place ransacked—but it was all so the bad guy could
plant
the murder weapon on her.”

“And if the murder weapon’s a face?” Helen said. There were lots of meanings to that, and Frye didn’t even know about Millicent, but she laughed anyway.

“Yes, I like your style,” Frye said. “You can work on my face. I’ll be your first victim.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” protested Helen as she tried to wedge a broken chair leg back in place.

Frye shrugged. “I’m a good judge of character. And my mind’s made up. Even Jane had to start somewhere. You have all her stuff, don’t you?” She pointed dramatically at the carpetbag. “I always saw her carrying that.”

Helen nodded. “But I couldn’t possibly make the fey power work. Jane studied all summer to learn how to do it. And … she’s just good at that kind of thing.”

Frye swung around and stood there casually studying her, hands slouched in pockets as if they were discussing where to eat lunch and not how to replace her face. “Jane said you were cleverer than you knew,” she said.

Helen felt suddenly, strangely, lighter. Buoyed up. “I … I could try,” she said at last. “I make no promises. But I could put the clay on my hands and see how it feels. If I think I could do what she could.”

“Excellent,” said Frye. “Shall we find a bed then?” She gestured at Jane’s slashed cot.

“Gah, no!” said Helen. More calmly: “I mean, no. Not tonight. I have to rest.” And the memory of that botched operation was so fresh, so cutting. What was this woman thinking, trying to entrust this to her?

“Tomorrow, then. You can come to my place.”

“I can’t,” said Helen. “I’m not supposed to—”

Frye looked at her curiously.

“I mean. It’s dangerous on the streets for us without the masks. And I’ve … misplaced mine. You’ll have to come to me. Some early morning would be the best time to sneak in.”

“Fine,” said Frye, who was apparently willing to let Helen win some of the arguments, as long as she got the main point she wanted. “Next Monday, perhaps—no shows on Monday. Can I wear slacks? Or is your neighborhood too stuffy?”

“Well…,” said Helen.

“Your face says it all,” said Frye. “I have a dress, don’t worry. I’m an actor, darling. I’ll blend in so I can sneak in.” She paused, studying Helen curiously. “Why are we sneaking me in?”

“Well,” said Helen,
again,
but this woman threw her off balance. “That is. My husband doesn’t know I’m carrying on Jane’s work.” The words, slipping out, startled her.
She was carrying on Jane’s work.
She was going to convince The Hundred. She
was
.

“Say no more,” said Frye. “Your marital affairs are absolutely your business and I am not going to pry. You find a good time next week and I will sneak in wearing a perfectly acceptable dress to see you.”

“And I will only
try
the clay,” put in Helen. “I’m not promising anything beyond that.”

“Yes, yes. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Helen, and for the first time that day a genuine smile broke through the worries and fears.

“You’re much prettier when you smile,” said Frye.

“I thought I was pretty already,” said Helen cynically.

“It’s not about the face, you know? I
have
learned that. Should’ve learned it sooner, but we all have our upbringings to contend with. When you entered the door you looked grim, but just now you look as though you could move mountains.”

“Maybe I can,” said Helen. This woman thought she could do things. And she didn’t even have the excuse of being family, who maybe only thought it was good for you if they said they believed in you. Maybe she
could
move mountains. Maybe she could try.

“So tell me,” said Frye. “What can I do for you in return?”

Helen looked down at the piece of furniture she had been trying vainly to lift. “Help me move this trunk,” she said.

With Frye’s help the trunk slid scratchily over the dusty floor to reveal a small trapdoor. “This is it,” crowed Frye. She brought the oil lamp closer, wafting the cloud of oil stink along with it.

Helen levered the trapdoor up to reveal several rafters’ worth of storage space under the floor.

Empty.

Helen tugged the corner of her coat under her stockinged knees and carefully knelt there, feeling around under the floorboards. Dust. Grit. Things she didn’t want to touch, but Tam would probably appreciate. Her fingers closed on a bit of splintery wood and she pulled it out, examining it. It was roughly made and yet lined with velvet.

“What’s down there?” said Frye, kneeling next to her with the oil lamp, heedless of her slacks. “The murder weapon? The face?”

“The face,” Helen repeated in slow realization. “Yes. That’s what this held. A face. One of our old faces.” There had been one just like it in the carpetbag—it must have held Millicent’s old face—perhaps it still did.

Carefully Frye took the box from Helen and held it up to her own face, checking the measure. “It would fit,” she agreed, cradling the box in long fingers. “Do you think they were all here?”

“I do,” said Helen. “All the ones she hadn’t done yet. All of
us
.” She looked at Frye, her stomach clenching in knots. “Who would want our old faces?”

Frye shook her head. “Looks as though I’ll be waiting a while longer for my facelift then. I suppose you’re off the hook, unless you want me to sneak in for the sheer fun of it.” She exhaled, rocking back on her heels. “Oh, Jane, Jane, Jane. I
told
you I had a spare bedroom.”

Helen’s fingers swept the interior one last time. There was paper or something lodged into that crack in the board, tucked there for safekeeping. She teased it from the board, pulled it forth and into the glow of the lamp.

A message. A note.

Cold sliced up Helen’s spine as she studied the words cut and pieced together, letter by letter.

LEAVE THE CITY NOW BEFORE YOU GET HURT.

Chapter 4

THE HUNDRED

Helen held the threat out with nerveless fingers for Frye, who read it and then put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Them as talk big don’t do nuthin’,” Frye declaimed, no doubt quoting some line in a play. “You’ll find her.” She peered at the note. “That
L
looks like the
L
on the Lovage’s Gin bottle.”

“Great!” Helen said cynically. “We can narrow it down to everyone who drinks gin.” She wavered to her feet, folded the note, and tucked it inside Jane’s carpetbag where she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. She rubbed the backs of her hands against her eyes, which were stinging from the stirred-up dust. “Did you find anything else?”

“A photo,” said Frye. “Jane and some man with rumpled hair.”

“That’s her fiancé,” said Helen, studying the small blue-and-white fey tech photo that Frye held out. “She looks … happy there,” she said, and the world came crashing down on her silk shoulders again. She had to make everything right. She had to let Jane’s fiancé know what had happened. No, he was gone himself, into the dangerous forests with his daughter. But she should wire the housekeeper at Silver Birch Hall.