Rooks and Romanticide (3 page)

When he'd still been innocent, just like her.

“Well….” Emily's cupid-bow mouth tightened in concern. She was determined.

Cain propped his chin in hand and watched the thought darken her face. God, he wanted to be annoyed, but she was trying
so hard
.

“How was your scouting today? I heard there was a…
hanging
at Lovers' Lane.” Emily paused, frown dimpling deeper. She turned to face him directly. “Why do they call it Lovers' Lane, Cain? Oh, you know what, never mind that. I probably won't like the answer. What happened, though? Was it a murder? Were the Ruslanivs involved?”

Cain couldn't help but smile, even bitterly, as he closed his eyes and searched for the proper words. Miss Emily Kelley just was not familiar with the Dietrich world of parties and bloodshed and hide-and-go-seek vigilante politics. Talk of bodies petrified her. The twisted normalcy of it to the heads of households who dealt with uprisings and gunfights on a weekly basis was beyond her. She hadn't grown up seeing the way bodies littered the alleyways and cobblestones, or hung with cockeyed heads from fraying rope as their wounds began to rot in the setting sun. Emily was a bystander, practically. An unfortunate witness from the countryside where everything was roasted duck and boating and reading by the fire.

And still Aunt Ophelia insisted she stay at Dietrich Manor through to the next season, that it might help as the wedding slipped ever closer, hanging on the horizon like a smoky gray storm cloud. Cain wanted to believe it wasn't a scheme or some sort of stunt for public reputations, but that was just how Aunt Ophelia worked. The inner machinery of a great family, masked by social functions.

God, but everything in life was a chess game of sorts, wasn't it? It wasn't that Cain didn't like Emily. Really, that wasn't it at all. It was just that the courtships that really got his heart thumping weren't girls like her—or girls at all, actually.

“I ran into the undertaker in Lovers' Lane. The police had already taken the bodies. We went to speak with them. We don't think it was the Ruslaniv family, directly.”

Cain cast Emily a glance through his lashes. She was struggling to maintain her solemnity, absolutely angelic in all the folds and layers of her party gown. She was a woman; her big coming-of-age had been last summer. But when she pouted like that, it was difficult to imagine she'd grown up at all. She was just a soft, beautiful girl playing dress-up.

Cain cleared his throat. “More than likely it was a gang of Ruslaniv supporters, trying to get a rise out of us. They're the worst, really. Not blood related, just blind dogs, so driven by distorted passion that they become animals, violent and irrational animals.”

“Oh, so you crossed out cult activity, then, and have already pinned all the blame on
that family
?”

Both Emily and Cain turned sharply, leveling equally disgruntled stares on the source of the voice. With a red-lipped scowl and a flutter of lace fans, Aunt Ophelia approached from across the upper hallway. Behind her, among the curtains and portraits, her servants waited tentatively as if unsure whether or not to intrude, despite the rush before the ball.

Cain returned the scowl—he was pretty certain he'd inherited it from Aunt Ophelia, anyway—and glanced at Emily quickly, hoping he wouldn't find another desperate question biding its time there.

“Yes, I did,” he edged out tartly. “And so did Uncle Bradley and Mr. Renton. We discussed it. We spoke with the police. And I would appreciate it if you stopped butting into my business, Auntie. I was
just
telling Miss Emily here that these aren't matters ladies should worry themselves over….”

Aunt Ophelia clucked her tongue, a sound of disapproval. She finished the gesture with a roll of her eyes, leveling them finally on Cain in a stern and unyielding way. “I'm not butting into your business,” she countered, and really, convincing Aunt Ophelia of anything she wouldn't be convinced of was like setting fire to a downpour. “Your papers were still lying out on your desk, dear nephew, and I just
happened
to see the ones regarding that particular scouting mission.”

Cain understood then. Aunt Ophelia was hurt he hadn't invited her to Lovers' Lane with the rest of the security party. And the worst part was that he could have. The worst part was that Aunt Ophelia was as capable as Uncle Bradley or any of the others at the head of the house—perhaps even more so. She had a mind-boggling way of straddling the line of the boundaries between the sexes, navigating both the duties of a lady and the duties of a man like she belonged to neither. She knew how to work dinner parties just as well as street missions, and Cain hated that. She'd protected him long enough, but he was, for the most part, a full-grown man. He would be twenty in February. He wanted to protect her now. She didn't prefer protection.

“You're my aunt, not my business partner, and as the head of the family I'm asking you to stop forcing yourself into my tasks,” Cain hissed, but then he remembered that Emily was still beside him and the brunt of responsibility pried an impatient sigh out of him. His expression softened into a frown and added, “I'm sorry, Auntie, I only mean to say that I have it under control, so please don't burden yourself with it.”

Aunt Ophelia peered at him darkly for a moment. Her eyes moved with her thoughts, like the sky before a storm. Perhaps she evaluated him, or the situation, or perhaps she just saw right through him as she always had and always did, playing all the right cards to get him riled up and then kissing him on the head with those bright red lips of hers.

“I swear, my nephew has got to be the most heartless creature I've ever met.” Aunt Ophelia turned her nose up, a cream-colored cameo bouncing at the nape of her neck. Her complaints echoed; Cain blushed. Her voice was like burnt velvet after years of business and cigarettes. His skin crawled beneath the weight of her stare. Taking anything Aunt Ophelia said at face value was foolish; there was always a secret message. And Cain heard it
—
the love in her remarks, hidden behind the words. She had to give the proper impression to Emily, didn't she? Emily didn't have many other role models at Dietrich Manor.

“And I've met many a heartless and foul man in my lifetime, Miss Emily, you just take my word on that,” Aunt Ophelia went on. “Really, this boy's got such a gorgeous young lady staying here in his home until New Year's—”

“I'm not a boy, Auntie,” Cain protested, but it came out in a grumble, and so his frown deepened in dismay because the point was already moot.
I'm not a boy. I'm a man.

Aunt Ophelia was still making quite the scene, jabbing her closed fan like an accusatory finger. “And he can't even crawl up and out from under his massive
ego
long enough to relax and have fun and appreciate her for what she is—a smart and capable lady, worthy of his respect. Really, I ought to throttle you, Cain. I really should.”

“Coming from a woman in pants!” Cain sputtered, but it was a truce.

Aunt Ophelia's raucous laughter filled the upper hall. Cain surrendered to a smile. His aunt hugged Emily to her side again as she whipped open her fan. She shifted her weight to the other foot and cocked out a hip to show off her trousers. Her belt clinked against the end of the red corset she wore, but there was nothing Cain could do about her rebellion against femininity or her ability to somehow wriggle her way into every aspect of his life. What else was she to do with his father, her brother, dead and in the grave, worms making beds in his skin?

“Really, though,” Aunt Ophelia added, “I wish you'd be more appreciative of this arrangement, nephew of mine. I doubt any other family would allow their daughter to stay in a man's home unless they were
already
wed. You're lucky, do you know that? Don't take it for granted, and don't abuse it with your sour moods.”

Lucky, sure. Except that with Emily around it was much harder to keep up appearances utterly opposite to his actual inclinations. But maybe that was exactly what his aunt intended with Emily's presence—to
keep up appearances
. She didn't really expect him to love her, did she?

“I'm not sour,” he grumbled, slouching over the banister and watching the bodies mill about in the vestibule. There wasn't much else he could think to say.

“Have you given in and decided to wear the costume I had made up for you?” Aunt Ophelia clucked her tongue. Really, she was like a bothersome older sister sometimes. But thank God she'd changed the subject, quite aware of Cain's discomfort. This banter he could handle. This kind of back-and-forth he cherished.

“It's ridiculous,” he replied.

“It's a proper political statement,” she shot back.

“I don't need a costume to make a political statement.”

“Please wear it! When you tried it on last week, it just looked too perfect. It's a masquerade, for Christ's sake.”

“Fine. I'll wear it. I'll change into it later. I promise. But I won't play into it.”

“As long as the crowd whispers about it, its mark is made and I'll be satisfied.”

“Auntie, have you been drinking already today?”

Guests were beginning to arrive, all dolled up and flashing masks. Cain watched from the overhanging balcony. And there, that was an interesting one—black, all sleek black, with feathers and a sharp nose. Like a bird. The guest wearing it wasn't in much more than a simple black suit, but the mask and his glinting brocade waistcoat redeemed much. Behind him, Aunt Ophelia cooed over Emily for a moment, until Emily laughed shyly in turn, and then Aunt Ophelia reached over and brushed a few loose strands of hair out of Cain's eyes like he was still a child to be fussed over. She leaned in to whisper, breath hot on his ear and sharp with the scent of mint:

“My nephew, seek happy days to happy nights…. You never know when they might come to an end.”

How prophetic.
Cain closed his eyes, mouth bitten into a thin line. Aunt Ophelia's words brought forth a rotten knot in his stomach, of impatience and subdued thoughts. He gripped the baluster as he tried to maintain control of it all, especially in front of Emily. Aunt Ophelia was gone already, back across the hall with her servants, who tailed her back to her apartments where they'd make her up into some Greek goddess or other in Empire silhouette and rings of gold. Damn it all to hell, why did his aunt do that, throwing her words all around and leaving him lost in the wake? She knew she did it too. She got him thinking too hard, and it always made him doubt himself. He didn't like doubting himself. There was no reason for it.

Cain reached behind, pulling his mask out from under his cropped jacket. He glanced at Emily. She'd already donned hers—soft white and deep reds, big blue eyes peeking out. The low collar of her striped polonaise left little to imagine about the silky skin below her throat.

Cain sighed, trying to keep his smile level as he adjusted the mask on his nose.

“Should we go greet guests, then?” he asked, offering his hand to his cousin, this girl the daughter of his mother's country brother. She looked startled at first by his return to proper etiquette, then smiled brightly in turn. She gave a curt nod and linked their arms at the elbows.

“We should, my lord.”

 

 

L
IGHT
FROM
the crystal lusters blazed from every window, spilling out into the night.

Colors and sounds swirled like a tide—music, voices, the rustle of carefully calculated costumes as people danced.

The decorations were ghastly. Papier-mâché lanterns in the shapes of skulls had been strung between scarlet ribbons. Other lanterns projected grisly cutout imagery on the walls, spinning round and round. Black drapes hung above the marble floor. Headless skeletons danced near the windows. Painted roses were affixed on the tables and the Persian dancers would be snake charming soon. Masterfully stacked towers of wineglasses stood before carved ice, and candles sat in the gaping mouths of jack-o'-lanterns. Fans fluttered. The tintinnabulation of bells blended with the voices, the rain, the musicians. There was a trick mirror set up in the corner of the room near the Persians' divination table, where guests took their turns scaring each other. The gypsy hag reading tarot cards for delighted guests read to Cain from the hand he drew. The Seven of Coins, the Hanged Man, and the Fool.

“Tch!” Cain spat, and wandered off to find his aunt again.

If Emily's mother had been there, she would have ranted and raved about the contemptibility of it all, as on the narrow little stage in the corner rowdy half-dressed dancers made a burlesque out of Faust, and on the old, painted keyboard, a man in a powdered white wig punched out a slow but upbeat tune. A witch's doll sat atop the painted harpsichord case, a grisly little thing that looked made of real human bones strung together by wire, with a mane of horrid black hair and Xs for eyes.

There were fruits and jellies and gray-grained caviar of the finest sort. A scene from
The Tempest
was painted on the wall across from the windows, tiny white figures and lush forest scenes. The french doors opened onto a stone courtyard, and upstairs important rooms were closed off. Paintings and granite sculptures smiled down at guests—and those who belonged to the respective court wore the family crest as a silver brooch over their heart.

Such was a masquerade ball thrown by the Dietrich family.

Cain knew it all back and forth, in and out. It was as familiar in detail as the back of his hand—and equally unmoving.

He made his welcome speech to a hall full of vivacious supporters. He danced thrice with Emily and sipped idly at a glass of Mariani wine as he suffered through attempted conversations left and right. Aunt Ophelia snatched him aside and waited while he reluctantly changed into costume, bemoaning the entire way. It was definitely a
political statement
, to put it kindly
—
a fine slate-gray suit with the bones of a skeleton painted down the front of it so that he looked like some sort of macabre clown playing Death. There was a sloppy stitching of the Ruslaniv crest upside down on the right lapel, and a scarlet fur-lined cloak with a nice little hood. It was quite blatant mockery, a jab at the hated family, and the crowd would love it, surely.