Another Faust (30 page)

Behind Madame Vileroy, Maggie followed Belle like a droid. She had an undead look to her, compelled by the light of Belle, addicted to her, but afraid to get too close. Mrs. Wirth, who had an explanation for everything, shook her head and thought,
Poor girl. Sooner or later, she is bound to get ahold of her mother’s stash of Valium.

“I don’t know what high school from whatever backwater part of Asia you came from, but there’s a specific way of decorating for banquets. So just do as I say and we’ll be fine,” said Lucy.

Victoria thought about breaking the punch bowl over her head.

“And here we are at the end of the first round of play. Connor Wirth and Christian Faust ate their opponents for breakfast.”

“You should invite Thomas over,” whispered Madame Vileroy to Belle. She lingered just behind Belle’s shoulders, so close that Belle could hear her breathe. She could almost feel the governess’s deep-blue eyes on Thomas — the way that one scary eye focused right in on whatever Vileroy wanted. Thomas’s dad was still holding Belle’s arm, talking about the intricacies of the grain in the putting green. He somehow couldn’t hear their conversation.

Belle said, “Why?”

“Because I’d like that.”

“Why do
you
care so much what these people do, anyway? Why are you always trying to get close to them?”

“Because their actions have the widest ripples.”

“What?” said Belle, remembering another time when her governess had mentioned ripples. When she had taught her a lesson in reading people. In spotting reactions and consequences. Vileroy had taught her because she was the favorite.

Just like a daughter.

“Think, my dear. What can I possibly accomplish with an average person? If I worked my hardest, if I used my best tricks, what is the worst he would do?”

“I don’t know.” Belle shrugged. “Kill someone?”

“And then what would happen?”

“He’d go to jail, I guess.”

“And the total damage?” Vileroy sounded like she was instructing a remedial math class.

“Huh?”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “A few people would be dead, a few would be hurt, and then the fool would be put away. But these people — they make huge ripples,” she said.

“Like what?” asked Belle.

Madame Vileroy pointed to a balding executive with his hands in his pockets. “Take that one over there. He’d think big, like an entrepreneur. He’d channel money away from starving economies, maybe pump some of the profits into the pockets of politicians, maybe use some of it to erase some dirty dealings, buy some drugs, sell some drugs, fund an illegal gambling ring, separate a few hundred families from their life savings, and pour it all into some shoddy product made by starving children. He would have a good ten years of momentum before he ever got caught. How many people do you think that would affect? Ripples, my dear Belle. That’s what I like. That’s what I look for. Never make the mistake of counting all lives as equal. Never.”

Thomas hooked the ball right into the water. Belle cringed.

“We won’t hold his golf skills against him,” Madame Vileroy said.

“I don’t want him in our house.”

“Don’t worry, dear. He won’t know your secrets.”

“What does
that
mean?” said Belle. Thomas’s dad was starting to finish up his conversation with himself. His voice seemed far-off, as if Vileroy had lowered its volume.

“It means secrets have a way of getting out, and you have plenty.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Not on purpose, dear; they just have a way of getting out.”

Thomas’s dad seemed to have said something. Belle glanced at him, and then back at Madame Vileroy. Her gaze fell on the freckle on the back of Vileroy’s hand, and then the one on her wrist, and the three freckles forming a triangle by her elbow. Then she glanced at her own arm, where little brown spots formed the exact same formations — a reminder of their unbreakable connection, formed the moment Belle had accepted Vileroy’s beautiful exterior. Thomas’s dad repeated what he’d said. It was a question addressed to Belle. She turned, enraged, from Vileroy. “Hmm?”

“I was just asking if you saw him whack that out of the sand trap.”

“No, I didn’t. You know, Mr. Goodman-Brown, I was wondering if you’d let Thomas come to our house for dinner next Sunday night. I know it’s a school night, but he’d get to know my family better . . . and Madame Vileroy.”

“Call me Charles. And of course he can go to your house.”

“Go to hell, you jealous troll. Hand me those balloons.”

“Slut.”

“Wench.”

“You’d need a winch to get out of those woods. Christian Faust has gotten himself in a doozy of a pickle with a drive that sliced well into the forest.”

“Shut up, Val!” Christian shouted to the golf cart from the green.

“Whoa there, captain. Not my fault you shanked it.”

“Your brother seems really mad,” said Charlotte.

“Yeah, he’s one of those ‘born winners.’ Isn’t that right, Christian?”

Christian had to stop himself from throwing his club at Valentin. It was only one hole, one hole for the entire tournament so far, but he was fuming about it. For Christian, this tournament was a test. He had practiced with Buddy for a solid week, spent every night in his chamber recuperating. He had actually become better at golf. All that practice had paid off. Now he was sending drives double the distance he used to, sinking putts he never would have. All so he wouldn’t have to steal from Connor. Christian wanted to win on his own.

Maybe the coffin was cheating, fine, but at least he wasn’t hurting people. That’s why Vileroy had given him the coffin in the first place the first time he told her about how awful it felt to steal — when she learned that he was not a natural thief. She had given him the coffin, so that he could have another tool. Something else to satisfy his need to win, to get the big contracts and endorsements. Something else to draw him in. Something to serve as a starting point for his hunger.

So far, Connor had been a nice guy. He’d been more distant after the Lucy fiasco, but still nice. Even after Connor had been hurt by Belle and Thomas getting together, he hadn’t held it against Christian. He’d patted Christian on the back when he made a good drive. Christian had shied away. The contact made him hungry to use his gift. He felt tired, thirsty, clumsy. He could steal all of it. Just a little touch, Connor would barely feel it, and he’d be unstoppable. No, for Christian, this whole thing was to prove to himself that he didn’t need to. All the sports coming up — he didn’t have to leech from other kids to win them. That’s why he overreacted at one dropped hole. When he had such a delicious power at his disposal, Christian knew he’d have to work twice as hard as everyone else not to be tempted.

“You should really have that facial tic checked out.”

Valentin looked over at Charlotte. He had been looking over at Christian and grinning.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Valentin. He didn’t make sense sometimes. His moods were so erratic. He seemed antsy, cynical, like he didn’t ever care what happened. It was charming at first, as though he were carefree. Now he seemed careless, reckless, and maybe a little rude. For some reason, that made him even more appealing.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Charlotte.

“What, the tic?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Good, ’cause I’d take it back if I could.”

“Wouldn’t that be something.”

Charlotte was charmed. Almost nothing he said made any sense, but he said it all with such flair.

“Are you entering the State creative writing thing?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said in a suddenly sullen voice.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, almost afraid.

“I just feel a little torn that’s all. Not sure what to do —”

Charlotte had no idea what it was, but it seemed like it was really hurting him. His eyebrows were brooding.
He looks like he should be in a music video.

“What is it, Valentin?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry —” He looked away at just the right moment.

“You can tell me anything,” she said, really believing that he was struggling.

“It’s just that, well, if I enter the writing contest, I’d have to enter against you. . . .”

“You mean . . .”

“I just . . . I don’t want anything to come between us.” It took Valentin three tries to make that comment with a straight face. The twitches just made Charlotte think he was nervous. She burst into a breathless, watery-eyed laugh.

Does this girl cry for everything?

She wrapped her arms around Valentin. (He tried desperately not to pull away.) He was so romantic. The idea of it was so romantic.
This must be what it’s like,
thought Charlotte,
to be in love for real.
He said everything that she’d ever wanted to hear.

“I don’t have to enter,” she said, still holding him. “I won’t enter, and we can be together forever.” She was completely his.