Another Faust (36 page)

In midstride, Belle said, “Hey, sis. You’re ready for tonight, right? Want me to help you pick out an outfit?”

“No. What’s going on tonight?”

“
What?
Thomas, remember? Supremely perfect Thomas? The love of my life Thomas?”

“Today’s Sunday?”

“Yes! And he’s coming! Let’s get you changed!” Belle grabbed her sister’s hand and tried to pull her to her room, but Bicé didn’t budge.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Are you an immigrant?” Belle said, annoyed.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Bicé tore open the seal on a cup of noodles. As she was filling it with water, she turned to Belle and said, “Do you still have that birthmark? The water one?”

Belle reached up and rubbed the area above her heart. There was nothing there at the moment but her flawless skin. Still, the thought fueled her anxiety.

“Yeah, why?”

“Did you know Christian had one?”

“Oh?” Belle already knew, but this was the last thing she wanted to discuss now.

“It went away,” Bicé said casually.

Belle stopped pacing. She tried to flush the surprise from her face before Bicé turned around from the microwave. She had no idea what that could mean.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she said, matching Bicé’s casual tone.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that you both had that same birthmark?”

“Bicé . . . please . . . I’m so nervous about tonight.”

“Belle! Stop changing the subject! I always knew we were gifted and that we all paid for that. But you’re scaring me lately. I researched all kinds of skin disorders. There’s no such thing as a mark that only appears in water. And every time I mention something that doesn’t make sense around here, you change the subject.”

Belle tried to say something.

“This place scares me, Belle, and I don’t want to be a part of any of this. So you can keep your secrets, but we can’t be sisters if you’re hiding something.”

Belle plopped down on a chair, and for a moment, Bicé could see her sister’s pain under this facade. “I’m not hiding anything. I know as much as you do, and I’m just nervous now. Can you understand that?”

Bicé felt bad for scolding her sister. She sat down next to her. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure he’s desperately in love with you.” She smoothed her sister’s golden hair.

“He hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet,” Belle whined.

“So? You’ve only known each other for . . . how long has it been? A few months or weeks? Something like that . . .”

“Bicé! It’s not a missile launch! How long does it take?”

“Maybe he’s shy . . .”

“He kissed Lucy!”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Bicé. “You just want to get past the Lucy benchmark — gain some sort of competitive advantage and establish yourself as the dominant player.”

“
What
are you babbling about?” asked Belle, a confused smirk on her lips.

“Just working on my business talk,” said Bicé defensively. “I’m widening my definition of
language:
shoptalk, sign language, clicking dialects of certain tribes . . .”

Belle raised an eyebrow.

“I’m
serious,
” said Bicé. “It’s a real language! It’s what they speak on the 4/5 to Wall Street. Can we get back on the ball here? You’re just trying to beat Lucy.”

“No.” Belle looked at her shoes. “What if things don’t go well tonight?”

“They will. I promise not to say a word to ruin your night.”

“Oh, Bicé. Don’t say that!”

“I know I embarrass you.”

Belle shook her head and reached out to hold her sister’s hand. “Why are you so scared all the time? You used to be so good with people.”

“Yeah . . .” Bicé dropped her gaze. “But now I spend most of my time alone.”

“But why? Why do you hide so much?”

“I like it, Belle. I like to read my books and learn new languages. You have your goals and I have mine. And like I said, this place scares me.”

Belle glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time. I have to get ready.” Belle looked at her sister sweetly. “Bicé,
please
change your clothes.”

Bicé ignored that. “I’m going to give this food to Christian now, and I’m not changing. I like this outfit, Belle. I may not be gorgeous, but that’s not all there is in life. I hope you learn that.”

Bicé walked out of the room. Belle stood in the center, not quite sure whether she was hurt, nervous, or ashamed. She wanted to say something to Bicé. Her vanity wanted her to have the last word, and her conscience wanted her to apologize. She was pretty sure she was ashamed of herself, and hurt that she’d lost Bicé’s respect, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was, “How about just the corduroys?”

Lurking in a narrow hallway leading to the center of her house, the governess watched as Belle and Bicé talked. Bicé had come so far in the few weeks in this city. She knew so much. And yet she was wholly unaware of what she knew. Now she had fixated on the mark, the external manifestation of a heart so desperate and willing to be sold to darkness that it stained the skin above it. Bicé would soon know this. She would soon figure out what her sister had done, and why Christian no longer had the mark. The governess watched, her body as still as the walls, but not so, since the walls undulated with so much dripping wax and candlelight, dancing grotesquely around her.
It doesn’t matter what Bicé knows about the mark,
the governess thought.
Soon Bicé too will be given a choice. Soon she will have to do what the others have done.
But how to ensure that? Over the past few nights, Victoria had come to Madame Vileroy and told her what she knew about Bicé’s progress. So much progress. The governess ran her fingers across her cheek, contemplating what might come of this new disaster. Yes, something must be done. Something must certainly be done.

But not tonight. Tonight the children will learn a crucial lesson. Tonight Belle will learn about love. She will learn where to place her affection. To not throw it away like cheap trinkets and ornaments. She will learn that love makes you lose control and that control is more precious than a moment’s affection. Love fades. Control remains and grows stronger with time, tightly weaving itself with power, dependence, and a lifetime of secrets. Tonight Victoria will learn that loyalty has its rewards and that success is hard-won — but only for the weak. Tonight Bicé will learn not to hang her hopes on an undeserving sister, and her heart may be too lonely and broken to reject any new offer of happiness.

Madame Vileroy swept out of the room with the swiftness of a gust of wind but without a single noise, without disturbing the tiniest particle. Like a flash of light, she was gone, and then she was outside, her high heels tapping a careful rhythm on the cobblestones, her coat floating elegantly behind her, a stylish hat tucked under her arm. Soon she found herself on Park Avenue, near the home of the Goodman-Browns. She hadn’t walked for more than two minutes in that neighborhood when she heard a familiar voice.

“Nicola! How nice to see you here.”

Madame Vileroy turned and smiled at Charles Goodman-Brown, who had one foot in the back of his Bentley and one foot on the sidewalk.

“Charles, how are you?”

“Fine, fine. Where are you headed? Care for a lift?”

In the car, Charles leaned back, straightened his tie, and flashed Madame Vileroy a big, affectionate smile.

“Well, this is a nice surprise running into you, Nicola. Thomas will kill me for telling you this, but I can tell he’s really nervous about coming to your place tonight.”

“We’re looking forward to having him over. He’s a lovely boy,” she said without much enthusiasm.

“Well, they’re a lovely couple,” Charles offered, as if making a wedding toast.

“Hmm.” Madame Vileroy’s lips turned up just slightly, not enough to give encouragement.

“You know, I’ve been a bit curious about Belle,” Charles prodded. “Now that, well, they’re getting so close, I wanted to . . . um . . . Where did she grow up?”

“Belle has been raised all over the world. She has had an impeccable education.”

“Yes. She does strike me as very sophisticated . . . like you,” he said sweetly, in that warm, genuine way some people give praise when they are used to their words falling on welcome, solicitous ears.

Madame Vileroy drummed her fingers on the armrest. “She is, of course, adopted.”

Charles was taken aback at the timing of this comment. “Huh. You look so much alike.”

“I supposed you think all blue-eyed blondes look the same?”

Mr. Goodman-Brown laughed and then, for the first time, noticed Nicola’s left eye, the burned, yet beautiful eye, which gazed back at him with such confidence, as if to suggest that
his
eyes were the problem, that they were so very ordinary. He straightened his tie again, nervously.

“Thomas hasn’t had much luck with girlfriends,” he offered.

“No? He seems to have his share of admirers.”

“None like Belle. And now that they’re spending all their time together. . . .” He smiled at her teasingly. “I think it’s love, Nicola,” he said with a wink.

“We’ll see.”

Madame Vileroy knew it had gone too far. But this was enough. Belle was supposed to be thinking of her future. She was supposed to be thinking ten years ahead, to a time when Thomas would be worth having. She wasn’t supposed to waste all the novelty of this relationship on the present.

As she was preparing to climb out of the car, Madame Vileroy noticed a file in Charles’s hands. Thanks to the moths (and Mrs. Wirth), Madame Vileroy already knew about the deal he was working on today, on his Sunday off. It was a major investment in a Turkish humanitarian network — a financial scheme that would make low-cost credit available to the poor. She leaned over, kissed Charles Goodman-Brown on the cheek, and said, “Have a nice day, Charles. And watch out for that thief Yamin. I was his son’s tutor in Turkey. You may be entering quite the house of cards.”

Bicé sat alone in her room and counted aloud. Afrikaans, Aghul, Algonquin, Arabic . . . 5 . . . 10 . . . 21 . . . 23 . . . 33 . . .

She lost count and had to start over.
Concentrate,
she told herself. She had to do this. For the first time ever, she wasn’t just doing this to get away from her own fears. She wasn’t just trying to find a space to hide. Ever since she had confronted Belle in the kitchen, Bicé was acutely aware that she herself finally
did
have a goal. Something that she knew would make a difference. And now that Christian’s mark had mysteriously disappeared (and Belle’s hadn’t), she had something important that she had to figure out. But lately, she had felt someone watching. Madame Vileroy had started coming to her in her dreams, when she was alone, when she was hiding. She had begun to interrupt Bicé’s thoughts, her work. She had begun to infiltrate the sanctuary of her cave and force her to stop. It was as if the governess were afraid of something and trying to transfer that fear to Bicé, so that she wouldn’t find her own real power. Even Victoria was snooping around, trying to figure out what she was doing. Bicé had seen the moths flying around. For once she had something on the governess, something that seemed to be worth her attention. And for all the tricks the governess had played on her, for all the sins Bicé had or hadn’t committed, she had some possible redemption — for herself and her sister. For once, Bicé didn’t feel like a pariah, not at all aimless or lost. For once, she had a glimmer of hope. Because she knew that one good trick deserves another — and her whole existence, her life so far, had been no choice, but a trick.