Curio (12 page)

Fantine seemed satisfied her scolding had put Grey in her place. The porcie's exquisite face softened, and she reached a hand out to rest on Grey's own gloved fingers. “As fragile as you are, my dear, due to your curious condition, it's a favor of the Designer that Benedict's soldiers found you. Whatever rough sorts you were mixed up with surely can't offer anything as magnificent as this.”

She led the way out of the elevator and made a sweeping motion with one hand.

Grey had only glimpsed a third of the grand foyer from the gallery above. To her right lay the front of the house, with the shell fountain as the focal point to the entryway. Beyond it double doors stretched toward the ceiling, both framed by towering windows. Outside, dreary light revealed a courtyard with tall brick walls and outbuildings that obscured anything beyond. Topiaries and trimmed hedges guarded the front of the manor.

Fantine led Grey into the cavernous rear portion of the entrance hall, their heels clacking over the white marble floor. Like the gallery above, the walls were lined with breathtaking works of art, all depicting landscapes, flowers, or buildings of fascinating design. A grove of jeweled
trees grew out of a recessed portion in the floor. Brown glass branches soared upward, and cut emerald leaves filtered light from a bank of windows on the far wall.

A tock moved amongst the trees. He wore black trousers and a white shirt and slipped between the glossy trunks with a zipping sound. He disappeared only to reappear in seconds on the outer edge of the glittering grove. In one hand he held a white cloth. More cleaning rags hung from his belt. He raised a feather duster to one of the trunks, and Grey stifled an exclamation. The duster was attached to his arm like a hand.

Without giving Grey a moment to recover her wits, the tock began to stretch. The zipping sound accompanied the elongating of his body as his limbs extended, changing him from an average figure to a pulled-taffy version of a man. He skimmed the edge of the outer tree, dusting and polishing the very top branches. As they drew closer, Grey studied the tock's metallic skin visible beneath the cuff of his now short pant leg. The smooth scale-like surface of his legs reminded her of snake skin.

“Come, Grey. We mustn't keep Benedict waiting.” Fantine motioned for her to follow, but more masterpieces awaited.

Lavish tapestries, sculptures of animals, some glassy-smooth and others rough and multifaceted, and intricate contraptions part machine, part artwork decorated the foyer. A network of light fixtures illuminated each work of art. Grey lingered at each new discovery, but Fantine strutted toward an imposing door of dark, paneled wood.

Her hostess stopped, one hand hovering above the door handle, and glanced over her shoulder. “I'll just pop in and make sure the assembly members have gone and Benedict is ready to entertain us.”

The porcie woman turned and then staggered backward as the door opened from within. A tock dressed in an impeccable suit complete with waistcoat and shiny black shoes emerged from the room.

Fantine's hands flew out for balance before she regained her composure. “Crack you, Drakon, you little imbecile. I might've fallen.”

Grey expected the slight man to bow and beg forgiveness as Nettie would've done, but the tock held his rigid posture. He spoke in a flat voice. “I meant no harm, Mistress Fantine. His lordship asked me to waylay you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fantine straightened her shoulders, thrusting her chest out.

Drakon didn't back down but held his neutral expression. He looked neither old nor young but had generic features, as though he were made to represent any man.

Fantine reached to open the door, but Drakon rested a hand on the brass frame of the handle. “I'm sorry, Mistress Fantine. Lord Blueboy wishes Miss Grey to appear alone. He asked me to convey his greetings to you and to, ah . . .” The tock's monotone voice faded. His eyes slid from Fantine's face to a spot of empty air above her shoulder, but he plunged ahead with his instructions. “He bade me tell you to proceed to evening sip. He will escort Miss Grey tonight.”

With that, Drakon slipped away. Fantine didn't storm through the door, but stood still, her shoulders drooping with every passing second. Finally she turned, her expression arranged in a lovely mask. She held up one hand, her polished nails tapping the door, and offered a polite smile.

“His lordship will see you now.”

Fantine swished away, her sensuous skirt swaying behind her.

Grey faced the door. Her hands were clammy against her bare stomach. When had she covered herself again?
She glanced around the entry hall. All was silent—even the tock who'd cleaned the trees was gone. A door closed, most likely Fantine slipping into one of the many rooms. Grey was alone. And the man waiting for her held all the power in this city.

Whit's face, twisted in pain, flared before her eyes. Her father's face with his wide blue eyes and square chin followed. She couldn't think of his face without seeing her grandfather's as well. But the face that followed—she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on it for months. Grey's knees buckled. She clenched the door handle and forced herself upright. Banner's face, wide and strong like her father's but with her mother's dark, serious eyes. Banner. Why did her brother come to mind now when she needed strength, not the horrible void his memory opened?

Grey let her hands drop to her sides. She wasn't the little girl Banner tried to protect. And she wasn't the one recovering from a striping or detained in a punishment facility, even if she deserved the blame. No. She was here, in this mysterious place, with a job to do. She positioned both hands against the door and shoved.

A large room, richly appointed in dark brown and pale blue, opened before her. No lights burned in the wall sconces, but a wavering yellow glow spilled from a burnished brass lamp onto a broad desk in the corner of the room.

Ten wingback chairs formed a circle in the center of the chamber. Grey crept toward them, craning her neck to see if Lord Blueboy waited in one like a stern uncle in a story. She pressed her hands against her thighs to keep from wrapping her middle in a protective hug.

Movement flickered behind a pair of glass doors that opened to a veranda. Heavy air, dripping with the scent of green things, seeped into the room, reminding her of the
greenhouses where Chemist scientists bred their twisted plants.

She edged around the high-backed chairs, lost in the shadows of the room for a moment as the furniture blocked the light from the french doors.

As she emerged the skin on her arm prickled. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, dark against the backdrop of the veranda. A man stood with his shoulder resting on the door frame, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

Grey blinked, struggling to take in the porcie before her. Where was the stuffy aristocrat she'd expected? This man with his startling blue eyes, languid half smile, and tailored indigo shirtwaist looked nothing like a pampered monarch. In fact he looked nothing like any man she'd ever seen before. She was staring just as she'd stared at Fantine. Could one ever grow accustomed to such beauty?

He offered a mock bow. “Miss Grey, I'm relieved to see you animated.”

His cool voice cut through the humid atmosphere invading the room. She nodded at the porcie, distracted by the way his skin crinkled at the edge of his smile then smoothed back into porcelain perfection.

Her voice betrayed her nerves. “Lord Blueboy?”

He inclined his head in a charming show of deference. “As my guest, I insist you call me Benedict, Miss Grey.” His smile changed to a wicked smirk. “It will make Fantine fairly drip with jealousy.”

Grey started to object but caught herself. He was teasing, of course. She took a steadying breath. “Benedict, please call me Grey.”

A spark of interest flashed in his eyes when she spoke her name, but he cloaked the expression and gestured toward the terrace. “Will you join me for a chat before evening sip?”

When he didn't move from his casual position in the doorway, Grey stiffened and prepared to slip by him, taking up as little space as possible. He smiled and lowered his long, coal-colored lashes as she neared. An image of Adante's face flashed, but she shook off the memory. Just because Blueboy possessed power didn't mean he was cruel like the Chemists. She relaxed and stepped over the threshold onto the stone patio outside.

A strange sensation drew her up. Warm pressure tingled at the small of her back. Eyes wide and mouth open, Grey turned to look into Benedict's handsome face. He was touching her.

She schooled her face as he guided her through the door, his fingers smooth and strong against her bare back.

Grey's heels clicked as she strode to the center of the veranda and out of Benedict's reach. He followed, standing so close she could've touched him with a flick of her finger.

When she lifted her gaze, she caught him searching the periphery of the walled courtyard outside his towering estate. His eyes whisked back to her face and he took a step back.

The sigh of relief died in her throat as he began circling her, eyes traveling up and down her body. When he stopped in front of her and held out his hand, Grey merely gawked at the pale palm.

“May I?”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “May you what?”

He shook his head as if dismissing something not worth his time then snatched her hand with his own. He stripped her glove off and let it fall to the ground. Smooth fingers skimmed the flesh of her arm, and patches of prickling heat bloomed wherever he touched.

Grey's voice shook. “What are you doing?” She drew in a steadying breath and followed the progress of his fingers. Should she pull away or was this an accepted Curio custom?

He paused to study the scratches on her palm, then captured her left hand and removed her glove to perform the same inspection.

Still cradling her hand in his, he met her eyes. “These cracks are accidental, not inflicted. Why don't you have any lines?”

Trapped in Lord Blueboy's gaze, Grey forced herself to respond. “Lines? What do you mean?”

His eyes tightened. Molded lips quirked downward. “No games necessary between us, my dear. I know you're from outside Curio City.”

CHAPTER

9

T
he breath in Grey's lungs froze. She couldn't form an answer. Benedict's face flashed with triumph. His gaze lowered to her exposed midsection, and she clenched her hands to keep from covering her mark.

“Is it because of this?” He bent for a closer look. Grey sucked in her breath as he brought his face near her torso. “Does this symbol make you invulnerable to the others?” One long finger reached to trace the blue web circling her navel, but Grey shrank back.

“W-what others?”

He straightened, lips pressed in an irritated line. “The cracks. The ugly cracks. He has them”—Benedict skimmed his own arm from wrist to neck—“everywhere.”

Grey gulped a breath. “Who? Who has them?”

“The gray one. The man who comes every few arbor cycles for a report on the city.”

Her heart jolted. Was this man the one she needed to find? She opened her mouth to question Benedict, but the porcie's next words crushed her hopes.

“His hair and eyes are the color of iron. Such a drab, gray creature. And those lines—everywhere!”

“Haimon? Haimon has been here?”

Blueboy turned away as if bored with the conversation. “I don't know his name. Or where he comes from,” he said over his shoulder. He walked toward the edge of the veranda.

Grey took in her surroundings. Behind her the mansion loomed in reddish brick and black iron. The secluded veranda where they stood formed a circular platform against the side of the house. Narrow steps led into a side yard hedged by tapered trees. Beyond the uniform line of trees a high wall ran out of Grey's view toward the front and back of the property.

Only a gradual dimming of light like a winter afternoon hinted at the time of day. A layer of fog hung high overhead, blocking anything beyond the near environs.

Lord Blueboy halted at the carved stone trellis edging the veranda and splayed one hand over the flat surface. Grey shivered and willed away the returning sensation of his fingers on her skin, like marble sheathed in silk. The porcie settled into a pose of casual elegance. From the longish dark hair that whisked over his ears and neck to the neat proportions of shoulders, back, and waist, Benedict carried himself with a Chemist's assurance. The similarity had her searching for others. Were the porcies capable of magic?

After a moment, he turned to face her. Leaning against the ledge, he stretched his hands along the railing on either side of him. Metal glinted from beneath the line of his shirt where it pulled away from his chest. A chain of some sort? She shifted her gaze from the smooth gleam of the porcie's collarbone to his face.

Benedict quirked a half smile as if pleased by her scrutiny. “Are you the new overseer of the city? Another
gray
caretaker? I confess I much prefer you already.”