The Book of Lost Things Page 23

  “Get some new clothes? Maybe. Probably. Boots especially. But—Max? I hope it really is all right if I continue living here. I can pay rent and I’m happy to, I’d like to. I don’t want to move back into that castle. It’s not as if all the apologies in the world can undo the damage or bring back what I lost—for which I know I’m as much to blame as Great-Aunt is. I do understand that.”

  “You don’t mean the Cellini Spoon,” Max said. “I guess what she wanted all along was for you to be found.”

  Ari nodded. “I know,” and he handed Max a thick white envelope. “She wants me to give you this. Ordered me to, actually. Great-Aunt doesn’t ask. She’s still a terrible old tyrant.”

  “At least she enjoys it,” Max pointed out, opening the envelope and finding in it a typically brief note, which did not say Thank you or Well done but proclaimed in dark ink, You may use my name for a recommendation, should it suit your needs. He put the note back in the envelope and set it aside on the table. Then he said to Ari, “What you want is to find Martha.”

  Ari could only nod. It mattered too much to him to say even just the word Yes.

  Max was pretty sure he knew where Ari’s Martha was, and who she was. He had opened his own mouth, in a rush of happiness and pride, to announce the good news to his tutor, but something stopped his headlong solutioneering dead in its tracks. The something was a thought. The thought was: Sometimes it’s better for people to solve their own problems, if they can; sometimes it’s best if they work out their own solutions. Part of a solutioneer’s job, he thought then, might be to recognize those times and keep his own cleverness to himself.

  Max guessed this might be one of those times. “How are you going to go about doing that?” he asked Ari.

  “The problem is,” Ari said sadly, “that Martha isn’t even her name.”

  In which Madame Olenka is dealt with

  Captain Francis watched the two of them cross the short gangplank from the deck of The Water Rat onto the dock at Graffon Landing. The female—youngish, prettyish, broad-shouldered—was expensively dressed in striped purple silk with flounces at the hem and lace at the wrists, a short purple cloak tied at her neck, and purple leather gloves protecting her hands. Her hair was so blond it seemed white under her straw bonnet; her dark blue eyes were thickly lined with kohl, which made her look exotic and queenly, like an Egyptian statue on one of the picture postcards sailors like to carry to call up memories of their more exotic voyages. She was, however, in the company of a man so unlikely that for the entire uplake journey Captain Francis had kept a close eye on the pair.

  They had no luggage. They had a round-trip ticket.

  The man looked to be not much older than the young woman, but Captain Francis couldn’t guess what he might be. Something about him reminded the Captain of the many dubious characters—gamblers, pickpockets, confidence men, and cutpurses—who rode The Water Rat in summer, going from one small lakeside town to the next looking for victims, looking for profits. The long overcoat and the broad-brimmed black hat he wore low on his forehead, as if to conceal his face, raised the Captain’s suspicions. He might even be a gypsy run off with his stolen bride, the old song come to life. On the other hand, the long white silk scarf that flowed off behind him in the wind was a bohemian touch, and he wore fine brown leather gloves. He might not be a gentleman, although she was clearly a lady, and from her dress and bearing a titled lady, even—the Captain had thought, watching as she leaned against the rail to admire the little waves that ran along beside the hull, entirely unconscious of the man who stood a few feet behind her—a countess or duchess or baroness, if not a princess. Perhaps the man was not some dancing master who had persuaded her to go off with him for a day’s romantic adventure, or for the rest of her life, but only her personal guard. She didn’t look at him the way a young woman should look at the man with whom she was abandoning her family and friends, for love.

  Captain Francis couldn’t imagine what their errand might be in the little lakefront town, unless—and this was also possible—she was fleeing across the mountain pass to safety. Such things happened among great and powerful families, as Captain Francis knew from the many novels he had read in the long evenings since the death of his wife many years ago. If the couple was not waiting on the Graffon Landing dock to catch the midafternoon ferry back to the city, he might read about her in the newspaper. Captain Francis determined to observe the two carefully, should they make a return voyage. There was something familiar about the lady’s traveling companion, but Captain Francis couldn’t see his eyes or his hair, and the long dark coat he wore concealed his physique. The Captain couldn’t put his finger on who the man reminded him of, and that puzzled him.

  A puzzle, a little mystery, added excitement to the Captain’s days.

  As the ferry pulled away, he kept an eye on the young couple. They looked around themselves, uncertain about which direction to take. They faced one another, conversing, and it seemed as if the man was her equal. Perhaps, after all, he was no more than the lady’s artistic cousin with his long white scarf, and they had come to see the waterfall in search of inspiration. But he carried no sketch pad, no case of supplies. A poet, then?

  Curiouser and curiouser, thought Captain Francis, as the ferry pulled out into the lake.

  Max and Pia walked the short distance into a town that had grown up so close to the waterfall that tiny rainbows floated in the moist air and the steady sound of water splashing down a cliff drowned out the voices in the street. Because of this, and because he was once again following several paces behind Pia, Max spoke loudly. “This is a pleasant village,” he observed, adopting the humble voice of the Medical Man’s Valet in The Caliph’s Doctor.

  She did not deign to answer him. However, the slight rise and fall of her shoulders told him, and anyone who might be watching, that he might think as he would, she could not be bothered to disagree.

  Without hesitation she approached the town’s one small store, whose windows displayed yarns and loaves of bread, shoelaces and dishcloths, little jars of patent medicines, boxes of stationery, knives, and a bowl of eggs. “Wait here,” she said.

  Max obeyed.

  Although he stood and spoke as if he might be her servant, Max wore the white scarf, slouched hat, and long coat of the Royal Spy in The Queen’s Man, and he carried in his inside coat pocket a small notebook along with three small sharpened pencils. He was ready to play any one of three supporting roles—servant, artist, or biographer. Pia had the starring role in this performance. He waited patiently in the street, his gaze fixed on the doorway through which she had entered the shop. When Pia emerged, she set off without a word to him, knowing he would follow, Arabella herself promoted to royal (or at least aristocratic) status.

  Madame Olenka had rented a large house, white brick with black shutters, set on a green lawn that sloped down to the lakeshore. Red azalea bushes bloomed around it. The wide front porch was comfortably furnished with wicker furniture. Wicker chairs had cushions in the reds, yellows, and bright blues of tropical birds. Delicate wicker tables had painted china candlesticks set out on them beside little glass vases filled with pink and white sweet peas. This would be a pleasant place to spend long summer evenings. Even on this May morning, the sun-washed porch was warm and welcoming.

  Pia pulled on the chain that rang the little brass bell beside the door while Max waited at the foot of the steps. A gray-haired woman in a pale yellow dress, a little lace apron at her waist and a white lace cap on her head, opened the door. “Do you—” she started to say, but Pia cut her off, as rude as any baroness.

  “I am here to see Madame Olenka,” she announced.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “You may tell her that she will profit from hearing what I have to say. I will wait inside. You”—with a gesture to Max—“come along.” What could the servant do but step back before her?

  The hallway they entered was filled with light, and the servant led them int
o an equally bright room, furnished with spindly-legged little sofas and chairs upholstered in pale embroidered silk materials, little round tables crowded with filigreed lamps and china figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses, although no sheep, as well as painted china bowls. Bouquets of flowers filled the two crystal vases on the carved wooden mantelpiece, and the long silver mirror hanging above it reflected the room back to itself.

  Pia approached the mirror and arranged a lock of her hair. Max took a position beside the long windows. Neither one of them removed cape or coat, hat or gloves. Neither did they speak.

  Eventually, Madame Olenka entered.

  She had apparently spent the long interval in perfecting her dress, warned by her servant that someone of importance, or at least wealth and arrogance, had called. Madame Olenka’s long ears dangled diamonds over a sky-blue velveteen suit. Her close-fitted jacket’s top buttons were open to reveal the folds of a heavy satin blouse the color of beeswax candles. On her feet she wore delicate high-heeled blue boots with a row of tiny pearl buttons. She barely glanced at Max before she spoke directly to Pia. “I am Madame Olenka.”

  Pia did not introduce herself, as if she assumed that Madame Olenka already knew who she was, and Max had to admire the girl’s acting ability.

  Madame Olenka spoke again. In her own home, Max noted, her voice rang soft and deep, full of mystery. “You will have come for a reading,” she said. “We go into here,” and she opened a door leading to what seemed to be a windowless closet, if a closet could be as large as one of Max’s front parlor rooms. A round glass ball shone on the square table at its center.

  Pia did not move. She said, “I do not desire a reading.”

  Madame Olenka closed the door. “So, so. You will be wanting a consultation.” She shut her eyes and reached her hands toward Pia, palms outward as if to receive invisible messages emanating from the flesh of her visitor. “It is a matter of the heart,” Madame Olenka said, her voice soft with sympathy. “There is a quarrel in your poor heart. The future makes you afraid, I think?” She opened her eyes to ask, “This is so, yes? But I cannot tell you more unless we make the arrangement. I would give from my gift freely to all in need, but I too must eat, and live.” She waved her hand to indicate the room they stood in, the house beyond. “I was not born to high position and great wealth, as are some others.”

  But Pia was not about to apologize for her own good fortune. “There are as many different gifts as there are uses for them,” she announced, as mysterious as her hostess. “I sent word that you might profit from talking with me. Now that I have seen you, and heard your voice and that paltry excuse for a prophecy, I know that I am correct. But I will not stay any longer in here.” She indicated with a gloved hand the room around them, the rest of the building. “The air is so thick with lies and greed that it chokes me. We will talk on the porch, Madame Olenka.”

  Madame Olenka drew herself up to protest, perhaps to mock or even to refuse, but Pia—gesturing to Max to follow her—swept out of the room. She spoke over her shoulder, “You may, of course, decline to hear me out.”

  Madame Olenka sighed dramatically and did not decline. Out on the porch, she seated herself on a wicker chair and indicated that Pia should take one of the others. She continued to ignore Max.

  Pia took a chair, arranged her skirts, and looked over at the blue-suited woman, then up at Max, who kept a respectful distance. “You may begin taking notes,” she told him, then turned back to Madame Olenka. “This man is my biographer.”

  At that point Madame Olenka did glance at Max. Then she looked more sharply.

  Max took out his small notebook and a pencil, flipping the small pad open to a particular page and wetting the tip of his pencil as fussily and slowly as Inspector Doddle readying himself to take down information. Madame Olenka lost interest in him and turned her unfriendly gaze back on Pia. As their conversation continued, Max didn’t raise his eyes from the page on which he was writing.

  Pia said, “It is I who have the true gift. You are a fraud and a cheat. Don’t bother protesting. This is as clear to me as it is well known to you. I have come this afternoon not because I sympathize with you or pity you or wish to catch you out. I have come because you have disrupted my sleep. So. We are agreed that you are an imposter?”

  Madame Olenka pursed her lips.

  “Do you deny that you take money from those poor fools whom you persuade to trust you?”

  “If someone wishes to pay me, I do not refuse the coins.”

  “At the end of this road a lightless place awaits you. What it is, I don’t know—a dungeon, a prison cell, an abandoned attic, a mountain cave. I only know I dreamed of you in such a place, among chests, iron bars, chains, cries of terror, and sobbings of despair, some sunless place. I don’t know if it was you who cried out in the dream or some other miserable creature. But I do not like to have my sleep disturbed, and so I have come here to tell you what awaits.”

  “How would you advise me?” Madame Olenka sounded scornful, but her earrings trembled. “If I were to ask.”

  Pia took a long time answering. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and stared at them, letting the minutes pass slowly by. When at last she did speak, without lifting her eyes from her hands, her voice was oddly flat and distant.

  “Where the road forks, I see—a journey? A white city in the desert? I see … is it a stallion? Perhaps not, perhaps it is only a man … I see … No,” Pia said in her proud, confident voice and looking directly at Madame Olenka, “I see no more.”

  “Do you think I am not familiar with such tricks? This is my own trade, and I have practiced it here, successfully, for three years and more. How do I know that you are not the charlatan?”

  Pia shrugged and rose from her seat. “That is of no interest to me. I am only here to win back unbroken slumbers in order to keep my own energies pure and return clarity to my own vision. You can believe what I have said. Or not. Come,” she said to Max.

  Max closed his notebook.

  Madame Olenka did not move. She said, “Wait. Please. You will let me ask one question?”

  Pia sat down, resettled herself, and looked up at Max. “Continue.”

  Max opened the notebook again.

  “If you don’t see anything more than that ahead of me, can you tell me what lies behind?” Madame Olenka asked.

  Now Pia closed her eyes and did not hesitate, so sure was she of herself. “Behind lies a house, a small house. Empty but not empty. A closed gate, and I see flowers and … is it a name? No, only letters. There is an M. I see just the single M.” She opened her eyes. One glimpse of the expression on Madame Olenka’s face told her that she had been believed.

  Madame Olenka did not give up so easily, however. “You wish to drive me out and have all the business of the lake to yourself,” she maintained, but her hands gripped one another in her blue velvet lap and she didn’t quite dare to look Pia in the face.

  Pia laughed and once again stood to leave. “Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I am not what I appear but am instead an agent of the police, and what my biographer has been writing down is not notes pertaining to this application of my gifts but your confession, and he will now open his coat to reveal a policeman’s badge on his chest, and he will take handcuffs from his pocket.”

  Madame Olenka half rose in her chair. She glanced quickly at Max and then as quickly away.

  Pia laughed again.

  “Miss?” Max said, as if reminding her. “If I may, Miss?” Pia was not the only good actor in the room.

  An irritated inclination of Pia’s head gave him permission.

  Max flipped back in the notebook and, looking at an earlier page, said, “When you told me the dream, you said this woman—with her long ears? She was alone but not alone. There was an uncle, you said,” he went on, apparently undistracted by Madame Olenka’s sharp intake of breath. “Or a cousin, or perhaps both an uncle and a cousin? In the dark place with her. I only mention it,” Max said to Pia’s e
xpression, which was turning to anger at his interference in her performance, “because when you told the dream to me, you seemed to feel this was important.” He turned the notebook page to face her, as if she could read the words across the distance.

  Now Madame Olenka stared at Max fearfully. She thought she might know him from somewhere, but she was too upset by this unexpected call, and too afraid that she might in fact know him from her time in the police station in the city—trying to persuade Officer Torson that she was an innocent bystander who only meant to be a good citizen—to be able to locate him in her memory. If she hadn’t been so worried by this person, with her purple gloves and haughty manner, she would have had the energy to demand that the man take off his hat and give her a good look at his face. But she was too distressed and distracted and afraid to be bothered. Already, she was thinking of what she could pack and what leave behind.

  Pia decided to go along with Max. “I had forgotten those two. Yes. You should make a note of that, Biographer. On this morning I forgot something; and I remember now that I did intend to mention it, if only to assure myself that the dreams would not recur. They were”—she turned back to Madame Olenka, who stood motionless, speechless—“alarmingly unpleasant dreams. I would not wish to be you.”

  They left her there, Pia once again ten paces ahead and Max tucking the notebook into his pocket as he followed behind.

  It was not until they had walked away from the docks where the Flower of Kashmir had never been berthed and moved beyond the range of Captain Francis’s curious glances that Pia turned around to demand, “What was that about, about an uncle and a cousin? I thought they were her father and brother. That’s what your grandmother said.”

  “I was guessing,” Max admitted proudly. He stepped up beside her and they went together through the narrow streets to Thieves Alley. “Didn’t you hear her gasp? That’s because I guessed right. There was nothing in that house a man could like, everything so fragile and fussy. I didn’t think those two men were living with her, but if they were her father and brother they would live with her, wouldn’t they? But they still had to be related, because of the ears. And because of the way the three of them seemed to be in cahoots. It was a good guess,” he pointed out.