Instead of the great light spilling from numerous windows that would accompany most fetes or dinner parties or soirees, the building had only a small yellow glow from the front entrance. The door opened, giving just a brief glimpse of a butler, and then closed behind a cluster of people, as though loath to waste its illumination on the night.
Indeed, the line of carriages dropping off guests was hardly a line at all, for there weren’t so very many guests. This was a fact that had not escaped Victoria, and as they approached the door and it opened again she paused, edging into the welcome shadows so that no one inside could see her. She wondered not for the first time whether it had been by accident or design that the mother of a Venator had been invited to attend.
Zavier stopped, urging Lady Melly to go on ahead as Victoria pretended to adjust her loose slipper. The older woman, thrilled by the same environment that set her daughter’s instincts on edge, did not hesitate and gladly entered the door, opened by a butler who barely stepped far enough away for them to enter. She was followed by Lady Nilly and Lady Winnie.
The door closed without the butler even looking about, and Victoria and Zavier were alone in the darkness together.
“Ye’ll take care now,” Zavier said, capturing Victoria’s gloved hand as she straightened from pretending to fix her slipper, a task meant to keep her from being recognized by anyone inside the villa.
“Of course. Thank you again for coming, Zavier. I know my mother will be safe in your care, and I’ll be able to slip into the building without being noticed. If you see anything—”
“Aye, I’ll tend to her. And I’ll keep watch for anything odd, though I don’t ken what it is we might find. I canna believe the key is hidden in this house any longer.”
“I begin to wonder myself. It could be a perfectly harmless, foolish little event meant to slip under the notice of the priests during Lent…but I do not believe it. However, I don’t sense any undead nearby. So perhaps all will be well.”
She would have turned away to melt back into the shadows so Zavier could enter the house, but his hand, rough from the calluses on his palm, stopped her, brushing over her cheek. “Your lip’s nearly healed. Best take care not to run into more door corners,” he said, reminding her of the lie she’d given to excuse the nip Beauregard had given her the night before.
“It was very clumsy of me,” she replied, thinking of how she’d bumped her forehead into Max that same evening…and then she realized Zavier’s intention.
He was going to kiss her. She tensed in anticipation.
Zavier moved closer and brushed her mouth with his, leaving a gentle scrape of whiskers and the musty smell of tobacco in the wake of the kiss. When he pulled back to look at her, their eyes were nearly level. Though it was too dark to see his expression, she could feel the faint tremble in his fingers against her chin. “Och, now,” he said, a smile in his voice, “how does that feel?”
“I think it feels much better,” she replied lightly, smiling back, hoping that Max wouldn’t appear from the shadows and ruin the moment. It would be just like him.
“Victoria,” Zavier said so softly his brogue was hardly noticeable, and then leaned forward to kiss her again. This time it was more than a brush of lips, yet there was still gentleness about it—as if he still wasn’t certain she’d allow it, or as if he wasn’t sure it was real.
The kiss was brief, as kisses went—certainly not as long or involved as others she’d experienced. When Victoria realized her hand had somehow made its way to the front of his massive shoulder and felt the slamming pounding of his heart all the way up in his neck, she drew back.
He pulled in a breath as if to speak, but she forestalled anything he might have said. “My mother will be wondering what’s keeping us. Perhaps you’d best make your way inside. Give her the excuse that the strap on my slipper has broken and I’ve returned home to get a new one.”
He nodded, his shaggy hair falling forward. With a sweep of his hand he brushed it back over his brow and stepped away. “Ye have a care,” he said, and turned to walk back toward the main entrance, which had, during this interlude, remained closed and deserted.
Victoria watched him go and waited for Max to emerge from the shadows as she stripped off her gloves. She didn’t like to wear them when there was the possibility of a fight.
The world remained silent, however—silent and empty, filled with shadows and looming walls. Since Zavier had entered the villa there was no further activity. A few more lights had winked on in various windows, accompanied by moving shadows.
Victoria’s neck was warm, but she was beginning to feel a little chilled everywhere else. It was, after all, February, and though milder than it would be in London, it was still cool after sundown. Dressed as she was in flimsy evening clothing, she knew she couldn’t wait much longer, when a tussle in the overgrown bushes caught her attention.
Max emerged, coming from the opposite direction she’d expected—not from the drive, but from behind the villa.
“Another key has been inserted,” he said without preamble, stepping like a long black shadow into the circle of light cast by a lone lantern.
“Do you mean to say you looked at the Door of Alchemy and there are two keys now?” Victoria said, stepping toward him.“That is what I said, yes. I’ve just come from there. I wanted to see it for myself.” His sharp nod indicated the direction behind the villa, off to the right and toward the back of the estate. “There’s an old servants’ entrance into the building back here.”
“Which keys?” Victoria asked, starting off after him into the darkness along the wall of the house. “Which ones were turned?”
“Eustacia’s wasn’t one of them.”
She felt a wave of relief; then something wet seeped through her slipper as she made her way along. Pursing her lips in annoyance, she continued on, not altogether certain it had been an accident that Max had led her this way.
At last he stopped in front of a door much less grand than the main entrance. A few sharp movements, the sound of splintering, and one powerful angling of his shoulders—and the door opened into a dark room.
“I’ll go first,” Victoria said, stepping past Max into a musty entryway. At least part of the information about the party wasn’t a lie: The villa had obviously not been opened for years. If anyone had inhabited the place, the servants’ entrance, at least, would have been well used.
“Be my guest.”
It was dark, and Victoria paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the unfamiliar environment. Then, without a word to Max, she began to walk quickly, silently, but cautiously down the hallway toward the main part of the house.
She’d taken no more than three steps in her soggy slippers when a strong grip pulled her back. “Where are you going?” he asked.
Shaking off his hand, she looked up at him. “Blast it, Max, where do you think?” She managed to keep her voice low, although it was hard. “To the parlor or ballroom, where they’ve likely all gathered.”
“Then perhaps you might wish to follow me. That direction”—he pointed where she’d been going, his hand boldly in her face—“leads to the servants’ quarters.”
She said nothing more, but turned and trotted off after him, annoyed with herself for getting her directions confused now that she was inside the building. Of course the servants’ quarters were toward the back side of the villa.
The passageway was deserted, and there were cobwebs and dust everywhere. Victoria had to press her fingers over the top of her nose to keep from sneezing when Max brushed past an old drape that must have sent up a cloud of dust. She couldn’t tell for sure, because of the darkness. There were voices in the distance, and as they moved along the servants’ hallway the sounds grew louder.
Max stopped when they came to one of the back doors that obviously led from the servants’ area to the main part of the house. He cracked the door and peered inside, deliberately—Victoria was sure—positioning himself so that she couldn’t see around him.
Or maybe she was just falling back into that old habit of being perturbed by everything he did or said.
Certainly he’d intentionally tried to irritate her when she’d first become a Venator and they’d had to work together. And last fall, when he’d been pretending to be part of the Tutela, he’d had to be even ruder and more snide than usual in order to keep her from asking too many questions.
But perhaps he really had come to respect her as a Venator, now that Aunt Eustacia was gone and he’d had a chance to think about things. In any case, despite his blunt ways, she was glad he was back.
Victoria realized he’d stepped away from the doorway and was looking at her. “They’ve gathered there in what must be the ballroom,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ll sneak in and listen to what’s being said. I saw a flight of stairs that might lead above for a better look.”
“I’ll go up and see what there is to see,” she said, and started toward the door, but his hand on her upper arm stopped her.
“Go to the left, stay in the shadows, and you’ll find the stairs.”
She nodded once, then turned back to add, “Meet at the servants’ door if we’re separated.”
Without waiting for a response she did as he’d suggested, opening the door that, by virtue of the fact that it was designed to be an unobtrusive servants’ entrance, was set in the darkest corner of the room beyond it. She found it no difficult feat to move quickly and rapidly along the wall to a flight of stairs that led to a balconylike alcove above.
As she scurried along the wall, she saw that the main room was not the ballroom, but an anteroom that offered three wide arches that led to the ballroom.
The people Victoria saw gathered barely constituted a crowd at all; perhaps twenty or thirty people stood about. They had sparkling goblets that looked out of place in a gloomy room lit not with lamps or sconces, but with only candles—although there were nearly as many candles tonight as there had been last night on the Corso. And since there was no music to act as a backdrop, and their voices were low murmurs, the occasion had a rather eerie feel. The furnishings were spare. A small table presumably held the drinks the guests had received, and another long table across the room was covered with what appeared to be scrolls of paper.