Page 22 of Girl Anonymous

She took a moment to speak to Mary, admonishing her to do as she’d been instructed. Mary looked concerned and confused, then she nodded, yet her lip trembled. Andere, their oh-so-dignified and formal butler, moved toward her in that unobtrusive walk of his. He moved quickly, but without drawing attention to himself. His full head of dark wavy hair was trimmed and subdued by his barber. He was tall, wore his suit well, never presumed, observed every situation, and responded accordingly.

Dante could not imagine him dressed in anything but black-and-white.

Andere knelt and spoke in a gentle voice, and offered Mary a handful of the lemon candies he always carried in his pockets. She looked up at Dante as if needing reassurance about taking candy from a stranger.

He nodded and smiled, giving her permission. He was well-acquainted with the restorative power of those French candies. Many a time after his father punished him, the sweet-tart taste of lemon had helped him regain the composure Benoit demanded of his heir. He hoped they gave the little girl pleasure now, in these decisive moments she couldn’t possibly understand.

Pola walked toward Benoit with her shoulders back and her chin up. Benoit preferred to see applicants cower, but in the end, defiance or entreaty would make no difference. He would do what he would do. Probably she knew that, or possibly she didn’t know how to grovel.

Pola stopped the prescribed distance away and offered the wrapped box.

Drawn by the sense that this moment had consequences he couldn’t comprehend, Dante drew close enough to hear Pola speak.

Her voice was low, husky, vibrant. “Master, I brought a gift.”

A bribe.

“It is the tribute you demanded of my husband.”

“You are wise.” Benoit accepted the box and flicked the bow open.

Dante exchanged glances with the bodyguard Benoit insisted Dante keep with him at all times. Nate was ten years old, tall and broad, stoic and taciturn. His last name was Arundel, so he was a relative of some kind, and he and Dante communicated without words. They both understood the significance of this moment.

“This small red glass bottle, theBottiglia di Fiamma—”

Bottle of Flame, Dante translated from Italian.

“La Bouteille de Flamme,”Benoit said assertively.

Of course. Pola gave it the Italian name, for it had been created in the fumes and furnaces of the island of Murano. Benoit was French and a bully; he had no respect for the origins and artistry.

Pola ignored Benoit’s interruption. “The bottle, stoppered with wax—”

Benoit clamped his fingers over her skinny wrist. “Say it.”

She stood straight and tall, unyielding, until Benoit began to grind and twist her bones, then she repeated, “La Bouteille de Flamme,stoppered in wax, gives honor to the blood of Jånos, the revered founder of my husband’s tribe, a martyr who fought evil and won.”

Benoit tossed her wrist aside. Lifting the bottle, he stared at the contents. “You exaggerate. All Jånos did was die.” He showed it to the room. It was, indeed, a small red bottle, perhaps the size of little Mary’s hand; it gleamed not like glass, but like polished rubies.

The sycophants in the foyer, and there were always sycophants present, applauded gingerly—vigorous applause might attract Benoit’s attention, and that could be as painful as being ignored—and murmured their admiration and praise. Even Dante thought it beautiful and knew why Benoit had done so much to acquire it; it beckoned like a seductive woman.

Pola continued, “I bring dishonor to myself and my people by giving this into your possession, into the hands of a hated Arundel, worthy descendent of Èrthu the Pale, the legendary exterminator who raped and murdered, and skewered Rom babies on his lance.”

Dante didn’t know whether the woman praised Benoit and his ancestor, or spat on him. Nor could he tell if Benoit enjoyed her calm-voiced tribute, or would take a terrible revenge. Both, probably.

Definitely.

Benoit summoned Andere, who left Mary and in his unhurried pace came to Benoit’s side. Benoit handed the box to him and spoke a single word.

Of course. Benoit trusted Andere as he trusted his wife. Andere had been a retainer to the family as long as Dante could remember, and moreover, he came from a family who had faithfully served the Arundels for generations. No one loved Benoit, but he commanded loyalty as easily as he demanded obedience.

Andere bowed to the man he served as master, and to Raine, the master’s wife, and carried the box away to be put in the safe.

“Since the day Èrthu laid eyes on thevasi sanguigni—”

Blood vessel, Dante translated again.

“—so precious to my people, all the lords of Arundel have sought it, not for its holiness nor for its honor, but to own as a thing, a possession, a vanity. Now you have it, and tonight you may hold it and gloat, and in return, I seek a boon.”

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