Page 23 of Spring's Arcana
“Thank you, sir.” The butler’s snow-white shirt covered a concave chest. It looked like the front half of his ribs had been removed, and his white-gloved hands had more than the usual number of fingers. The phalanges were too long and thin, an extra knuckle in each, and Nat looked hurriedly away.
Invisible seamstresses were easier. You could call it a bad special effect, or something with wires. But this…
There were more butlers circulating through the crowd as well, half-chested, bland faces set as if they smelled something awful, gliding softly on polished wingtips and occasionally bending like clockwork toys to pick up a fallen or discarded article. The guests—if the word applied—magnanimously ignored the staff, except for the cadaverous black-suited waiters bearing silver trays loaded with what had to be alcoholic liquid in chiming crystal glasses of every shape and size.
There was alotof drinking going on. A pair of massive staircases swooped upward, music pouring from the golden arch where they met; on either side of the foyer’s keyhole-shaped floor, dimly lit hallways receded with rustling whispers and half-seen shapes in glittering dresses or natty evening suits.
“Don’t go down there,” Dmitri said, his hand closing around her left arm. “That’s for the unformed.”
“Unformed?” She sounded like an idiot, but who wouldn’t, faced with this?
“Need a little more time in the oven,” he muttered. Then, a little louder, “Where’s Baba,dvoretskiy?”
The butler’s blank eyes—pale blue, but otherwise startlingly reminiscent of poached eggs—blinked blearily at him. “Up there, sir.” He indicated the crowded stairs. Not many people were moving, she realized; most were standing and taking hits off whatever tumbler or glass they held, chattering brightly at each other while they peered upward or smoked.
It was too much booze for just standing around. Dmitri noddedand set off, which meant she had to as well or be ignominiously dragged. He headed straight up the middle of the left-hand staircase, paying no attention to the shining throng on either side; they parted like a river around a stubborn rock. A few whispered behind their hands, like a woman with a black asymmetrical bob bearing a striking resemblance to an action-movie actress Uncle Leo particularly liked or the squat, toad-like, pasty man who smiled broadly when he caught Nat’s gaze, his eyes dancing with golden twinkles and his suit matching, the exact shade of fresh deep wheat. His teeth were blackened stumps behind pale rubbery lips, and he bowed deeply in Dmitri’s direction.
The gangster didn’t even appear to notice, but his hand tightened on Nat’s arm. “Don’t encourage them,” he muttered. “If they think you can help, you’ll never get rid of bastards. Eyes up,zaika.”
He sounded just like Mama telling young Nat not to give spare change to beggars.They’ll take everything you have. Don’t even look.
How could you not, though? Suffering demanded empathy, no matter how hard-boiled you pretended to be. “Whose house is this?” She had to almost yell over the rapidly swelling music; Coco’s heels clung to the steps here, too, instead of slipping.
At least the stairs weren’t made out of glass, and there weren’t twelve princesses with worn-out shoes.
“Does it matter?” Dmitri snagged a champagne flute off a passing butler’s tray, turning almost sideways as he continued rapidly up the stairs. “Here. Drink. Good for you.” He all but shoved it into her hand, rescued a squat amber-glass tumbler from yet another passing butler—where on earth did they allcomefrom, and what was wrong with their ribs?
The questions kept walloping her. Nat would think she was adjusting, but another strangeness would appear andwham,all the breath left her metaphorical lungs and she was left gasp-blinking and perplexed.
The golden arch at the top of the stairs was flanked by two identical bruisers in black turtlenecks, hip-length jackets tailored over shoulder holsters, and black trousers as well as those funny little earpieces she’d only seen in movies. Instead of eyes or sunglasses,mirrored lenses grew out of their cheekbones—blank, slightly convex, fitting perfectly into the socket—and vanished into their eyebrows, the transition so gradual and natural-looking Nat’s knees turned even gooshier. The light green liquid in her flute sloshed, her stomach cramped, and Dmitri smiled, bright white teeth gleaming.
“Well, nephews,” he barked, “this is thedevotchka’s first time, eh? Show some respect.”
“Mr. Konets.” The one on the right bowed, and Nat was too unnerved to be happy about the fact that she wasn’t being towed along anymore. A rippling mutter went down the fantastic costumes on the stairs, an almost-hungry buzz. “And…” The mirrored gaze came to rest on Nat.
The one on the left had bent too, a perfectly choreographed movement. “… Drozdova,” he finished, and Nat realized the eye-mirrors weren’t showing what was in front of them. There was no tiny Dmitri or pale Nat in green clutching a glass of useless, similarly green liquor. No, some other scene was reflected on those silver oblongs, chips of white confetti falling and lights flashing, a corpse lying broken on a tar-black road leading to infinity. “Honored to have you, ma’am. Won’t you please…”
“… come in?” the one on the right said as he straightened. There shouldn’t have been room for the crowd, these two huge men, Dmitri, and Nat on this landing, but somehow it happened.
The left spoke up again. “Everything here is…”
“… complimentary,” the right finished. “Enjoy the party.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum, only with guns. Nat could find absolutely nothing to say out of all the words she had accumulated since childhood.
Dmitri laughed and started forward. Nat was swept through the arch into a flood of bright jazz, golden light somehow managing to retain the intimacy of candleflames, and steady motion. She snapped a glance over her shoulder, and it was impossible—from this side, the door wasn’t an arch but another keyhole, the foyer’s shape echoed vertically. There was a strange dropping sensation right where her diaphragm should be; her lungs and legs struggledto catch up, like stepping over the unexpected variance between an old house’s rooms because the foundation had shifted.
Dmitri slung the cargo of his tumbler far back into his throat, exhaled sharply, and tossed the glass down, hard. It shattered with a high tinkle, melding with a stinging hi-hat and a horn holding a long note trembling on the edge of a screech; the dancers on ballroom floors spreading like petals from the central landing and keyhole door didn’t condescend to notice. Feathers exploded, glitter swirling through the air, and Nat’s eyelids fluttered too, chopping the moving throng into bullet-sized pieces.
She was beginning to think all of this was a mistake when a deep, soft tenor laugh wrapped around her.
“Daisy!” a man called, and a pair of large, warm, very expensively manicured hands grabbed her shoulders.
DEEPEST WELL OF ALL
He’d never brought arm candy to one of Jay’s parties before, and Dmitri found he liked the attention. Of course Coco wouldn’t have let the girl out her boutique door without doing the absolute best she could; when Fashion had quality raw material to work with, the result was a stunner.
Still, even Dima Konets wasn’t quite prepared for the dapper, well-tanned Pasha of West Egg—in a pale linen summer suit, of course—to descend upon his companion, air-kissing over both her downy cheeks, subtracting the flute from her pretty hand, and whisking her away. Her arm was freed from Dmitri’s grasp like a sapling bending on a passing semitruck’s slipstream, and as his face congested, a dark spot among the dancing throng whirled to a stop, her weathered cheeks apple-red with exertion and her high-piled now-gray hair twisted with twigs dipped in black iron. Baba’s black eyes gleamed too, and her tight-set mouth was painted fresh crimson.
