Echo in Onyx Read online

  “How did it go?” she demanded.

  I shrugged. “Well, Constance made it clear I had no hope of landing the job, but Lady Marguerite was very kind. She seemed tired and said she had a headache, then all of a sudden she started throwing up. I had to call for some servants, but—” I spread my hands. “I’m not sure she’ll even remember I was there.”

  “That’s most unfortunate,” Jean said. “I’ll send a note to Constance in the morning, inquiring after Marguerite’s health and asking if you should come back another time.”

  I shrugged again. “I’m sure she’ll say no. I could tell I’m not what she is looking for.”

  “There are other jobs in the city,” Jean said, looking around with a slight frown of irritation. “I suppose no one will bother to see us out. Let’s go, then. If you can’t be Lady Marguerite’s maid, what would you like to do?”

  I spent the next two days meeting roughly a dozen of Jean’s city friends, inquiring into possible employment. To me it seemed she must know everyone in Oberton, though in reality everyone she introduced me to fell squarely into the same social class. In the Seven Jewels, society was strictly divided into five categories, and people rarely strayed above or below their station. There were the high nobles, such as the governor and his family; the low nobles, who had some money and status but came from inferior bloodlines; the merchants and professionals, who owned property and made good livings, but weren’t from landed families; the working class, like my mother and the tradesmen who kept the city running; and the poor, who existed at the margins.

  Jean’s friends were all merchants and professionals, and she appeared to know dozens who were looking for a trustworthy employee. The baker would have hired me on the spot, and the milliner said if I could set a straight seam she would take me on part-time, but the job I found most intriguing was the one working in a bookseller’s shop. There had never been much time to read—or very many books to choose from—back at the posting house, but I had always enjoyed the activity when I had a spare moment. I thought if I was surrounded by words all day, some of them might seep into my skull just by association. I would gain knowledge, learn stories, and discover the mysteries of the world every time I brushed past a shelf heavy with leather-bound volumes. The job paid next to nothing, however, and Jean insisted I talk to at least two more business proprietors before I made a decision.

  “Don’t be shortsighted,” she said on the evening of the second day as we were returning from a visit to an attorney’s office. I had hated the place the minute we stepped inside: It was small and cramped and poorly lit and smelled like sweaty despair. The attorney liked me and named a salary that made Jean smile, but I told him I had more people to talk to before I made a decision. Once we were out on the street, I informed her that I would never work in such a place, but she urged me to reconsider. “People will always need legal help, and lawyers will always need assistants. You’re a bright girl and you deserve a job with a future.”

  “What I want is a job that’s interesting.”

  She snorted. “The better it pays, the more interesting a job is.”

  “I just don’t think that can be true.”

  It was almost the dinner hour by the time we arrived back at her narrow house, and Jean wondered aloud whether she should stop to pick up another loaf of bread. “There’s plenty for tonight, but perhaps not for the morning,” she was saying when I touched her arm and pointed at a tall, slim figure waiting outside her door.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Courier, it looks like,” she said.

  Within a few steps we could tell that he was not only a courier, but that he was wearing the governor’s livery. “I’m looking for a woman named Brianna,” he said, and handed over a sealed envelope when I identified myself.

  It was from Constance. The note read bluntly:

  Marguerite wishes to employ you. Present yourself in the morning.

  I stared at the message, stared at Jean, and read the letter again. Then I threw my hands in the air, let loose a cry of sheer delight, and started laughing uncontrollably. My real life was about to begin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I spent almost a full day at the manor before I saw Marguerite again. First, Constance spent at least an hour reviewing etiquette with me, telling me where I fit in the hierarchy of the servants and what I would be expected to do and who might order me about. From what I could tell, I answered first to Marguerite, then to the housekeeper, then to the butler, then to the cook, but anyone else had to ask me to do something and I could say no. I didn’t need Jean’s voice in my head, admonishing me to make friends, to resolve to be a cheerful and willing coworker.

  Next, a footman named Rory took me on a long, bewildering tour of the mansion, which consisted of four wings built around a central, enclosed atrium. On the top four levels of the five-story house, there were balconies that ran around the entire perimeter of the atrium; on each level, in each wing, there was single door that led to that balcony. Rory and I were on the third floor when he showed me the trick to identifying those doors—they had special, decorative moldings around their frames—then we stepped out onto the gallery to look around.

  The two times I had come to the mansion, I had entered through a servants’ door in the back wing, so I hadn’t had a chance to see the magnificent public space.

  The floor was veined white marble polished to such a high shine that it reflected back the sunlight pouring in through the glass panes of the ceiling. Tall potted plants, some bursting with blossoms, stood under the various archways that led from the atrium into the four wings. There were glowing copper statues and cheerful small fountains and banners and baskets and flags. Too many details to take in.

  There were also people moving across the space in a constant stream. Some were clearly servants hurrying off on urgent tasks; others appeared to be merchants and nobles come to seek an audience with Lord Garvin, the governor. We could catch snatches of their conversations and hear the bright tapping of their feet across the hard stone floor. The whole place seemed to swirl with sound and color.

  Suddenly Rory pointed. “See there? That’s Lord Garvin himself.”

  I craned my head to look, but the governor was impossible to miss. He was a tall man with brushy gray hair; he was dressed in blue and silver and striding so fast that his navy cloak billowed behind him. Behind him, on either side, were his two echoes. They were dressed in the same blue clothing, held their shoulders just as he did, and put their feet down at the precise moment his touched the floor. Someone called out a greeting and Lord Garvin’s head whipped around in response. In unison, both echoes also snapped their attention in that direction.

  “Do they always move exactly the way he does?” I whispered, even though the governor couldn’t possibly hear me from this far away.

  Rory nodded. “It’s spooky to watch.”

  “But they never speak?”

  “Not a word.”

  We stood at the balcony a few more minutes, resting our elbows on the rail, and he pointed out other noteworthy figures as they passed through. I didn’t make much effort to commit names to memory, since I wouldn’t be mingling with the nobles who visited the mansion. Suddenly I felt Rory grow tense and watchful as he stood beside me, and he elbowed me in the arm.

  “See him? The tall man wearing all black?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  I nodded, peering down at the figure making his way across the atrium. He was exceptionally thin and moved with a sort of sinister grace, sliding across the floor so smoothly that his outer garments didn’t flare or billow the way everyone else’s did. No one accompanied him, no one approached him; indeed, it seemed from my vantage point that he was surrounded by a small bubble of space that everyone else was being very careful not to disturb. He was walking in our direction, so I could get a fairly good look at his face, which was narrow and bony and pale. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes from this far up, but I could tell how they darted around incessantl
y, taking in every detail of his surroundings. I would have sworn he even glanced up once to take note of Rory and me at the railing.

  “Who’s that?” I breathed.

  “Del Morson. The governor’s inquisitor.”

  When I just looked at Rory and shrugged, he amplified, “He’s the one who keeps order in the city. He can have anyone arrested, anyone questioned. They say sometimes Del Morson keeps people locked up so long they don’t remember what crime they’ve been accused of.” Rory shook his head. “Don’t do anything that grabs his attention. Never catch his eye. If you’re in a room, even a public plaza, and Del Morson walks by, you just freeze in place until he’s out of sight.”

  The advice would have sounded melodramatic if I hadn’t actually been staring at Del Morson at that very moment, but given that fact, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable recommendation. “I’ll do that,” I said.

  We waited until Del Morson disappeared through one of the archways and the other visitors resumed their normal patterns of walking across the polished floor. “Well, then,” Rory said, turning away from the railing, “let’s see the rest of the house.”

  As we continued the tour, Rory explained how the rooms were laid out, how the servants’ routes mirrored the more public corridors, and how to travel most quickly between the different wings. “It’ll get easier,” he said, after I got turned around for the third time. “Anytime you’re lost, just find a door to the balcony, and you’ll be able to orient yourself.”

  Finally, he showed me to my room, which was situated on the fifth floor. It was a small, spare cell with a narrow bed, a high window, and a lock on the door to which Constance and I would have the only keys. “Not very fancy,” he said, “but you don’t have to share. Last place I worked, a lord’s house, there were four of us in every room. I like this better.”

  “So do I,” I assured him.

  He then made me find the way from my room to Lady Marguerite’s suite, though he followed me and dropped hints when I was about to make a wrong turn. I made mental notes about statuary and wall hangings that would serve as landmarks on my return journey, and thanked him gravely for his help.

  “It was fun,” he said, flashing me an easy smile. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Neither Marguerite nor the echoes were in her rooms, so I cautiously explored. In the village where I’d grown up, there were whole families living in houses that weren’t as spacious as these chambers. There was a large sitting room with a picture window overlooking the back gardens; by the sewing baskets and lap harp and piles of books lying around, I guessed that this was the place Marguerite spent most of her time. One door led off to the left, one to the right. I tiptoed first through the door to my right.

  It led to a long, narrow room with three beds lined up in a row, all neatly made and piled with the same number of pillows. Across from each bed stood an armoire. I peeked inside to find each one filled with identical dresses hung in exactly the same order, matching shoes arranged precisely beneath them. On one wall hung three oval mirrors; beneath them were three small vanities set with hairbrushes, powders, and jewelry boxes. I didn’t sort through the jewels, but I was pretty sure the contents would all be the same.

  I slipped back into the sitting room and through the door on the left, which led to three more chambers—a dressing room, a closet almost as big as the dressing room, and a bedroom. Not unexpectedly, Marguerite’s amenities were far more lavish than those of her echoes. The bed was mounded high with what looked like down mattresses, and covered with lace-edged duvets; I couldn’t count the number of pillows in satin cases. The rugs were thick and featured intricate patterns of roses and violets. Vases of flowers stood on almost every flat surface.

  The one thing that surprised me was a small statuary grouping I found in her bedroom. Not that the pieces were shocking. Not at all. They represented the triple goddess, the deity who watched over all the people in the Seven Jewels. This sculpture set was particularly lovely, containing figures that were approximately a foot tall. The one showing justice was rendered in black onyx with her hands stretched out to the sides; the one representing joy was carved in red with her arms lifted up toward the heavens; the one for mercy was made of white stone with her hands extended before her, palms up, supplicating.

  What surprised me was that the statues had been placed in a shadowy corner that was as far as it could be from the main door; someone would have to make a pretty thorough inspection of the suite to discover them. This led me to think that either Marguerite felt a deep, personal connection to the sculptures—or she didn’t want anyone else to know she kept them in her room. Not only that, it was clear that Marguerite worshipped before the statues on a regular basis. There were half-burned candles set before each goddess, and stone dishes blackened with the residue of incense. Flower petals, both fresh and faded, littered the floor all around the grouping, as if Marguerite tossed a few down every day and rarely bothered to sweep them up.

  It made no sense. Who would care if Marguerite regularly paid homage to the goddess? I had never heard any rumblings suggesting the governor was a nonbeliever. As far as I knew, Lord Garvin supported the temples and attended services on holy days. And I’d seen a few paintings of the triple goddess on the mansion walls during the long trek up and down its hallways that afternoon. Marguerite’s parents couldn’t possibly mind that she was a dedicated follower of the faith.

  I stroked a finger across the smooth white head of the sister who stood for mercy. What might prompt the governor and his wife to look on Marguerite’s devotions with suspicion? The goddess was served by a select group of attendants, mostly women, who lived in quarters near the temples and carried out sacred duties. Priestesses in black robes always attended executions and were present in the legal courts to ensure that justice was done; women in white robes usually could be found in the slums and infirmaries, ministering to the poor and the sick. Of course everyone was always happy to see a priestess in flowing red vestments at a wedding or any other celebration. Even in my village, we had a small temple and two women who served it. One of the girls my age had almost decided to forgo the idea of marriage and apprentice with them, though I’d always thought she was just nursing a broken heart and would change her mind as soon as she met a kinder young man.

  Most of the women who joined the temple were older, having participated in the rough-and-tumble of ordinary life long enough to understand the sorts of passions that make regular people go mad sometimes. But a few girls felt the call very early and donned the robes while they were still young. I didn’t know how strictly the rules were enforced, but I knew that, generally speaking, the women in the temples were expected to be celibate. They watched over the world, but they were not a part of it. And while I knew enough about human nature to suspect that more than a few of the priestesses took lovers, I was pretty sure that none of them ever married.

  I touched a fingertip in turn to the heads of the red and black statues. Maybe Marguerite felt that call. Maybe her heart was drawn to the temple, to the serving of justice, the offering of mercy, the celebration of joy. For a powerful man hoping to marry his daughter off for political advantage, there could hardly be a more disastrous development. That could explain why Marguerite hid her statues of the triple goddess in a back corner of her room.

  Making my way out of the bedchamber, I paused in the dressing room. I decided I might as well make myself useful while I was there. It didn’t take much searching through Marguerite’s closet to find a small section devoted to gowns and cloaks and undergarments that needed repair. I gathered up a half dozen items and returned to the sitting room, choosing a chair in front of the big picture window to take advantage of the late afternoon sunlight. I snagged a basket of sewing materials from a nearby table and began mending a long, jagged tear in a green silk gown. The work was intricate but not very difficult, and I rather enjoyed myself. I wasn’t sure what my new life at the manor would entail, but this part of it, at least, I understoo
d how to do.

  I had been stitching for about an hour when there was a clatter at the door and Marguerite and the echoes stepped inside. They were all wearing sunny yellow dresses and carrying armloads of summer blossoms, which made me suspect they had been shopping at the city’s famous flower markets. When I’d noticed all the vases in the room, I’d just assumed the housekeeper or a maid kept them filled with fresh blooms, but now I wondered if Marguerite made her own selections.

  I put aside the green dress and came hastily to my feet, curtseying as they swept in. “Brianna! You’re here!” Marguerite exclaimed. She handed her bundles to one of the echoes and came across the room to greet me. “And look at you—working already. Just what I would have expected of you.”

  I glanced up from my curtsey, honestly surprised. “Would you? You don’t even know me.”

  She was smiling. “You don’t seem like the type to sit around idle.”

  I smiled back. “No, I suppose not. I like to keep busy.” I clasped my hands in front of me. Jean had told me I must express my gratitude for my new position, and in truth I wanted to. “My lady, thank you so much for giving me this opportunity. I want to be the best maid you ever had. I don’t even know why you decided to take a chance on me, but I’m so thankful you did.”

  Her smile lingered. “Why did I take a chance on you? Because you took care of me when I was sick. No one else has ever done that.”

  I was bewildered. “No one—none of your other maids?”

  She shook her head. “Winifred—the last one—she was very fashionable. She couldn’t abide anything inferior. Her favorite thing to say was, ‘It’s not quality.’ If I had vomited at her feet she would have scurried out the door. And Daniella, the one before her. She was almost too timid to speak. She never did anything without a direct order. If I’d been sick while she was in the room, she would have just stood there and watched me.”

  “Well, maybe they would have fetched someone else to come take care of you.”