Bethany Hagen: Landry Park

Her lips parted as if she was about to speak, but she closed her mouth and shook her head. Her green eyes flicked to mine, then back to my father’s.

She’s hiding something, I thought, recognizing those darting eyes.

Just then, Mr. Glaize came crashing back to us, holding a battered leather satchel. Inside, one nuclear charge blinked red. Expired.

In order to be light enough to be carried and replaced easily, the charge boxes were made of a temporary polymer that only lasted for six months before they leaked radiation. It was a modified version of the same polymer that the Cherenkov lanterns were made of, except instead of casting off a small pool of light, these charges powered entire homes. And it was the job of the Rootless to remove these charges before they expired and began to leak radiation inside the houses of the gentry, and also their job to replace the expired boxes with new ones.

“A Rootless was here,” Mr. Glaize said. “Maybe here to change Mr. Wilder’s charges? Maybe he found Miss Westoff out here alone and took advantage?”

“It’s just a bag,” I pointed out. “It could have been there for weeks.”

It was ridiculous how willing the gentry were to blame everything on the Rootless. Missing jewelry and mysterious pregnancies were never openly attributed to carelessness or forbidden trysts. Everything from a broken wall screen to a bad harvest could somehow be traced back to the Rootless.

Cara made a sound between a laugh and a sob. We looked at her, but she just looked down. Wetness glistened on her cheeks.

“No harm done,” she whispered to herself.

I breathed in sharply. I’d heard that before.

“What was that?” Father pressed.

She looked up again, and all signs of defiance and shock where gone. “I said, I think maybe it was a Rootless,” she answered. She could have been acting the part of a trapped princess, the pout and the trembling voice were all so staged. But the men leaned in closer. “I thought I saw dirty clothes and that leather bag. But it happened so fast.” She buried her face in her hands. I thought I could see the glimpse of a bright green eye in between her fingers, as if gauging the reaction of her audience.

I’d seen this performance many times.

“All this talk is upsetting Miss Westoff,” Jamie interjected. “Mr. Landry, may I take her back to the house? Surely, this kind of interrogation can wait until her injuries have been seen to and she’s had a chance to compose herself.”

Father looked around the grove, considering, and then nodded. “Madeline, go with them. Help tend to Miss Westoff, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let yourselves be seen. The last thing we need is an entire house full of panicked gentry.”

“They will panic once they see the police,” Mr. Glaize said. “It’s hopeless to pretend this will stay quiet for long. If people don’t figure it out tonight, gossip will certainly be circulating around the brunches and business meetings tomorrow.”

Mr. Wilder looked miserable.

Father considered Mr. Glaize’s words. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Glaize. Perhaps we should explain the circumstances to the assembly and encourage their quiet cooperation with the investigation. Maybe they’ll sleep more soundly knowing we already have a direction to take our inquiries.”

Jamie stooped and lifted Cara into his arms. His thin frame struggled with her weight—slender as she was, she was tall and strong—but he gallantly walked toward Wilder House, the two of them silhouetted against the bright lights shining from the windows.

“Madeline, please go with them like I asked,” Father said. “I want you safely inside the house until we can be certain the estate is secure.”

I stepped toward the house, then stopped and turned. “Father, I don’t think it was a Rootless who attacked Cara.” My voice quavered a little at the end; Alexander Landry was not an easy man to disagree with.

His iron eyes turned their metal gaze to mine. “And what makes you so certain? In the midst of all the trouble the Rootless have been giving the gentry, the physical evidence that a Rootless was here in these woods, and the information Miss Westoff herself has revealed to us—”

“She hasn’t revealed anything,” I interrupted. “She said only that she thought she might have seen that bag. That’s hardly proof, and you know how Cara can be.” I couldn’t explain to him the sense of responsibility I felt for Cara’s testimony; I couldn’t even really explain it to myself. I tried another tactic. “Why are you so eager to blame the Rootless?”

He stepped closer so that Mr. Wilder and Mr. Glaize couldn’t hear. “Why are you so eager to defend them? If you knew how dangerous they’ve become and how ignorant and depraved their minds are, you would not be so quick to shelter them from justice. Must I remind you of your uncle Stephen?”

I paused. Stephen Landry—Father’s older and only brother—had died shortly after graduating the academy. He’d been seen spending time with several rough working-class men—including some Rootless—and the rumor was that he’d gotten into some kind of trouble. They never found his body and they never tortured the truth out of the youths they arrested, but a pack of police dogs found his bloodstained jacket buried in the Rootless ghetto.

“Uncle Stephen died over twenty years ago.”

“You feel the pain less keenly because you never knew him. But perhaps you’ll understand now that your friend has been attacked.”

I wanted to say something in reply, something to refute what he had said, but my mind stumbled under the weight of Father’s gaze. So I remained silent. My best hope was that Cara would ultimately reveal whatever inscrutable reason she’d been out in the cold, without a chaperone, without a friend, without even a jacket.

About half of the guests had stayed, talking together in clumps while servants gathered up the remains of the food and pushed brooms across the dance floor, now littered with fallen hairpins and crumbs. Some of the gentry left, fearful of another attack, but the remaining guests crowded around me as I tried to walk through.

“We saw Jamie Campbell-Smith carrying Cara. Is she all right?”

“Was she attacked?”

“Where is your father? Did he call the police?”

I just shook my head, mumbling that I didn’t know. I needed to find Cara. I was the only one who knew that she wasn’t being entirely truthful. Maybe I alone couldn’t convince my father not to go after the Rootless, but if Cara would name her attacker—or at least confirm that he wasn’t a Rootless—then Father would have to respect her word. And mine.

Mother came up to me, sliding easily between the clusters of people, keeping the train of her delicate gown from being trampled. “Darling, you must go see to Cara. Addison would, but she just learned of the whole thing after coming in from having a cigarette, and the shock made her faint. I volunteered to help her home to rest.” Her voice was tender, but her eyes belied her concern. If she stayed by Addison’s side, she’d be the first to hear of any news.

“Where is Cara?”

“Upstairs in the north end of the house. Miss Wilder kindly loaned her chambers.”

I gave Mother a quick hug and set out for the staircase, pushing past a laughing Philip Wilder as I did. I pulled my skirts in close as I rushed down the hallway to the front foyer, hung with long banners displaying the Wilder crest: a bow and arrows set against a green forest. There I found a thin green carpet running down the shallow steps, with intricate balusters lining the sides of the banisters and a railing that gleamed with polish.

The chandelier in the foyer had been extinguished, leaving only the flickering wall sconces, which barely illuminated the stairs. The front doors were thrown open, and a small pool of lamplight from outside shone on the wooden floors.