Bethany Hagen: Landry Park

I had started to climb up the steps when I heard the faint whisper of tires on the road. I stopped to see blue lights cresting the hill, mounted on sleek black cars. As they came closer, I could see the Cherenkov lanterns mounted on the tops of the cars. The gentry usually stored their lanterns in lead-lined cases when they weren’t using them, but the police kept their Cherenkov lights unveiled at all times, letting the signature cerulean halo announce their presence.

The police cars pulled up to the house and stopped. The constables stepped out, then gestured to the back of the house while they pulled out notebooks and black bags. “They said she was attacked in the grove,” one officer said, his voice carrying easily into the foyer. “Let’s start there, assess the scene, and then interview the witnesses.”

“When he called, Mr. Landry said it was possibly the Rootless,” one said quietly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Filthy beasts,” a third one spat.

I flinched. It’s not as if I were friendly with any of the Rootless—we’d learned in the academy that they’d inherited their lot due to inherent laziness and violent tendencies, and that mingling with them was dangerous—but the viciousness of the hatred toward them sometimes shocked me. They were people too. Human beings. And surely there was a basic level of respect that we afforded any and all human beings, no matter what caste they hailed from? And weren’t we, as the gentry, supposed to be the leaders and examples for everybody else?

I stepped farther up on the staircase, wanting to watch but not be seen. Part of me wanted to run back to my father, to be there to temper his testimony, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Maybe when I was the owner of Landry Park— if I was ever the owner—my word would finally mean something.

I took another step, and someone spoke aloud. “Normally these debuts are terribly boring, so I make a point of arriving late, but I guess this time I missed all the excitement.”

I turned to see a blond man, tuxedo-clad and completely unfamiliar, stepping into the lamplight from the shadows in the foyer. In the dark, I could tell nothing more than that he seemed about my age and had blond hair so light it looked almost translucent under the Cherenkov lights. A carefully tailored tuxedo revealed wide shoulders and a narrow waist—an athlete’s body.

Had he been there this whole time watching the police? Watching me? I suddenly felt self-conscious of my hair—ruffled and slightly frizzy from the wind—and my dress, decorated with bits of leaves and pine needles from the grove. It’s dark, I reminded myself.

Besides, who cares what a stranger skulking around the Wilder estate thinks?

He leaned against the doorframe and struck a match to light a cigarette. With the sudden flame, I caught a glimpse of sharp features and a wide mouth. Long eyelashes and eyes the same blue as the Cherenkov lights behind him.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said, after a long drag on his cigarette. “Really, I get bored to death at these things. But police! Drama! You people in Kansas City sure know how to throw a party.”

Right there, I decided I knew his type, and we people in Kansas City already had plenty. Rich, bored, and confident that the world hung on his every word, he thought that his disdain was somehow electrifyingly amusing to everyone around him.

“It’s not funny,” I snapped. “A girl was attacked. Hurt.”

He cocked his head at me. “I suppose you’re right. But the police said it was the Rootless—they’ll find the animal soon enough, throw him in jail, and then everything will be as it was.”

“It wasn’t the Rootless,” I said firmly. “My father and the other gentry, they just want the Rootless to be guilty.” I stopped suddenly. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, here at the party. How long have you been here at the party?”

He shrugged. “A few minutes, I guess. Why—” His gaze sharpened. “I didn’t have anything to do with that girl, if that’s what you’re implying.”

I didn’t respond.

He sighed and started digging in his coat pocket. He pulled out his tablet, pressed a few buttons, and held it out for me. From a few feet away, I could see the copy of an airplane ticket, putting his arrival time in Kansas City less than an hour ago. About the same time I heard Cara scream.

“I came straight here from the airport,” he said. “Satisfied?”

“I’ll be satisfied when I find out what really happened,” I informed him, although I was privately relieved that I wasn’t standing alone in the near-darkness with a violent man.

We stared appraisingly at each other for a moment. “What’s your name?” he finally asked.

I needed to be upstairs with Cara, not wasting time with a stranger in the dark. I turned to go, but he strode forward and caught my hand. I could smell tobacco and something else—something spicy and wintery. This close, I was shocked by the radioactive blueness of his eyes.

“Please,” he said. “I would like to make your acquaintance.”

There was a boyish earnestness to his request, as if once he decided that he wanted something, he wanted it with every atom of his being.

As I opened my mouth, a guest strode into the foyer, talking loudly into her tablet and relaying the details of the ruined party. So, instead of answering him, I abruptly withdrew my hand from his. Gentry boys and girls dated—and often did more than just that—before their debuts, but strictly speaking, both parties were expected to arrive at the marriage bed untainted and untouched, to ensure that the pedigrees remained carefully crafted and planned.

He stared at his outstretched hand for a moment and then looked back up at me with those alarming eyes. And then he smiled, a smile full of white teeth and mirth and charm. A curious pang caught in my chest, as if a hook somewhere above my navel was jerking upward, making it hard to breathe.

It was this pang—more than his question or the threat of gossip—that made me move my legs.

“Good night,” I said, and climbed the stairs, my thoughts already turning back to Cara and her bruised face.

The upstairs hallway was better lit, with nuclear electric lights instead of candles, and the occasional window admitting moonlight from outside. I found Marianne’s room with little trouble, but when I knocked, Jamie was already opening the door to come out.

He shook his head at me. “She needs to rest.”

“The police are here. She won’t be able to rest anyway.”

He looked around the hallway almost guiltily. “She won’t be able to wake up until morning. I gave her a couple of sedatives from the house medicine chest.”

“You did what?”

“She asked me to,” he said. “And she deserves to rest after all that she’s been through. Thankfully, she assures me that nothing of a more prurient nature happened; she was spared that horror. Still, she needs to recover and process and sleep. The police are gentleman; they will respect that.”

I felt a geyser of frustration threatening to erupt in my throat, but tried to keep my face calm. I had a lot of experience hiding my emotions, but Jamie could read me better than most.

“Madeline,” he said, “why are you so preoccupied with this? Cara would never lie to the police, and the police would never go after an innocent person.”

“Cara lies to her own parents constantly! And if you think our constables are so noble, then how do you explain the random arrests and releases without any charges? The beatings? The confiscation of rations?”

Jamie shook his head again, looking tired. “Those are in other cities, in the South,” he replied. “I have more trust in the authorities here. Everything will work out.”