Page 34 of The City of Stardust

Then, inevitably, there are the scholars. She learns the family names, their endless squabbles and shifting alliances. That to talk to a Matsuda about the Persauds is to court a fist fight, that the Hadleys employ bodyguards for good reason, while the Quintrells are disdained by just about everyone, including their own extended family. That Marianne wove between the families with a politician’s slippery touch and a spy’s predilection for betrayal.

No one knows if her mother found what she was looking for, or where she went next. It’s as though Marianne Everly stepped through the space between worlds—and vanished, taking every trace of her journey with her.

And always, Violet feels time breathing against her ear, pressing a knife into the small of her back. Now it’s just six weeks—time she could tick off on her fingers, that she could fritter away or count out wisely like hard-won savings, but that she spends anyway because she has no choice. A small voice suggests that perhaps now, while there is still a chance to live, to see the world, she should let Marianne go, and trust that her mother will find the solution.

Or… because this is all that’s left. And even if she can’t experience the mountain song of Fidelis, she should still seesomething, before the deadline swallows her whole.

Time, she has discovered, wears Penelope’s smile.

CHAPTER

Eighteen

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT-STREAKEDsky of New York City, Violet is crashing a party. Strictly speaking, it’s infiltration via a stolen invitation and a borrowed dress that’s definitely meant for a taller, bustier woman. Occasionally, she glances towards the brightly lit street to make sure no one is watching her as she adjusts her horribly itchy wig: black to cover up her true hair colour. But this is the beauty of New York—anonymity is a right.

There are other things she loves about the city: the dazzling theatres, the sheer volume of tiny restaurants and takeaways, and even the way the high-rises seem to keep the sky aloft, like architectural Atlases. She admires the grit beneath her fingernails, the way people’s gazes slide over her as one more faceless person in the crowd. If she had a couple of months here, she could spend every day doing something different and never get bored. Museums! Galleries! Endless walks through Central Park.

If only she had a couple of months to spare.

In more respectable hours, this building is a thriving bookshop, brimming with tourists posing against the bright memorabilia, or couples writing love notes to one another on the chalkboard wall. The photos online are full of comments about the eclectic yet perfect array of books, the delicious hot chocolates served at the connecting café, the hand-painted stars on the ceiling with made-up constellations. A real highlight for book lovers everywhere, she’d read on various travel blogs.Unmissable!

She’d visited it the day before, trying not to look too conspicuous amongst the other browsing people. It had lived up to its online ratings, and in any other circumstances, Violet could have lingered for hours. It seemed so beautifully ordinary in the way it catered to the camera-clutching tourists. And itisa lovely bookshop.

Tonight, the shop is closed for a private event. There are no specifications on what kind of private event, but Violet has it on good authority that this is another scholars’ soirée, like the one Adelia Verne held. Except this time the host is one Yulan Liu, who isn’t a scholar herself, but one of the many people orbiting them—in this case, an antiquarian books dealer, with an eye for the rare and illegally acquired. A dealer who, if Violet has pieced this together correctly, has a particular map in her possession—to an object that can answer any question. Allegedly.

The woman in Accra—the one who’d recognised Violet’s bracelets—had told her that this was what Marianne had gone after, the last time she’d seen her, only a few months before. Once Violet had stopped kicking herself for not arriving earlier, missing Marianne by such a slender span of time, she’d turned her attention to the map. It sounds like wishful thinking, but she’s learnt that very little is wishful where the scholars are concerned.

So she squares her shoulders, smooths out the invitation in her hand, and puts on an expression that saysI absolutely belong to this party.A bouncer at the door is checking guests in.

“Juliet Green?” he says, glancing at her invitation.

Violet gives him her most winning smile, and prays the wig is a sufficient disguise. “That’s the one.”

One of the many hard lessons she’s learnt over the last year is just how many scholars Marianne’s made enemies of. Several of them will be here tonight—hence the disguise as Juliet Green, some minor scholar of middling talent and no family connections whatsoever, who should be perfectly invisible.

The bouncer ushers her through. The lights are dimmed, and a purple carpet ribbons between the tables of stacked books, towards the back. Other people are already mingling, a mixture of tattooedguests with key cufflinks and earrings, and the unadorned, who look distinctly more uncomfortable. There’s a familiar metaphor here somewhere about wolves and sheep, Violet muses. After the year she’s had, she wonders which group she belongs to now.

Violet follows the winding carpet past silent till points and up two flights of stairs, where photographs of famous dead authors hang haphazardly on the walls. On the third-floor landing, two glass double doors are guarded by more intimidating security. Thick burgundy curtains shield the room beyond from prying eyes. Although there’s nothing to worry about, Violet’s palms are sweaty.

She hands over her invitation, and this time, the security guards scrutinise it more closely. Violet’s palm sweatiness intensifies.

“Juliet Green,” she announces, as if she can bridge the gap between lie and truth simply by stating the name as her own.

But after a further agonising second, the guards let her through, parting the velvet curtains.

“Enjoy your evening,” the taller of the two says after her.

The hall in front of her is a far cry from the shop downstairs, which was all tourist knick-knacks, glossy hardback bestsellers and cheap second-hand paperbacks, their spines cracked. It reminds her of the library in the Everly house, only with twice, three times the space and ceiling height. Rare books, pamphlets and scrolls are encased safely and spotlit behind glass for guests to admire. Whoever decorated must possess a lust for the bloodthirsty, because what isn’t bookshelf space is devoted to wickedly sharp-looking weapons arranged like threats on the walls, or portraits of surly men doing the threatening to hapless animals. A string quartet serenades guests underneath a statue of a scantily clad man hoisting a dead goat over his shoulder.

Violet hovers near the edge of the party with her drink, studying the guests. Men and women, mostly older than her, converse in tight clusters, all clearly familiar with one another. She spies one or two from other parties she’s attended—a scholar and her bodyguard, built like a shed; her brain tries and fails to cough up a surname—and makes a note to avoid them. Blonde hair glints in the light andViolet’s heart stops for a split second, but then the woman turns, and her nose is longer, her eyes a washed-out green.

Not Penelope, then. Not that Violet had expected her to show up.

But she also can’t help scanning the crowd for another face she might recognise. A sharp jawline, dark curls falling over unreadable eyes. It’s certainly not the person she’s supposed to be looking for, but a quick sweep over the party confirms that Aleksander isn’t here, either. Even though there’s nothing to be disappointed about, it sticks in the back of her throat.

You are not here to think about him, she tells herself sternly. She looked up Yulan’s photograph online, but there’s no one here who looks remotely like her. There’s nothing for it except to keep searching, then.

As Violet passes one room, she catches the sounds of an auction taking place, the auctioneer calling out such an absurd amount of money that she double takes. The book in his hands is a slim, tired-looking paperback whose plain front cover is sheering off the spine, but the quiet intensity of the room suggests this is not merely valuable, butinvaluable. And everyone attempting to buy knows it.

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