Page 36 of The City of Stardust

She knows she has six weeks left. She knows she has no idea what she’s doing. She knows that her mother, to all intents and purposes, is still a ghost. She doesn’t need a pack of cards to tell her that.

Violet has no idea how long she was with the asteria—it felt like five minutes, and also an hour—but the party has degenerated somewhat in her absence. Empty champagne flutes line the bookshelves, and more than one guest totters unsteadily towards the ravaged canapé table, now mostly crumbs and empty wrappers. The auction she passed earlier is still going, but the mood has soured considerably and the betting is more calculated, the losses more bitter. The string quartet has been replaced with generic jazz music floating down from overhead speakers. She scans the crowd for Yulan again, but there are too many people now, too much noise for her to concentrate.

A man in a black silk shirt and velvet suit jacket comes to stand next to her, leaning on the bookshelves with a sloppy grace that she envies. But there’s a whisper of relief, too, underneath the envy; finally, a familiar face at this party, even if it’s one she doesn’t entirely trust.

“Juliet,” he says, eyebrow arched.

“Caspian,” she counters.

It’s impossible not to spend a year chasing scholars, and not rub up against some of the same elbows. Caspian Verne, all-round English scoundrel and thief, is one such elbow. She’d run into him several months ago at a similar event in Novosibirsk, then again in Melbourne. And of course he’d recognised her from that fateful evening at Adelia Verne’s house. He’d been the one to mention this party to her.

“I see you’re making the fullest use of my invitation.” He taps his fingers lightly on the edge of the bookshelf. “What I can’t figure out is why you didn’t come here under your own name. You’d get more attention.”

“Not the kind I’m interested in. Anyway,” she adds, raising an eyebrow at him, “I thought this was a scholars-only invite?”

“Ouch,” he says, not sounding particularly offended. “I’m a Verne. It would be a scandal if Ididn’tshow up.”

That’s the other curious thing about Caspian. Heir to the most influential scholar family, beloved grandson of a formidable master scholar—yet not a scholar himself. His position usurped by some upstart nobody, or so she’s heard. Stuck between worlds, like her.

“How’s the search going for your mother?” he asks quietly.

She gives him a sideways glance, suddenly wary. If he weren’t so close to the scholars, she might consider him a friend. Might press him for more information than she has already. But Marianne’s whereabouts, she’s come to discover, are an illicit subject, for all the gossip the scholars have indulged in. Penelope’s interference, no doubt.Exiled, someone had told her,for betraying our secrets. And a warning, should anyone have any ideas about helping her daughter.

So she can push, but not too hard. And she’s already pushing pretty damn hard just by showing up to this party.

“It’s going,” she says eventually. “How’s your grandmother?”

“Oh, the usual. Furious at the scholar council over some nonsense. Desperate to marry me off and produce a gaggle of talented monsters.” He pulls a face. “Keeps suggesting Kat Hadley, though Idon’t know how she hasn’t realised that particular ship’s sailed. She asks after your uncles, too. Especially Gabriel.”

“I don’t think she likes him very much,” she says.

She can’t tell if Caspian is trying to pry about her relationship with her uncles, but she’s not taking her chances. As far as she can tell, they haven’t told anyone they’re no longer on speaking terms.

He catches her eye. “Well, I like you,Juliet, so I’m going to offer you another invitation. Free of charge,” he adds, seeing her expression. “Should you ever return to Europe…”

He hands her what looks like a business card, along with a silver coin. There’s an address on the business card, somewhere in Prague, and a date, mere weeks from now.

“Don’t spend the coin,” he advises.

She lets herself linger on the card. “What is this?”

“A third option.” He shrugs. “We’re not scholars, so why play by their rules?”

“You mean the keys and the tattoos?” Violet suggests archly.

His smile widens. “Come and find out.”

It’s a sincere offer, and if she was anyone else, she would take it. She’s heard whispers of Caspian’s legendary parties and those lucky enough to grace them: otherworldly creatures with voices like nightingales; magical duels conducted by bitterest rivals amidst candlelight; once, a spectacular orgy involving lawn games and an aphrodisiacal fruit punch—though Violet suspects Caspian was the originator ofthatparticular rumour. And… doors. Always doors and the siren call of elsewhere. But the event is simply spare time she can’t afford. And yet she pockets the card and coin with a guilty pang. Just in case, she tells herself.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” she says.

His eyes glint with sudden recognition, and he pulls away from the bookshelves. “Looks like trouble’s come to find you, anyway.”

Violet looks at him, puzzled, but he only winks at her before sauntering away towards the auction room, his eyes alighting on someone he knows: “Goro, what apleasure. How’s the yacht working out for you?”

Well, Caspian can be as mysterious as he pleases.

A woman joins Violet to watch the sea of people. Silver feathers climb across the deep navy of her tea dress in elegant stitches, and her glossy black hair is swept into a pristine bun. Violet tucks her hands behind her back to hide the fraying fabric on her cuffs.

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