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  Chapter Five: Supping with the Duke

  “Stop fidgeting. You look fine.” Lisa pulled Paddington’s fingers away from his bowtie before he could unravel it completely.

  “Aren’t you nervous?” he asked. His mother had told him to be firm but not aggressive; polite but not submissive; honest but not rude. How could he do all that and be himself? Or was that her point?

  Lisa, meanwhile, acted like dining with the most powerful man on the island was an interesting inconvenience. She sat gorgeous in the passenger’s seat, wearing a dress of long, slinking black.

  “No,” she said. Her Scottish lilt had never sounded so jarring. Would the duke take her accent as an insult? “And I think we’ve sat at the gates long enough.”

  Paddington pressed the buzzer on the pillar, the gates swung inward, carefully soundless; Paddington drove down the gravel driveway through woods and open grassland; and minutes ticked away. About them, deer and sheep fled from the car’s crackle on the gravel and the cough of its engine, but the elk and aurochs merely watched them. Finally, they were through the forest and saw the mansion.

  It looked like a two-storey house – all the usual walls, doors, and windows – but as Paddington approached, the manor kept getting bigger. What he’d thought were seedlings turned out to be fully grown trees. And the manor towered over them.

  As they climbed the front steps, the double doors opened to reveal an empty candlelit hallway and a wide curling staircase. What was the protocol here? Even Lisa had stopped her confident march.

  “Should we go in?” Paddington asked.

  “Yes…” the empty room said, “sir.”

  They crossed the threshold and a bald, pale-faced butler emerged from behind the door and spoke in an efficient monotone. “You may wait in the drawing room, sir, ma’am, may I take your coat, thank you, follow me.” He left them in a sitting room. Paddington tried not to gawp at the candlesticks, the centuries-old wallpaper, or the ceiling high above. Portraits of the Andraste family stared at them from every wall.

  Lisa edged closer to Paddington. “Now I’m nervous.”

  She had no reason to be; she outshone anyone in the paintings. Glittering black curves, styled blonde hair; she’d even cleaned the dirt from her fingernails. This was Lisa, but polished. Impressive, but artificial. Paddington preferred her without pretence.

  “You look great,” he told her. “I’m here in my dad’s old suit.”

  “Then he was a man of the finest taste,” said a smooth voice from the doorway behind them.

  They spun to find a man of about sixty with a pale complexion, wide cheeks, and a trimmed moustache, his slim build covered by a tailed evening suit, gold cufflinks, and shoes polished to mirrors.

  “Your grace, it’s an hono—” Paddington began.

  “Pray, don’t be formal. ‘My lord’ will suffice.” The duke’s hand was strong, his skin dry. “This must be the delightful Miss Tanner. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Lisa shook his hand, her smile tightening. “How do you do?”

  “Very well. As do you, I hear.” Did the duke know about Lisa’s breach of Embargo? Was this a trap? There was something predatory in the duke’s manner: a stillness between movements and quickness about them.

  “My lord, about my report—” Paddington said.

  The duke waved him away. “We shall put pleasure before business, constable.”

  He inclined an arm and Paddington followed Lisa through the door to a long oak table set with silver cutlery, candles, white napkins, and pre-filled water glasses.

  “I shall return presently,” said the duke, bowing.

  Paddington picked up a bottle of Church of Idryo Cabernet Sauvignon, then placed it carefully back down. It was a good year. Too good for him. Who else was expected tonight? The table was set for thirteen.

  “What do you think?” Lisa asked. She sounded edgy.

  “It’s not my place to say,” Paddington said.

  “Spoken like a true Archian.” The fire he usually adored about her seemed vulgar here, ungrateful.

  “Lisa Tanner, how wonderful!” A fifty-something woman wearing long, light fabrics embraced, released, and smiled at Lisa. Lisa gave a tight, false smile back.

  “And Constable Paddington.” She extended a hand. Unsure what to do, Paddington kissed it.

  “My wife, Lilith,” said the duke, from the doorway. “And our daughters Niamh, Erato, Guenevere, Clytemnestra, Themis, Phaedra, and Ianthe.” As he said each name, a woman – the oldest about thirty, the youngest sixteen – stepped in, curtseyed, and stopped behind a chair. Their hair curled or spiralled or flowed straight, but always shone. Paddington kept his eyes off their plunging – or freefalling – necklines.

  “And our boys, Leander and Melanthios,” said the duke. Two long-haired men bowed and took places at the table. Each child had fair complexions, slender bodies, rounded faces, and classical beauty. The girls wore flowing gowns; the boys, long-tailed dinner suits.

  “Please, sit,” said the duke, indicating the two remaining chairs in the middle of the table. The Andrastes sat and folded napkins over their laps with polished air.

  “Wine, constable?” asked the duke, his gaze distracted by his younger son, who was staring at Lisa from behind dark eyes. Come to think of it, all the Andraste children were.

  “I don’t usually,” Paddington said.

  “We don’t drink, you see,” said the duke, “and I’d hate to waste it.”

  “Maybe a small glass, then, my lord.”

  The butler had finished pouring before Paddington had finished speaking.

  “Miss Tanner?” asked the duke.

  She held the duke’s gaze. “I’m not thirsty.”

  The wine was rich and dry, almost bitter. Paddington suppressed a cough. “I, uh, didn’t know you had such a large family, my lord.”

  “We keep to ourselves. A sad necessity.”

  “Are you really a gardener?” asked one of the daughters. The youngest, with the lowest neckline and hair so black it swallowed the candlelight. “Plants and stuff?”

  “Ianthe!” said the duchess, shocked. “You will be courteous to our guests.”

  “It’s all right.” Lisa sat forward. “I can defend myself.”

  Paddington grasped her hand beneath the table to calm her down.

  “Why plants?” asked Ianthe, with under- and overtones of “how disgusting” and “how stupid”.

  “I like plants,” Lisa said. Paddington gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She crushed his fingers.

  “I know you people have to make money somehow,” Ianthe said, her tone making a lie of her words, “but wasn’t there anything… better?” She leaned forward, revealing more cleavage while remaining decent than Lisa had in total.

  “Ianthe,” said the duchess, “if you canno—”

  “I enjoy my job,” Lisa said.

  “Digging in the dirt?” Ianthe asked.

  “And after lunch I roll in manure!”

  The duchess opened her mouth, but there was no stopping either of them. The other Andrastes watched with tight smiles. Only the duke was calm, and he wasn’t even watching the conflict. He was watching Paddington.

  Ianthe’s eyes filled with venom. “You insult me, you common—?”

  “You arrogant, inbred—” Lisa started.

  “How dare you, bitch!”

  “Skank!”

  “Lisa!” Paddington said.

  “Trollop!” said Ianthe.

  The duke slammed his hand down. Cutlery clattered; Lisa’s empty glass toppled; Paddington’s wine sloshed onto the white tablecloth; and Ianthe slank back as if struck. The other Andrastes turned, eyes wide, to their father.

  And over Lisa’s right shoulder, Paddington saw – as clearly as was possible in the candlelight – the eyes of one of the daughters. Her pupils were slits, not circles.

  Distantly, the duke excused Ianthe and she stomped out. In the embarrassed silence, the butler en
tered with a large silver-covered tray, which he set in the centre of the table. Lisa was still trying to out-stare the entire family.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he whispered.

  Lisa looked around the room with increasing panic. “I’ve got to get out of here, Jim. They’re not right!”

  “They’re nobles; of course they are,” Paddington said, but the words were Quentin’s not his, and left an unpleasant aftertaste.

  “Is everything satisfactory?” asked the duchess.

  He couldn’t leave. The very idea was absurd. Most people went their whole lives without seeing the duke; he’d been personally invited to a candlelit dinner with the whole Andraste family. His mother would never forgive him if he left. Quentin would never speak to him again. The rest of the city would chase him off the island on threat of death.

  Then he saw Lisa. She was on the verge of tears.

  “We have to go,” Paddington said, rising. “Lisa’s not feeling well.”

  “Nonsense,” said the duke. “You stay. Our butler will drive her.”

  Lisa saved him from finding out whether it was an offer or an order. “Stay,” she said. She leaned in for a kiss and whispered, “Don’t let your guard down.”

  With that, she followed the butler out of the dining room. Paddington wished he could go with her. Forget pomp and ceremony, duke be damned, he wanted to be with her.

  But he had responsibilities.

  In the butler’s absence, his plate was overloaded with food by Leander: steak and chicken and pork, rare and unseasoned. Even the vegetables, stuffed on the side like an afterthought, looked boring.

  The family had now taken to staring at him, perhaps wondering what Lisa had whispered, so Paddington said, “Lisa’s sorry for her outburst, my lord.” Fear crashed like cold water against his stomach; he’d just lied to the duke.

  “Apology accepted,” said the duke. “We cannot begrudge her her Mainland manners. It is not her fault society breeds monsters.” Heavy silence settled, interrupted only by the tink of cutlery on crockery.

  Paddington tried to ignore the trickle of juice when he cut his steak, but couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the meat; he’d grown up on his mother’s forgot-it-was-in-the-oven dinners. Anything that wasn’t charcoal wasn’t ready yet.

  “I understand you two were childhood sweethearts,” said the duke.

  “Yes,” Paddington said. “Well, for a few days.”

  “And you waited for her all these years?” said Lilith. “How romantic.”

  “Not exactly.” Was he discussing his love life with the duchess? “It’s complicated.”

  “Young love should be,” the duchess said, smiling. “Head and heart vying, body swooning…”

  “I think not, my dear.” The duke raised a finger. “Miss Tanner is more than a mere woman to our guest. She is an avatar of something lost or destroyed. Being with her is not only companionship, it is repentance.”

  The duke was closer to the truth than Paddington would have liked. Why did he know so much? Surely Paddington’s love life wasn’t relevant to the running of Archi.

  “She is his redemption,” continued the duke. “Ah! But is he hers?”

  “Oh, Adonis.” Lilith shook her head at her husband. “Can’t it just be love?”

  “Of course. Was it not so for Bion and Zenobia?” As the duke’s voice filled the room with talk of religious figures, Paddington tried to think. Was it their eyes? Was that what had worried Lisa? The intensity of their slitted gazes?

  Paddington smiled and nodded when necessary, but the duke was content to carry the conversation. Content, perhaps, with the sound of his own voice.

  “Would you excuse me?” Paddington asked at a suitable break. “I need to use the lavatory.”

  “I’ll take him,” said a daughter with long curls of golden hair.

  “Thank you, Clytemnestra.”

  Paddington followed her along a maze of high-ceilinged hallways and into a white room, the first to be lit by a dim overhead bulb instead of dim candles. This close, Clytemnestra’s eyes were green orbs, the irises extending nearly to the sides of her eyelids. Paddington felt drawn inward, and realised this wasn’t an illusion only when Clytemnestra placed an arm around him. “Yes, that’s it,” she said.

  “No! No it’s not!” Paddington struggled against her smooth embrace but Clytemnestra was stronger than him. Also, he couldn’t find somewhere safe to put his hand. “I have a girlfriend.”

  “We don’t have time to fetch her.” She leaned forward and kissed him, and Paddington discovered the difficulty of saying “stop” with a lady’s tongue in his mouth, and of convincing his mouth that this was what he wanted to say.

  He pulled and pushed, but she held him firmly. Finally he dropped down, ducked out of her grip, and dashed for the door. Clytemnestra beat him there and placed her back to it, her cups full to overflowing. “Don’t you want me?” Her eyes grew even larger. “We so rarely have visitors.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Would you deny me?” asked Clytemnestra.

  “Yes!” He grabbed this escape for all he was worth. “I’m sure you’re great, bu—”

  He’d raised his hands in emphasis. Clytemnestra put them on her breasts.

  “And what is this?” At the door stood Erato, the loveliest of the Andraste women.

  “Not what it looks like!” Paddington said, still trying to pull his hands free. Trying, admittedly, harder than before. Erato prised her sister’s hands off Paddington’s without so much as glancing at him.

  He opened his mouth to explain, but where did he even start? Why should she believe him? This was the end for him. He’d be dismissed from the police, disgraced. The populace would never so much as look at him.

  And the duke… he’d probably hang him from the manor’s ramparts as a warning to others.

  Erato ignored Paddington’s terrified noises and stared at her sister. “You will retire to your room.”

  Wait, why wasn’t Erato surprised? Why wasn’t Clytemnestra explaining herself? Why wasn’t someone angry at him? What the hell was going on?

  Clytemnestra left. Erato smiled an apology, stepped outside, and shut the door. Paddington locked it, used the toilet, and stared into the wide mirror. “What have you got yourself into?” he asked. When his reflection didn’t have any sensible answer, he unlocked the door and followed Erato back through the labyrinth and through a door. A moment too late, he realised they weren’t in the dining room.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Father’s study.” Erato circled a glass-topped pedestal in the room’s centre. “I thought you’d be interested in this.”

  The book inside spoke of a long history that would have left lesser books as memory and dust. The thick leather cover was embossed with a design that teased Paddington’s memory.

  “The Book of Three,” said Erato. “An original.”

  Aware that his mouth was open, Paddington used it. “I didn’t think any copies were left.”

  “There aren’t.” Erato winked her huge dark eyes. “Understand?”

  He did. Collectors would pay millions for a Book of Three, let alone one in condition this good. It was, absolutely, priceless. He’d have to keep his mouth very tightly shut about it.

  He leaned closer to inspect the book and noticed that Erato wasn’t next to it anymore. She lay on an antique couch, curling her hair around a finger. “I knew you were a man who appreciated the finer things of life…” she said.

  Paddington left without a word and made his best guess at the direction of the dining room. Why, after years of being rejected by every woman on Archi, did he now have women throwing themselves at him? Why were they all the duke’s daughters? And why now, when he was taken – happily so?

  After several minutes and wrong turns in stunning, deep-coloured halls, Paddington stumbled upon the dining room by chance.

  Erato was already back.

  “Miss Tanner has been delivered safely ho
me,” said the duke, then spoke of current events, politics, sports. The conversation swirled. Paddington tried to keep his head above water, but the rip was strong and he gulped water more than once.

  Half of the bland meal was all Paddington could choke down. When he set his knife and fork together, the duke crossed to a rope at the side of the room and tolled a bell. Seconds later, the butler appeared and cleared the plates. No one else had eaten their greens, not that Paddington blamed them.

  Dinner finished, the duke gave him a tour of the sixteenth-century manor. Paddington nodded along, but his unease had grown and, although his mother would think it traitorous to distrust the duke, he remained on edge. Lisa had been right: something was wrong here.

  The duke opened a reinforced wooden door to a spiral stone staircase. “Perhaps in here we may have some privacy,” he said. “Close the door as you come. Now… you have questions of me. Please, ask.”

  Paddington kept his eye on the next slippery stone step and off the duke. Should he really voice his concerns, or was the duke being polite?

  “It’s not my place, my lord.”

  “The acquisition of knowledge is everyone’s place, especially a policeman’s. Ask, constable.”

  “With all due respect – and stop me if it’s too personal sir – your… eyes.”

  “Ah, yes.” The duke seemed amused, not offended. “One reason for my distance as a ruler. My family have a condition called Schmid-Fraccaro syndrome. A gap in the iris creates the appearance of an elongated pupil. We entertain by candlelight to avoid unnecessary distress, but you are too fine a policeman for such simple tricks. Which is why you are here: to speak of today’s events.”

  “My lord?” Tonight was taking forever; what had happened before it?

  The duke threw open another thick wooden door and cold air rushed in. Buttoning his suit jacket, Paddington followed the duke onto the roof. At this height – the highest point in Archi – the wind knocked Paddington around.

  The duke nodded toward the back of the mansion and an enormous satellite dish. “All of our Mainland communications run through that dish,” he said. “Television, radio, phone calls, Miss Tanner’s internet.”

  “I didn’t take you for a technophile, my lord,” Paddington said. Although, now that he thought about it, he’d never heard that the duke was against technology. Or that he was for or against anything, really. No one knew him well enough to say what he liked, or what he was like. He was always just The Duke.

  “Technology has its place, but I fear that correcting people’s opinions would do more harm than good. Everything must have balance, constable: balance. For our citizens to have society’s best, some of us must know its worst. Some of us must know what lurks in the dark… like you.

  “The diary you recovered is now in my study, where it shall remain. You will keep its contents confidential. Write no more reports; do not mention it to Constable Appleby, your mother, or Lisa. Can I trust you to do that?”

  What had Conall found since taking over the case? Had Ian been arrested? How had Marion become a zombie? How had she made it into the cellar? Had Conall found Norman Winslow? Were all the zombies dealt with?

  His mouth said, “Yes, my lord.”

  “You’re uneasy, constable.”

  “Sorry.” And he was. He had no cause for unease; he was being told to forget the whole thing, which meant that the zombies were all dead and the duke had the situation under control. Thinking otherwise was ridiculous.

  But he’d still feel better if he’d seen it himself.

  “On the contrary, thank you.” The duke smiled. “Your excellent work has been noted, detective.”

  “What?”

  The duke stared over the island to their south. “I just promoted you to detective constable,” he said, “and you just ruined the subtlety of it.”

  Paddington leaned against the thick stone. Detective, solver of crimes, not an about-town bobby… and all he had to do was keep his mouth shut and trust the duke. But why the secrecy?

  To prevent panic, or preserve balance, or because he’d been told to. What did it matter?

  “I’d be honoured, my lord,” he said.

  “I am pleased to hear it,” said the duke. “And now I suspect you wish to tell Miss Tanner your good news. Go then, remembering discretion.”

  Paddington didn’t know whether to shake his hand or bow or just leave without fuss. In the end, he retreated with pigeon-hops toward the wooden door. “Yes, my lord. Thank you for dinner and, everything.”

  “Good night, detective constable.”