“Remember,” Thisbe coached, “if anyone asks, we got the address from Ockham for my security check, and we don’t know where Ockham got it from.” She led the way, the sensayer’s hand in hers like the leash of a reluctant pup. She chose well, a servants’ stairway half-hidden in a minor street behind the house, one of six, for the mansion was fed by many back ways, like an old rose bush with far more roots than blossoms. “If we just tell them we’re looking for J.E.D.D. Mason to ask about the investigation, they’ll think we have every right to be here.”
My mind raced. Threats, would threats stop them? Would lies? I could tell them something happened, that we had to get back to Bridger. I could tell them Thisbe’s bash’house was on fire. No, distraction wouldn’t work. They had the address. Even if there really was a fire, they’d just come back once the flames were quenched. Cats stay curious, no matter how many die.
“You want to ask for them directly? What if they’re actually here?”
“They’re in Alexandria; Eureka checked. If we ask for them we’ll be offered close associates, or at least vague answers. At a place this big we can’t count on the first person who opens the door being useful like that Blacklaw housekeeper.”
“I wonder what they call them here,” Carlyle mused.
“Call who?”
“J.E.D.D. Mason. This is a private address. Eureka said Dominic and Martin also come here a lot. It might be a bash’house, or at least the bash’ seems to frequent it, and I’m sure they don’t call J.E.D.D. Mason by clumsy initials or titles if this is something like a home. What do you think they call them here? Maybe by their real first name?”
I could have Ockham stop Thisbe, I speculated, by calling and telling him she was about to put the bash’ at risk. She would obey his order, but that would bring her black wrath down upon me, and danger with it, to myself and, more importantly, to Bridger. Was there another way?
Thisbe chuckled. “J.E.D.D. Mason’s full name, now there’s a public mystery to rival what’s in Cardie’s pants.” And proof too, reader, that our age has a least one enlightened aspect, for the Celebrity Youth Act, fierce as it is, could not safeguard these children of the spotlight without the help of a protective public, which has learned (from one too many tragedies) to grant its favorite wee ones what privacies they ask for, and will punish with boycotts—far fiercer than Law’s teeth—any journalist or paper which would violate the public prince(sse)s that every bash’ on Earth loves as our own. Thisbe smirked. “Well, we know the name starts with the letter J. After Martin and Dominic, I bet it’s a scandalous old Christian name, like James or John.”
“Or Joseph,” Carlyle contributed, “Joshua, John-Baptiste…”
“No, then it would be J.B.E.D.D. Mason.”
“I suppose. That rules out Jean-Jacques, too.”
The instant Carlyle’s foot touched the first landing, his tracker let out a siren squeal, while a cheerful electric voice rang out: “This is a friendly warning from the Cousins’ legal team. Our Member is reminded that Red-Zoned properties and businesses are off-limits. To file for a special exemption for a legal or social-service visit, select ‘file.’ ”
“Red-Zoned?” Thisbe repeated.
“This…” Carlyle gaped up at the building’s side wall, rows of windows closed with drapes of damask and heavy velvet. “This is a brothel!”
“Huh.” Her eyes grew wide. “I guess it is. Does this mean you can’t go in?”
“The Emperor’s child frequents a brothel?”
“Should I go on without you?”
“The Emperor’s child who is still a minor frequents a brothel?”
“Carlyle!” Thisbe had to snap. “It’s no problem for a Humanist to go into a Red Zone. Shall I go on without you?”
“No, I’ll just turn my tracker off.”
She stared as at an idiot. “Won’t your police ask questions if you turn your tracker off on the threshold of a Red Zone? If you need to, we can check into a hotel and you can tell your tracker you’re taking it off for a shower.”
Carlyle shook his head. “It’s all right. I can get an exemption if I explain that you were going in and wanted your sensayer with you.”
Thisbe frowned. “It’s that easy?”
“Well—yes.”
Beware, reader, beware of dogs and snakes and witc … women … when they glare like Thisbe did. “Stupid! That’s what it is! You Cousins ban everything under the sun and then make a million loopholes so no one ever has to follow their own rules. What’s the point of having the laws if there’s no consequence in breaking them?”
Carlyle stared, unbelieving, as her tirade left all stealth behind. “Thisbe, is this the time for—”
“Hypocrites! Always moralizing about how yours is the strictest law. Dominic Seneschal is a maniac, but at least they picked a law they’ll follow, while you all go on about being stricter than a Whitelaw and then walk straight into a brothel!”
Her outburst was surreal. A game, that’s what it felt like, as if the two had been playing an infiltration game and Thisbe hit pause, expecting the rules and enemies to wait for her rant as they might wait for a bathroom break or a trip to grab more munchies. Gaping Carlyle still believes the danger and mission here are real.
A cough interrupted. “Ahem. Can I help you two fine people?”
The voice came from the window above the back door. Here stood a resident to match the house. She wore an antique gown, the skirts vast with stiff frames underneath, while the tight corset exaggerated her sex, the upper line presenting her breasts like a platter of pudding, while the corset’s lower edge came to a central point, directing the eye to the spot in the ocean of skirting where lurked her most forbidden part. One could not guess her age beneath the white face powder, too-pink circular blotches on the cheeks, sharp lipstick, and, of course, the wig, a tower of mounded, stiffened curls with a cluster of feathers sprouting from its peak like a nesting bird. Other faces framed her in the window, and more appeared through the drapes of surrounding windows: painted ladies like the first, youths with curled ponytails like Dominic’s, and younger girls with blushing, modest cheeks tittering at the strangers on the steps as if they had been the burlesque and these creatures normal.
“Are you lost?” the first whore invited (in this chapter, reader, I shall call a spade a spade). “You’ll get back to the river if you head straight that way.”
“No,” Thisbe answered, “we’re not lost, we’re looking for … uh…”
“Jəəəh Mason,” Carlyle ventured, covering the intentional blurring of the first name by reaching to scratch his nose.
French gossip exploded through the spectators.
“MASON? I’m afraid the Emperor just left,” the whore replied, hissing hushes at the nearby window-gapers. “Should I get one of his secretaries?”
“No, I don’t mean the Emperor, uh … Mycroft said they’d be…”
“Mycroft?” the whore repeated, her face suddenly light. “Oh! Bless me! You want the Young Master, Jehovah Mason! I’m sorry, I’m not used to hearing Him called by his last name. Sœur Heloïse!» she shouted toward an upper window. «Invitées pour Maître Jéhovah!»