if it was Nick, Daniel would have to leave the country. For an instant he stood there, still hidden by scores of gowns, wondering how to explainâ
And then it came to him. He wouldnât explain: heâd just pop out of the closet, shouting Boo!, and pretend heâd been hiding there as a joke. Sira would be annoyed, Nick would think he was an idiot, but he could live with that. A shadow flickered along the landing; Daniel let his breath out, steadying himself as best he could as he waited. . . .
But it wasnât Sira or Nick. It was a woman he had never seen before. Tall and powerfully built, her long legs encased in black jeans and a pair of worn magenta cowboy boots with python inlays. She wore a tunic of indigo velvet, embroidered with silver filigree, and heavy silver bracelets set with turquoise and jade and carnelian. Her hair was chestnut-colored, unraveling from a loose French braid, her neck long but not slender: a neck like a pillar; Daniel had never seen a neck like that on a woman. She had a chiseled, big-featured faceâsquare cheekbones, heavy, nearly black eyebrows; wide, red-lipped mouthâa face that should have looked masculine but instead asserted itself as a kind of beauty Daniel knew only from paintings. Not modern paintings, either: he thought of Mischa or Jane Burden or Lizzie Siddal: women who were too big for their world, women who could be captured only by scaling them down to fit inside a wood-and-canvas keep.
She strode into the tiny room, her boots thumping upon the carpet, glanced around quickly before heading for the bed. Daniel felt sick but couldnât avoid angling his head slightly so that he could keep her in his sight. Was she going to get undressed? His hands had gone cold; he knew he should do something, shout or cough or laugh nervously, reveal himself this instant, before anything worse could happen, before she pulled the tunic over her head, or lay down to take a nap, or stepped back over to the wardrobe to change her clothes. . . .
Instead she stooped and sat onâwithinâthe cupboard bed. He could see her profile against its oak panels, and for the first time realized that, like the carpet and windowsills, the bed was carved with insect wings interlocked in a repeating pattern. The woman sat, her long legs tucked beneath her. As he watched, she bent forward, held one hand beneath her mouth, and made a retching sound. Daniel grimaced as she gagged, then spat something into her palm, something small and round and glistening. She drew her hand close to her face, frowning as she examined the tiny object. She dried it on her sleeve, pinched it between two fingers, and held it up, staring at it fixedly. Finally she leaned forward, placed it on the pillow, and climbed out of the bed.
For a moment she stood there, as though she were trying to remember something. Danielâs entire body ached. His hands had gone numb, and his legs: any second now heâd be overcome by a spasm of pain or fear or pure mortification.
But before he could move, the woman was gone, striding out the door as quickly as sheâd arrived. Daniel listened until her footsteps died into silence, and then he stumbled from the wardrobe. His heart pounded; he could feel the blood pumping hot back into his hands as he turned and shoved the wardrobe door shut, pushing at the coils of silk and velvet trying to escape. Two long strides brought him to the door, poised to race silently downstairs. But then he stopped.
What had been in her mouth?
He listened for sounds from downstairs. Silence. Before he could think better of it, he turned, hurried to the cupboard bed, and bent over the pillow.
Heâd thought it might hold a tooth, even had the mad thought that the woman was a smuggler, one of Nickâs old wild friends, coughing up nuggets of heroin in the spare room, uncut emeralds, teardrops of Baltic amber. But it was none of these.
Nestled within the pale green pillowcase was
And then it came to him. He wouldnât explain: heâd just pop out of the closet, shouting Boo!, and pretend heâd been hiding there as a joke. Sira would be annoyed, Nick would think he was an idiot, but he could live with that. A shadow flickered along the landing; Daniel let his breath out, steadying himself as best he could as he waited. . . .
But it wasnât Sira or Nick. It was a woman he had never seen before. Tall and powerfully built, her long legs encased in black jeans and a pair of worn magenta cowboy boots with python inlays. She wore a tunic of indigo velvet, embroidered with silver filigree, and heavy silver bracelets set with turquoise and jade and carnelian. Her hair was chestnut-colored, unraveling from a loose French braid, her neck long but not slender: a neck like a pillar; Daniel had never seen a neck like that on a woman. She had a chiseled, big-featured faceâsquare cheekbones, heavy, nearly black eyebrows; wide, red-lipped mouthâa face that should have looked masculine but instead asserted itself as a kind of beauty Daniel knew only from paintings. Not modern paintings, either: he thought of Mischa or Jane Burden or Lizzie Siddal: women who were too big for their world, women who could be captured only by scaling them down to fit inside a wood-and-canvas keep.
She strode into the tiny room, her boots thumping upon the carpet, glanced around quickly before heading for the bed. Daniel felt sick but couldnât avoid angling his head slightly so that he could keep her in his sight. Was she going to get undressed? His hands had gone cold; he knew he should do something, shout or cough or laugh nervously, reveal himself this instant, before anything worse could happen, before she pulled the tunic over her head, or lay down to take a nap, or stepped back over to the wardrobe to change her clothes. . . .
Instead she stooped and sat onâwithinâthe cupboard bed. He could see her profile against its oak panels, and for the first time realized that, like the carpet and windowsills, the bed was carved with insect wings interlocked in a repeating pattern. The woman sat, her long legs tucked beneath her. As he watched, she bent forward, held one hand beneath her mouth, and made a retching sound. Daniel grimaced as she gagged, then spat something into her palm, something small and round and glistening. She drew her hand close to her face, frowning as she examined the tiny object. She dried it on her sleeve, pinched it between two fingers, and held it up, staring at it fixedly. Finally she leaned forward, placed it on the pillow, and climbed out of the bed.
For a moment she stood there, as though she were trying to remember something. Danielâs entire body ached. His hands had gone numb, and his legs: any second now heâd be overcome by a spasm of pain or fear or pure mortification.
But before he could move, the woman was gone, striding out the door as quickly as sheâd arrived. Daniel listened until her footsteps died into silence, and then he stumbled from the wardrobe. His heart pounded; he could feel the blood pumping hot back into his hands as he turned and shoved the wardrobe door shut, pushing at the coils of silk and velvet trying to escape. Two long strides brought him to the door, poised to race silently downstairs. But then he stopped.
What had been in her mouth?
He listened for sounds from downstairs. Silence. Before he could think better of it, he turned, hurried to the cupboard bed, and bent over the pillow.
Heâd thought it might hold a tooth, even had the mad thought that the woman was a smuggler, one of Nickâs old wild friends, coughing up nuggets of heroin in the spare room, uncut emeralds, teardrops of Baltic amber. But it was none of these.
Nestled within the pale green pillowcase was
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