The Cerulean (The Cerulean Duology #1) - Amy Ewing Page 0,104
tree-lined gravel paths, sweat trickling down her spine. A harried-looking servant with six dogs on leashes passed her, and a young couple canoodled on a bench in the shade.
She took one of the southern exits out of the park and entered the financial district, bustling with men in suits and bowler hats, carrying briefcases and walking about like pompous peacocks shaking their tail feathers. She got lots of nods and tips of hats and good days. There weren’t very many women on the streets, and Agnes felt as if there was a spotlight on her.
When she saw her father’s motorcar parked in front of the offices of Conway Rail, her knees locked and her heart dropped. Eneas sat in the driver’s seat, reading the paper. Agnes kept her face down and walked quickly, not daring to look up, blink, or even breathe until she had reached the steps of the bank.
The interior of the Old Port branch of the Kaolin National Bank was all green marble, with onyx and gold decor. Great columns held up the arched ceiling, and a long table ran down the center, where men stood filling out deposit slips or writing checks. There were leather couches set around oak tables decked with glass ashtrays and neat assortments of newspapers. The headlines were still all about the ruins—the Seaport was filling up with fortune seekers, and the first Kaolin ships were getting ready to depart for Pelago. She wondered when the first Pelagan ships would reach the shores of Braxos—Pelagans had the shorter distance on their side, as well as more skill at sailing.
Several men stared at her as she got in line for the tellers, and she had to resist the urge to fidget. She could feel her mouth going dry, her confidence folding in on itself. The line felt interminable. By the time it was Agnes’s turn, she was sweating more than she had been in Jevet’s Park. She dabbed at her hairline with a silk handkerchief.
The teller who sat behind the golden bars was a young Kaolin man whose nameplate proclaimed him to be Mr. Wilder.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his eyes automatically darting left and right, searching for a chaperone. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon,” Agnes said. Her tongue felt swollen and clumsy. “I would, ah, like to withdraw some money from my account. Three thousand krogers. Please.”
“Certainly. Is your husband with you today?”
“No, I am not married.”
“Your father then?”
“I—I have a letter of permission.” Why could she not stop stammering? She fumbled in her purse and produced the forged document, sliding it under the barrier.
When Mr. Wilder opened it, his eyes went wide. “You are Xavier McLellan’s daughter?”
“I am,” she said, jutting out her chin. It was something she’d seen Leo do before, but she didn’t think she had the swagger to pull it off.
“And he was not able to accompany you today?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“May I ask why?”
Agnes had not thought up an excuse. “My father is a very busy man.” Oh god, what if he came into the bank while she was here? She should have scouted the exits.
Mr. Wilder studied the document for a full thirty seconds. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, and then left the window.
Agnes’s pulse was pounding all over her body. Should she stay? Should she run? She spent so much time debating, her feet frozen to the pristine marble floor, that by the time Mr. Wilder returned with a man who looked to be his manager, her internal struggle was rendered moot.
“Miss McLellan?” he said, peering at her over his spectacles. He had a very bushy mustache with a single rhinestone stud on the left side, and his black hair was parted in the center and heavily waxed.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m afraid I will need to contact your father before you may withdraw money from your account.”
“And why is that?” she asked.
“There is a notation in your file,” he said. “It’s standard procedure, you see.”
“But you have his letter of permission.”
“Unfortunately, your account does not accept letters of permission.”
Agnes might not be a good liar, but she was sharp as a tack when it came to spotting inconsistencies. There was no reason for a letter of permission to be denied, unless . . . unless her father had explicitly stated it to be so.
“I see,” she said with a poor attempt at nonchalance. “Do not bother my father. I will speak to him myself this evening.”