The Ten Thousand Doors of January - Alix E. Harrow Page 0,31
itself. For it seems clear to me that the people gathered here tonight are both the witnesses and stewards of a new era of peace and prosperity from pole to pole. Every year we see the reduction of war and conflict, an increase in business and good faith, the spread of civilized government over the less fortunate.”
I’d heard it all so many times I could probably deliver the rest of the speech myself: how the hard work and dedication of persons like themselves—wealthy, powerful, white—had improved the condition of the human race; how the nineteenth century was nothing but chaos and confusion, and how the twentieth promised to be order and stability; how the discontent elements were being rooted out, at home and abroad; how the savage was being civilized.
Once as a girl I’d told my father: Don’t let the savages get you. He’d been about to leave, his shabby luggage in hand, his shapeless brown coat hanging from bent shoulders. He’d given me a half smile. I will be quite safe, he’d said, as there are no such things as savages. I could’ve told him that Mr. Locke and several metric tons of adventure novels disagreed with him, but I didn’t say anything. He’d touched his knuckle to my cheek and disappeared. Again.
And now he’s disappeared for the last time. I closed my eyes, felt the cold, dark thing wind itself more tightly around me—
The sound of my own name jarred me. “—consider my own Miss January, if you want proof!” It was Mr. Locke, jovial and booming.
My eyes flew open.
“She came to this household nothing but a motherless bundle. An orphan of mysterious origin, without so much as a penny to her name. And now look at her!”
They were already looking. An ivory ripple of faces had turned toward me, their eyes like fingers plucking at every seam and pearl. What exactly were they supposed to be looking at? I was still motherless, still penniless—except now I was fatherless, too.
I pressed my back to the wood paneling, willing it to be over, willing Mr. Locke’s speech to end and the orchestra to start up and everyone to forget about me again.
Locke made an imperious come-here gesture. “Don’t be shy, my girl.” I didn’t move, my eyes terror-wide, my heart stammering oh no oh no oh no. I imagined myself running away, shoving past guests and out onto the lawn.
But then I looked at Mr. Locke’s proud, shining face. I remembered the solid warmth of his arms as he’d held me, the kind rumble of his voice, the silent gifts left in the Pharaoh Room all these years.
I swallowed and pushed away from the wall, stumbling through the crowd on legs gone stiff and heavy as carved wood. Whispers followed me. Bad’s claws clicked too loudly on the polished floor.
As soon as I was in range Locke’s arm descended and crushed me against him. “There she is! The picture of civility. A testament to the power of positive influences.” He gave my shoulders a bracing shake.
Did women actually faint, I wondered, or was that an invention of bad Victorian novels and Friday night picture shows? Or perhaps women simply contrived to collapse at convenient moments to delay the burden of hearing and seeing and feeling, just for a little while. I sympathized.
“—enough about all that. Thank you all for indulging an old man’s optimism and enthusiasm, but we’re here, I’m told, to enjoy ourselves.” He raised his glass in a final toast—his beloved carved jade cup, translucent green. Had my father brought it to him? Stolen it away from some tomb or temple, packed it in sawdust, and sent it across the world to be clutched by this square, white hand?
“To peace and prosperity. To the future we shall build!” I dared to look up at the pale, sweating faces that surrounded us, their glasses twinkling in the chandelier’s prisming light, their applause breaking around me like ocean waves.
Mr. Locke’s arm unclamped from my shoulders and he spoke in a much lower voice. “Good girl. Meet us in the east smoking room at half past ten, won’t you. I’d like to give you your birthday gift.” He made a lazy circle with his finger to indicate the “us” he meant, and I realized the Society members had gathered like suit-wearing moths around him. Mr. Havemeyer was among them, watching me with his gloved hands resting on his cane and a polite, well-bred species of disgust on his face. Bad’s