“Something like that.”
Leave it to a future duke with every privilege and opportunity in the world to put it in such blunt terms. Still, the blunt terms weren’t wrong. Daniel had spent every free hour since he turned sixteen working and scrimping and saving so that he could try to make something of himself as a musician.
Lately, writer’s block was keeping him from writing anything that felt real or true or even halfway close to playable, but one day, he knew all of the hours he’d spent slinging coffees and stocking bookshelves and fixing carburetors would pay off. It had to.
“I play a bit of piano myself. Or I did. Not for a while now, anyway.” Something about the way Thomas said that told Daniel that there was more to that story than he was letting on, but he wasn’t in any position to ask follow-up questions. “Have you written anything I’ve heard of?”
“Not yet. Still looking for my muse, you know?”
“Well, if you play half as well as you seem to fix cars, I’m sure we’ll be looking for a new curator in no time.” Thomas then extended his hand, not even making a hint of fuss when he ended up with a hand covered in car grease. “Daniel, we’re happy to have you on board. If you need anything, submit a request to Mrs. Long and she’ll see that you get whatever it is. I know these cars can be expensive, so consider this a full approval of whatever you’ll need to get them working again.”
“Thank you.”
With that, the younger Dubarry headed for the door, taking the steps two at a time with the grace of someone who lived in this house all of their life. But, just before he left, he turned and asked Daniel for one more favor, a favor that left him with more questions than when this day began.
“And on a personal note, if you do see my sister around, do be gentle with her. She’s a little lost at the moment.”
Only an hour had passed before Daniel found himself taking Thomas up on his offer. If there was any hope of saving the 1943 Coupe—and he hoped there was because the vehicle was a gorgeous piece of machinery, the kind of car someone like Cab Calloway would have driven on an extravagant night out—they’d need no less than sixteen parts, and those would probably have to be created bespoke. No one was exactly making transistors for these things anymore.
So, he set out for Mrs. Long’s office. He vaguely remembered the path from the day he interviewed. But, upon entering the house, he realized two things: one, he had no idea how to find Mrs. Long’s office, and two, even if he did remember the way, all of his visual post markers wouldn’t have been there anyway, because, apparently, he’d missed a wild party last night.
For the most part, the house was still and quiet, broken only by the sounds of Daniel’s boots crunching over broken glass and discarded plastic cups as he searched through the ancestral halls for the nondescript white door of Mrs. Long’s office. It was amazing, in a way. Here, they had a home older than most of the buildings in Oxford, complete with crystal chandeliers and flowing grand staircases, but it looked like it had been the site of a university rager just after the end of midterms.
As he passed the open doors of a dining room, he let out a long, low whistle. There had to be at least thirty empty wine bottles lined up like bowling pins at the table’s far end.
“I guess my invitation must have gotten lost in the mail,” he muttered to himself.
Leaving the dining room behind, he spotted an open door farther along the hallway. Surely, the housekeeper would leave her door open. He beelined for that door, afraid of being caught and accused of snooping or stealing or whatever it was the duke thought poor people did when they entered his house.
But the open doors didn’t frame a modest office. They framed a small smoking room where six men slept, slung over couches and chairs as they snored or muttered in their sleep.
They weren’t the only ones there, though.
In a chair placed near the far wall, a woman stared lazily out of a window, her face halfway turned from Daniel, the edges and outlines of her features the only thing made visible to him. She was the only one conscious enough to hear the whispering notes of the Beatles’ “Drive My Car” playing from an old record player in the corner of the room.
The song was infectious, but she didn’t tap her toes or hum under her breath. Instead, she just stared out of the window. Waiting for something to happen.
Thomas’s words rang out in his mind.My sister is a little lost at the moment. If that was true, and if this was that sister, Daniel could only agree. She looked very lost indeed. Slowly, he backed away from the room. And no matter how he told himself that he needed to focus, that he needed to do his job and collect his paycheck so he could keep playing his music at night, so that he could one day reach out and grasp his dream, the Beatles’ catchy refrain played on repeat in his mind the rest of the day, distracting him, pulling him back toward the woman with the lost gaze.
Chapter Three
Sam didn’t sleep that night. Every time her eyes grew heavy, she remembered her pictures going up in smoke, and a fresh wave of pain kept her awake. All around her, the men slept, uncomfortably strung across their chairs and chaises lounges, but she kept her hazy eyes focused on the window. In the corner of the smoking salon, her father’s hand-me-down Victrola attempted to spin an original copy of the Beatles’Rubber Soulalbum. The tinny music of Paul’s guitar as it strummed the sickening chords of “In My Life” gave the sleepy suite its only sound.
Sam considered getting up and flicking the needle from the sloppily twirling record. It always marked her as a freak, but she didn’t really…likemusic. She preferred silence or stupid conversation to sappy songs about love and moonlight. People could sing about it as much as they wanted, but she knew what love was. She’d seen what so-called love did to her mother, and when she looked into her father’s eyes, she knew he’d never felt anything like what the love songs said it was. Never mind the six men around her, six men she could never picture having any tenderness toward anyone, much less someone they’d want to hold forever.
Cloudy annoyance urged her to strangle the words in Paul McCartney’s throat and break John Lennon’s guitar over her knee. As it was, her limbs tingled, and the world spun every time she even thought about standing up, so the music remained. The Beatles won their unspoken battle with the sprawled woman in the overstuffed armchair.
“So.” She took advantage of the quiet and the early morning sun bleeding gold through the brocade curtains. Her words were barely audible or comprehensible as human speech, but somehow the assembled parties of half-awake men managed to understand her. “When does it happen?”
“When does what happen, Piggy?”
“The formal initiation. When am I official?”
Even bogged down by the weight of the night’s escapades, Sam fought to bottle her own enthusiasm. In twenty-four hours, she would be fitted for her blue suit. A real, honest-to-God member of the Society. Victory tasted sweet on her tongue, and even the bitter backwash of liquor and regret couldn’t ruin it. With her eyes on the window, she couldn’t exactly see everyone shift uncomfortably in their seats, but the shaken timber of their quiet hums and the squeaking of their suits against the leather settees and armchairs painted the picture anyway.
“Oh.”
“Uh.”
