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“‘Have no fear,’” Kiran says. “‘Your cover isn’t blown.’”
Jane is beginning to feel a little hysterical. “What’s that supposed to mean? Kiran, why would you say that to him if you don’t even know him?”
Kiran shrugs. “It seemed the safest thing to say. I mean, think about it. If he’s a bad guy, we don’t want him to think we’re against him, right? And if he’s a good guy, then of course we’re not going to blow his cover.”
“Kiran,” Jane says, enunciating each syllable. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Listen,” Kiran says, “I don’t have the foggiest idea what’s going on in this house tonight, but I think you’re pretending to be more ignorant about it than you actually are and I don’t appreciate being lied to.”
The dumbwaiter is making its noises again, and before Jane can contrive to stop her, Kiran swings the door open. The carriage, descending from above this time, passes by containing Patrick, who holds on one arm a toddler with curly dark hair, solemn dark eyes, and southern Italian looks. It’s Grace’s little brother Christopher Panzavecchia. Jane recognizes him from the news reports.
“Hi!” Christopher cries cheerfully. Patrick, meanwhile, gapes at Kiran in dismay. In his other hand, he holds a gun.
“Hi,” Jane says to Christopher, because, wide-eyed and delighted, he seems to be waiting for it.
“I love you,” Patrick says to Kiran, almost as if it’s a question, as the carriage slowly glides past.
“Go to hell, Patrick,” Kiran says, practically spitting.
Once he’s gone, she slams the dumbwaiter door, holds on to the handle, and seethes. The groans of the mechanism fade away, then go silent.
“Goddamn him,” Kiran says. “Goddamn him to hell. He loves me? He’s in my dumbwaiter with a gun and a Panzavecchia baby who’s wanted by the Sicilian Mafia and the New York State Police! Goddamn you, Patrick!”
“Oh, god,” Jane says, because this is her fault. She’s the one who sprang off to follow the Interpol man while Kiran was growing increasingly suspicious beside her. She’s the reason Kiran’s seen what she’s just seen. “Oh, god.”
“Oh, brace up,” Kiran says, clapping Jane on the shoulder.
“Brace up?” Jane cries, incredulous.
“I mean, really, it’s funny,” Kiran says. “Isn’t it funny? He invited me home. He wanted to confess something! Ha! Ha!” Kiran begins to gasp, then clasps her stomach and roars with laughter, until she’s wiping tears from her face with one pinky, trying not to disturb her mascara. “Oh, lordy,” she says, hiccupping. “At least now we know the Arabic man is a good guy.”
“We do?”
“Well, Patrick is a good guy,” Kiran says. “It follows that anyone else riding in the dumbwaiter is a good guy too.”
“It does?” Jane cries in utter confusion.
“I mean, I’m furious,” Kiran says, drawing herself up straight, dropping all traces of amusement. The dumbwaiter is humming and squeaking again. “I never want to see his face again. The things I’ve told Patrick, trusting him. And I was right; I always knew there was something off about him. But he’ll have a good reason to be in the dumbwaiter with that child and a gun.”
“I—think he actually does,” Jane says weakly.
The dumbwaiter stops rumbling. Kiran swings the door open. A folded piece of paper is propped inside the carriage with a message written on it. “KIRAN,” it says. “GET IN.”
“Mrs. Vanders’s handwriting,” Kiran says, then begins to climb into the dumbwaiter carriage. “This feels like something out of Alice in Wonderland. Where do you suppose this is going?”
“I don’t know,” Jane says. “The west attics? The servants’ wing? The oubliette?”
“There’s no oubliette,” Kiran says. “I made that up to get rid of the snotty Interpol man.”
“You’re awfully good at this,” Jane says a bit wildly.
“Am I?” Kiran says, sitting there calmly in her crimson gown, clusters of diamonds sparkling in her ears and at her throat, her arms wrapped around her legs. “I guess it’s the first time I’ve had fun since I stepped back onto this goddamned island.”
Someone somewhere along the track of the dumbwaiter pounds a wrench—maybe it’s a gun—against metal, twice. Kiran checks that her fingers and toes are completely inside the carriage, then knocks twice on one of the walls, impassively, as if everyone knows that’s what a person is meant to do in this situation. The carriage begins to rise.
“Meet me above,” she says, “if you like. Unless you’ve got some secret mission you’re on too.” Then she’s gone.
Jane is left in the kitchen, staring at the moving cables in the empty track of the dumbwaiter carriage, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. Is this why Aunt Magnolia became a spy? Because it was fun? How can Kiran see what she’s just seen, and laugh, and say it’s fun? Oh. Jane clutches her temples, wishing for a way to extract herself from all of this.
Then Jasper leans heavily against her legs.
“Well, Jasper,” she says. “I guess, whatever else happened, we succeeded in getting that Interpol man off Ivy’s tail. What do you say? Should we return to the party and see if we can undo any more of my damage?”
Back in the ballroom, she finds the Arabic-speaking man from the dumbwaiter drinking Pimm’s and being charming with other party guests. She supposes he must be a good guy if Mrs. Vanders is letting him ride in the dumbwaiter, but she gives him a wide berth anyway. Passing into the receiving hall with Jasper, she spots a familiar form: Ji-hoon, the South Korean “cleaner,” who’s smoothed his hair handsomely back and donned dark-rimmed glasses and black formalwear. Jane almost doesn’t recognize him, he’s so polished and slick. He’s ascending the east staircase calmly, unhurriedly. He doesn’t see her.
Abruptly, Jane turns for the west stairs and starts up them, moving as fast as she can without drawing undue attention. Why do I keep doing this? she asks herself, exasperated. Why do I keep involving myself! Jasper falls behind. Guests drift past now and then as she climbs, seeming to come from all wings of the house. Jane gathers that there must be a tradition, at these parties, of wandering the upper floors to look at the art. No wonder people can sneak all over the place without arousing suspicion.
She’s huffing and puffing by the time she reaches the third floor. Stopping outside the door to the servants’ wing, she catches her breath, no idea what to do next. Assuming this is even Ji-hoon’s destination, she’s beaten him, but how will she stop him when he arrives? Start reciting poetry and hope he joins in? Ivy has warned her that he’s dangerous, he’s armed. Where is Jasper?
Then the door to the servants’ wing swings open and Phoebe Okada steps out, her turquoise dress delightfully swishing, her eye makeup smoky and flawl
ess.
“I’d love to know what you think you’re doing,” she says.
“Phoebe,” Jane says. “Ji-hoon is coming.”
Casually, Phoebe reaches under her skirt and extracts a gun. “Don’t give yourself an aneurysm,” she says. “We’re tracking him. You need to leave. This is no place for kids. You should go to your rooms and stay there.”
The door opens again and Ivy sticks her head out. She grabs Jane’s arm and Jane says, “Wait,” irrationally, waiting for the dog, who then appears on cue, shouldering his way toward them, gasping for breath. Jane is impressed. He must have made a heroic effort on that last stretch of stairs.
“Quick,” says Ivy, hustling Jane and Jasper into the servants’ wing.
“Where are we going?” Jane asks.
“Out of the way.”
It’s a humiliating answer, coming from Ivy. I’m like Ravi, she thinks, when he was a child, “helping” the gala staff.
“Is Mrs. Vanders mad about Kiran?” she asks.
Ivy shoots Jane a cautious look, as if trying to gauge whether she’s friend or foe at the moment. “Mrs. Vanders has been going back and forth about telling Kiran the truth for some time now,” she says. “She thinks Kiran would be really good at our work.”
“She would,” Jane says fervently.
“Personally, I’m relieved she finally knows,” says Ivy. “It’s been hell being around my brother.”
For a moment, a wave of dizziness fuzzes Jane’s brain. Ivy is shepherding her along quickly and it occurs to her that she’s been holding her breath. “Wait,” she says. “Can I have a second?”
“Yes,” Ivy says with immediate concern. “Are you okay?”
It’s impossible to breathe deeply and deliberately without thinking about a jellyfish. Jane tries to think of a dumbwaiter instead, her own internal dumbwaiter, air moving up, air moving down. Her body is a microcosm of this house. This corridor is a path toward . . . toward something. Toward the next step; toward however Jane will get through this night.
