Simon twitched uncomfortably. “We believe it was fantasy, yes. However, the painter disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It has been alleged that he attempted blackmail of his patroness.”
“It doesn’t look old, like the others.”
“No. Madame bought it from the artist’s heirs. The person who had commissioned it hadn’t claimed it.”
“And that would be Mantelby, right?”
“Shh,” said Simon. “No names, Mouche. We didn’t label it. The label is just as it was when the painting was bought. I said the paintings were cautionary. Be cautioned.”
The door, Mouche’s door, with his name already neatly lettered on the plate, opened into a suite of three rooms: a small sleeping chamber furnished with bed, armoire and fireplace; a comfortable study with tall bookcases and windows that looked out onto the courtyard; and a privy closet with washbasin, the privy water provided from a tank on the roof to which water was pumped by a water mill built into the river wall. Electric power was limited on Newholme, though there were plans for much hydroelectric development within the next generation.
Clean wash water would be provided daily, said Simon, not specifying by whom, and the Consort baths were on the next level down. Simon also suggested that Mouche should practice getting out of the suite by the quickest route in case the Lady on the Scarp Blew Her Top, then departed to let Mouche get settled.
Mouche decided that in case the volcano did explode, causing earthquake or fire or both, he would escape through the windows down into the courtyard, this decision suggested by the presence of a rope ladder already in place. The previous occupant had had similar intentions. That decision disposed of, Mouche fetched his books, his clothing, and his athletic equipment from the dormitory and distributed the items in his new quarters. He then went down to the laundry to check out linens and was behind the door, hunting for pillow cases, when he heard Madame and Simon come into the outer room, already in conversation.
“I just don’t want to take them,” said Madame, sounding resentful and angry. “They’re terrible prospects. They’ll be years too old, for one thing.”
Mouche could hear her footsteps, the fretful to and froing she did when upset, tappy tap one way, tappy tap the other, the heels of her shoes coming down like little hammers. Madame wore shiny black shoes and shiny black skirts and blindingly white shirts under tight, buttoned jackets that shut her in like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Madame had black hair and white skin and pale gray eyes that could see through six inches of oak, so said Simon.
Madame went on: “I don’t like the looks of those Dutter boys. There’s something dreadful about them, Simon, something more than merely boorishness. It’s a kind of deadliness. Evil. Like … like someone else I know of. That’s why I turned them down when Dutter tried to sell them to House Genevois last year.”
“But now the Dutter boys come with a guaranteed buyer who will pay you at once, in advance, no matter how they turn out,” said Simon in an expressionless voice. “He offers an astonishing fee. And that same buyer has talked to your investors. Behind your back, if one may say so, Madame. And your investors, being good Men of Business, want you to take the offer.”
“Which makes me like it even less,” said Madame. “Who makes a deal like that? It’s not out of love, Simon. It’s not out of good sense. Take out love and good sense and what’s left? Anger. Hate. Revenge. I don’t like it. I don’t like them. And why is the deal anonymous?”
“You’re not asked to take them immediately.”
“Four years from now they’ll be worse! And they’ll be too old for me to do anything with!”
“The eventual buyer says he will guarantee their deportment while they are with us. That same buyer will make a large down payment now, he tells us all he wants is a gloss, not real training, and your investors say the funds are needed, Madame. They wish to buy the property next north in order to expand the House, in order to take younger boys … “