Velveteen (26 page)

Pitch-black eyes glowered back from inside the hollows, each parakeet cold and utterly, completely alone.

Velvet’s dream pushed its way back into her mind. In a moment, she was like the parakeet again, trapped. The feeling of imprisonment knotted in her stomach, chilled her to the very core of her being.

“Velvet!” Mr. Fassbinder’s voice tore her attention from the cage of papery needles as he rushed from behind the storeroom curtain, thankfully interrupting her creepy state.
Pull yourself together, girl
, she thought.

Velvet returned the origamist’s greeting. “Hey, Mr. Fassbinder.”

“Velvet!” he scolded. “Look at your eyes. They’re so dim. It’s like you’re carrying the weight of the world in that pretty head.”

He rushed over and put his arm around her shoulders, herding her toward a pair of chairs standing guard over his desk and a dusty abacus in a mahogany frame. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk. I’ll just run in the back and get the special bird I promised.”

Velvet sank into the chair, managing as polite a smile as she could, and Mr. Fassbinder disappeared behind the dark plum curtain. She could hear him rummaging in the storeroom and wondered what kind of epic projects he carried out in private, if the monk parakeet world was suitable for display in the store.

What is he working on next?
she wondered.

She shook off her exhaustion and tried to focus on why she’d stopped by at all. The nerve reading; the banshee’s memories of effigies and Chinese printing presses and all that paper. Velvet didn’t think Mr. Fassbinder would know anything about the rows of crystal balls, but he was sure to know all about the paper.

“Here it is!” he called out.

When he returned, he held a small black cube in his hand,
a sleek matte origami box with a hinge of tightly woven paper. Velvet forced a smile as she took it and opened it slowly, wary of tearing the precise folds.

Inside sat a miniature black dove.

It was never enough for Mr. Fassbinder to merely create lifelike copies; he was all about capturing a moment. The dove was cleaning itself, and one shiny black eye was all that peered from underneath its ruffled outstretched wing.

“I love it.” Velvet smiled up at the man and she said, “It’s genius. Just like you.”

And it was true, though her mind was far too focused on the task at hand to really enjoy the present fully.

Mr. Fassbinder clapped his bandaged hands together and slipped into the other chair. “I’m so glad, dear. It’s not much. Just a little dove to carry away the gloom of this dark existence.”

Velvet looked up from the bird. “It’s not always this bad. Just sometimes, well, my work …”

“That last shadowquake was a terror. I can’t imagine what you must go through. Don’t suppose you care to talk about the horrors that caused such a menace?” Mr. Fassbinder’s eyes were hopeful, and he leaned forward as though he expected Velvet to spill, as if Velvet were allowed to share specifics about any of her missions.

“Nice try. But you know—”

He broke into a fit of deep booming laughter. “Of course, but I have to try. You know how I miss being an insider. Getting all the information before it spreads among the souls. Now I never hear anything first, only through my customers, and by then I’m certain I’m the last.”

That had to be true.

As far as Velvet knew, Mr. Fassbinder rarely left the Paper Aviary. All his supplies were delivered. She’d invited him to attend the Retrieval dorm salons on a number of occasions, but he’d always declined. When he’d been alive, he’d been quite the society gentleman, to hear him tell it. Parties nearly every night of the week, expensive restaurant openings, art gallery galas.

But something had happened to change all that—something Mr. Fassbinder had never shared with Velvet. Something more than just his death.

“Well,” Velvet stretched the word out conspiratorially, a sinister smirk spreading across her lips.

The man leaned forward and clasped his hands together eagerly. “Yes?”

“I do have some questions for you. I can’t tell you why I need to know or answer anything about the shadowquakes other than to say that the answers to the questions I have could have a major impact on the case.”

“Ooh,” he moaned saucily. “Now you definitely have my attention.”

“You know about the departure, right?”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly, intently.

“Well, when we returned to the station, there was a demonstration of sorts.”

He shook his head, his mouth crinkled up in disgust. “Nasty business. Yes. I’ve heard about it. Something was set ablaze. Neanderthals!”

“Well, it’s exactly what was on fire that brings me to you.”

“Oh?” Mr. Fassbinder reclined in the chair and crossed his legs, rubbing at the knot of his chin.

“The effigy, if that’s the right word, was made of paper. Possibly origami.” Velvet studied the man’s face for his reaction. “It looked exactly like the station agent. A picture-perfect replica.”

“Oh, my. That is disturbing.” He shook his head but didn’t seem surprised. “Now, why would the revolutionaries do something like that?”

“We don’t know.”

“Have you heard rumblings? Has Manny been accused of something?”

The words startled her.

Accused of something?
Velvet thought.
Where did that come from?
Manny had never done anything that wasn’t for the betterment of the Latin Quarter and purgatory.

“Of course not,” she barked, irked.

Mr. Fassbinder shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought so. What do the revolutionaries have against her, then?”

Velvet shook her head and glanced at the monk parakeets in their cells. She wondered if perhaps that was how the revolutionaries felt. Trapped. Isolated. But even if that were the case, why take it out on Manny? And what kind of departure were they planning, anyway?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Mr. Fassbinder added, “Perhaps the revolutionaries believe that dimming is being kept from them by the Council of Station Agents. That it’s being lorded over them. That they’re being kept in this place against their will.”

The idea startled her. “What? That’s ridiculous.” She paused, considering the notion in light of her dreams, of the demonstration at the station. “You’re suggesting that we could all dim at any second but somehow aren’t allowed to based on the whims of Manny and the others? Have you heard something to that effect?”

“No. No. Not at all.” He shook his hands out in front of him. “Don’t get me wrong here. I’m just trying to help.”

Velvet sighed. “And you have, Mr. Fassbinder. Those are definitely interesting ideas. But we kind of got sidetracked, because I meant to ask about who, besides yourself, is skilled enough at origami to create such lifelike paper effigies?”

He stood up and skirted the desk. “Well. It’s a pretty rare profession, but there are quite a few, mostly in Vermillion.”

“Oh?” she said, eyes widening at the possibility of a significant break in the case.

The Chinese newspapers had certainly been in Vermillion. If there were an origamist who could be linked to the newspapers, then Velvet was on to something.

“Do you know any of them?” she said quickly.

“I know
of
them.” He paused, brow furrowing.

“Is there someone? Someone you suspect?”

He shook his head. “It’s probably nothing—though, perhaps.…”

“Well, just spill it, then. If it’s nothing, it won’t make any difference.”

“Aloysius Clay.”

Velvet gasped. “The missing body thief?”

Could Miss Antonia’s lost love possibly be involved?
Velvet had no proof, of course, but at the mere mention of his name, she was reminded of her certainty that Clay and Miss Antonia had been lovers. It just seemed right. And despite being completely paranoid lately, Velvet usually trusted her instincts.

Mr. Fassbinder leaned forward, glancing cautiously at the front door of the shop to make sure they were still alone. “I have heard that Aloysius Clay didn’t disappear randomly. He didn’t dim. He wasn’t kidnapped, as so many have hypothesized, but rather, like so many Hitchcockian characters, took on a secret identity far away from his home here in the Latin Quarter. And …” His voice trailed off.

“And?” Now it was Velvet leaning in, hanging on her friend’s every word.

“And he has become a great—no—a
master
origamist. Some say he produces the finest paper mimicry in all of Vermillion. Though that’s just talk. I have no proof to speak of.”

Velvet rubbed her lips and thought about this news.

It made some sense. If Clay was the creator of the effigies, he might have had contact with the banshee she’d interrogated in the Cellar.

She nodded finally. “Thank you, Mr. Fassbinder. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I do hope so. This departure business is all very disturbing, and the shadowquakes have slowed business, I’m afraid.”

Velvet employed as sympathetic a smile as possible and stood, ready to leave. “Tremendously helpful. I’ll be back
in a few days so we can have that film talk. I’d really love to chat with you about
The Birds
, and your parakeets, too.”

“You’ll be amazed at what I have planned next,” Mr. Fassbinder said, doing his best villain impression.

“Something positively evil, no doubt,” she joked back.

“No doubt,” he said, the sternness fallen away in favor of a chuckle.

“Oh, but wait,” Velvet said, remembering that in proper questioning, it’s important to cover all of one’s bases. “One more thing. Where do you get your paper?”

Mr. Fassbinder shrugged. “Local suppliers.” His eyes darted toward the little black box, now closed in the cage of Velvet’s fingers.

She looked at it again and then back to Mr. Fassbinder. His smile was as gracious and pleasant as ever, but Velvet couldn’t help wondering if the man was telling the truth. Immediately following the thought, though, she felt suddenly, immeasurably ashamed. She had friends in purgatory but so few confidants. It just wasn’t possible that this man who treated her so well could be involved in something so heinous. And why would he lie? There was really no reason. Who would he be protecting? He didn’t seem to know anyone but his customers and some delivery boys. He hardly ever even left the Paper Aviary.

Still, his ideas were very interesting, and in light of those ideas, the appearance of Aloysius Clay as a suspect, and the visions pulled from the banshee’s skull, she needed to meet with Manny.

Velvet thanked Mr. Fassbinder, squeezed the box into her
pocket, and let herself out into the murky shadows of the midday. She trod quickly but focused on her footing all the way to the square. Even with the gaslight cranked to high, it was difficult to see the funicular platform in the distance, and Velvet had to rely on instinct to guide her to the ramp and to the basket of paper and pencils. She jotted down a quick message to Manny, folded the note into fourths, and added delivery instructions to the station post. As the railcar ground up to the platform, Velvet tossed the note into a box on its side marked “To: Station,” and tromped back down to the cobblestone street below.

The walk back to the dorm was the same as ever, with one notable difference. The flyers and handbills announcing the coming departure were more frequent than she’d seen before. The red paper spattered the walls around her like at the scene of a crime. She stopped to tear one off the wall, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the gutter.

Back at the dormitory, Velvet had no more than crossed the threshold when Miss Antonia slipped her hand into the crook of her elbow and whisked her off through the bustling residents to a table in a well-shadowed corner of the courtyard. The stage was being readied, salon imminent.

Her phantom heart skipped inside her chest.

Did Miss Antonia know about Nick? Or was it Velvet’s frequent trips to the charming farmlands of New Brompfel Heights to haunt a certain serial killer that was prompting this discussion?

Miss Antonia sat across from Velvet, her chin in her palm, scrutinizing her carefully.

“Yes?” Velvet noticed that her voice was shaking.

“Well?” Miss Antonia returned, eyes narrowing. “Isn’t there something you’d like to tell me?”

Velvet’s stomach turned, twisting into a pretzel shape in her gut. Her eyes darted around the courtyard. The first person she lit on was Nick, of course. Nothing like a reminder of how she’d screwed things up. The real question was: Had she been running away from him because he was making her crazy, or was she just plain crazy to begin with?

She was beginning to think the latter was the blue ribbon winner.

The boy leaned against the wall, hair tousled in the same sexy way she’d seen it the night before. He was watching her, his mouth crooked with a stupid, ridiculous grin. Distracting her.

Why does he have to be so frickin’ gorgeous?
If he just had prematurely thinning hair and a pie face, it wouldn’t be an issue. Though she supposed she’d still have her haunting situation on the table.

Who am I kidding?
she thought.
I’m stockpiling secrets like Isadora hoards ugly clothes and girls to worship her. I’m screwed
.

She turned back to Miss Antonia. The woman’s pursed lips and the way she drummed her fingers on the tabletop told the whole story.

Someone had spilled.

“You’re awfully squirrelly.” Miss Antonia studied Velvet and then sighed morosely. “Must not be good news.”

Velvet was thoroughly confused but momentarily hopeful. Maybe she’d misjudged the situation. “What must not be good news?”

“Your investigation,” another voice chimed in.

Velvet spun to see Manny sauntering toward them. “Don’t look so surprised. I was eager to hear your report and came to get it firsthand. Plus”—she slipped into the chair next to Velvet, her hand resting on Velvet’s shoulder—“this way I get to take in a little entertainment while we chat. Won’t that be nice?”

“Ya-yeah,” Velvet stuttered, noticing the commotion on the stage: kids straightening the backdrop, stacking sheet music next to the lectern, dusting the creepy box of doom with her name stuffed inside it like a threat. “Salon is gonna be awesome,” she lied, and quickly changed the subject. “You got my message, then?”