Chapter 6: Mr. Right This Way

 

Adler found him at ten-fifteen.

Bastien was in a conversation with the gallery owner, a pleasant and entirely forgettable exchange about the Tripicity art market and the particular challenge of representing emerging work in a city that tended to value legacy over discovery. He was listening with the portion of his attention that the conversation merited, which was not the majority of it, and when Adler appeared at his shoulder with that specific quality of stillness that meant something required immediate attention he excused himself without ceremony.

"Problem," Adler said.

"Tell me."

They stepped into the edge of the room where the crowd had thinned, the noise dropping by a fraction around them. Adler's face was doing the thing it did when something had gone wrong in a way that had implications Adler had already begun calculating.

"Olivia Maddox," Adler said. "She's not here."

Bastien looked at him. "She confirmed."

"She confirmed this afternoon. She is not in the building. Her family's security detail arrived at seven and has been stationed outside the entire evening. She has not come through the door." A pause. "Her father called twenty minutes ago. Apparently there was a change of circumstances on their end. He is apologetic. He is also not offering a rescheduled date."

Bastien said nothing for a moment. He looked at the room, the event in full comfortable swing around him, and processed this with the same unhurried attention he processed everything, the way a man processed information when he had learned long ago that the first response was rarely the most useful one.

"The paperwork," he said.

Adler's expression shifted by a fraction. "That is the second matter."

"Tell me the second matter."

"Renard proceeded with the signing." Renard was the pleasant man. Renard was very good at his job, which was to facilitate the movement of documents between the people who needed to sign them in a way that felt inevitable rather than orchestrated. "There was a woman identified on the gallery's guest list as Maddox, O. The initial match against the Olivia Maddox documentation was a reasonable identification error under the circumstances. The first name was abbreviated. The last name matched. She was present at the event and consistent with the general profile." Another pause, shorter this time. "Her name is Octavia Maddox. She is the artist. The city pieces."

The room continued around them. Someone laughed somewhere across the space.

Bastien looked at the far wall where the dark canvases hung, the pieces that were not finished and would become something that required a room to understand. He looked at them for a moment without speaking.

"The documents," he said. "Are they binding."

"Renard used the full contract package. All six documents. Properly witnessed. Her signature on each, her initials on each page." Adler's voice was the voice he used when he was delivering information he had already decided was not recoverable. "They are binding. Under Tripicity law the ceremony clause is satisfied by the witnessed signing of the authorization documents, which she signed. The legal marriage is registered as of nine fifty-two this evening."

"She signed all six."

"She signed all six."

Bastien was quiet.

Rook had materialized at some point, the way Rook materialized, appearing in the vicinity without announcing it and now standing slightly to Bastien's left with his hands in his pockets and an expression that was doing the work of being neutral.

"The artist," Rook said. Carefully.

"Yes," Bastien said.

"The one you were talking to earlier."

"Yes."

Rook absorbed this. His expression remained neutral with some effort.

"She doesn't know," Adler said. It was not a question. "Renard presented it as an art acquisition. She signed in that capacity. She believes she sold a painting."

Bastien looked across the room.

She was near the east wall with a glass of champagne, her red hair catching the gallery light the way the gold leaf in her work caught the gallery light, and she was looking at her own piece on the north wall with the expression she had when she was looking at something she had made, that specific quality of attention that was not pride exactly but something more complicated than pride, something that had judgment in it as well as satisfaction.

He had her name now. Octavia. The real one, not the one the wall gave everyone, not the one she had offered him an hour ago in a courtyard with the city above them and his jacket on the ground. Octavia Maddox. Who had a storage unit somewhere and a gym membership and a way of moving through rooms like she had already located every exit and was simply choosing not to use them.

Who was, as of nine fifty-two this evening, his wife.

He picked up a glass from a nearby table. Looked at it for a moment. Set it down again.

"The Maddox family," he said.

"The territory situation is unchanged," Adler said. "The alliance agreement referenced the Maddox family, not Olivia specifically. There is a legal argument that the marriage satisfies the alliance terms regardless of which Maddox signed the documents, given that she signed under her own legal name and identity." He paused. "It is not a simple argument. It would require the Maddox family to accept the situation rather than contest it."

"And if they contest it."

"The documents have a twelve month binding clause with dissolution conditions. If contested within the binding period all financial arrangements are voided. The commission payment. The acquisition contract. Everything." Adler looked at him with the particular expression he wore when he was about to say something he expected resistance to. "The woman, Octavia, she received the commission payment agreement as part of the signing. The first installment."

"What number."

Adler told him.

Bastien looked across the room again. She had moved slightly, half a step closer to the roofline piece, her head tilted at the specific angle of someone looking at the point where the gold leaf caught the ventilation and changed.

A number that size, to a woman who lived the way Adler's file suggested she lived, was not a small thing. It was the kind of number that meant something specific. That meant the thing she had been saving toward, whatever that was.

"Who else knows," he said.

"Renard. Vex has been informed." Adler glanced toward the door where Vex had positioned herself at some point during the evening. "The gallery owner is not aware. The Maddox family security detail departed twenty minutes ago. There is no indication that anyone else in this room understands what has occurred."

"Good." Bastien looked across the room one more time. She was still at the north wall, unhurried, finishing her champagne. A woman at the end of a good evening. "Keep it that way. I'll speak to her."

He straightened his cuffs.

Rook watched him cross the room with the expression of someone who had filed something and was waiting to see what it meant.

Bastien reached her at the north wall.

She heard him or felt him, the particular shift in the room's attention that followed him without his asking for it, and turned before he spoke. The expression she turned with was open, warm at the edges, the champagne doing its comfortable work, and when she saw who it was something in her eyes did what it had done in the courtyard, that specific shift from surface to present.

She smiled. A real one, not the professional version.

"Coming to take me home for round two?" she said. Low enough that only he could hear it. The particular directness of someone who had decided that what had happened between them was worth acknowledging and was not going to perform coyness about it.

He looked at her. Something moved at the corner of his mouth, that architecture of a smile.

"In a way," he said. "Yes."

She tilted her head slightly, reading him the way she read things, and found something in his expression that she couldn't quite place. Not what she expected from a man she had just offered a second round to. Something more deliberate than that. Something that had already decided.

"That's an interesting answer," she said.

"It's an accurate one." He stood beside her and looked at the roofline piece for a moment, the gold leaf catching the ventilation the way it always did, flickering almost imperceptibly. "The evening went well."

"It did." She looked at the piece alongside him, easy and unhurried, the specific comfort of standing next to someone you'd already been considerably closer to. "Sol will be insufferable about it tomorrow."

"Sol seems like someone who earns the right."

"Sol absolutely earns the right." She looked at him. The warmth in her expression had that soft champagne quality, present and comfortable and slightly imprecise. "You enjoyed it?"

"Very much." He reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced the documents. Not the full set, just the top copy, folded in thirds, and he held it out to her. "I wanted to return these."

She looked at the documents. She looked at him. Something shifted in her expression, not alarm, just mild confusion.

"Those are mine," she said. "I have my copy."

"You do," he said. "I have mine as well. I wanted to discuss them with you."

She took them from him with the slightly careful movement of someone managing the gap between their present coordination and their usual standard, unfolded them, and looked at the first page. Her face arranged itself into the expression of someone confirming something expected.

"The buyer's contract," she said, not a question. "You're the collector."

"I am associated with the collector, yes."

"Hm." She looked at the page. "The anonymous one."

"That's a feature of these arrangements, yes." He paused. "I'd like to draw your attention to the third document."

She flipped to it with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had already read all of this and was not expecting anything surprising. She read the heading. Looked up at him. Her expression was still warm, still easy, still carrying that soft champagne quality.

"Legal Representative Authorization and Party Identification," she read. "I know this one. It's the one with my real name in it."

"It is," he said. "Among other things."

She looked back at it. Read a line. Read another. A small frown appeared, the effortful focus of someone trying to parse something that was not resolving the way they expected it to.

"This says," she began, then stopped. Read it again. "This is." She laughed, a short surprised sound. "This says marriage."

"It does."

She looked up at him with the expression of someone who had heard a joke and was waiting for the punchline. "Married to who?"

He looked at her steadily. "Me."

She stared at him. Then the smile came back, brighter this time, the delighted disbelief of someone who has decided this is a very good bit. "You're funny."

"I'm not being funny."

"No but you are though." She looked at the document again, still smiling. "This is a sale contract. I sold a painting." She held it out to him, helpful, the way you returned something to someone who had made an obvious error. "You've got the wrong papers."

"The sale contract is also in there," he said, without taking the document back. "Document two. The painting is purchased. That part is real."

"Great." She nodded, satisfied. "So. The other thing is the joke part."

"The other thing," he said, "is the marriage certificate."

She looked at him. He looked at her. The gold leaf flickered in the background.

"Okay," she said slowly, in the tone of someone deciding to engage with an unusual situation. "Show me the marriage certificate."

He reached back into his pocket and produced the single page, the registered certificate with its official stamp and both their names in clean type, and held it out.

She took it. Looked at it. Her expression was still doing the smile but the smile was doing less work than it had been a moment ago.

She opened her clutch. Took out her copy of the documents, the ones the pleasant man had given her at the end of the signing, and found the third one and unfolded it and held it next to the certificate in her other hand.

She read them both.

The smile finished.

She stood for a moment with a document in each hand and the city outside the gallery windows and the gold leaf doing what it always did and the champagne sitting in her chest in a way that felt considerably less comfortable than it had sixty seconds ago.

"Octavia," he said. Her real name, the one the documents had, the one he had known since Adler told him, and she looked up from the papers at the sound of it with an expression that had shed the warmth entirely and was now doing something else, something clear and rapid and assessing.

"The car is outside," he said. "We can go somewhere private and discuss what this means. The legal framework, the financial arrangements, what the options are. There are reasonable paths through this situation and I'd like to explain them to you."

He said it with the calm confidence of a man laying out a sensible plan, because that was what it was. A sensible plan. They would go somewhere quiet and talk through it and arrive at a workable position.

She looked at him.

She looked at the documents.

She returned her copy back to her clutch. Saw the square box with the morning after pill waiting for her to take.

She handed his copy back to him very deliberately.

He took them, which required him to look down for exactly the two seconds it took to register what he was holding, and in those two seconds she crossed to the east wall window, the one that the gallery used for ventilation in warmer months and which was currently unlatched, and pushed it open with the specific calm efficiency of someone who had noted it forty minutes ago and had been keeping it filed under contingencies, and stepped through it.

The Tripicity night came through the open window, immediate and alive and indifferent.

Then she was gone.

Bastien stood at the north wall with both sets of documents in his hand. The gold leaf on the roofline piece flickered in the current her exit had created.

He looked at the window for a moment.

Not the door. Not either of the exits Vex had covered. Not toward his people or away from them in any direction he had thought to account for. She had gone through a window. A window she had noted was unlatched at some point during the evening, filed it, and used it at the precise moment it became relevant.

Through a window.

In a gallery dress.