ARC: The Buried Life Read Online Free

“When, Freddie? And where?”
    “Only last night,” he said, a little calmer, “just outside of the Vineyard.” His eyes twinkled as he waited for her reaction.
    “That’s impossible. How…”
    “No one knows yet, but trust me, you’ll be the first to know when I get word.”
    Jane mopped a few stray locks away from her forehead. Leaning against the washbasin, the dolly suddenly looked sharp and sinister. “Do you know who died?”
    “The Municipals aren’t saying much, but it looks like some shriveled government scholar was choked with his own mothballs.”
    “That’s terrible, Freddie.” She frowned, pausing for decency before the necessary follow-up. “Did you get the assignment?”
    His buoyant expression fell, and he ruffled his sandy-brown hair with one hand. “Blocked again by Chiang, the editor with a vengeance.” He balled a wad of paper from his pocket and flicked it through an imaginary target and into the fireplace behind Jane. “Or maybe just out-bribed by Burgevich. But I will be covering the grand society ball next week! Take a look at this pair of shoe-shiners.” His green eyes sparkled again as he brandished two sheets of vellum adorned with flowing calligraphy.
    “Sounds like one of your editors likes you.” Jane rubbed the smooth material between thumb and forefinger. “Hardly seems fair that those go to you, though. I’m in that part of town every day of the week.” Though short of a miracle, that would soon change.
    Fredrick beamed again as Jane grabbed the dolly and returned to her wash. “One of the many perks of career journalism. That’s actually what I came by to tell you.” He rolled the sheets and tucked them back into his coat. “That, and to invite you along, of course.”
    Jane stopped mid-press, her fingers tight around the handle. “That’s very kind,” she said.
    Fredrick laughed. “You know me, I’m not doing it to be kind. I can’t suffer through all those speeches on my own.” He watched her slow, methodical strokes in the basin. “Don’t tell me you already have plans.”
    She stared into the filmy water. “Of course not.”
    “Then I’m sure you’ll clean up fine in whatever you put together.”
    Jane straightened her back and rested a hand on her hip. “Freddie, I fix clothes for a living. That’s the least of my worries.”
    “Then whatever the hell is it?” Freddie had circled around her and now stood just a few feet from the damaged frock coat.
    Jane’s eyes flicked from the coat to Freddie. “No offense, but you . My clients will be there. And I’ll be there with you, a reporter. I don’t want to give any of them the wrong idea.” It was true, and it was easier to explain than the missing pearl. The last thing she wanted right now was to add Fredrick’s hysteria to her own worries.
    Fredrick rocked forward and threw his head back. “Oh, Jane, you and your precious reputation.”
    “And my precious commissions.”
    Fredrick held up his hands, but his voice carried the tone of an argument already won. “Look, no snooping at the party. Just straight reporting. Besides, most of your clients don’t even know what you look like. Unless all the Vineyard housemaids are there, your good name and your good jobs will be fine.”
    Jane looked down at the linens, unwilling to refute him. “It would be nice to visit to the Vineyard without my laundry cart.”
    “Not to mention without looking like a servant.”
    “I’m not a servant,” she said in a quick monotone. Not yet, anyway. “But I’d like to see whitenails at one of their fancy parties, with all their coattails and ball gowns and gentility.” Washing fine clothes for Recoletta’s upper crust engendered the desire to see people actually wear them.
    “They’re not half so endearing as you seem to think,” he said, “and they’re twice as dangerous.”
    “I’m sure they’re dangerous to someone who makes a living off their secrets.” Her eyebrows flicked upward as