The Bluest Blood Read Online Free Page A

you look familiar, too. I mean I know who you are, but I thought only by reputation. Still and all, I know your face. Probably from the paper, eh?”
    Roederer’s smile turned quizzical.
    The Roederers’ pictures were seldom, if ever, in the paper. Even at the dedication, they declined to be photographed. Too many crazies, they’d explained. I thought of the fire across the way and agreed.
    “Are you perhaps Canadian?” Roederer asked. Good breeding showed. He continued to play gracious host to a boor who didn’t care a whit about Pilgrim’s Progress, didn’t glance at it once he’d established its title, and hadn’t introduced himself when asked.
    “Born, raised, and educated in Toronto. How’d you know? You Canadian, too?”
    Neddy Roederer laughed and shook his head. “Not specially anything, I’m afraid. Born in France, schooled in Holland and Hong Kong. Lived all over even before meeting Tea and her wanderlust. But since then, even more. Horrified our families by being footloose. We did try Canada once, but it was too cold, so we moved on to Bali. Or maybe South Africa. Can’t remember. We’re nomads.”
    My kind of nomads. Forget yurts—they bedded down in the most substantial and rooted of dwellings.
    “The eh made me ask,” Roederer said with a smile.
    The man shook his head. “Never hear myself say it, but the wife tells me I do it all the time.” He gestured behind him, although he didn’t turn his head to verify if “the wife” was there.
    She was, apparently. A reasonably attractive woman in an unreasonably unattractive dress. Her garment, a putty silk with the life drained out of it, was designed to disappear into the background, but at this event, its deliberate drabness stood out. Her hair, loose and long, was a faded brown-gray mix; her face bare of makeup; her ears, neck, and wrists free of jewelry. She watched the man’s back like a trained dog awaiting its next command.
    “The wife’s not Canadian,” the man said. “From Jersey originally. Lived up there long enough, though. Still, she notices it. I don’t.”
    “Forgive me, I didn’t catch your name,” Roederer persisted. As if anyone had offered it. He couldn’t possibly have any real interest in the man, nor any expectation of ever seeing him again socially. But his graciousness seemed ingrained, and he stood patiently, his lips in a welcoming smile.
    “Spiers.” The voice was flat and resolute. I thought he was talking about weapons, until he spelled his surname. “Reverend Harvey Spiers.”
    The drab woman watching the reverend put her thumbnail in her mouth and absentmindedly chewed on it. There were deep creases between her eyebrows.
    I couldn’t think of a student named Spiers. A newcomer or future enrollee’s parent? A friend of one of our parents?
    I sensed more than heard the softest possible exclamation from Mackenzie. He glanced at me as if I’d understand. His expression registered recognition, but no pleasure. I looked back at the Reverend Spiers, wondering why he’d produced this reaction.
    And more. A shudder of revulsion distorted Neddy Roederer’s well-bred features. “ The Reverend Spiers?” he asked.
    “Believe so.” The other man made a mock bow. “I believe I am the only one with that name and position in the area.”
    “Reverend Spiers of the Moral Ecologists?”
    Of course. That’s who it was. The party setting had thrown me off. This was the last place I’d have expected to see this man.
    Roederer’s voice had risen on a cresting wave of incredulity until it cracked, which I now well understood. The Moral Ecologists had reviled him, labeled him Trashman and, I was certain, burned him in effigy outside his front door. And Neddy knew. He had undoubtedly been the first to call the police.
    “You—” Roederer said. “You and that woman—”
    Spiers bowed his head as if humbly acknowledging achievement. “You refer to Mother Vivien, I assume. My right hand.”
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