Weaving between the disused tables, Aristide took Cyril’s measure. He’d dressed down for the locale—a tweed flat cap and a collarless shirt, an oily rag around his neck. He had the details right even down to his ragged, hand-rolled cigarette. Despite his attire, he was clean-shaven. The circles Aristide remembered beneath his eyes were gone.
“You look well.” Aristide lowered himself into the empty chair.
Cyril snorted. Smoke barreled from his nostrils and twisted through the candlelight. “Thanks.”
“Will you please tell me why we’re meeting in this wretched place? You could’ve come by the theatre. Cordelia’s anxious about you. You g-g-gave her a bit of a scare, apparently.”
Stubbing out his cigarette, Cyril sat back in his chair and removed his cap. A lock of pomaded hair fell out of place and curved across his forehead. With an impatient gesture, he flicked his head to the side. The movement was ineffectual, but Cyril didn’t try again. Aristide had to check his hand from rising to smooth the stray bit of hair. The jerk of the chin, the fleeting irritation—familiarity cut keenly. How many times had he seen that same blond crescent fall against Cyril’s brow?
“I hope,” said Aristide, looking away, “you weren’t planning on an assignation.”
“Ari, please. If it was sex I wanted, we wouldn’t be in the basement of the Stevedore. No matter who was on my tail.”
“Is there anyone?”
“Of course. You don’t think the Ospies would give me my parole. I’m doing good work for my handler, but he doesn’t trust me. He’s afraid I’m going to embarrass him.”
“So it was you. Who scratched Taormino, I mean. And Hebrides, too?”
A self-deprecating smile hooked the corner of Cyril’s mouth. “You noticed?”
“I could hardly fail to. Which means Culpepper will notice too. Has she sent anyone after you?”
“Not yet, but she will. I can handle it, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s sweet of you. I’m flattered.”
“Cyril, why are we here? Tell me I didn’t come all the way across t-t-town to flirt in a dirty basement.”
With a sigh, Cyril pushed the stray curve of his hair back. Speaking more to the candle wick than to Aristide, he said, “Cordelia’s running for you.”
“Yes.” He’d been hoping to keep that from Cyril, but there wasn’t much one could.
“Our history—yours and mine—isn’t exactly secret. Think of how that would look, if it came out Cordelia was in on your schemes.”
“It won’t,” said Aristide, with practiced confidence.
“What could possibly have possessed you?” Cyril’s fist curled tight around his tweed cap, bunching it into a tube. “Ari, the whole point was to keep me looking like a respectable Ospie. And you start sending her on errands?”
“She wouldn’t take my money,” said Aristide. “And I needed her help. What was I supposed to offer?”
“You needed her help? I thought she was—”
“Yes I needed her rotten help!” Aristide cut him off, suddenly overcome. He put his face in his hands and pushed his fingers past his hairline, tugging on his curls until his scalp stung. His burr leapt out like a rat from a sack. “Plague and pesteration, Cyril. I needed her help to keep you safe.”
“But you’re still using her.” Cyril’s soft voice didn’t take the sting out of the accusation.
Aristide took a deep breath and made sure the next sentence came out smooth. “You’re using her too.”
There was a tight pause. Aristide could feel Cyril’s anger building. When his outburst came, it snatched Aristide’s breath with its force and revelation. “Not to move stolen goods for wanted refugees.”
“What?”
“Oh don’t play innocent; you’re no ingénue. Cordelia was wearing Minna Keeler’s stolen citrines yesterday. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that could land me in?”
Blood drained from Aristide’s limbs. His hands went suddenly cold and heavy, as if they were cast in lead. “Citrines?”
“Set with diamonds. They’re not exactly inconspicuous.”
He knew the jewels. He’d told Sofie to hold onto them; they were less valuable than some of the other pieces, and more recognizable. “Cyril, believe me. I never asked Cordelia to move them. I have no idea how she—no. That’s a lie. I know how she got them. But if she’d had any sense she wouldn’t have accepted.”
“Don’t,” said Cyril.
“What? Call her a fool? You’re not falling for her, are you? I thought your tastes were more refined.”
Cyril made an ugly, scornful face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re putting me in danger, and you’re putting her in danger. She’s not going to run anything for you anymore.”
“I think that’s something she can decide for herself.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Aristide. Either she’s a vacuous tart or she’s clever and keen.” He shut his mouth and Aristide saw a muscle in his jaw flex. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and more controlled. “I know which one I’d pick.”
“You think she’s smart,” said Aristide. “You’re right. But you can’t have it both ways either. Don’t come to me and tell me what Cordelia can and cannot do. It’s not your place to decide. If you feel endangered by her association with me, then you can end your own with her.”
The set of Cyril’s shoulders collapsed. “No,” he said. “She’ll need somewhere to go, when the Ospies take over.”
“I can see her safely out of Amberlough.”
“Be realistic. Your influence is shrinking with every Ospie gain. You’ll be lucky if you can get yourself out.” He paused, dug his nails into the rotted tabletop.
“Yes?” prompted Aristide.
“I—I didn’t want to tell you, but…” Cyril ducked his chin to one side, his expression rueful. The same recalcitrant piece of hair fell across his forehead.
This time, Aristide didn’t stop himself: He reached out and combed it into place with his fingers. “Didn’t want to tell me what?”
Cyril put his hand on Aristide’s forearm. His mouth moved, but he didn’t speak.
“Didn’t want to tell me what, Cyril?” Aristide asked again, almost whispering. He traced the strong, straight line of Cyril’s cheekbone and jaw, ending with his fingertips arrayed just beneath the edge of Cyril’s chin. He felt an indrawn breath, the movement of Cyril’s larynx just before he spoke.
“They’re out for smugglers’ blood,” he said, his tone flat and defeated. “When Acherby’s position is firm, they’ll be coming after you like a pack after cubs.”
There was something false about the sentiment, though the statement was credible. Aristide sighed, tired of Cyril’s games, and moved to stand. Cyril’s grip tightened and drew him closer, across the table. Aristide felt the warmth of the candle on his shoulder, swiftly eclipsed by the smoke-limned heat of Cyril’s mouth on his.
“Mother and sons,” said Cyril. Aristide could taste the words, and feel the movement of his lips. “I’ve missed—”
Aristide didn’t let him finish. He put his hands around the back of Cyril’s head, digging his fingers into the carefully waxed waves of hair. He pressed their faces close, jaw aching with the force of the kiss. Cyril didn’t fight; he reached for Aristide’s lapels, pulled him nearer, gasped into his open mouth.
A clatter of dropping crates, and accompanying stream of curses, alerted them to a presence in the corridor. Like children caught at naughtiness, they pulled apart. Cyril’s pulse hammered so hard Aristide could see it: The flushed skin of his throat fluttered against the oily calico kerchief.
“I need to go,” said Aristide.
Cyril nodded, and looked away. Candlelight picked out his eyelashes like gold filament.
“We can’t do this again,” said Aristide.
Another nod.
As he walked away, Aristide curled his fists so tight his long nails bit into his palms. The small pai
n was like a pinch to distract from the agony of a broken bone.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Cordelia had barely got into her dressing room before Tory came skidding down the hall and caught himself in her doorway.
“You’ve heard?” he asked, breathless.
“You think there’s anybody in the city who hasn’t?” She threw her purse into the corner of the room and fell into her makeup chair. “Afternoon edition of the Telegraph had a headline about five inches tall. But they always do lean dramatic.”
“I’ve had to do up a whole new routine. People are sticking close behind Hebrides. I can’t feature any jabs at him flying high with tonight’s crowd.”
“You think we’ll have much of one?” She belied her reservations, starting to undo the buttons on her blouse.
“Course we rotten will.” Malcolm appeared behind Tory in the doorway and gave them both an appraising glance. “It’ll be a madhouse.” He looked down at Tory. “You. Go run your new material with Liesl. She wants to get the beats right for tonight’s jokes.”
Tory met Malcolm’s uncompromising glare. “Malcolm,” he said, and then paused like he was struggling. After a brief nod of the head, he was gone.
Malcolm watched Tory go, and while he was distracted, Cordelia cased his profile. He needed a shave. His nails were dirty and wanted paring. The heat backstage had him down to his undershirt, and even that was soaked with sweat. She thought about pecking him for shabbiness, but he sighed and slumped against the door frame, and she couldn’t.
“Three bits for whatever’s on your brain,” she said, hanging her blouse up on a coat hook.
“Just worries,” he said. “Same as always.”
“I’d wager that ain’t true. This is a little heavier than taxes and protection.” She let her skirt fall to the floor and didn’t bother with a dressing gown. It was stuffy backstage, and it wasn’t like what she had was a secret—especially not to Malcolm. “What are you gonna do?”
He shook his head. “I’m waitin’ on divine inspiration,” he said. “Something might come down out of the mountains and save me.”
“Well, for all our sakes I hope it does. A lot of people depend on this place, Mal.”
“Thanks so much for reminding me.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest. “’Specially since you ain’t one of ’em.”
She stopped, her lipstick halfway up. “Say that again.”
“You got your game with Makricosta—don’t think I ain’t clocked it. And your swell, even if you ain’t knocking him. You’re getting too grand for us stagefolk.”
“Oh shut your face, you big ape.” She painted two perfect arches on her upper lip, and a longer, fuller smear on the lower, then capped the tube. Twirling the chair to face Malcolm, she put one finger in her mouth and drew it out, to clear the insides of her lips and keep her teeth white. It came out with a satisfying pop. Even the added brown of Malcolm’s late spring tan couldn’t cover the flush that crept up his neck.
“If I was getting too grand,” she said, “I’d already be gone.”
* * *
When she came back after the final curtain she found Cyril sitting at her makeup table, holding a bunch of roses. “I know they’re black on the poster,” he said. “But do you know what the duties are on Porachin Sables? Besides, they aren’t in season.”
She took the flowers in her arms. “These are lovely. What’s the occasion?”
“The end of the world?” He stood, in one smooth motion, and turned her chair for her. She sat, and let him spin her toward the mirror.
“Cheery.” She buried her face in the flowers. The corner of an envelope poked her in the eye. When she pulled it out, Cyril plucked it from her hands. In the mirror, she saw him wave it, then drop it into her purse.
“Read it later,” he suggested.
She opened her cold cream and started cleaning away her paint. “How soon will things start sinking, do you reckon?”
“Soon,” he said, “and fast.”
“Soon and fast enough I should start worrying now? Or can it wait a week or two?”
“Don’t worry yet,” said Cyril. “But start thinking about what you can do once you can’t do this anymore.” He tapped one finger on the corner of her makeup table. “Or when you can’t run tar. I imagine the Ospie vice squad won’t be as easily bought as the ACPD is at present.”
“Mother’s tits,” she said, laughing. “I ain’t exactly qualified to do much else.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Cyril. He leaned against the wall, beside her mirror, and lit a cigarette. “You’ve got more than a few of the talents Central looks for in its recruits.”
“And a lot of good they’ll do me when Culpepper is belly-up under the Ospies’ boots.”
“Acherby needs agents too,” he said. “Ones who know this territory. After all, they’ll have to purge the current stable.”
Cordelia stopped with half her face smeared in cold cream and turned to look at him. “Sorry, are you trying to turn me Ospie?”
“It’s move with the herd or be trampled. And you’re a survivor, Cordelia.”
“What, like you?”
He smiled ruefully around his straight. “Oh no. I’m just a coward.”
She wiped her face clean and threw the cloth to the back of her makeup table. “I’ll have to think about it.” She didn’t like the idea, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. Leave town, maybe, and look for theatrical work somewhere farther south. Hyrosia, maybe. But she was an Amberlinian, born and raised, and Amberlough was what she knew. Still. “Working for the Ospies ain’t exactly a sunny proposition.”
“Understandable.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling.
Someone knocked on her dressing room door. Cyril’s head snapped around. When Cordelia got up to answer, he put his hand out. She waited. He moved to the wall beside the hinges and, to her horror, drew a snub-nosed revolver from the inside of his jacket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. He shook his head and tipped the short barrel of the gun toward the door. She pulled it open, hiding Cyril from whoever had knocked.
“Do you have a moment?” Ari lounged in the doorway, draped in silk. Transparent with sweat, it stuck in places to his skin. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” She didn’t give ground. “Can it wait a minute? I got company.”
He arched one finely sculpted eyebrow. “But I just passed Tory in the hall. And Malcolm’s t-t-tied up with punters.”
“I’m a busy girl.”
“I’m sure you—” He froze, staring over her shoulder. She turned, and saw a sliver of Cyril’s reflection in her makeup mirror. Just the edge of his shoulder, the back of his head. In Ari’s place, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
He shoved her aside and came in, shutting the door and leaning against it in lieu of a lock.
“Plague and pesteration,” he said, and Cordelia wondered where he’d picked up the northern curse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“No one saw me.”
“If you’re so sure, why are you waving that around?” Aristide cast a look at the gun like it was a dead and stinking wharf rat.
“No one who?” asked Cordelia. “What’s going on?”
“Just a precaution,” said Cyril, holstering the revolver. Then, “I’ll leave you two. Cordelia, think about what I said?”
Ari looked sharply between them. Cordelia gave him nothing. “I told you I would. But why the snubby? Who’s after you?”
Cyril shook his head. “This isn’t one of those things you need to know.”
“Holy stones,” said Aristide. “I think you might tell her enough to keep her out of trouble. Since you’re so worried about her safety.”
“Am I gonna end up scratched?” Cordelia asked, hands on her hips.
Cyril squirmed under her scrutiny, and turned pleadingly toward Ari. “They wouldn
’t use her—”
“I’m right rotten here,” she snapped. “Cyril, am I in some kind of danger?”
“It’s possible Culpepper has some foxes out for my blood. I don’t think they’d use you to get to me, but just look over your shoulder every now and then. And if you go out alone, let someone know where you’re headed.”
“Mother’s tits,” she said. “I knew something like this would happen.”
“You’ll be fine,” he insisted, arrowing a sharp glance in Ari’s direction. “Cordelia, the people who are looking for me … they know what my sticking points are. And—no offense—you aren’t one of them.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said, ready to ask who was. But midway through an outsized eye roll, she caught Ari sneering. The expression didn’t quite cover the faint, dusky blush on his high cheekbones.
“Cyril,” he said, “get out. And do try not to get yourself k-k-killed.”
Cyril took his hat from Cordelia’s makeup table, tipped it to Ari, and pulled it low over his eyebrows. He was gone without another word.
After a weighty moment of quiet, Cordelia turned to Ari. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”
His lips drew into a thin, frustrated line. “Let’s leave it for later, shall we? Get dressed and get your things together. I’ll take you home.”
“Ari, I grew up in the Mew. I can watch my own ass.”
“I know,” he said. “But please, give me the satisfaction of seeing someone safely to their door.”
* * *
The next afternoon, when she showed up at the Bee, the whole place was roaring like a kicked hive—funny, that comparison. She collared Garlande, who was still dressed, and asked what the trouble was.
“You mean you don’t know?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Mother and sons, I don’t think you oughta hear it from me.”
“Come on, Landy.” Her stomach had gone sour with fear. “What’s got everybody in such a fret?”
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