He looked up at her with the most adorable mock hurt expression.
"What do you and Vy talk about?"
She pressed her lips together swallowing a chuckle.
"I take it that's one of the songs you wrote for her album. It fits her."
He huffed, vaguely mollified.
"Doesn't she even hum them at home?"
The man who had played a bloodthirsty Richard the Third, a guilt plagued Macbeth, a cynical Cyrano and a completely insane Caligula was acting like a needy puppy when it came to his protégé.
The way Vy had been indulging Carter's controlling nature by submitting to his practice schedule had only made things worse. And now she had to play along, and soothe his concern.
"We have this sort of unwritten rule," she said. "Since I started working here, she doesn't talk about you."
"And you don't talk about King," he probed.
She lowered her head, neither confirming, nor denying his insinuation. That was not her secret to share. She wasn't surprised he had guessed. Sometimes she thought that Vy and Andrew were the only two people in the world who didn't see how much they were in love. Well, no, not really. Vy's brother and her other friends didn't seem to have a clue either.
She had to throw him a bone or he'd be even more obnoxious to Andrew when he returned.
"She doesn't go into details about your projects, but no matter how exhausted she is when she gets home, she vibrates with energy. She loves working with you."
"Even after Viaverde?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he started to play another song on the piano.
She held back the urge to ruffle his hair as she did with Will.
"Yes. Even after that disaster."
He jerked his back straight, and opened his mouth but she met his outrage with a kind smile. He relaxed again.
"So, I'm not pushing her too hard?" he asked softly.
"Yes, of course you are. But that's not the same as pushing her away."
When he spoke again, she saw why Vy was so entranced by him. How could anyone resist to be the subject of Tim Carter's admiration?
"I see how amazing she is," he said, "and how much untapped potential she still has."
She heard an undertone of fear in his passion. Vy meant a lot to Carter, and Carter meant a lot to her best friend. She had to ease his mind.
"Tim, Vy can out-work you."
Her voice almost faltered when she said his name. It was the first time she called him by his first name, and she had forced herself to use it to underline her point.
"When she believes in something, there are no limits to the time and effort she will put into that."
It seemed to have worked. The crease on his forehead was gone. The tightness in his jaw and in the set of his shoulders dissipated.
"You know her well," he said.
"There are few things in the world I know as well as my best friend."
And you are one of them.
She feared that he might see her thought, and she desperately tried to change the subject.
"Speaking of things I know..."
She went to her backpack, took out a book with a frayed and tattered dust jacket.
"This is-"
"Churchill," he said as soon as he saw it. "Great Contemporaries."
He snatched the old book from her hand careful not to damage it.
"There you go, spoiling the reveal."
He didn't seem to hear her, and that was fine. The words were never as important as the tone when it came to Carter.
His pale hands touched the cover reverently. He set the book in his lap and opened it gingerly. She watched him, fascinated. He looked like a teenager, afraid he might ruin something precious with his awkward hands. Tim Carter's hands were anything but awkward. He bent over the book, and for a moment Alice had the image of a monk who traced calligraphy on medieval manuscripts.
"It's a first edition," he said in an awed whisper.
"My grandmother used it to hold the door to the study open for years until I 'borrowed' it."
"She did not!" he said outraged at the preposterous statement.
She pretended to sort out something in her backpack to keep from confirming that she was serious. Clara Pellerin enjoyed finding new uses for objects. The more expensive they were, the more she loved it when she could find a very common role for it. Tim probably wouldn't care, but most people would be appalled to learn that her grandmother used a fifteenth century ceramic bowl bearing the royal family's coat of arms as an ashtray.
"I thought you should have it," she said simply.
"Alice, this book is expensive. You can't give it away like this. Like it's nothing."
She had expected him to refuse, but his calm and earnest tone shook her. He had no idea how much he sounded like Andrew at that moment.
Money didn't mean much to her. For Alice value came from the joy an object brought, not its price tag. She had to make him understand the gift didn't come with any strings. She wanted him to have it because he would cherish it.
"It deserves to be owned by someone who appreciates it," she said. "Our house is filled with ancient manuscripts. My room in Salona is bursting with the texts I have to study. Rescue it. Give it a good home."
He hesitated. She could see that he wanted the book, but he didn't feel right to receive it from her. She hoped she hadn't offended him.
"Let's do this," he said eventually. "You're at the University now. You have to keep the books you need to study, so I'll keep this book until you get your own place. I'll give it back to you then. It will go from one good home, to another."
She was in the second year at Salona. If she stayed there to finish a Master's or go to Oxford, or Cambridge, or Harvard… It could take years until she got her own place. He would have time to forget. She was sure that he would treasure the book far more than she ever would.
"Deal," she said.
Chapter Eight
Tim
THE DAY AFTER Alice gave him the book, Tim came to the House with the intention to talk to her again. He had to figure her out somehow. The girl belonged to the stratosphere of money and influence, the Illyrian upper class he detested with all his heart. And yet she looked so unassuming.
He'd been surrounded by beautiful women for too long. Alice was definitely not gorgeous. The word that came to mind when he thought of her was duckling for some reason. A very odd duckling. Pretty in her own way, but nothing more. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous like Alba. She wasn't innocently beautiful like Isabella. She wasn't wildly attractive like her mother had been in her supermodel years.
He walked out of his music room in time to see a couple of King's contestants leaving the hallway their music rooms shared. He stared at the door to Music Room Two for a few seconds, expecting Alice to come out. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself opening the door to King's music room.
Alice was sitting at the small table in the corner of the room, reading something jotting down notes on a paper pad next to the book. She raised her head at the sound of the door and a brief smile quirked her lips before closing the book.
"Didn't you say it's against the rules to go into another team's music room?" she said.
He heard the rustling of pages whenever she spoke. Her voice quieted his heartbeat. He wanted to bottle it up its and keep it as a balm for his tormented soul.
"No."
She raised her eyebrows surprised by his answer. For the thousandth time, he wished she'd do something about her hair. That fringe she wore was sort of cute, but it grew back too fast, and it irked him when got so long that he couldn't see her eyes.
"I said you are not allowed in my room," he elaborated. "And that edict has been lifted since then."
"For good, or only when you need help with your paperwork?"
He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand up when she rolled her R's in an unexpected French accent.
"Umm…"
"I promise not to abuse the privilege," she
said and went back to her notes.
She appeared unaware of the sudden strong French accent. What was that all about?
"How many languages do you speak?" he asked casually.
"Properly speak, enough to make myself understood, only English, and French."
"And improperly?" he asked with a cheeky smile she missed because she arranged her notebook and pen back in her bag.
"I can read and write in a few dead languages."
"Latin and Greek and…?"
"Some Egyptian and South American writing systems. Why the sudden interest?"
Her accent reverted to the upper class English when she asked the question. She didn't seem to notice her abrupt accent changes. It might be fun to figure out when and why she shifted between them. In his experience, people who trained themselves to get rid of their native tended to revert when they didn't control themselves.
"I need some help with a translation," he lied. "There's this bit in Gibbon, from Marcus Aurelius… it doesn't sound right to me. Either the translator screwed up, or I'm missing something. I tried to read it in Latin but... it's all Greek to me."
"That's original," she said.
The smile in her voice and the novelty of her French accent brought a sudden warmth in his chest. King made her face light up in a sunny smile just by walking into the room, but she rarely smiled around him.
"You said you'd been reading the Meditations in original. Will you help me?"
"Do you even have to ask?"
She held her hand out, and he reached into his pocket for his cell. He looked for the ebook version, trying to find something to cover his lie.
"Where's the problem?" she asked.
That rolled R made him dizzy. He spoke some basic French and he didn't have a particular fondness for the French language or their culture, but he was mesmerized by her tone. Was the accent a clue to her state of mind?
He pointed dumbly at the supposedly offending paragraph. She took the phone from him careful not to touch him. She read the paragraph then placed his phone on the piano and took out her own phone.
"Voyons," she said. "Let me find the quote in Latin."
She swiped through the pages of the original version on her own phone, and started to mutter.
"You better not be summoning a demon," he said, only half joking.
"It's Marcus Aurelius, not the Necromicon."
Necromicon? Where could she know about that? Lovecraft probably.
"Do you like Lovecraft?" he asked.
"Not as much as the Evil Dead," she said not looking up.
His jaw dropped. He hadn't met many people who had heard of the Evil Dead movies, and he certainly didn't expect Clara Pellerin's granddaughter to know, let alone like them.
"I promise you, I'm not summoning anything," she said, misinterpreting his shock.
Time zoomed by while they talked. He felt a pang of hunger and wondered how long had he been talking. The conversation had gone from the Roman Empire to Illyria's policy toward the former colonies, and the wars they left behind in the countries they had once occupied. Her eyes sparkled with interest the whole time and she'd spurred him on with comments and questions.
"It was a sound strategy," he concluded.
"It was… 'a' strategy," she said. "I wouldn't call it sound. They pretty much copied what the previous generation had done."
"They won," he pointed out. "But I agree, they were traditionalists. What's that saying? If it ain't broke don't fix it?"
"Si non confectus, non reficiat," she said immediately.
"Is that really a saying?"
"It's from a book," she said.
Something in her voice warned him that she hedged his question. What was she keeping back? It was fun to catch her trying to conceal something from him.
"What book?"
She squirmed in her seat before answering.
"Pratchett."
That's why it sounded familiar.
"Lord Vetinari's motto!" he exclaimed.
"Color me surprised! I did not expect you to read the Discworld."
Surprising this bookworm gave him an unexpected sense of achievement. All his life, he'd never wanted to impress anyone the way he wanted to impress her. He'd used his status, his talent, and even his money to impress people the few times he'd cared to impress anyone. But Alice Lewis wouldn't be impressed by his new money, or even by his fame and acting lineage. She was impressed when they discovered things they had in common.
He hunted down these little details which touched her. He found an unexpected joy in feeling connected with this creature.
"I didn't expect you to read the Discworld either," he said. "What other secrets am I going to discover about you?"
A shadow seemed to pass over her face. If it hadn't been for her damn hair he might have read more in her eyes. He must have struck a nerve. The little bookworm had secrets she didn't want him to unearth.
"I read your father's articles about the conflict," she said. "It gave a very unique perspective. An amazing ground level view."
His shoulders stiffened, his whole body tensed as it usually happened when someone mentioned his father unexpectedly. He saw her cringe immediately. She must have remembered that James Carter had died in that war.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"No need to apologize. People die all the time. Especially in war zones."
"I shouldn't have said-"
He interrupted her.
"Alice, you don't have to walk on eggshells around me."
"Of course not. You're unbreakable."
It wasn't sarcasm. It wasn't mockery. He heard her admiration beyond the tight little tone. She was looking at her hands, and for the first time, Tim wondered if she pitied him.
Chapter Nine
Alice
AUTUMN IN SALONA brought warm shades of yellow and red to the leaves. Alice was supposed to study for a test, but her thoughts drifted toward Sing. She'd been unduly confident that she could work so close to TC and stay in control.
She took the job because Andrew asked for her help. Because he made her feel needed. Knowing that Andrew saw her special skills and he didn't think she was evil to use them meant so much to her. He didn't know everything about her though. Maybe he would have drawn a line if he knew she took it upon herself to keep Carter's malicious nature from affecting him.
Carter in real life was different than she expected. She had seen Tim Carter on stage, and she knew from others how he was as a mentor and colleague. Yet her direct experience didn't match very well with those accounts.
Weeks spent in his company had mellowed her admiration into fondness. She wanted to see him happy and chill, and not just for Andrew's sake. She had never imagined that in some ways, he was as isolated as herself. That beyond the amazing music he brought into this world, beyond his brilliant acting performances on stage, there was even more hidden depth. He had his own secrets. And he chose to share some of them with her.
Bonding over history books had been a complete surprise. She often wondered if his father's death while reporting on a war had anything to do with his interest in military history.
She shook herself. She had to take a step back from that line of thought. She had to give up the habit of studying TC. He was Tim, and he was real.
The baroque ringtone broke the silence. Alice raised an eyebrow at the caller ID. She reached for her planner and flipped it open before answering.
"Hello, Leonie."
"Bonsoir, cherie. How are you?"
"Autumn in Salona is enchanting as you probably remember fondly."
"Indeed," Leonie agreed. "It's a magical place."
"They should put that in the brochure," she said.
"They most certainly should not," Leonie said with a crystal laughter that sounded slightly fake. "Even so, I trust you will tear yourself away from your books for the Autumn Ball."
Alice ran her finger down the column of appointments and tasks for the days ahead. Some were Si
ng related, other had to do with Will and her mentorship commitments, but there it was. Two weeks away. The Autumn Ball.
"Of course. I confirmed my participation with the organizers."
"So glad to hear it. It's an important social event, and it will do you good to be seen."
As if she didn't know the Ball's importance. She made sure to show up at important events because she earned more brownie points with her grandmother. She did her best to away with going to as few events as possible.
"Have you been talking to my parents?" she joked.
Leonie laughed again, more genuinely amused. Alice's parents didn't give a damn about the social calendar.
"If we leave it to your parents, my dear, you will have a hard time reaching your potential. I talked to your grandmothers, and they both agree that you need to go out more."
"It's scary how well you three get along," she said.
"Potential" was a scary word coming from Leonie de Montrachet. That might be a warning bell for a change in her life. She lived with the constant fear that her grandmothers would soon start to make more demands. When Clara Pellerin and Tatiana Lewis worked together, nothing stood in their way. If they roped Leonie into their plan, she had a tough battle in front of her.
"Will you come have a tea with me tomorrow?" Leonie asked.
There it was. The beginning of the siege.
"Is tea your code for dress shopping?"
And was dress shopping code for something more?
"I'm not hearing a no," Leonie said.
"It's not a no. I'll be in town anyway because I have an appointment with Didier tomorrow at 9."
The timing of Leonie's request was not an accident. Both of them were Didier regulars. She must have known about Alice's standing monthly appointment.
"Excellent. I'll be at Atelier Pellerin at 10. The tea will be ready when you get there."
Atelier Pellerin was the place where Clara had started her fashion business decades ago. Since childhood, her grandmother had taken her there, taught her the principles of fashion, but also the basics of making clothes. She had never not grown into an imaginative designer, but her sewing skills were adequate and the tea breaks with her grandmother were some of her fondest memories.
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