“Oh, I got dollied up and tried to win him over to my new Haven idea. You should have seen me, all paints and pearls, and I impressed him so bloody much he not only said no, he told me he’d put me out if I ever asked again. When did this happen?” she demanded, thoroughly disgusted. “I always thought I was better than that, but I went and turned into a girl. Not just any girl, but Elvie bloody Peters. She could do this sort of thing in her sleep, you know.”
“I don’t know, actually. I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Elvie Peters from up the road in Norwood. Long time ago—well, not so long as all that, but longish—she heard Eithon was chatting up Tess Morgan. As if,” Lan inserted, rolling her eyes. “He’d no sooner be seen chatting her up than me. She was a pig-keeper’s girl. He was probably only there to fetch the mayor’s share of pork after slaughter, but whatever. Elvie went and told Harmon, the blacksmith’s apprentice, to ask her to the harvest ball, so he did, right out in the middle of town where everyone could see. Eithon heard about it and so he charged up all bullish and called Harmon out and you can guess how that ended.”
“I could not begin to guess. I still don’t know who any of these people are.”
“Harmon beat the hide off him, of course. Blacksmith’s apprentice against mayor’s son? No hope. And of course you know what Elvie did next.”
“I…” Wickham looked up at the glass cherubs hanging from the corners of the colored-glass windows, as if for heavenly aid. “No.”
“She went hugging on Eithon, her ‘poor, bruised lambkins,’ and let the sheriff take Harmon in for battery. He got lashed in the town square three nights running, all so Elvie could play heart-games with Eithon, and how did it end, eh? Harmon apologized to her and Eithon took her to the bloody ball! I’m not like that, damn it!”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it.”
“Yeah, whatever, but Elvie would know six ways to get Azrael to handle stupid, sodding Cassius and do it all while flirting up some other fella. What do I know how to do?”
“I should hope you know enough to do nothing. Or do you think our lord is unaware of Cassius’s deceptions?”
“I think he’s a man,” Lan replied sourly. “And men can be stupid sometimes around a lady with a tongue-stud. Tell you what, if I ever see that pretty thing again, I’m ripping it right out.”
“Oh good gracious. Let’s call that Plan B, shall we? Not that I’m encouraging you to foment plans, but if you feel you must, they really ought to be more subtle than facial mutilation.”
“I don’t do subtle. I don’t even know how to spell it.”
“With a B.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Lan snapped. “I’m illiterate, not stupid! I know there’s no B in subtle!”
Wickham closed his eyes and murmured, “Not now. Focus. Later, but not now. Lan, when you solved The Case of the Dead Man’s Teacup, you did so by recognizing that you had asked the wrong question. I dare say you’re doing it again. Rather than focus your efforts on how to remove Cassius from our company, perhaps you ought to ask yourself why you feel the need?”
“I don’t like her, that’s why. No mystery there.”
“Ah, but isn’t there? How many of our lord’s companions do you like?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Agreed. But how is it not?”
“I don’t know. It just isn’t.”
“Tut, Lan. You disappoint me.”
That stung.
“Apply Occam’s Razor,” Wickham ordered. “The simplest answer is most often correct. What is the difference between our lord’s other companions and Cassius?”
Lan shook her head, but when that wasn’t good enough, she finally had to say it out loud: “I replaced them. And she’s replacing me.”
“Wrong, actually, and you know it. She can’t replace anyone if she’s not staying. It must be something else. What is it?”
“Just tell me, if you know!”
“I shan’t, Lan, but I will give you a hint.” He raised one finger, as if to point at the words as he said them. “She’s a goer. She’s not staying. She came here, at terrible risk, knowing she would not stay.” Smiling, he laced his hands together again. “Now. Tell me the first and most obvious conclusion you draw from that.”
“She doesn’t want to be here,” said Lan impatiently.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Lots of his dollies don’t want to be…” But that wasn’t right, was it? They did want to be in Haven, every one of them. It was Azrael they didn’t want. He was a clause of the bargain they all struck to get what they wanted, whatever that might be, and even if they didn’t all stay, they had all wanted to come once upon a time. All but Cassius, hungry Cassius.
“And what does that tell you?” Wickham asked, as if he could see all these thoughts written plainly in the air above her head.
“Tells me she was pretty damned sure he’d take her in. And whether she stays or goes really doesn’t matter to me as much as the fact that she apparently has a plan and I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Our lord is well-versed in the duplicity of the living. Trust him to handle Cassius.”
“Yeah, right. Like he’s handling her now? He may not be bartering with her, but you can bet he’s fucking her.” Lan shook her head and glared into her coffee. “Men and tongue studs, Master Wickham. Men and tongue studs.”
He did not seem to know how to respond to that and after several false starts, he politely excused himself and went to his chair by the fireplace to pour out his coffee and make up some tea. He took a long time with it before he rejoined her, cup in hand and saucer capping it to prevent spillage, with a generous assortment of biscuits to weigh it down. He offered them to her and when she listlessly accepted one, he sat and assumed a lecturing rather than listening posture. “He’s fond of you, you know. Have you ever thought of simply asking him to put her out?”
“Eh, he offered, but the price was more than I wanted to pay.”
He regarded her closely over the top of his teacup. “You don’t sound very certain about that.”
“I was last night.”
“And this morning?”
“This morning, I met her.”
“Ah.” He drank and carefully matched cup to saucer. The sound was indeed distinctive. “She won’t stay, Lan.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep seeming to forget it. She’s not staying. She’s no threat to you. Let her be.”
He had only ever given her good advice before. Even when she didn’t like it or agree with it, she had to admit it was always good advice. This should feel the same way, if for no other reason than this precedent and her own understanding of her less than sensible nature. It should…but it didn’t.
“All right,” said Lan.
“Capital. That’s settled, then. I do enjoy our talks, even if you are early.” He had another drink of tea and set it aside. “But as you are here,” he began, opening her primer for her, “shall we begin your lessons?”
She returned his broad smile wanly. “I thought we already had.”
“You really are too clever by half, Lan.” He shook his head, tsking just under his breath as he wrote out the first lines in her book. “It is so frustrating that you persist in pretending otherwise.”
* * *
Azrael was late to dinner again that night. Worse, he’d known he was going to be late again, because he’d gone to some effort to keep her distracted in his absence. Every candle was lit and every table hung with garlands of gold ivy and white flowers. His dead court filled the lower tables with colorful clothes and chatter. His musicians played on the center stage, with masked tumblers moving around them in rhythm, dressed in little more than paint and flashy beads. Everyone was having a fine time, except Lan, because for all the light and noise and laughter, it was still an empty room.
Lan drank coffee and watched the door. Azrael’s steward made himself bri
efly obnoxious by blocking her view and prattling on about each and every bloody platter on the imperial table in an apparent effort to get her to eat, but Lan had been promised dinner with Azrael and until she had Azrael, she wasn’t having dinner. Eventually, the steward ran out of things to say about the duck breasts (crusted with crushed pecans and bacon and drizzled with raspberry sauce) versus the prime rib (roasted in rock salt and served with Yorkshire pudding and shallots) and retreated, leaving her to listen to her stomach growl in peace.
The dinner hour had long since given way to the after-dinner hour when Azrael finally entered, deep in talk with Deimos. His steward hurried over; Azrael sent him back with a short wave, never breaking stride. Table by table, his dead court rose to bow, their flashing jewels and rustling fabric forming the waves of a particularly gaudy ocean; he ignored them all. Lan drank off her coffee and poured herself another cup; Azrael saw her and halted mid-step, then took his captain of the Revenants back to the far end of the hall to finish their conversation. Lan waited, so patient, and did not try to guess at the dialogue that went with those sparks of eyeshine and curt hand gestures, because it couldn’t be good.
It ended with a last ominous gesture—Azrael pointing down the hall right at Lan—and then Deimos nodded and left, taking the pikemen that lined the walls with him. All of them. Lan didn’t guess at the reason for that, either. Azrael watched them all go, glanced at Lan, then heaved a visibly bracing sigh and headed for her.
“What’s up?” Lan asked when he finally reached her, not because she wanted to know, but because ignoring it would be as good as shining a light on it.
“Nothing that need concern you.”
“Sure looked like it concerned me.”
“What shall you believe, my Lan?” he countered, in what could be either the opening volley of a fresh battle or a joke. His tone suggested he was willing to go either way. “My word or your own eyes?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what the difference was, but if she did that, the battle really would be on, so instead, she said, “Appearances can be deceiving, I guess.”
Some of the tension left him. Not much, but some. “That, they can,” he muttered, rubbing up under his mask at his scars. His gaze came back to her, dimmed, then dropped to her empty plate. “Is the meal not to your liking?”
“I don’t come to dinner for the food.”
“So I see.” Azrael watched her load up for a long siege, but took nothing for himself. “Have you been waiting on me? Why?”
“I don’t come to dinner for the food,” she said again, although it may have been difficult to make her out with her mouth full. “Why aren’t you eating?”
His gaze dropped to an artful selection of prime rib, all bloody red and fork tender, fit to grace the table of any lord. But when he reached for it, it was to lift the entire platter and hold it out for a servant to rush over and carry away. “I’ve no appetite.”
“I guess I should feel fortunate you bothered to show up at all. You could have gone straight to some other woman’s bed and let me wait on you all night.”
He tipped his head and studied her, stone-faced beneath his stone mask. “Are you rebuking your lord, Lan?”
And there it was again, that tone that was not only an invitation to a fight, but almost a demand for one.
“You told me you weren’t my lord,” she reminded him. “You’d never been titled by Men, you said.”
“But you are rebuking me.”
“When a man’s late for dinner two nights in a row, I think that’s earned a rebuke, don’t you?”
“My sincerest apologies.” He waved a servant over for wine, but took the bottle from her when she brought it and dismissed her again.
“I’m teaching you bad habits,” Lan observed as he filled his own cup.
He grunted and kept pouring. “I know worse ones.”
“So what kept you this time?” she asked, doggedly attempting to keep the mood light. “Felicity want some peacocks to go with those swans?”
“I haven’t seen Felicity today, although it is ironic you should say that, even in jest. She did ask for peafowl once.”
“Of course she did.”
“She soon returned them. Peafowl may be pleasant to the eye, but are notoriously disagreeable in every other sense.”
Lan consulted her short list of exotic birds of the world and said, “Parrots, then. Do you have parrots?”
“I do, but I’ve given them to another already.”
“Penguins.”
He gave her a look that was meant to be feigned alarm, only half-feigned. “I forbid you ever to speak to Felicity.”
“I make no promises. However,” Lan announced, “you’ll be happy to hear I met Cassius.”
“Why would that make me happy?”
“Because you arranged it.”
“Did I,” said Azrael, which was not a confession.
“Serafina is too good at her job to take me to lessons that early and I sure as hell didn’t want to go. You wanted us to bump in the halls.”
“Sound reasoning.” He watched her cut into a dumpling, shaking his head when she offered half. “And your thoughts?”
“Shockingly, I don’t like her.”
“Why not?”
Lan shrugged and reached for another dumpling.
Azrael caught her wrist and pushed her hand flat to the table with a smacking sound. “What did she say to you?” he asked quietly. “Tell me all she said.”
Out on the floor, his musicians played and tumblers tumbled. His court faked admiration or boredom as appropriate. His servants filled cups and carried away empty platters. The noise helped, filling the distance between them as it grew invisibly wider.
“She called me your dog,” said Lan. “She said you kept me to sniff out your dollies for you.”
After a moment, he released his grip on her wrist and leaned back into his throne. He picked up his cup, his eyes fixed on his flute player. The tendons in his neck creaked as they tightened. He did not speak.
Lan waited and finally said, “Was she right?”
He shrugged, his stare never wavering from the musician’s stage. “I will not deny I have doubts where Chloe’s motives are concerned. Neither will I deny I sought an unbiased opinion of her.”
Lan snorted. “If that means what I think it means, I don’t think it applies to me.”
“Perhaps not, but your particular bias is not founded in whether or not your answer is apt to please me.” He paused, then took a drink, muttering, “Indeed, I would be surprised if that was ever a consideration,” when he thought the wine would muffle it. “Did she tell you why she came to Haven? Or what she wants of me?”
“No.”
“Hm.” His thumb tapped twice on the side of the cup. He did not look at her. “Would you tell me if she did?”
“Hell, if I knew what she wanted, I’d ask you to give it to her myself. Anything to get her out the door sooner. And if it’s Cassius you want to talk about,” she inserted irritably, “maybe you should have invited her to dinner.”
“Forgive me. We’ll speak no more of her. So.” Azrael set his cup down with an air of finality and turned to her. “Apart from your morning interview and this hour’s unconscionable neglect, how passed your day?”
‘Like a kidney stone,’ Lan thought, but she’d taken enough etiquette lessons to know better than to say it. She turned her attention back to her dinner, shrugging off Cassius, her chat, and her sly, winking tongue stud. “Fine.”
“Tell me all.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“I find that difficult to believe. With fair weather and the whole of my city before you, you went nowhere? Saw nothing?”
“A long walk in the bright sunlight?” She laughed around a mouthful of pie. “You really don’t know what a hangover is, do you?”
He conceded that with a grunt and looked away, pretending to watch his musicians, but the flickering of his eyes betrayed his conti
nued distraction.
“What about you?” Lan asked dutifully. “How did your day pass?”
“It’s not yet ended.” He glanced at her, drank some wine, and suddenly said, “Do you truly enjoy architecture or is your apparent enthusiasm merely a ruse to avoid your other studies?”
Lan held up a flat hand and wobbled it to indicate a middling pull between those options. “Why?”
“I’m told there are repairs needed at several estates in north Haven. I confess my own enthusiasm for such projects has diminished greatly in recent years, so if it at all appeals to you, I might send you in my stead to oversee their restoration.”
“Eh. I’d rather not be in charge of anything where a cock-up on my end brings some crusty old building down on someone’s head, even if they are dead to begin with. And there’s going to be a coop-full of cock-ups,” she declared, “because I don’t half-listen at lessons and I’m not about to start. You should ask Master Wickham, though. He’d be all over a job like that.”
“And you would go with him?”
“Of course not,” she said, surprised that he should think so. “I’m your dolly, not his.”
“I trust to your fidelity,” he said with a faint smile. “And I think he would be glad of your company, particularly as you share so many interests. Apart from which, the very act of restoration can be devastating to the grounds. Wickham, for all his architectural passion, has no eye for gardens.”
Startled into a laugh, she said, “And I do?”
“You’ve more experience with growing things, certainly.”
“Only peaches.” Lan pushed food around her plate, frowning. “Is that what you want? Like…an orchard?”
“If you wish. I place it utterly in your hands. Do as you will. Grow fruits. Grow herbs. Grow flowers. Have you never secretly desired to see things growing for their beauty’s sake alone?”
At one time, and not too long ago at that, she’d have jumped at the chance to do something real and useful with her time, and that was back when she’d had a whole lot less of it. Now, Lan found herself strangely reluctant and she did not know why.
Land of the Beautiful Dead Page 44