The fire in the kitchen stove is burning brightly, and the kettle’s on. Deirdre’s sitting in the chair nearest the stove, her hands held out to warm them.
“Good morning,” Drake says. “I’m surprised you’re up so early. Did you sleep at all?”
“A bit here and there.” It shows in her face, heavy shadows under her gray eyes. “It’s only once a year. How’s he doing this morning?”
Drake shakes his head. “Don’t know yet. He’s still sleeping.” He chews his lip. “Haven’t seen him get like that for a while.”
Deirdre raises an eyebrow. “You are good for him, then, if he’s holding it off more of the time.”
Drake knows that shouldn’t make him so pleased, but he can’t help the little burst of warmth at the thought. “You think so?”
“There’s another story behind almost any tale you hear,” Deirdre says as she rises to measure tea for the pot, “and the one he told last night is no exception.”
“And you know the story behind it?” He wants to hear it, possibly more than he can remember wanting to hear anything.
“I know parts, and I can guess others.” Deirdre takes the kettle off the stove and pours water over the tea leaves. “The part I know for sure starts about ten years ago, when a boy named Raife and his friends, as nasty a little pack of children as you’ll see, brought Gabriel to my door one winter morning—starving and feverish and weak as a runt kitten.”
Drake feels something tighten in his chest, and wishes he could deny it. The idea of Gabriel being so lost, so weak— “How old was he?”
Deirdre shakes her head. “Seven or eight, maybe. Perhaps a bit older and just underfed. Hard to know for sure. Raife’s gang had been seeing him around the Lady’s house for a while, and I think they’d nearly talked him into running with them when the fever took him.” Her face softens at the reminiscence, equal parts fond and pained. “They all used to bring their cuts and coughs and bruises for me to fix.”
“Was it the fever that . . . made him like he is now?” He doesn’t want to call Gabriel mad, he discovers. It might be true, but he doesn’t want to say it.
“Nobody knows that,” Deirdre says. “It might have been. Maybe he did meet the Lady, like he says. Maybe he was always touched, and that’s how he wound up in the boneyard in the first place.”
“You could always ask me,” Gabriel says.
Drake starts. “Gabriel.” The way Gabriel watches him, leaning in the doorway, is alert and predatory—more like a dragon than Drake’s ever felt.
“Morning, Drake,” Gabriel says. “It got cold, after you left.” He sits down at the table. “Morning, Deirdre. Happy New Year.”
“I’m sorry,” Drake says. He licks his lips. “If I ask you, you’ll tell me it was the Lady, won’t you?”
“She chose me,” Gabriel says. Today he sounds calm about it, casual as if it’s no more important than whether there’s honey for the tea. “And that was a clear enough sign that the woman who birthed me had done something awful.” He picks up the teapot without a care for the heat of it, and pours himself a cup, the water still only pale golden and the leaves swirling to settle at the bottom. “She tried to give me back, but the Lady wasn’t ready for me to come back yet. I’ve trouble to cause here first.”
“Of course you do,” Drake says. It’s close enough to an answer, really. He can imagine the rest—some low-class woman from the docks or the south end, with a child and no husband to help her care for him, and then the boy turns out to be touched and more than a little dangerous. She probably thought she’d do less wrong by abandoning him than by smothering him in his bed. It’s a sign of what this life is doing to Drake that he can almost see the sense in a choice like that.
“Now you’ve heard mine,” Gabriel says, picking up his tea. “I’m still waiting to hear yours.”
“What, the one that starts, ‘Once there was a spoiled rich brat who had no idea what fine things he had’?”
“Tch, that again.” Gabriel rolls his eyes, but his tone is fond. It’s going to be one of the good days, then, the ones where everything’s an adventure instead of an ordeal.
Drake stretches, trying to ease out the sore muscles from sleeping twisted up on the sofa. “We should go down to the docks today. See if there’s work, or if there’s a game to sit in on.”
“Mmm.” Gabriel holds his cup in both hands, breathing in the steam from his tea. “Feeling lucky today?”
“I am.” Drake reads more of his luck than he should in Gabriel’s eyes these days, but most often it doesn’t steer him wrong. It’s a new year today, in the north at least, and Gabriel’s alert and clearheaded, and that’s luck enough.
There’s nobody looking to hire them in the dockside taverns, it turns out, which is just as well. The cobbles are still slick from the previous night’s rain, and the sky’s dark with the threat of more. It’s a good day to spend inside, instead of tromping across the city on the hunt for someone who’s trying not to be found.
So they find a card game, and Drake’s luck does hold—it’s a bluffing game, and he plays recklessly, not even trying to school his face to calm. He thinks of Gabriel’s moods instead, of the way Gabriel’s constantly changing, always giving away too much and nearly always misleading with most of it. He’s inventing himself, he thinks, making up a Drake who’s wild enough to keep company with Gabriel, who laughs at losing hands as much as at winning ones, who knows there’s no way for this table to defeat him, whatever happens to his coin. It’s the best time he’s had gaming in ages.
Their luck stays good straight on through Casmile’s own New Year, a fortnight later at the new moon—so good that Drake thinks he may change his mind about Lord Dunsmuir’s party after all. Gabriel’s getting better because of him. Deirdre noticed. They can go for just a little while, and see how Danny, at least, is doing.
The last night of the old year is a quiet one in Casmile—like a deathbed, it’s no place to celebrate. The parties all come at week’s end, once the new year has started safely. The weather even relents this year, the rain stopping the day before the parties happen so the day itself is cold and bright and clear.
Drake’s still debating the idea with himself, unsure if he should bring it up at all, or if Gabriel cares enough to remember when the party’s supposed to be, for that matter. There are still so many things about the way Gabriel deals with the world that he only half understands.
“I imagine,” Gabriel says in the middle of the afternoon, as they sit on the stone rails of the Willow Street Bridge and make decent people uncomfortable, “you’re looking forward to seeing your friends.”
“What?” Drake says.
“At this party tonight. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
“Of course not.” That settles it—if Gabriel has his wits about him enough to know what day it is, then he’s not likely to be dissuaded. Which leaves Drake in the uncomfortable position of figuring out whether he is looking forward to it; there are so few people he misses from his old life, and the one he’d most like to see again—Anna—won’t be attending the New Year celebration of a known rake and scoundrel. “I just . . . hadn’t been thinking about them, really.”
Gabriel looks sideways at him. “Not even that boy who asked you to come?”
“No,” Drake says, which isn’t quite true—he does still think of Danny sometimes, if only to feel guilty about the way Danny turned out to be so much more smitten with him than he realized—but close enough to true, mostly. The other acquaintances he’s left behind feel like a blur of bright colors and easy, empty banter, dance steps that Drake—Colin—never liked enough to be good at, and scandals that seem so trivial now he can barely remember them. What does he have in common with any of his former peers, now that he has no finery and little coin? “I suppose it’ll be interesting,” he says. “I wonder if they’ll even recognize me.”
“I’d recognize you anywhere.” Gabriel lets that statement hang just long enough that Drake sta
rts to try to find an answer, then shrugs and goes on, “But your people might not be so clever. It’s a very good disguise, being something they want to not see.”
Drake watches the river, a tangle of leaves drifting along with the current. “I suppose it is.”
They set out for the party just after sunset, heading up to the far side of town—north of the river, north of Market, too far west for the chaos of Kestrel and Kite. The houses here have wrought-iron fencing in front of their lawns, and there are lanterns burning in the front windows nearly everywhere to complement the lamps on the street. Drake had almost forgotten what a fully lit street looks like—there aren’t even lamps on Cypress, and where Deirdre lives is a bit nicer but the lamps still aren’t often lit; thieves drain the oil near as often as anyone should fill them.
There’s the guard to fret about, too, though Drake hasn’t seen any patrols yet. He used to feel reassured by the knowledge that they were always near, but now the idea raises his hackles. He and Gabriel have no good excuse for being here, none that anyone would believe.
He doesn’t remember the number of the Dunsmuirs’ townhouse, but he’s sure he can find it by sight once they reach Starling Street. And he’s not disappointed—he remembers the spreading magnolia in the front, its leaves still glossy in the dead of the year, and the open gate and bright windows make him sure he’s right. They stop in the great tree’s shadow as a carriage pulls up to the front walk, spilling out a laughing young couple that Drake thinks he should know. He could be there. He could be doing that, coming to this party without a care in the world, ready for it to be the most exciting thing he’s done in a season. That could be his life too. He can’t quite bring himself to long for it.
Instead he’s here in the dark, watching the young couple present their invitation and be escorted into the house. His breath fogs in the chill air, and he can feel Gabriel beside him, the prickling sense of anticipation when Gabriel’s almost close enough to touch.
“I’m not so sure about this,” Drake says. “Maybe we shouldn’t go.” He feels unsettled, his nerves jangling, like there’s a fight in the making. This isn’t his world anymore, but some leftover shred of decorum makes him hideously conscious of how out-of-place they are.
“Don’t be afraid,” Gabriel says. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” There’s a glint of light in his hands for a moment. A knife. Sweet Mother Ket, this is going to be a disaster.
“Wait,” Drake says, but Gabriel is slipping into the shadows on the side of the house, and what choice does Drake have but to follow?
Gabriel stops. “What now? Are there dogs?”
“No. I mean, he has hunting hounds, but there’s no reason for them to be in town. It’s just—would you at least put the knife away?”
They stand there for a moment staring at each other. Faint music carries through the windows. Drake can imagine the swirl of skirts and lace as people dance.
“For you,” Gabriel says at last. “But I will hurt them if they cause you trouble.”
“Please don’t,” Drake says. Gabriel starts moving again and Drake has to hurry to keep up, to make himself heard. “They won’t be expecting us at all, and I wouldn’t blame them if they were upset.”
“You’re so kind, Drake.”
Kind. Drake follows Gabriel around to the back of the house, not sure where he would begin to argue that description. Anna must miss him at least as badly as Danny does, and he hasn’t sent her word even to tell her he’s alive. His parents are surely worried. And here he’s spent the last few months breaking bones, and worse, at Gabriel’s side.
And yet . . . the part Gabriel plays on jobs is usually the nastier one, but he’s been nothing but kind to Drake.
Behind the Dunsmuir house is a small brick-laid courtyard, delicately railed like a porch, its posts topped with lamps that have been lit even though it’s too cold for the party to spill outside. The garden is orderly, mostly trimmed back for the winter; it doesn’t offer any good places to hide.
Gabriel hops up on the railing and perches there, crouching with his head cocked to one side like a crow’s, watching people move on the other side of the glass doors. His fingers drum against his knees. Drake wonders if he’s nervous, if he’s decided that the other partygoers are also dragons by virtue of Drake knowing them. Or having known them, anyway.
“We don’t have to go,” Drake says softly. “It looks awfully boring, doesn’t it?”
And then, of course, Danny comes to the door, a glass of pale golden wine in one hand as he peers out into the dark. His eyes widen, and he unlatches the door to step out onto the bricks.
“Colin,” he stage-whispers, nowhere near as stealthy as he probably thinks. “You came after all! I was so worried you wouldn’t make it, after—”
Drake vaults over the railing, mostly to get between Gabriel and Danny. “I told you last time, that’s not my name anymore. It’s Drake.”
“Right,” Danny says. “I know.” There’s a flush to his cheeks, either from the cold or from the wine he’s already drunk. “I just— Fates, you look like you’re wasting away. Can you come in long enough to eat, at least? I’m sure Sebastian wouldn’t mind.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Gabriel says.
Drake puts a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t, and you know it. But I wouldn’t turn it down if you could bring some food out here.” Really, after dealing with Gabriel’s unreasonable demands for months, Danny’s seem downright simple.
Danny pulls a pained expression. “I wish you’d come in. It’s frightfully cold. But you promise not to leave, if I go get you food?”
“We promise,” Gabriel says.
It’s clear he was hoping for Drake to answer, but Danny nods all the same. “I’ll be right back.”
“Nobody certainly likes you, Drake,” Gabriel says when the door closes again. The lamplight shines in his eyes. “What did you do to him, anyway?”
Plenty of things, Drake thinks, that he doesn’t want to tell Gabriel about right now. “He’s just—just friendly. And that’s good, isn’t it? We’ll get a meal out of it.”
Gabriel looks away from him, shrugging to get Drake to let go of his shoulder. “You keep so many secrets.”
“I’m sorry,” Drake says. Gabriel doesn’t answer. If he were feeling more clever, Drake supposes he could invent some kind of story about who and what Danny is, but that seems likely to get him involved in Gabriel’s private story world, and Drake doesn’t want that. So they wait in silence, in the cold, and inside a minuet ends and a waltz begins—trust Sebastian to ask his musicians for the newest and most scandalous dances—and Drake can’t decide whether he’d rather be at the party or not.
When Danny gets back with the food, that almost sways him: there are slices of roast duck, and mushroom caps stuffed with herbs and cheese, and rings of grilled sweet pineapple oozing juice across the plate. “Here,” he says as he hands over his bounty. “You look like you haven’t had a good meal in weeks.”
“Haven’t had anything like this in longer than that,” Drake says. Gabriel takes a slice of duck off the plate; Drake has just enough manners left to ask, “How have you been?” before he does the same.
“It’s been awfully boring without you. I haven’t gone out anywhere exciting since before we went on holiday, and the things people are saying about you—the things the captain says about you!—are dreadful and monotonous both at once, and I’d swear I’ve nearly gotten in fights over you half a dozen times since we got back from Nothwn, and every time there’s any sort of social, my parents and Julia’s have their heads together, which means they’re probably talking about a wedding, and who’s going to stand witness for me if you aren’t around?” He takes a deep breath—talking too much and too fast, like he always does when he’s nervous—and adds, “Maiden bless, you must have been starving.”
Drake watches Gabriel fumble with and claim the last of the pineapple. “It turns out it’s not as profitab
le as you’d hope, being a cutthroat.”
Danny makes an aggrieved noise. “You’re not a—” he starts, and then stops. “There’s more inside,” he says instead. “Plenty more, really. Nobody would miss it.”
“Is there, now,” Gabriel says. He stares at Danny, hard, while Danny chews his lip and fidgets. “Thank you.” He jumps down from the rail and wipes his hand on his trousers. “I won’t be long.”
“Gabriel,” Drake says, reaching after him, but Gabriel doesn’t look back and Danny grabs Drake’s arm instead.
“Wait,” Danny says. “Please.”
Drake’s stomach does a nervous roll. “He’s going to cause trouble in there, Danny.”
Danny doesn’t let go. “Is he hurting you?”
“What?” Drake blinks at him. “No,” he says automatically, and then thinks about it for a moment and realizes it’s true. Gabriel’s occasionally terrifying and always hard to read, but he hasn’t hurt Drake once. “No, he— We hurt other people, most of the time.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Danny says, and it sounds like a question.
“I wish I were. I met Gabriel when—” But if he starts to explain who was after Gabriel that night, he’ll wind up talking about Morgan, and he doesn’t want to do that; mostly he manages to just not think about it, but he knows it would make Danny worry more. “In a tavern brawl, when my father had thrown me out over—” Does Danny know about Barron’s thugs coming to the house? “Over my gaming habits, and it’s a long story, really, more than I have time for, but we have done a lot of awful things together, and Captain Westfall did see us in a fight where I think we killed someone.” I’m something else now, he doesn’t add. Something that doesn’t belong in your world.
Danny curls his hand in the worn fabric of Drake’s jacket. “But it wasn’t you, was it?”
Drake looks away. He can’t afford to be doing this, not when Gabriel’s inside and clearly ready to cause trouble tonight. “What if it was?”
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