"So," I murmured. "Any ideas?"
Arramy smiled and leaned closer. Too close.
Nosy-Rosy's curiosity started percolating again.
"Yes. Slap me."
"What?" I blurted, pulling back to look at him.
"Slap me," he whispered, leaning in again, his voice low in my ear. "I know you want to. Here's your chance. Pretend I've said something really awful."
I worried the inside of my cheek. I couldn't do it. He was not the sort of man a person slapped for no reason. Avoided making eye-contact with, yes. Hid from, yes. Slapped, no. Besides. He might be a bit barbaric, but I sincerely doubted he would ever say anything so horrid that it warranted a slap.
Arramy was watching the room while I stood there failing to talk myself into hitting him, and he cut through my silent debate with a muttered, "You're taking too long."
Then he reached out and caught the back of my head in his hand, framed my jaw with his thumb, bent, and pressed his lips to mine. Right there. Without any warning whatsoever.
Stunned, I went absolutely still, every real thought fleeing my brain.
His lips were warm, but surprisingly supple. The beginnings of his ten-o-clock shadow burred lightly over my skin. He wasn't breaking it off, either. He drew the kiss out, deepening it slightly when I didn't pull away.
I hadn't given him permission to do any such thing. I was supposed to slap him. This was supposed to be what made me slap him. Drawing a breath, I pushed at him with weirdly shaky hands. It took a conscious effort to bring my hand up.
The smack of my gloved palm striking his cheek was loud.
"How dare you." The quaver of my voice filled the sudden silence. I didn't care about our audience. I wasn't acting at all. I was tired of losing things.
Arramy had taken a step back and was rubbing the side of his face, but he rounded on me, his expression incredulous. "How dare I? You're the one who was asking for it!"
My jaw went slack and heat rushed up my neck. Perhaps making a scene wouldn't be so difficult after all. I frowned and stiffened my spine, sparking up. "I was not! I told you, I don't want that kind of attention from you, you slimy, old... weasel!" I spat at him. "Ever!"
The geezer at the Informationals rack gave us a slight nod of encouragement. We had the Clerk's attention.
Arramy shot a pointed glare at the geezer and kept going. "After everything I've done for you, everything I've given you, that cottage for your mother on the coast, all that jewelry, this is how you thank me? You think you've got me eating right out of your fingers, don't you, but I know what you are!"
The Clerk hadn't left the counter yet. Another customer was asking him a question.
Blast! "Oh really? And what am I?" I shot back.
Arramy raised an exasperated 'get moving' eyebrow at the geezer. "You're a spoiled little tease, that's what you are. That's right!... I know all about your other men," he said. Loudly. "So who is it this time, huh? That mangy pup of a farmer? Or that ridiculous ponce of a Lord? My money's on the Lord. He has a bigger house!"
He had closed the distance between us and was looming over me. When he lifted his hand, I gasped and flinched, stumbling back a step as if I were afraid of being struck.
"Right. That's it," a male voice said behind me. "Sir, you need to leave."
Whirling, I found the clerk had come to stand beside me, his mutton-chop whiskers bristling, his slender frame rigid as he glowered up at the captain. I had to give him credit. That must have taken a great deal of gumption.
Arramy's gaze flicked over the much smaller man – and beyond him. Then, abruptly, he straightened. "I apologize," he said. "There has been a misunderstanding." With that, he walked out, his stride heavy and swift as he crossed the lobby to the door.
"Are you alright, Miss?" the clerk asked after a moment.
I brought the backs of my fingers to my flushed cheeks. I was shaking, which was absurd, but thankfully believable. "I'm fine. Thank you so much. I don't know what he would have done if you hadn't stopped him."
That wasn't a lie. We were only supposed to start a fight. What would have happened if the clerk hadn't taken the bait? How far would we have had to go? No one else had offered to help. The couple at the bar had ducked quickly back to their morning ale, the man by the fireplace had already gone back to reading his paper... and the geezer by the Informationals was gone.
It was over. We had actually pulled it off, all because the clerk had proved to be a decent human being.
"Can I send for someone?" the Clerk asked gently. He really was being very nice, and we had just stolen his guest ledger.
"I'll be fine." I gave him a smile. "My... um... my good friend lives just down the street. I think I'll pop in for a visit... But thank you again."
The Clerk's brow wrinkled with concern. "Are you sure? Let me send for a cab, at least."
I hesitated. If I refused help it might look suspicious. I could always tell the cabby to drop me off around the corner, then walk back to where NaVarre's horseless was parked. "Would you?" I asked, hoping I sounded relieved.
"Certainly. Certainly. Apraeidon's usually takes about five minutes to get a driver over here. You're welcome to wait."
"Oh, thank you. You're so kind," I murmured. I meant it.
~~~
Ten minutes later, I tipped the cabby with the money I found in the reticule NaVarre had given me, and set off down St. Camyrre Street, searching for the flower seller with the big picture of a lily painted on the front window. There were two horseless motors parked at the curb and I stepped up to the shiny new one with the polished copperwood trim, fairly sure it was the one NaVarre had rented.
I had just raised my hand to tap on the luxfenestre of the traveling compartment when the door came swinging open and Arramy leaned out, glancing around while he pulled me inside – as if that wouldn't look worse than me climbing in on my own.
I yanked my arm out of his grip and sat down next to NaVarre, aiming a baleful stare at Arramy as I arranged my new skirts. "That wasn't fair," I said curtly. "You should have warned me."
Arramy narrowed his eyes. "Don't worry. It won't happen again."
"Good," I snapped.
NaVarre had stripped off his hat and that awful grey wig and was bending over a large ledger laid open across his knees, reading while he peeled off his false mustache. "If he had warned you, it wouldn't have been as convincing."
I gaped at him. Then I heaved a sigh, my anger deflating with it. I wasn't about to tell either of them that I had never been kissed before. Who admits that sort of thing? I couldn't expect either of them to understand why it bothered me so much. What was a first kiss, anyway, in the grand scheme of things? Obviously, nothing special. There were much bigger problems to worry about. Besides, NaVarre was right, the kiss worked. We had the logbook.
I peered over NaVarre's shoulder.
Signatures and dates and room numbers and charges marched in neatly ruled columns across the sheet of paper. I had barely started making sense of it when NaVarre reached the bottom and flipped the page without finding what he was looking for.
Something immediately caught my eye halfway down the new column of signatures. It wasn't my father's name, and it was written in the same efficient hand that had noted it was a booking taken by courier, but it was certainly familiar. "There," I said softly, reaching around NaVarre's left arm to point out the entry.
NaVarre raised his eyebrows. "Well hullo, Montie," he murmured. Then he saw the date of the booking and let out a short huh of bemusement. "They haven't rebooked the room even though he hasn't..." NaVarre cleared his throat without finishing that sentence.
Father hadn't checked in. I swallowed, hating my stupid, unreasonable heart for hoping he would be there, waiting for me. It only made it worse, finding these leftover pieces of him.
NaVarre sat back and scratched at his cheek, where a bit of that long, scraggly beard was still stuck to his skin. "You know what I think? I think we need to get into that ro
om."
27. Tempests in Teacups
30th of Uirra, Continued
Delicate pink rosebuds twined around the inside edge of the teacup in front of me. If I squinted a bit and held it just right, it could almost have been from my mother's good set. This one wasn't as fine, though, and had taken the wear of many hands. The insulative and handle were made of plain cast tin, not copper, and the saucer was cheap, with single-color roses stamped on it. Still, it was so familiar, this act of drinking tea while sitting by a café's front window, that I couldn't make myself disturb the tea.
Maybe if the teacup remained as it was, everything around it would stay normal too, so I sat there memorizing it, noticing things I never would have in my other life: how the rich amber of the tea perfectly complemented the pale ivory of the porcelain lining, and how the milk billowed in miniature thunderclouds at the bottom of the cup, then formed a smooth layer just beneath the surface —
"Would you prefer Offgarten?"
The rumble of Captain Arramy's voice grated over my ragged nerves, and I winced. Then I sighed. It was an innocent enough question. Understandable, even, since I hadn't taken so much as a sip of the tea he had ordered. "No. This is fine. I like a good provincial."
Arramy was quiet.
I almost smiled in spite of myself. He was decidedly out of place, his long frame folded into a café chair covered in pink-checked cotton, his battle-roughened fingers trying to hold a teacup by its slender handle. My heartbeat quickened, my mind instantly conjuring up an all-too-vivid memory of how gentle those fingers had felt in my hair as his mouth moved over mine — No! Bad! Stop that. Stay focused. Keen and sharp. Like a knife. You are a knife.
I picked up my teacup. "So where are you from, Captain?" I could try to be polite, if only to pass the time.
He gave a small, non-committal half-shrug. "A little bit of everywhere."
Such a lovely half-answer. I took a careful sip of tea, eyeing him over the rim of porcelain. "Where were you born, then?" I wasn't feigning interest. I had never met a living rock. Did they hatch, or grow in the soil like a potato?
He glanced at me. "North Altyr."
It was too easy. I quirked a wicked grin. "The whole of north Altyr. Two thousand square miles of mountains. Your mother must be an incredible woman."
Arramy's jaw flickered and he looked away – but I had already caught the quick flare of pain in his eyes.
I sobered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend."
Arramy didn't say anything more. He just fiddled with the bit of biscuit he hadn't eaten, tapping it on the edge of his saucer. Then he dropped it on his plate and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
My urge to have a polite conversation petered out. I studied him for a moment longer, trying to see a hint of personality beneath that stony exterior, but whatever I had seen was gone, the hatches firmly battened, all holds barred. Oddly disappointed, I went back to looking out the window.
The sky was a jagged cutout of unfettered blue framed between the overhanging upper stories of St. Camyrre Street. Icicles dripped and sparkled from every edge of every building, giving the dreariness of Lordstown's low district an air of fairy-tale.
People bustled along the wooden boardwalks: women with children too small for the local parochial school; a few older men out for a late-morning saunter to their favorite pub; messenger boys dashing from one business to another, carrying papers or parcels.
They all seemed so innocent, but were they? Maybe the ancient prune of a sailor sitting on the bench outside the cafe window wasn't simply smoking his pipe and feeding the gulls. Maybe he was staking out the Iron Dragon Inn, waiting for NaVarre to show his face. Maybe the girl hawking mended jackets on the corner had been hired by this mysterious Coventry organization to follow us. Maybe this whole half-baked scheme was going to get us killed.
I was well lost in a bog of worry and suspicion when Arramy asked, gruffly, "Where are you from, Miss Warring?"
I jerked away from the window.
The captain was regarding me from under his lashes, keen eyes missing nothing.
"Garding," I got out, lifting my tea to my lips again. After all, I was only a normal girl having a normal conversation with her normal older male relative/brother/guardian who had kissed her. Oh, do shut up!
Arramy absorbed my answer like a stone and took another drink of tea. Not a sip. A gulp. The rest of it down at one go.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.
Arramy's jaw flexed, his teeth parting before he closed them with a snap and shook his head. Then his gaze sharpened on something out in the street.
There was a jingle of door chimes and NaVarre came into the café, vigorously rubbing his hands together and stomping his boots on the mat. He made a small production out of ordered a spiced taratine and a rum scone while flirting mercilessly with the shop girl, then came to sit in the chair directly behind mine. The rustle of a newspaper shaking open was followed by a painfully casual whisper, "There wasn't anything in his room."
Arramy was watching my face again.
I ducked, pretending to taste one of the little shell shaped shortbreads that had come with the tea. "Did you ask at the desk?"
"Not officially, no." NaVarre turned a page. "There wasn't anything in the pigeonhole, and there was nothing left for the alias he might have used."
I closed my eyes. It sounded so hopeless. A dead end. It also didn't sound like my father. He wouldn't have let us know there was a third binder, hidden the binder to keep it safe, then left no way for it to be found. There had to be some clue.
Something about that name in the guest register tugged at me. Montemortus. The 'friend' who was supposed to be in town, according to one of those cryptic messages in father's satchel. Why use a false name NaVarre would have known to look for if not to let NaVarre find him, or the binder? Why make it more difficult? Unless he wanted someone else to find it if he wasn't there.
I opened my eyes. "Did you ask if anything was left for me?"
NaVarre snorted lightly. "As charming as I am, there is no way I can pass for a Miss Brenorra Warring in this outfit... But there wasn't anything left for anyone named Warring."
What if my name was the problem? Father had given me a false name too, one that only I would know, one that I would have had to use if I had reached Lordstown because it was on the Galvania manifest: Larkham.
With a sigh, I got to my feet.
Arramy looked up. "Where are you going?"
"To ask if anyone left something for a woman who isn't Brenorra Warring. Obviously." I smiled and dipped into a half-sweet, as if we were all friends and I was taking my leave. Then I made for the door.
The scrape of a chair announced that someone was coming after me, but they were too late. I was already outside and picking my way over the frozen wheel ruts in the street, once again approaching the Iron Dragon's front entrance. This time, though, I was alone. This time, I wasn't thinking about what I would have to say. I already knew.
28. Once More unto the Dragon
30th of Uirra, Continued
The clerk smiled and paused what he was doing as I came toward the desk. If he was having difficulty because of his missing logbook, he wasn't letting it show on his face. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me.
"Hello," I said, returning his smile. And then, with no beating around the bush or stealing, or disguises or awful distractions, I just... said it. Plain and simple and straightforward: "I completely forgot why I came in earlier. I was wondering if my uncle left anything for me. He said he was staying here," I said, proud of how smoothly I substituted the word 'uncle'. The rest of it wasn't really a lie, either, so that helped. My skin only heated a little.
The clerk inclined his head politely. "I most certainly can. Name?"
"Larkham. My uncle's name is Percaus Montemortus," I said. Smooth as puffed cream...
The clerk squinted thoughtfully. "Larkham," he mused aloud, turning to face the pi
geonholes as if he was actually looking for something.
My pulse skipped.
"Larkham... Larkham... Now where did I put it..." He bent, checking along the bottom shelves. "Ah! Here it is," he announced from somewhere under the counter. "Miss Lorelda Larkham."
The clerk came back up with a plain envelope resting flat in his hands. He blew a bit of dust off the surface, then removed a slip of paper clipped to it with a wire-twist before he pulled a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket. He blinked through them as he held the slip of paper at arm's length. "He's left some instructions here," he explained. "I'm to ask you a question, and your answer has to match the one provided." He glanced at me to make sure I understood. When I nodded, he went on. "Right then. The question is: What would you rather eat, pickled pincushions or dandelion pie?"
My throat tightened. "I'll have the mud cake, please," I managed, my eyes locked on the envelope.
The clerk peered at the paper, brows raised. "Mud cake. Let me see here... Yes. That's the... that's right. That's the right answer. Mud..."
I had already snatched the envelope from his fingers, leaving him to wonder whatever he wanted about my father's word games.
I could barely breathe. Out. I needed to get out. The room was closing in on me. Air. Now. I spun on my heels and ran straight for the door, my heart caving in on itself. It was as if Father had reached out of nowhere to tap on my shoulder the way he used to. The other shoulder, so I would turn the wrong direction, but he wasn't going to be standing beside me, laughing when I came all the way around to find him.
That ridiculous riddle. Mud cake and dandelion pie and pickled pincushions. It broke something loose inside me. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't keep it from crashing into me. Right there in the middle of the street I let out a sob and bent over, curling around the pain of breathing, unable to move, unable to make a sound.
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