Amberlough(37)

He wrapped his hair into a knot and pulled a broad-brimmed felt hat low over his face, checking the picks secreted in the band. In a plain, dark overcoat with a scarf across his face, he was unidentifiable. If Cyril couldn’t be seen with him, he would disappear.

Amberlough’s trolleys ran all night, so Aristide took the eastbound Baldwin line. Without a press of bodies around him, the wind was bitter. At Armament, he transferred south and rode to Blossom Street, where he disembarked and walked back along the high iron fence of Loendler Park. Strange quiet, the hush of a concert hall, filled the street. Aristide was used to the constant clamor of life in the southwest quarter, and it was rare for business or pleasure to bring him east of Talbert Row.

Cyril’s block of flats was dark. All respectable Amberlinians, gone to bed early. Or, still out on the town. Aristide crossed the street, glad his memory had served him. He hadn’t been sure he’d know the building when he saw it. To avoid the lift attendant, he slipped up two flights of stairs. At Cyril’s door, he knocked but got no answer. Five minutes later, the lock sprang under the ministrations of his pick and wrench, and the door swung open with a long, low creak.

Clever, that. Oil the hinges and anyone could sneak in.

The entryway was dark. Aristide paused on the threshold. He had only rarely come to Cyril’s flat—unwise to bring an enemy home. Unlike his own rooms on Baldwin Street, here, Cyril was very much Central’s fox and Aristide his adversary. The few times Aristide had visited, he’d never gone further than the entranceway. Cyril had ushered him out too quickly to take stock. He didn’t pretend he could navigate it in the dark.

But when he stepped out of the tiled alcove, a stripe of light crossed his path. He traced its length across the parquet, to a slice of window visible between the heavy curtains of the drawing room. Cyril had pulled an armchair close to the sash. A lamp in the street below shone through the crack in the curtains, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw.

“Evening,” he said, and lifted a glass. The streetlight glanced off dark liquor as it moved. Cyril drank and lowered the glass, but did not turn.

“I thought you’d be in bed,” said Aristide, though he hadn’t.

“I slept a little. Not very well.”

Aristide snorted. “I wonder why.”

“Damnation, Ari. Don’t go all jilted lover on me.” His words were slurred. He bent his head. Aristide heard the bite of glass on glass, and the three liquid pulses as Cyril poured.

“How much have you had?”

A short, hoarse laugh. “Too much.”

“Well, share the burden then.” Aristide took a few steps, but Cyril flinched, and he stopped. He settled one hip onto the back of the sofa and unwrapped his scarf from his face. “Cyril,” he said, but Cyril didn’t look at him. “Why don’t you tell me what happened in Nuesklend.”

“Where’d the stutter go, Ari? I always liked the stutter. Thought it was ch-ch-charming.”

Cyril only picked at Aristide’s dictional affectations when he was angry, or trying to avoid whatever serious conversation had occasioned their disappearance. “Nuesklend, Cyril.”

“I really can’t say, Ari. Not a word.”

“And if I guess?”

“I won’t tell you if you’re right or wrong.” He moved in the armchair, and Aristide could see enough to know he had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and was drawing it closer. It was cold in the drawing room—the radiators must have gone off hours ago.

“You went on orders from the Ospies.” He made it half a question.

There was a sharp silence, a pause that said too much, and then Cyril threw his head back and laughed. He shook with it, splashing liquor on his lap. “Oh, Ari,” he gasped. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

Relief washed down the muscles of Aristide’s back. But Cyril’s pause had been significant. “Then what?” he asked. “Why now?” It couldn’t be coincidence, his coming back and breaking things off right away.

“What does it matter?” The words came out between his teeth, harsh and poisonous. “You can’t be jealous, not the way you snatched up the first pretty thing that stumbled across your path.”

“Me, jealous? You can turn that one around.” A Kipler’s Mew expression, one he’d picked up bickering with Cordelia. Arrogant, vain, jealous: You can turn that one right around.

It made Cyril smile. “You sound like a blush boy out of Eel Town.” He reached back, his hand unsteady, and offered his glass to Aristide, who did not take it. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. Lourdes is just your type.”

“Government employee?” He meant it to sound flirtatious, but it came out snide.

Cyril missed the jab and shook his head. “Blue eyes. Bright hair. Young and pale.” He jerked his chin at the mirror hung opposite the gramophone, where their two dark reflections were visible only as slight movements. “Sober dresser, and a little bit … conservative. You like a foil, Ari.” He hiccupped. “I should know.”

Though the mirror was useless in the gloom, Aristide could see them in his mind’s eye. A striking couple: himself, tall and dark and not quite handsome; Cyril smaller, trim and golden-haired, with leading-man good looks. “You’re not exactly fresh with morning dew, Cyril. Not like Mr. Lourdes.”