Amberlough(38)

“No,” said Cyril. “But the best vintages age superbly.” He looked around, like he expected Aristide to have brought his guest along. “Where is Finn, anyhow?”

“Sleeping, at mine. I wore him out.”

“Very trusting,” said Cyril, letting his head loll against the back of the chair. “But I suppose he’s just an accountant.” He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, didn’t say anything. Then, sounding on the verge of tears, “Oh, Ari, where’s the thrill in that?”

“It’s not obvious?” But revenge felt hollow, now that he was here. He closed the distance between them and sat on the arm of Cyril’s chair. “What happened?” he asked again.

Cyril shook his head, finished his drink. The bottle of rye at his feet was two-thirds empty. Aristide wondered how much of that had gone in the last few hours. When he looked back up, Cyril was still shaking his head—a hypnotized movement, like a snake watching a piper. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

“For queen’s sake, Cyril, don’t … oh, perdition.” Tears spiked Cyril’s lashes. “You’re being maudlin.”

“I just…” Cyril’s face crumpled. “Ari, I’m all tied up this time.”

Aristide put his hand on the back of Cyril’s neck, pushing his fingers into the fine short hair at the base of his skull. “Good,” he said. “That’s how I like you.”

Cyril stood so quickly Aristide didn’t have time to startle. He whirled around, swaying, a dark shape against the bright slash of windowpane. “You don’t understand,” he hissed. “You’ve got to get out of here. Leave. I mean it—I can’t see you anymore.”

“Culpepper’s not tearing you up about me, is she?”

“Rot Culpepper!” He slung his glass into the depths of the armchair. It bounced and struck the floor but didn’t break. “This isn’t about her.”

All the tension that had drained from Aristide at Cyril’s laughing dismissal of Ospie collusion … it came roiling back to the surface. He was almost surprised at the level tone of his own voice. “Then who is it about?”

Cyril turned away and stared out the window. Aristide saw his breath cloud on the pane as he spoke. “I’m such a coward.”

Aristide rose from the arm of the chair and came to stand behind him, not quite touching, but close enough he could feel the heat of Cyril’s body. “So what if you are?” he said. “What did you do, Cyril?”

Lines of pain creased the edges of his eyes. Without warning, he turned and thrust his hands out, striking Aristide in the chest. “Go on,” he said, “truss them up. The strings’ll come in handy for Acherby, or whoever.” He jerked his arms in a grotesque parody of a marionette.

Aristide retreated, until the backs of his knees struck the chair and he was forced to sit. But Cyril shadowed him, staggering, then tripped on his abandoned glass and fell. The tumbler rolled beneath the sofa, rattling over the herringbone inlay.

“Go on,” he said, putting his wrists on Aristide’s knees, opening his palms so the yellow light from the street fell across them. “Are you going to tell her?”

“Culpepper?” Aristide shook his head. “If I did, you could deny it. What sort of credit do I have with her? Anyway, you haven’t told me what you—Ah!” Aristide put his fingertips over Cyril’s open mouth. He felt a sudden weight of responsibility, and the sharp intake of Cyril’s breath. “No. Don’t. I have no desire to see you executed for treason.”

Cyril’s damp cheek pressed against Aristide’s knee. He started to speak, several times, his lips moving against the pads of Aristide’s fingers, but only at the third attempt did he manage, “Sweet of you.”

Aristide wondered what he had tried to say, the first two times, but thought it better not to ask.

*

“If you’re going to work with them,” said Aristide, when Cyril had finished weeping, “you can’t keep on like you’re accustomed to.”

“Thanks.” Cyril slumped with one arm folded across his face, his nose in the crook of his elbow. “I wouldn’t have thought.”

They sat next to each other on the cold linen damask of the sofa. A draft slithered along the edge of the threadbare heirloom rug—old money never bothered with luxury, or proper insulation. Aristide drew his feet up.

Hard on the heels of Cyril’s revelation, he’d started scheming. If Cyril had thrown in with the Ospies, it meant he thought—he knew—that Acherby would keep his seat, whether he’d earned it or not. There were things Aristide had to do now, people he had to see, and soon. But first … “Cyril, I’m in earnest. It’s not as if your tastes are any secret. If you’re collaborating with the Ospies—”

Cyril made a small sound of protest, but said nothing.

“—you need to look the part.”

“I know, I know. Celibacy.”

“More than that. You need a girl.”

Cyril let his arm fall, and stared bleakly across the drawing room. “Ari, it’s too late for that. They already know everything about me.”

“This isn’t an issue of disguising your past,” said Aristide. “It’s a gesture of good faith. This shows them you’ll play along.”