Amberlough(55)

“Believe it,” she said. “I tried him out, but that bayonet won’t fix. Not for this charge, anyhow.” Swiping her coat from the back of the makeup chair, she shoved her arms up the sleeves. “He don’t go in for peaches and pears. More like big noses and bad attitudes. Come to think of it, you’d be just his type. So if anyone’s got cause to be jealous, it’s me.” She pulled the door wide open and swept her arm to show him the way out.

*

Aristide didn’t say much to Finn at the interval, and didn’t get anything done besides drop by people’s tables and jot names and dates into his diary. The two of them arranged to meet after the show, in front of the theatre. It took Aristide a long time to spot Finn’s bowler through the wreaths of adoration the crowd was laying on. Disengaging from a bevy of admirers, he crept up on Finn and lifted the brim of his hat with one finger. Finn jumped like a cat, then saw who it was. His smile spread, unguarded.

“I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to come back,” he said. “I was out of town for a family matter. You were brilliant, of course.”

The hint of his Farbourgere lilt made the words musical, and eerily evocative: the sound of Aristide’s childhood. To stop him talking, Aristide ducked down and kissed him. “D-D-Don’t trouble your pretty copper head about it, darling. You’re here now.” He shuddered elaborately. “Family matters. How t-t-tedious.”

“Actually, my mother’s been ill. We don’t … didn’t get on, but it was good to see her before…”

Oh, perdition. Aristide grabbed his ankle and pulled his foot out of his mouth. “Poor dear.” He put an arm around Finn’s waist, squeezing him close. He was soft about the middle, and gave pleasantly under the pressure. “You’ll want cheering up, then.”

The warmth of Finn’s exhalation against his collarbone was welcome in the cool, damp night. “Yes, I suppose I do. It’s why I came.”

“And are you feeling better?”

“Mightily.”

“What’s your p-p-pleasure? Another show? A quiet drink? Or would you rather just … head home?”

He could’ve scraped Finn’s blush from his cheeks and used it for rouge. But before the boy could answer, someone in the crowd checked his shoulder, and he stumbled.

“Pardon me.” The accidental assailant reached out to steady Finn, but Aristide had already caught him. Highly polished spectacles flashed in the golden light of the marquee. Aristide froze, assuming an expression of polite disdain.

“D-D-Deputy Commissioner Müller,” he said, extending a languid hand. “So p-p-pleased to see you. And how is Maxine? It was d-d-divine running into her at the baroness’s little party.” Müller’s grip was lackluster, and he drew away quickly. Aristide was accustomed to having his hand kissed, pressed to cheeks, wrung enthusiastically; he was underwhelmed by the deputy commissioner’s performance. “T-T-Tell me, did you enjoy the show?”

From Müller’s expression, he hadn’t been impressed with Aristide’s performance either. Still, he said, “It was all right,” and nodded, once.

“Mr. Makricosta,” said Cyril, drawing Aristide’s attention from Müller’s narrow, sunken eyes. He realized Cyril had been watching him this entire time, and wondered if he’d seen Müller take his collision course, seen where it would lead them, and hadn’t stopped it. “I didn’t realize you and the deputy commissioner were acquainted.”

Aristide knew when he was being mocked. But he also knew when he was being given a warning. And Cyril, hang him, had managed both at once.

“Only by reputation,” said Aristide. “His, of course, not mine.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard your name before,” said Müller.

Aristide graced him with a smile like a rabid dog’s.

“Mr. Lourdes,” said Cyril, defusing the situation. “I don’t believe you’ve met Alex Müller.”

“A pleasure, sir.” Finn’s earnestness was refreshing.

“Mr. Lourdes and I are coworkers,” Cyril explained.

Müller gave Finn an appraising look. “Are you—?”

“Oh no. Office of the Bursar.”

Müller let his hand be shaken. “It’s always a pleasure to meet another civil servant, Mr. Lourdes.”

There was an awkward pause, as conversation scrabbled to find a crack through which it could enter. Aristide looked at Cyril again, and caught him with his guard down. He was searching the crowd with shifting eyes, looking hunted.

Finn saved things by yawning enormously and putting his weight on Aristide’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but I’m utterly bashed. Been traveling.”

“You’d better let Mr. Makricosta take you home,” said Cyril.

Tastelessly blatant innuendo. Aristide did not engage. “Indeed. Time to put your feet up and have a t-t-toddy.” He nodded to Cyril, and to Müller. “Gentlemen.”

Even after the crowd had separated them, Aristide felt two pairs of eyes on his back. He pulled the ribbon from his hair and let his curls tumble down, trying to cut the intensity of imagined scrutiny. Finn caught one of the ringlets and wound it around his finger.

“Are you really so t-t-tired?” Aristide tipped his head to the side, tugging his hair free of Finn’s grasp.