Amberlough(68)

Another volley landed on the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Mother’s tits, give it a rest.” Why hadn’t they just telephoned? They’d have his landlord up here any minute, with this racket.

Damnation. Maybe it was his landlord. Cyril wondered what could possibly be so urgent. Opening the door, he was ready to face any number of grim eventualities. He was not prepared to find Cordelia, draped in a fringed calico wrap, holding a bottle of cheap plonk and a grease-spotted sack that smelled of cardamom.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, surprise making him blunt.

“Dragging you out for an airing,” she said. “And good thing, too. You’re clearly in need of one.”

“What—”

But she pushed past him into the flat and closed the door behind her. “Go put on something fresh. And eat these.” She put the sack in his hand. “Sometimes I marvel any man survives outside his mother’s womb. What have you been doing to yourself these past few days?”

He pulled out a puff of deep-fried rice dough, crispy and still hot, dripping with almond syrup. The steam burned his mouth, but the flavors roused his appetite. “Work.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s quitting time. Thought we’d take this to the park.” She gestured with the bottle. “But you look more in need of a big meal and strong coffee. Where’s good eating around here?”

Cyril swallowed another fritter and licked his sticky fingers. “The Stones and Garter isn’t bad.” And it was dark and cool. Given the hangover clawing its way up his neck, and the scorching sun outside, the park was the last place he wanted to be.

“Perfect. Now go get changed.”

In his bedroom, he chucked his rumpled shirt onto the bed, grimacing at the sweat stains he’d left on the fine white cambric. A splash of bitter lime cologne, a new shirt and collar, and a blue seersucker jacket saw him out the door with Cordelia on his arm. They left the champagne behind.

*

“You were right,” he said, throwing his napkin across his empty plate. “I needed that.”

“After one too many all-night-ups, you’re not getting anything done worth doing.” Cordelia finished her tomato juice and set the glass down. “Feeling up to a little sunshine yet?”

His headache had abated with the food and coffee, and yes, he was. She was right: He’d got nothing done in three days of panicked scheming he couldn’t have gotten done in a single, well-planned afternoon.

They walked to the wide lawn above the Loendler Park amphitheatre. A team of bowlers was practicing at the flattest part of the field, white shirts and trousers blinding in the sun. The rhythmic thuds of pins hitting the grass and the laughter of the players came faintly across the green, reassuring background noise. Cordelia spread her wrap in the dappled shade beneath a fragrant linden tree and settled onto her belly, kicking off her shoes. Cyril sat beside her, heedless of his trousers on the freshly cut grass.

If he could just stop time, right here, before everything went pitchforked … He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the shivering light play on his eyelids.

Cordelia said his name. He ignored her. She kicked his knee, and said his name again, drawing it out in an exaggerated whine.

“I love the way you say that.” He opened his eyes, looking up into the branches of the linden. Pinching his nose, he imitated her. “Cyrilllllll!”

She sat up. “Don’t make fun,” she said, but she was laughing. “Queen’s sake, it’s getting hot. Wish we’d brought that fizz after all.” Lifting her hair away from her neck, she twisted it into a knot. When she lowered her arms, a shifting spot of sunlight struck a golden flash from the jewel at her ear.

“What’s that?” asked Cyril, reaching for it.

“Hm?” Cordelia tilted her chin, so he could get a better look at the heavy citrine hanging from its gold-and-diamond setting. “Oh, just some new sparkle. Do you like ’em?”

He cupped a hand behind the stone. Honey-colored light pooled in his palm. “Where did you get these?”

“Why?” she asked. “Jealous?”

“Just curious.” He kept his voice calm, but blood roared in his ears. He knew these stones. He’d last seen them casting golden halos against the aged throat of Nuesklend’s richest matron.

“Present from a friend,” she said. “You ain’t the only one I got.”

“What kind of friend?” If Ari was paying her in stolen goods now, Cyril would kill him.

She laughed, uneasy, and pulled away from him. “Cyril, what’s the matter?”

“Did you know they were stolen?” he asked. He’d kill her, if she was brash enough to wear hot jewels around the city. “Those are Minna Keeler’s earrings.”

The color drained from behind her freckles. Shock or guilt, he didn’t know.

“Queen and cairn and temple bells.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I knew she looked familiar.”

“She?” Cyril caught his voice before it rose. The bowlers were far enough away they wouldn’t overhear a conversation, but shouting might draw their attention.

Cordelia realized she’d given him too much. Her bright lips drew to a thin, hard line. She opened the watch hung around her neck to check the time. Her movements were quick and sharp. She stood and gathered her wrap from the ground. “Better go or I’ll be late.”