Amberlough(73)

With a sigh, Cyril pushed the stray curve of his hair back. Speaking more to the candle wick than to Aristide, he said, “Cordelia’s running for you.”

“Yes.” He’d been hoping to keep that from Cyril, but there wasn’t much one could.

“Our history—yours and mine—isn’t exactly secret. Think of how that would look, if it came out Cordelia was in on your schemes.”

“It won’t,” said Aristide, with practiced confidence.

“What could possibly have possessed you?” Cyril’s fist curled tight around his tweed cap, bunching it into a tube. “Ari, the whole point was to keep me looking like a respectable Ospie. And you start sending her on errands?”

“She wouldn’t take my money,” said Aristide. “And I needed her help. What was I supposed to offer?”

“You needed her help? I thought she was—”

“Yes I needed her rotten help!” Aristide cut him off, suddenly overcome. He put his face in his hands and pushed his fingers past his hairline, tugging on his curls until his scalp stung. His burr leapt out like a rat from a sack. “Plague and pesteration, Cyril. I needed her help to keep you safe.”

“But you’re still using her.” Cyril’s soft voice didn’t take the sting out of the accusation.

Aristide took a deep breath and made sure the next sentence came out smooth. “You’re using her too.”

There was a tight pause. Aristide could feel Cyril’s anger building. When his outburst came, it snatched Aristide’s breath with its force and revelation. “Not to move stolen goods for wanted refugees.”

“What?”

“Oh don’t play innocent; you’re no ingénue. Cordelia was wearing Minna Keeler’s stolen citrines yesterday. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that could land me in?”

Blood drained from Aristide’s limbs. His hands went suddenly cold and heavy, as if they were cast in lead. “Citrines?”

“Set with diamonds. They’re not exactly inconspicuous.”

He knew the jewels. He’d told Sofie to hold onto them; they were less valuable than some of the other pieces, and more recognizable. “Cyril, believe me. I never asked Cordelia to move them. I have no idea how she—no. That’s a lie. I know how she got them. But if she’d had any sense she wouldn’t have accepted.”

“Don’t,” said Cyril.

“What? Call her a fool? You’re not falling for her, are you? I thought your tastes were more refined.”

Cyril made an ugly, scornful face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re putting me in danger, and you’re putting her in danger. She’s not going to run anything for you anymore.”

“I think that’s something she can decide for herself.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Aristide. Either she’s a vacuous tart or she’s clever and keen.” He shut his mouth and Aristide saw a muscle in his jaw flex. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and more controlled. “I know which one I’d pick.”

“You think she’s smart,” said Aristide. “You’re right. But you can’t have it both ways either. Don’t come to me and tell me what Cordelia can and cannot do. It’s not your place to decide. If you feel endangered by her association with me, then you can end your own with her.”

The set of Cyril’s shoulders collapsed. “No,” he said. “She’ll need somewhere to go, when the Ospies take over.”

“I can see her safely out of Amberlough.”

“Be realistic. Your influence is shrinking with every Ospie gain. You’ll be lucky if you can get yourself out.” He paused, dug his nails into the rotted tabletop.

“Yes?” prompted Aristide.

“I—I didn’t want to tell you, but…” Cyril ducked his chin to one side, his expression rueful. The same recalcitrant piece of hair fell across his forehead.

This time, Aristide didn’t stop himself: He reached out and combed it into place with his fingers. “Didn’t want to tell me what?”

Cyril put his hand on Aristide’s forearm. His mouth moved, but he didn’t speak.

“Didn’t want to tell me what, Cyril?” Aristide asked again, almost whispering. He traced the strong, straight line of Cyril’s cheekbone and jaw, ending with his fingertips arrayed just beneath the edge of Cyril’s chin. He felt an indrawn breath, the movement of Cyril’s larynx just before he spoke.

“They’re out for smugglers’ blood,” he said, his tone flat and defeated. “When Acherby’s position is firm, they’ll be coming after you like a pack after cubs.”

There was something false about the sentiment, though the statement was credible. Aristide sighed, tired of Cyril’s games, and moved to stand. Cyril’s grip tightened and drew him closer, across the table. Aristide felt the warmth of the candle on his shoulder, swiftly eclipsed by the smoke-limned heat of Cyril’s mouth on his.

“Mother and sons,” said Cyril. Aristide could taste the words, and feel the movement of his lips. “I’ve missed—”

Aristide didn’t let him finish. He put his hands around the back of Cyril’s head, digging his fingers into the carefully waxed waves of hair. He pressed their faces close, jaw aching with the force of the kiss. Cyril didn’t fight; he reached for Aristide’s lapels, pulled him nearer, gasped into his open mouth.