Amberlough(74)

A clatter of dropping crates, and accompanying stream of curses, alerted them to a presence in the corridor. Like children caught at naughtiness, they pulled apart. Cyril’s pulse hammered so hard Aristide could see it: The flushed skin of his throat fluttered against the oily calico kerchief.

“I need to go,” said Aristide.

Cyril nodded, and looked away. Candlelight picked out his eyelashes like gold filament.

“We can’t do this again,” said Aristide.

Another nod.

As he walked away, Aristide curled his fists so tight his long nails bit into his palms. The small pain was like a pinch to distract from the agony of a broken bone.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Cordelia had barely got into her dressing room before Tory came skidding down the hall and caught himself in her doorway.

“You’ve heard?” he asked, breathless.

“You think there’s anybody in the city who hasn’t?” She threw her purse into the corner of the room and fell into her makeup chair. “Afternoon edition of the Telegraph had a headline about five inches tall. But they always do lean dramatic.”

“I’ve had to do up a whole new routine. People are sticking close behind Hebrides. I can’t feature any jabs at him flying high with tonight’s crowd.”

“You think we’ll have much of one?” She belied her reservations, starting to undo the buttons on her blouse.

“Course we rotten will.” Malcolm appeared behind Tory in the doorway and gave them both an appraising glance. “It’ll be a madhouse.” He looked down at Tory. “You. Go run your new material with Liesl. She wants to get the beats right for tonight’s jokes.”

Tory met Malcolm’s uncompromising glare. “Malcolm,” he said, and then paused like he was struggling. After a brief nod of the head, he was gone.

Malcolm watched Tory go, and while he was distracted, Cordelia cased his profile. He needed a shave. His nails were dirty and wanted paring. The heat backstage had him down to his undershirt, and even that was soaked with sweat. She thought about pecking him for shabbiness, but he sighed and slumped against the door frame, and she couldn’t.

“Three bits for whatever’s on your brain,” she said, hanging her blouse up on a coat hook.

“Just worries,” he said. “Same as always.”

“I’d wager that ain’t true. This is a little heavier than taxes and protection.” She let her skirt fall to the floor and didn’t bother with a dressing gown. It was stuffy backstage, and it wasn’t like what she had was a secret—especially not to Malcolm. “What are you gonna do?”

He shook his head. “I’m waitin’ on divine inspiration,” he said. “Something might come down out of the mountains and save me.”

“Well, for all our sakes I hope it does. A lot of people depend on this place, Mal.”

“Thanks so much for reminding me.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest. “’Specially since you ain’t one of ’em.”

She stopped, her lipstick halfway up. “Say that again.”

“You got your game with Makricosta—don’t think I ain’t clocked it. And your swell, even if you ain’t knocking him. You’re getting too grand for us stagefolk.”

“Oh shut your face, you big ape.” She painted two perfect arches on her upper lip, and a longer, fuller smear on the lower, then capped the tube. Twirling the chair to face Malcolm, she put one finger in her mouth and drew it out, to clear the insides of her lips and keep her teeth white. It came out with a satisfying pop. Even the added brown of Malcolm’s late spring tan couldn’t cover the flush that crept up his neck.

“If I was getting too grand,” she said, “I’d already be gone.”

*

When she came back after the final curtain she found Cyril sitting at her makeup table, holding a bunch of roses. “I know they’re black on the poster,” he said. “But do you know what the duties are on Porachin Sables? Besides, they aren’t in season.”

She took the flowers in her arms. “These are lovely. What’s the occasion?”

“The end of the world?” He stood, in one smooth motion, and turned her chair for her. She sat, and let him spin her toward the mirror.

“Cheery.” She buried her face in the flowers. The corner of an envelope poked her in the eye. When she pulled it out, Cyril plucked it from her hands. In the mirror, she saw him wave it, then drop it into her purse.

“Read it later,” he suggested.

She opened her cold cream and started cleaning away her paint. “How soon will things start sinking, do you reckon?”

“Soon,” he said, “and fast.”

“Soon and fast enough I should start worrying now? Or can it wait a week or two?”

“Don’t worry yet,” said Cyril. “But start thinking about what you can do once you can’t do this anymore.” He tapped one finger on the corner of her makeup table. “Or when you can’t run tar. I imagine the Ospie vice squad won’t be as easily bought as the ACPD is at present.”

“Mother’s tits,” she said, laughing. “I ain’t exactly qualified to do much else.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Cyril. He leaned against the wall, beside her mirror, and lit a cigarette. “You’ve got more than a few of the talents Central looks for in its recruits.”