Amberlough(75)

“And a lot of good they’ll do me when Culpepper is belly-up under the Ospies’ boots.”

“Acherby needs agents too,” he said. “Ones who know this territory. After all, they’ll have to purge the current stable.”

Cordelia stopped with half her face smeared in cold cream and turned to look at him. “Sorry, are you trying to turn me Ospie?”

“It’s move with the herd or be trampled. And you’re a survivor, Cordelia.”

“What, like you?”

He smiled ruefully around his straight. “Oh no. I’m just a coward.”

She wiped her face clean and threw the cloth to the back of her makeup table. “I’ll have to think about it.” She didn’t like the idea, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. Leave town, maybe, and look for theatrical work somewhere farther south. Hyrosia, maybe. But she was an Amberlinian, born and raised, and Amberlough was what she knew. Still. “Working for the Ospies ain’t exactly a sunny proposition.”

“Understandable.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling.

Someone knocked on her dressing room door. Cyril’s head snapped around. When Cordelia got up to answer, he put his hand out. She waited. He moved to the wall beside the hinges and, to her horror, drew a snub-nosed revolver from the inside of his jacket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. He shook his head and tipped the short barrel of the gun toward the door. She pulled it open, hiding Cyril from whoever had knocked.

“Do you have a moment?” Ari lounged in the doorway, draped in silk. Transparent with sweat, it stuck in places to his skin. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” She didn’t give ground. “Can it wait a minute? I got company.”

He arched one finely sculpted eyebrow. “But I just passed Tory in the hall. And Malcolm’s t-t-tied up with punters.”

“I’m a busy girl.”

“I’m sure you—” He froze, staring over her shoulder. She turned, and saw a sliver of Cyril’s reflection in her makeup mirror. Just the edge of his shoulder, the back of his head. In Ari’s place, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

He shoved her aside and came in, shutting the door and leaning against it in lieu of a lock.

“Plague and pesteration,” he said, and Cordelia wondered where he’d picked up the northern curse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“No one saw me.”

“If you’re so sure, why are you waving that around?” Aristide cast a look at the gun like it was a dead and stinking wharf rat.

“No one who?” asked Cordelia. “What’s going on?”

“Just a precaution,” said Cyril, holstering the revolver. Then, “I’ll leave you two. Cordelia, think about what I said?”

Ari looked sharply between them. Cordelia gave him nothing. “I told you I would. But why the snubby? Who’s after you?”

Cyril shook his head. “This isn’t one of those things you need to know.”

“Holy stones,” said Aristide. “I think you might tell her enough to keep her out of trouble. Since you’re so worried about her safety.”

“Am I gonna end up scratched?” Cordelia asked, hands on her hips.

Cyril squirmed under her scrutiny, and turned pleadingly toward Ari. “They wouldn’t use her—”

“I’m right rotten here,” she snapped. “Cyril, am I in some kind of danger?”

“It’s possible Culpepper has some foxes out for my blood. I don’t think they’d use you to get to me, but just look over your shoulder every now and then. And if you go out alone, let someone know where you’re headed.”

“Mother’s tits,” she said. “I knew something like this would happen.”

“You’ll be fine,” he insisted, arrowing a sharp glance in Ari’s direction. “Cordelia, the people who are looking for me … they know what my sticking points are. And—no offense—you aren’t one of them.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said, ready to ask who was. But midway through an outsized eye roll, she caught Ari sneering. The expression didn’t quite cover the faint, dusky blush on his high cheekbones.

“Cyril,” he said, “get out. And do try not to get yourself k-k-killed.”

Cyril took his hat from Cordelia’s makeup table, tipped it to Ari, and pulled it low over his eyebrows. He was gone without another word.

After a weighty moment of quiet, Cordelia turned to Ari. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

His lips drew into a thin, frustrated line. “Let’s leave it for later, shall we? Get dressed and get your things together. I’ll take you home.”

“Ari, I grew up in the Mew. I can watch my own ass.”

“I know,” he said. “But please, give me the satisfaction of seeing someone safely to their door.”

*

The next afternoon, when she showed up at the Bee, the whole place was roaring like a kicked hive—funny, that comparison. She collared Garlande, who was still dressed, and asked what the trouble was.

“You mean you don’t know?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Mother and sons, I don’t think you oughta hear it from me.”