The Masked City (The Invisible Library #2)(55)
She and Zayanna had separated, ostensibly to find their respective patrons. Irene suspected that Zayanna had been more interested in finding some more alcohol. She couldn’t blame her. She’d have been grateful for a glass or two of brandy herself.
Still. It was apparently morning. Time to sneak out of her little nest and find Silver, and hopefully get some more information out of him.
Once she was out of the linen-cupboard it became clear that, like most depraved aristocrats, these Fae did not rise early. And if there was a literary trope requiring an early start to fit in a full day’s worth of debauchery, Irene had yet to encounter it. The only people up so far were maids, manservants and lower grades of attendant, who were running around carrying trays of food and piles of clothing. This made it very easy for Irene to scoop up a pile of sheets, looking suitably urgent and harried. She blended right in. She felt harried. Her dress was dark and battered, someone’s Sunday second-best, and not even up to the standard of the hotel maids, but her bodice was laced neatly and her hair was finger-combed into a tight braid. She didn’t look anachronistic or otherworldly, and that was the most important thing.
The back-stairs were much the same as in any hotel. They were narrow, cramped and full of overburdened people running as fast as possible. Nobody bothered wearing masks back here.
One woman, blonde hair straggling in rat-tails down her back, grabbed Irene’s arm as she staggered past. ‘Have you seen the sausages?’
‘No,’ Irene said.
‘Merciful Virgin, the cook’s going to kill someone,’ the woman screamed, and ran down the stairs again.
Rich panoply of human experience, drama of a Grand Hotel, et cetera, Irene decided, as she hurried onwards.
She’d noted the servants Silver had brought with him the night before. Enough loitering back-stairs enabled her to spot one, and to follow him to Silver’s suite on the third floor. Irene waited until there was nobody else around, dropped her armload of sheets in a convenient window-seat and knocked on the door.
Johnson opened it, and his eyes widened. He grabbed Irene by the shoulder and pulled her into the highly decorated parlour, slamming the door shut behind her. ‘You’ll get my lord into trouble, coming here in public like this! What do you think you’re playing at?’ he hissed.
‘Johnson?’ Silver’s voice drifted lazily through from the bedroom. ‘Who is it?’
Johnson took a breath and composed his face. He now radiated only mild dislike, as opposed to severe aversion. ‘It’s her, my lord.’
‘Oh! Well, do bring the mouse in here. I have a few comments on her performance.’
Without letting go of her shoulder, as if afraid she’d make a run for it, Johnson marched Irene through into the bedroom. It was a splendid room, even more so than the parlour. The walls were polished white plaster that shone like marble, and the floor was a mosaic of tiny pale wooden tiles. The far wall was all window, opening out onto a balcony that overlooked the canal beneath and the building on the other side. Curtains of thin lace were tied back, and the sun shone in. The fog had gone, and the sky was a clear, beautiful blue. The room itself was dominated by the double bed, which jutted out from the wall into the centre of the room, as if feeling the need to emphasize its presence. Silver sprawled on it amid a tangle of pale-blue counterpane and white silk sheets, draped in a midnight-blue silk dressing gown, which left him barely decent. Given the way he lay there with the gown falling open to his waist, Irene was tempted to downgrade that to not decent at all.
He shook his head, mock-sadly. ‘Dear Miss Winters, I thought that I had lost you.’
‘Rubbish, my lord,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m sure you were very glad to get me off your hands.’
‘The one does not preclude the other.’ He toyed with a plate that held sugared twists of dough, crispy little things. Cinnamon was involved. Irene could smell them across the room, and she tried to stop her stomach rumbling. ‘So - I take it there have been no daring rescues yet?’
Irene hesitated. ‘That was a joke, I hope?’
‘Sadly, yes.’ He raised one of the edibles to his lips and nibbled at it. ‘Hmm, very good … I do enjoy coming here. Such a safe, reliable place.’
Those were not words that Irene would have used to describe this alternate at all. She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms under her breasts.
‘Oh, no, that won’t do at all.’ His voice dripped with honey, as rich as an opera singer about to drop an octave in a single sweep of sound. ‘My lady. Do forgive me for referring to you as a mouse. We’re past such things. I feel that we’re failing to establish any sort of proper communication here. I don’t feel truly needed, let alone desired. This won’t do.’
Irene stood her ground. ‘Lord Silver.’ She tried not to grit her teeth, because if he sensed her impatience, she might never get answers. ‘If I rescue Kai, it will be of service to both of us, given your feud with the Guantes. I apologize if my manner doesn’t please you, but I have some urgent questions.’
He licked the remains of the sugar off his fingers. ‘I know you do, my little mouse. I know they’re very urgent. I think I want to see just how urgent they are. On your knees, mouse. Over here, please.’ He gestured to beside the bed.
For a moment all Irene could think of to say was, ‘What?’ He’d flirted with her before, trailed his glamour at her like a peacock showing off his tail. But he’d behaved as he would have done towards any human being, rather than because he’d actually been interested in her. So it had felt comparatively safe.