“No. You’re right.” Zelda stared at the red tip of her cigarette, and the light of it made her dark eyes glisten like oil. “There’s a story they tell in Hyrosia, about a queen who built the most beautiful palace in all the world. She filled it with exquisite art and rare animals, and a harem of a thousand perfect catamites. It was paradise on earth. Until a neighboring queen grew jealous and attacked.”
Cordelia’s focus narrowed. The sudden rush of tobacco, on top of her exhaustion, made her grasp at the threads of Zelda’s story to stay in the moment. “What did she do?”
“She burned the palace and everything inside it, herself and her lovers included. When the rival queen arrived, there was nothing but a pile of smoking ash.”
“Well,” said Cordelia, “I ain’t a fan of suicide. But the rest of it sounds all right.”
“I can give you a name,” said Zelda. “He’ll come down on price if you haggle, and if you still can’t pay, he might take a marker. He bears no love for the Ospies. Give him a kiss from me.”
“Thanks a heap.” Cordelia stubbed out the butt of her straight and stood to leave. “I’ll give him two.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Aristide waited a week. He got friendly with Farah Akin, the woman who owned the dry goods store at the mouth of the pass. She gave him a loaf of currant cake, the first time he visited her shop.
“To welcome you, like, Mr. Sangster.” That was the name on his new papers. Memories ran long in the mountains. He couldn’t afford to keep his old Prosser identity, though he had the identification on hand if anyone got pinned about the property.
The cake was heavy, and too moist. But he ate it, because sweet things seldom turned up in Currin.
The next time he came down to the store, Farah gave him a telegram that had come up from the city. The Akins had the only wireless receiver for miles.
No oranges stop Maybe next week stop
“Do you like them?” Farah leaned across the counter. “Oranges? We rarely get them in. Only around solstice, usually, and even then they’re green and tart. The dates, though…” She scooped some from a jar behind the counter and poured them onto the counter. “They’re my favorite. Can’t imagine they’d be any better fresh. Care to try?”
Aristide took one of the sticky fruits and put it into his mouth, so that he did not have to speak. No oranges.
“You’ve gone pale, Mr. Sangster. Not to your taste?”
“No,” he said, pulling the pit from between his teeth. “They’re delicious. I’ll have some to take home. And a few ounces of shag.”
“Any more rolling papers?”
“No, thank you. I’ve still got some from last time.”
She clucked and shook her head. “Ought to start smoking a pipe. You’re not cityfolk any longer. It’ll save you money, too.”
Underneath the humdrum of commerce, Aristide’s mind jumped from one possibility to the next. Cyril had misunderstood the directions, or made a mistake. Or he had been caught and tortured or—even worse—gone over to the Ospies entirely, in which case staying longer in the Currin Pass put Aristide in more danger every day. Very worst of all, he had read the letter and laughed.
Aristide smiled through the rest of his transaction. He flirted a little. Farah tipped a few extra dates into the paper sack before she folded the top. By the time he walked out, the mask of his face felt stiff. Among the brooks and gorse and muddy stone, he let the fa?ade fall. His own weakness broke his heart, and frightened him.
By the end of his walk home he was desperate for a cigarette. Inside the cottage, the heavy stove had kept most of the banked fire’s warmth. The small space was dry and cozy. Aristide scowled at its rustic charm—such a slim reward for cold nights and lean comforts.
Hunched over the table, he tried to roll a twist. He was not good at it. After three bad tries he curled his hands into fists and closed his eyes against stinging pride. He had been good at everything he needed to be, back in Amberlough. He’d had everything. Now, all he wanted was one rotten cigarette, and—
His next attempt wrapped up perfectly, and a cold weight settled in his stomach. He hoped he had not made some terrible bargain. There were more important things to hunger for.
Instead of smoking, he fed another brick of peat to the stove and opened the vents, then collapsed onto the squeaky cot in the corner. Lying on his side, he watched flames lick at the edges of the cast iron grate.
The play of light and shadow lulled him half into a dream, more memory than imagination. Rain swept the pavement outside the Bee, turning into steam when it struck. Fog curled around the crowd’s ankles. Aristide stood beneath the marquee with his collar turned up, waiting for a hack.
They saw each other at the same time, through the milling crowd. In that look, there was professional assessment, followed by a swift and startling realization, not wholly welcome. Aristide saw his adversary’s eyes widen. The man stepped back, not by much, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Aristide wondered what small tells his own body had given.
They’d had a choice, when they met, but neither of them had made it. They were both tightrope walkers, by trade. It had just been another line to tread.