They sat next to each other on the cold linen damask of the sofa. A draft slithered along the edge of the threadbare heirloom rug—old money never bothered with luxury, or proper insulation. Aristide drew his feet up.
Hard on the heels of Cyril’s revelation, he’d started scheming. If Cyril had thrown in with the Ospies, it meant he thought—he knew—that Acherby would keep his seat, whether he’d earned it or not. There were things Aristide had to do now, people he had to see, and soon. But first … “Cyril, I’m in earnest. It’s not as if your tastes are any secret. If you’re collaborating with the Ospies—”
Cyril made a small sound of protest, but said nothing.
“—you need to look the part.”
“I know, I know. Celibacy.”
“More than that. You need a girl.”
Cyril let his arm fall, and stared bleakly across the drawing room. “Ari, it’s too late for that. They already know everything about me.”
“This isn’t an issue of disguising your past,” said Aristide. “It’s a gesture of good faith. This shows them you’ll play along.”
Cyril’s pout made him look so much like a sulking child, Aristide’s heart almost softened. “You are playing along, aren’t you?”
His assent was a bare incline of the chin.
Aristide made his voice cold and final. “So look like it.” Relenting a little, he added, “I know one. A girl. She’d be a bit of a handful. A little scandalous. But the right kind of scandal, for the Ospies.”
The putt-putt-putt of a single motor echoed in the street. It switched to an idle, and Aristide, who had sharp ears, heard the clank and jostle of a milk delivery headed down the alley to the service entrance.
“I’ve got to be going,” he said. “There’s an accountant on Baldwin Street who’ll want his breakfast.”
“Of course.” Cyril scrubbed at his face. “And the girl?”
“You’ll bump into her,” said Aristide. “At Bellamy’s.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Ari, I told you, I can’t—”
“I’m not stupid, Cyril. How long did it take Central to clock me? And even then, it was only because of one stubborn rule-breaker.” He had to swallow against a tight throat, dry with sudden emotion. “I can send you a date and time without drawing anyone’s suspicion.”
He made to rise, but Cyril stretched out an unsteady hand. His sleeve was rolled past his elbow; the fine hair on his forearm stood up over gooseflesh. “Wait.”
“No.” Aristide lifted Cyril’s hand from his knee. “It’s time for me to leave.”
Cyril, who was still very drunk, struggled admirably to keep his composure, and failed.
Aristide stood and tugged on his hat. He let one gloved hand brush the back of Cyril’s bowed head, and then he left.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Cordelia hunched in front of her mirror, chewing on the end of her hair. Things had not gone well this week.
After the western vote went crooked, it was like the whole city had a pin in its ass. Fights and riots and demonstrations on both sides—blue and yellow scrapping with gray and white. And the ACPD acting like just about anybody might be out to get themselves in trouble. The hounds were snapping folk up left and right, trying to look tough.
Including her man on the docks. Ricardo hadn’t brought in her allotment on account of being locked in the trap, his whole shipment confiscated by the police. Acting for the good of the community, righteous as a temple full of Hearther virgins. Like they wouldn’t turn around and sell it. And she’d wager high they’d undercut those who’d earned a right to the market. Wasn’t like the hounds had to make a living off the stuff.
She, on the other hand, had rent to pay. And customers who’d help her pay it, if she could rustle up a wholesaler. She’d have to go down the pier and start shopping around. Or … no, she couldn’t endure his scorn.
But she knew he wouldn’t sell her tar cut with ink, or rubber, or whatever trash the scullers were mixing up these days. She’d get better stock, and faster, if she could put up with Ari’s attitude.
His dressing room was two down from hers, and the door was three-quarters closed. After the show, he usually had a highbrow punter or two back for drinks and who knew what. Everybody figured Ari was in on things besides a little bit of tar. He made more money than sheep made shit. Malcolm hadn’t clocked Cordelia’s sideline yet, but he kept the books and he knew he wasn’t paying his emcee so much. He didn’t dare complain. Really, what had he got to harp on? Ari had his fingers in the pockets of people Malcolm needed, and Malcolm was more than happy to put up with his airs and snobbery if it meant Taormino turned a blind eye when ballast washed up under the bar.