“Are you good and done yet?” shouted Malcolm. “Get your worthless ass out of my office and go put it in some tasseled panties—we got punters coming in.”
Now she was off the ’phone, she let her voice rise sharply. “Mother’s tits, anyone’d think you’re about to wet yourself and this was the only washroom.” She opened the door. “Though mind you, the way it smells … Lucia must have a time scrubbing it. Probably worse than changing the sheets at Mama Filetti’s.”
“At least she’s not liable to get the clap cleaning up after me.” Malcolm pushed past her and prowled around his desk, as if he was trying to figure out what she’d stolen or soiled. “Your little warren, though … I hope she wears her thickest gloves.”
“Go yank yourself,” she said, and turned tail.
*
She remembered to set her alarm clock when she got home, and sure enough, it rang her out of sleep at noon. She broke off some stale bread from the loaf on the mantel and coated it with butter, going off but still edible.
Once she’d splashed her hands clean in the basin on the dry sink, she went to pick through the pile of clothes on the foot of her bed. She needed something that said good girl, but not too good. Whatever Ari had told this punter, she didn’t want to come off like a racehorse, but she didn’t want to look too buttoned up, either. Let him think he might get a squeeze or two. Oh, hang it, he was easy on the eyes; she might let him.
When she’d finally painted up her face and put herself in harness, it was going on one and she looked likely to be late. Well, she’d never met a man who didn’t like to be kept waiting. They squealed about it like bit-pinching fishwives, but they loved thinking she’d put in all that work for them.
On Talbert Street, the trolley whisked beneath the hanging branches of the cherry trees, stirring up a wake of petals. When Cordelia stepped off the trolley, the heels of her shoes sank a quarter inch in fallen flowers.
She let her scarf slip down around her neck, baring her loosely gathered hair. She knew it was garish, but it was also a calling card. Nobody forgot that shade of red. Sure enough, not half a minute passed before Cyril spotted her from the park gate and waved her over.
“I thought we’d go down to Blossom Street,” he said, “and walk to the Ionidous Arch. Then we can cut through the park and come back to Talbert Row for a late lunch.”
“Suits like a tailor.” She’d find out what he was after, but she’d try and wait till after they ate. No sense marring a free meal with business.
“Good.” He offered her his arm, and they started down the street through a soft snow of petals.
*
In the park, they took a footpath along the side of a wooded riding trail. Naked oaks stood tall between the tender green of smaller trees. A horse whinnied from the trails in the ramble, and the thin sound reached them through the forest. The air was still nippy in the shade, and Cordelia buttoned up her coat. Cyril surprised her with an arm around her shoulders. A woman on a glossy hunter cantered past, spraying mulch as she sped toward a jump.
“Do you ride?” Cyril asked, and she couldn’t help snorting. “Me neither,” he said. “Not for years, anyway.”
Swells. You had to laugh or you’d want to slug ’em.
They came out of the woods into a sea of tulips. A breeze made the flowers sway, top-heavy and bright. Cordelia caught her breath.
“Spring’s my favorite time to walk here,” said Cyril.
Cordelia turned a full circle, taking in the view. “And no wonder.”
A wide gravel path divided the flower beds, following a gentle slope down to the shores of the lake. The water lilies weren’t blooming yet, but the drooping branches of the willows dusted the currents with pollen. A pair of russet swans floated across the open water. Ripples spread where their wakes crossed.
“You know the swans were a gift from a Niori ambassador?” he asked. “They’re protected by a state endowment. The gamekeepers take them indoors before the first frost. There’s a special outbuilding hidden in the ramble.”
As if they’d been listening, the pale copper-pink birds drifted closer. Probably looking for breadcrumbs, the greedy things.
Cyril led her along the shore until they reached a small, curved bench of painted iron. He gestured for her to sit, then lowered himself into the space beside her. The side of his thigh touched hers, warm and solid. The metal was cold on her rear.
“Cordelia,” he said.
“Hm?” She looked away from the swans, who had figured out there was no bread in this for them and were back to dipping their dark beaks between the lily pads.
“I need to ask you an important question.”
This would be something about discretion. About his family, or her lover. Or maybe Ari had let slip about the tar, hang him, and now Cyril had some kind of opinion about her running, some kind of bargain he wanted to strike. She waited, one eyebrow arched.
But all he said was, “Musk, or vetiver?”
“Sorry?”