“Nae together,” she said.
Her evasion was piquing his interest. “Why? Unless … is it a legal marriage? Saying words in a temple is one thing, but have you signed the p-p-papers?”
She lifted her spoon, not looking at him.
“I see. So you can’t apply for a residency permit as a family. Why haven’t you formalized your vows?”
“Her mother doesnae approve.”
“Is she of age?”
“She is.”
“But her mother has some hold over her. Financial, I presume.”
Another nod, another sip of soup.
“How … substantial is this hold?”
“Without her income,” said Mab, “we’re penniless. Nae that it matters. Taphir and I love her, and she loves us, and we’ll starve if we have to. But you understand. Things are much harder…” She trailed off, one hand lying flat on the table. With the other, she held her pipe. Her grip was tight enough to stretch the chapped skin across her knuckles. It cracked into thin, red lines. “We’re just a couple of pipers, Mr. Makricosta. And she’s … well, she’s used to better than we can provide.”
“I must ask,” he said, “since it is beginning to seem important: Who exactly is your wife?”
She set her spoon down and stared at it. Sucked her teeth. Turned the spoon.
“Mab?”
“Sofie Keeler.”
Aristide, who’d done many things to elide his country upbringing, nevertheless let loose a low whistle. “Champagne tastes, indeed.”
Mab scowled. “I told you, it’s nothing to do with the money.”
“I’m sure that’s not what he meant, dear.” Zelda put her hand on Mab’s forearm.
“Not exactly, no.” Aristide lifted a spoonful of broth and sipped it. “But I begin to see where your difficulties lie. Minna Keeler supports the Ospies, correct? And must therefore t-t-toe the line.”
“If she knew about the marriage,” said Mab, through teeth clenched around her pipe stem, “Sofie’d be out the house without a three-cent piece. If she were lucky.”
“Indeed. So you hope to … what? Transfer her current capital in secret? I imagine she’s forfeiting any share in the family business, not to mention her inheritance. Then you’ll immigrate, marry legally behind Amberlough’s borders…” He wasn’t really asking her questions, now. Just planning aloud. “And consolidate your assets once the contract is signed.”
“Sounds likely,” said Mab. “Can you do it?”
“My d-d-dear,” he said, finally remembering to stutter. “You were introduced to me by one of the most notorious fences in Amberlough City. If anyone can move a great d-d-deal of money, very quietly, it’s one of Zelda’s friends.” He bit a tiny shrimp in two. It collapsed between his teeth with a satisfying crunch. “I’ll want a cut, of course. I d-d-don’t run a charity.”
“And I’m nae a fool.” She took a purse from inside her waistcoat and dropped it on the table. The contents clacked together. “There’s for good faith.”
Aristide was not shy, nor bound by propriety. He tugged at the drawstrings of the pouch and tipped it into his palm.
“Emeralds,” he said. Then, sharply, “Will these be missed?” The elaborate collar had the look of a family heirloom—the cut of the stones was not stylish, but they were of surpassing quality and exceptionally well set.
Mab grinned. “Nae if you work fast.”
*
Insistent ringing clawed Cyril from a deep sleep. In the semi-dark, he flung out a hand and rapped his knuckles on the sharp edge of the telephone base. Dragging the heavy apparatus from his bedside table, he lifted the receiver.
“DePaul,” he said. It was too early for niceties.
“Get in here,” said Culpepper.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t care. Now kick whoever’s in your bed out of it, and get your sorry ass to the office, immediately.”
He jammed the receiver into its switch hook and took a moment to lie back against his pillows. The weight of the telephone pressed into his chest. At last, he rolled over and out of bed, cringing in expectation of a cold floor. But spring was turning into summer, and his feet struck temperate wood.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t aired his warm-weather clothes. His navy suit was three days worn and crumpled at the joints. The charcoal had a lipstick stain at the lapel. Times like these, he almost wished he did have a valet.
He went with the navy, hoping the wrinkles would inspire a little empathy in Culpepper, and knowing he would only get scorn. Downstairs, his landlord had laid out the early cold spread of cured ham, bread, and preserves. He forewent food in favor of strong black coffee, and was out the door.
A scrap of a girl stood on the corner, cutting the twine on her first stack of papers.
“Copy of the Clarion,” said Cyril, handing her a crisply folded bill.
“Aw, sir, it’s not even half five yet. Ain’t you got any change?”
He thrust a hand into his pocket and scrounged up a handful of coins. “Here, have that instead.”
She pocketed it, and gave him a paper.