Mab took Sofie’s arm and bent to speak in her ear—not even quiet enough to save Cordelia an insult. “She’s just gwine to pawn them, Fee. Might as well give her a wad of cash.”
But Sofie waved Mab off, and the older woman went to rummage in a knapsack by the bed. “They’re not worth much, but won’t you please accept what little we can offer?”
Mab returned and opened her palm, revealing two pear-shaped citrines set in yellow gold, topped with tiny … diamonds? Not worth much. Where did this girl come from?
“I really … I don’t think…” Cordelia backed away again, but Mab pressed the stones into her hand.
“It’s like Sofie says. You brought brightness to us when we saw dark. It’s only an even trade if we return the favor.”
So Cordelia took the earrings, with intent to wear them. They sounded like hooky. Pawning stolen goods was stupid unless you knew the right shops. Cordelia did, but her pride was stung and she aimed to prove Mab wrong.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Insistent pounding on the door forced Cyril’s head deeper into the cavern of his folded arms. The top of his desk smelled strongly of leather, and his own rancid breath. He’d spent three days scrounging in the ACPD secretarial pool, looking for scraps he could use on any of the four assistant commissioners. He’d won over Harlee, and Karst was wobbling. Tembu and Eronov he hadn’t even tried—they were Taormino’s through and through.
His nights he’d spent awake, and largely drunk. Inspiration had not come. Müller remained beyond his reach. His midsummer deadline was a scant few weeks away. He didn’t want to find out if there was a penalty for missing it.
Who in the Lady’s name could be banging on his door at this hour? He groaned and pulled himself upright, dragging his palms across his face. The clock told him the hour was reasonable; the only thing untimely was his own disarray. He’d shaved last night, at least, at his own peril. His hands had been less than steady.
Another volley landed on the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Mother’s tits, give it a rest.” Why hadn’t they just telephoned? They’d have his landlord up here any minute, with this racket.
Damnation. Maybe it was his landlord. Cyril wondered what could possibly be so urgent. Opening the door, he was ready to face any number of grim eventualities. He was not prepared to find Cordelia, draped in a fringed calico wrap, holding a bottle of cheap plonk and a grease-spotted sack that smelled of cardamom.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, surprise making him blunt.
“Dragging you out for an airing,” she said. “And good thing, too. You’re clearly in need of one.”
“What—”
But she pushed past him into the flat and closed the door behind her. “Go put on something fresh. And eat these.” She put the sack in his hand. “Sometimes I marvel any man survives outside his mother’s womb. What have you been doing to yourself these past few days?”
He pulled out a puff of deep-fried rice dough, crispy and still hot, dripping with almond syrup. The steam burned his mouth, but the flavors roused his appetite. “Work.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s quitting time. Thought we’d take this to the park.” She gestured with the bottle. “But you look more in need of a big meal and strong coffee. Where’s good eating around here?”
Cyril swallowed another fritter and licked his sticky fingers. “The Stones and Garter isn’t bad.” And it was dark and cool. Given the hangover clawing its way up his neck, and the scorching sun outside, the park was the last place he wanted to be.
“Perfect. Now go get changed.”
In his bedroom, he chucked his rumpled shirt onto the bed, grimacing at the sweat stains he’d left on the fine white cambric. A splash of bitter lime cologne, a new shirt and collar, and a blue seersucker jacket saw him out the door with Cordelia on his arm. They left the champagne behind.
*
“You were right,” he said, throwing his napkin across his empty plate. “I needed that.”
“After one too many all-night-ups, you’re not getting anything done worth doing.” Cordelia finished her tomato juice and set the glass down. “Feeling up to a little sunshine yet?”
His headache had abated with the food and coffee, and yes, he was. She was right: He’d got nothing done in three days of panicked scheming he couldn’t have gotten done in a single, well-planned afternoon.
They walked to the wide lawn above the Loendler Park amphitheatre. A team of bowlers was practicing at the flattest part of the field, white shirts and trousers blinding in the sun. The rhythmic thuds of pins hitting the grass and the laughter of the players came faintly across the green, reassuring background noise. Cordelia spread her wrap in the dappled shade beneath a fragrant linden tree and settled onto her belly, kicking off her shoes. Cyril sat beside her, heedless of his trousers on the freshly cut grass.
If he could just stop time, right here, before everything went pitchforked … He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the shivering light play on his eyelids.