Cordelia said his name. He ignored her. She kicked his knee, and said his name again, drawing it out in an exaggerated whine.
“I love the way you say that.” He opened his eyes, looking up into the branches of the linden. Pinching his nose, he imitated her. “Cyrilllllll!”
She sat up. “Don’t make fun,” she said, but she was laughing. “Queen’s sake, it’s getting hot. Wish we’d brought that fizz after all.” Lifting her hair away from her neck, she twisted it into a knot. When she lowered her arms, a shifting spot of sunlight struck a golden flash from the jewel at her ear.
“What’s that?” asked Cyril, reaching for it.
“Hm?” Cordelia tilted her chin, so he could get a better look at the heavy citrine hanging from its gold-and-diamond setting. “Oh, just some new sparkle. Do you like ’em?”
He cupped a hand behind the stone. Honey-colored light pooled in his palm. “Where did you get these?”
“Why?” she asked. “Jealous?”
“Just curious.” He kept his voice calm, but blood roared in his ears. He knew these stones. He’d last seen them casting golden halos against the aged throat of Nuesklend’s richest matron.
“Present from a friend,” she said. “You ain’t the only one I got.”
“What kind of friend?” If Ari was paying her in stolen goods now, Cyril would kill him.
She laughed, uneasy, and pulled away from him. “Cyril, what’s the matter?”
“Did you know they were stolen?” he asked. He’d kill her, if she was brash enough to wear hot jewels around the city. “Those are Minna Keeler’s earrings.”
The color drained from behind her freckles. Shock or guilt, he didn’t know.
“Queen and cairn and temple bells.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I knew she looked familiar.”
“She?” Cyril caught his voice before it rose. The bowlers were far enough away they wouldn’t overhear a conversation, but shouting might draw their attention.
Cordelia realized she’d given him too much. Her bright lips drew to a thin, hard line. She opened the watch hung around her neck to check the time. Her movements were quick and sharp. She stood and gathered her wrap from the ground. “Better go or I’ll be late.”
But Cyril stood too, and stopped her from leaving with a hand on her wrist. Not hard, not closed, but enough to keep her from stepping away. “Cordelia.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“I don’t want to know anything.” He relished her surprise, her relief. It was nice to let someone’s secrets lie; under Ospie supervision, it wasn’t always as easy as this. “I really don’t. But—”
Her eyes narrowed, and she tried to step back. Now, he did close his hand. The bones of her wrist pressed against his fingers.
“But what?” she snapped, drawing her wrap close.
“I’m going to need those earrings.”
“You’re gonna need a new pair of oysters if you don’t let me go.”
“Cordelia,” he said again, lifting her wrist and holding it in front of his face, beseeching. “I need those earrings or I’m scratched.”
She paused, searching his face. Her eyes were only slightly darker than the citrines, but much deeper, crackling with intricate flaws.
“Does it got anything to do with me?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Anybody gonna end up in trouble?”
“No one you know.”
That satisfied her. She pulled free from Cyril’s loosened grip and unclasped the earrings, one and then the other. Cyril held his palm up to receive them. The gold was still warm from her skin.
*
On his way home, Cyril stopped into the telegraph office to send a message to Müller. A call would have given the deputy commissioner a chance to ask questions. A telegram gave him only two options: come, or stay away. And Cyril left the message deliberately cryptic, with an enticing tone of urgency.
In his flat, he ran a bath, sank into the tub, and propped his feet up on the taps. Despite the ramifications of his actions—chief among which was smoothing the Ospies’ path to dominance in Amberlough—he felt a cruel frisson of success at the noose he had prepared for Müller. It was tight, and clean, and excellent work. He’d saved himself. And what’s more, he’d done it elegantly.
Would do it. Don’t get ahead of yourself, DePaul.
It felt good to know he still had it—that sharp, fast thinking, unrestrained by scruples or emotion. The hard flint Central searched for in its agents. Tatié hadn’t broken him, and neither had the unionists. He was still good at what he did, even if he wasn’t doing it for the right people.
No, he reminded himself. He was doing it for the only people who mattered now. For himself, and for Aristide.