Tory met Malcolm’s uncompromising glare. “Malcolm,” he said, and then paused like he was struggling. After a brief nod of the head, he was gone.
Malcolm watched Tory go, and while he was distracted, Cordelia cased his profile. He needed a shave. His nails were dirty and wanted paring. The heat backstage had him down to his undershirt, and even that was soaked with sweat. She thought about pecking him for shabbiness, but he sighed and slumped against the door frame, and she couldn’t.
“Three bits for whatever’s on your brain,” she said, hanging her blouse up on a coat hook.
“Just worries,” he said. “Same as always.”
“I’d wager that ain’t true. This is a little heavier than taxes and protection.” She let her skirt fall to the floor and didn’t bother with a dressing gown. It was stuffy backstage, and it wasn’t like what she had was a secret—especially not to Malcolm. “What are you gonna do?”
He shook his head. “I’m waitin’ on divine inspiration,” he said. “Something might come down out of the mountains and save me.”
“Well, for all our sakes I hope it does. A lot of people depend on this place, Mal.”
“Thanks so much for reminding me.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest. “’Specially since you ain’t one of ’em.”
She stopped, her lipstick halfway up. “Say that again.”
“You got your game with Makricosta—don’t think I ain’t clocked it. And your swell, even if you ain’t knocking him. You’re getting too grand for us stagefolk.”
“Oh shut your face, you big ape.” She painted two perfect arches on her upper lip, and a longer, fuller smear on the lower, then capped the tube. Twirling the chair to face Malcolm, she put one finger in her mouth and drew it out, to clear the insides of her lips and keep her teeth white. It came out with a satisfying pop. Even the added brown of Malcolm’s late spring tan couldn’t cover the flush that crept up his neck.
“If I was getting too grand,” she said, “I’d already be gone.”
*
When she came back after the final curtain she found Cyril sitting at her makeup table, holding a bunch of roses. “I know they’re black on the poster,” he said. “But do you know what the duties are on Porachin Sables? Besides, they aren’t in season.”
She took the flowers in her arms. “These are lovely. What’s the occasion?”
“The end of the world?” He stood, in one smooth motion, and turned her chair for her. She sat, and let him spin her toward the mirror.
“Cheery.” She buried her face in the flowers. The corner of an envelope poked her in the eye. When she pulled it out, Cyril plucked it from her hands. In the mirror, she saw him wave it, then drop it into her purse.
“Read it later,” he suggested.
She opened her cold cream and started cleaning away her paint. “How soon will things start sinking, do you reckon?”
“Soon,” he said, “and fast.”
“Soon and fast enough I should start worrying now? Or can it wait a week or two?”
“Don’t worry yet,” said Cyril. “But start thinking about what you can do once you can’t do this anymore.” He tapped one finger on the corner of her makeup table. “Or when you can’t run tar. I imagine the Ospie vice squad won’t be as easily bought as the ACPD is at present.”
“Mother’s tits,” she said, laughing. “I ain’t exactly qualified to do much else.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Cyril. He leaned against the wall, beside her mirror, and lit a cigarette. “You’ve got more than a few of the talents Central looks for in its recruits.”
“And a lot of good they’ll do me when Culpepper is belly-up under the Ospies’ boots.”
“Acherby needs agents too,” he said. “Ones who know this territory. After all, they’ll have to purge the current stable.”
Cordelia stopped with half her face smeared in cold cream and turned to look at him. “Sorry, are you trying to turn me Ospie?”
“It’s move with the herd or be trampled. And you’re a survivor, Cordelia.”
“What, like you?”
He smiled ruefully around his straight. “Oh no. I’m just a coward.”
She wiped her face clean and threw the cloth to the back of her makeup table. “I’ll have to think about it.” She didn’t like the idea, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. Leave town, maybe, and look for theatrical work somewhere farther south. Hyrosia, maybe. But she was an Amberlinian, born and raised, and Amberlough was what she knew. Still. “Working for the Ospies ain’t exactly a sunny proposition.”
“Understandable.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling.
Someone knocked on her dressing room door. Cyril’s head snapped around. When Cordelia got up to answer, he put his hand out. She waited. He moved to the wall beside the hinges and, to her horror, drew a snub-nosed revolver from the inside of his jacket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. He shook his head and tipped the short barrel of the gun toward the door. She pulled it open, hiding Cyril from whoever had knocked.