“Do you have a moment?” Ari lounged in the doorway, draped in silk. Transparent with sweat, it stuck in places to his skin. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” She didn’t give ground. “Can it wait a minute? I got company.”
He arched one finely sculpted eyebrow. “But I just passed Tory in the hall. And Malcolm’s t-t-tied up with punters.”
“I’m a busy girl.”
“I’m sure you—” He froze, staring over her shoulder. She turned, and saw a sliver of Cyril’s reflection in her makeup mirror. Just the edge of his shoulder, the back of his head. In Ari’s place, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
He shoved her aside and came in, shutting the door and leaning against it in lieu of a lock.
“Plague and pesteration,” he said, and Cordelia wondered where he’d picked up the northern curse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“No one saw me.”
“If you’re so sure, why are you waving that around?” Aristide cast a look at the gun like it was a dead and stinking wharf rat.
“No one who?” asked Cordelia. “What’s going on?”
“Just a precaution,” said Cyril, holstering the revolver. Then, “I’ll leave you two. Cordelia, think about what I said?”
Ari looked sharply between them. Cordelia gave him nothing. “I told you I would. But why the snubby? Who’s after you?”
Cyril shook his head. “This isn’t one of those things you need to know.”
“Holy stones,” said Aristide. “I think you might tell her enough to keep her out of trouble. Since you’re so worried about her safety.”
“Am I gonna end up scratched?” Cordelia asked, hands on her hips.
Cyril squirmed under her scrutiny, and turned pleadingly toward Ari. “They wouldn’t use her—”
“I’m right rotten here,” she snapped. “Cyril, am I in some kind of danger?”
“It’s possible Culpepper has some foxes out for my blood. I don’t think they’d use you to get to me, but just look over your shoulder every now and then. And if you go out alone, let someone know where you’re headed.”
“Mother’s tits,” she said. “I knew something like this would happen.”
“You’ll be fine,” he insisted, arrowing a sharp glance in Ari’s direction. “Cordelia, the people who are looking for me … they know what my sticking points are. And—no offense—you aren’t one of them.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said, ready to ask who was. But midway through an outsized eye roll, she caught Ari sneering. The expression didn’t quite cover the faint, dusky blush on his high cheekbones.
“Cyril,” he said, “get out. And do try not to get yourself k-k-killed.”
Cyril took his hat from Cordelia’s makeup table, tipped it to Ari, and pulled it low over his eyebrows. He was gone without another word.
After a weighty moment of quiet, Cordelia turned to Ari. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”
His lips drew into a thin, frustrated line. “Let’s leave it for later, shall we? Get dressed and get your things together. I’ll take you home.”
“Ari, I grew up in the Mew. I can watch my own ass.”
“I know,” he said. “But please, give me the satisfaction of seeing someone safely to their door.”
*
The next afternoon, when she showed up at the Bee, the whole place was roaring like a kicked hive—funny, that comparison. She collared Garlande, who was still dressed, and asked what the trouble was.
“You mean you don’t know?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Mother and sons, I don’t think you oughta hear it from me.”
“Come on, Landy.” Her stomach had gone sour with fear. “What’s got everybody in such a fret?”
But Garlande just shook her head. “Ask Malcolm, if you’re still talking to him. Or Ari if you can stand it.” She turned her back and ran off before Cordelia could shake out an explanation.
Suddenly apprehensive, she kept on down the corridor until she came to Malcolm’s office. The door was clogged with a crowd, all shouting and hissing and waving their hands.
“What are we supposed to do instead?” demanded the new tit singer—Mal’d brought on a contentious contralto after he sacked Thea. “What kind of act are you gonna slip in? We haven’t got anything.”
“Do you run this show?” Malcolm thundered, from the depths of his burrow. “No! So I’ll thank you to swallow your tongue. Choke on it if you like. Liesl!”
The conductor, at the edge of the mob, started and dove in. Whatever Malcolm had to say to her got lost in the hubbub.
One of the chorus dancers spotted Cordelia and went white. He elbowed his friend, who gaped, then turned to whisper into the ear of the mime. Within seconds, the whole lot of her cast mates had gone quiet and blanched as a bunch of boiled potatoes.
“What’s got all of you so pinched?” she asked, holding her purse to her chest. Something was dead wrong here. Bad wrong.