es, Mr. Vauquelin.
It wasn’t pleasure he felt; it was a damned familiar feeling, though, and it might’ve been just west of satisfaction. You give me a job, some part of him whispered.
For a second, he didn’t think Roumanille’d fallen for it; even with all he knew, a little dirty laundry wasn’t a death sentence, and he’d not a single clocking clue about the judge’s other connections. He might’ve been a King’s man, for all he knew. He wasn’t sure what in hell he’d’ve done if the lass had pushed harder, or worse, thrown a fit and gone to get her da.
She didn’t, though. Her eyes flicked shocked and sullen from him to Cerise, and she relented, in the end. And so it wasn’t quite satisfaction, though it was somewhere to the west of it; and it wasn’t at all pleasure, though there was an edge to it like the sanding of a thing smooth, like the tying of a knot.
When he looked over, Cerise was grinning, her face – so much like his – drake-sharp with it. The sight of it made him feel like maybe he’d made a mistake; the sight of it warmed him through.
That, he wanted to say when Cerise spoke again, one red eyebrow shooting up, was wholly unnecessary. Shall we, Father? she asked, and even if he’d had the will, he hadn’t the time to reply.
Cerise took a last drink of water. Then she was pulling Sish out, clawfuls of dirt and leaf and all, and turning on her heel, and going. Roumanille muttered something, and he looked after Cerise with her clipped-sharp gait and Sish in her arms.
He didn’t waste a moment more there; he couldn’t’ve, because Cerise was already halfway down the street, and he might’ve lost her. He didn’t even look at Roumanille. He brushed by, and if he heard the door to the cafe open behind him, he didn’t look over his shoulder. He just went.
He was a little breathless before he was halfway to catching up with her. You’re going in the wrong direction, he wanted to call after her. The street was snaking down, the breezes carrying stronger river-smells. Cerise walked like somebody in a fever, and he half-stumbled after her, down onto an even narrower street.
Are you all right? he wanted to ask again. He didn’t dare.
He remembered her grin; he remembered the blanch of her face, too, and the way she’d begun to look like all that held her up was invisible strings. Polluting the family line, he remembered. His head was a whirl.
His pulse was thundering in his ears. He knew he oughtn’t’ve stepped in, now; the memory of it felt like it had come from somebody else’s mind. He still felt it – that not-quite-satisfaction – and something about the strength of it turned his stomach, now; that he could still feel it made it almost worse. His throat felt dry, like he hadn’t spoken in months. He couldn’t even think of the Roumanilles back at Ato’gow. It felt like a dream he’d just woken up from, except the knowledge that it was real kept sinking through him like concrete, its sharp edges snagging and tearing as it went down.
And Cerise –
“Cerise,” he said, as soon as he had drawn even with her. He reached out, but he faltered; he knew better than to try and catch her by the shoulder. He didn’t have to.
I’m sorry, he got the oddest urge to say. I didn’t know it was that bad. Are you all right? There was nothing he could say that didn’t seem to him patronizing.
He caught his breath a moment, putting out a hand to lean against the wall. “You –” He coughed, and then something like a smile twitched across his face; it was tentative, and his brow was knit. “That was a damn good throw,” he blurted out, before he could say anything else. “I’m surprised you didn’t break Miss Roumanille’s jaw.”
She had asked him, he thought with a pang. She had asked him what she already knew. “I was,” he started, softer, the smile breaking. “Long enough to…” His fingers curled against the stucco; he swallowed.