[Closed] Pull Your Strings

[moralhazard]

Evening, 51st Roalis, 2719
The Ballroom of the Fassoulet Townhouse, Uptown

G
aldori spun beneath the glittering lights, jewels glinting with the splendor of it. Skirts caught the swell of the strings, flaring wise - dark coats hung steady between them, bowing in unison. A chandelier hung heavy and golden over it all, dripping extravagance over the dance floor.

The tune changed - softened - slowed. Couples broke apart and reformed; some left the floor, although not always the dance.

“Is it real, do you think?” Alessandra Darling shifted from foot to foot, lips pursing. She had never quite shed the Brunnhold nickname of Sandy, and if anything her light hair seemed to have grown blonder with age, threads of silver that she must have thought covered by her powder tucked up into a too-heavy updo. As if on cue, she brought her hand up to it, grimaced, and pulled it away, gesturing at the chandelier. “I mean, the diamonds.”

“Of course not,” Genevria said, dark red lips curving in a slow smile. “Cut glass. Well cut, naturally, but one can tell from the sparkle.”

“You’re sure?” Sandy squinted at the distant glitter. “Perhaps I should have brought my pince-nez.”

Genevria laughed, a rich tinkling sound, and Sandy laughed too, as if she had understood the joke. No, Genevria thought, pleased; no one would ever have guessed that she and the woman next to her had been year mates. Her long red hair was as bright as it had been at twenty, and as thick; it curled, straight and perfectly sleek, over her shoulders, trapped the light and shone it back out.

The party went on. Sandy fussed back to her husband; Genevria swished softly through the crowded ballroom of the Fassoulet’s townhouse, exchanging a smile here and a cool word there. She noted Humphrey Navarro’s new moustache, au currant if not so well suited for the shape of his face, and Lisabetta Taglioni’s bell-shaped dress, in glittering copper; a darling shade and shape, and so very forgiving.

Genevria wore ruby red; the summer’s fashion was for pale green, and she saw far too much of it sprinkled throughout the ballroom - like so many weeds, ripe for pruning. It was an insipid and uninspired, a fitting heir to the rainy season’s fashion for dark blue. Genevria had ignored both trends without hesitation, sweeping through the ballrooms of Vienda in the bright jewel tones that never quite went out of style - not if one wore them well.

Nor, of course, had Genevria ever been so crass as to wear an actual dress of Mugrobi design - except, naturally, for the ambassador’s birthday party, when to do otherwise would have been even more blatant. But she had instructed her tailor quite carefully, and the sheer panels on the shoulders and layered carefully over the arms gave the gown the best of the light, airy Mugrobi feel, without any of the vulgarity. The dress was drawn closed high on the throat, secured by a horrendously large ruby on a golden pin, the sort that would have looked grasping on any woman who could not wear it with confidence. On Genevria, it simply looked fitting.

The music had lowered to a subtle whisper beneath the chime of glasses and the hum of conversation; the dance floor was steadily emptying, the wiser of its occupants off to more interesting pursuits, leaving behind only those who did not know better. Genevria smiled at Darwen Obellard once again, her gaze flickering over the sharp cut of his vest. Yes, she thought; this was a man who was paying attention.

“And naturally,” Darwen continued, “with the new tariffs with Hesse being what they are-“

No, Genevria corrected herself, a faint hint of amusement curling the edges of her lips, this was a man whose valet was paying attention. She made a note of it; she was sure she knew a fool or two who would be glad for the tip. “It sounds so terribly complicated,” she murmured, her lips pursing together ever so slightly, taking a soft sip of glittering gold champagne through gently parted lips.

Darwen chuckled, drawing himself up. “Well, you needn’t worry, Mrs. Trevisani. So long as gold prices don’t increase!”

They both laughed then, although not at the same thing.

Genevria let herself swim on the tides of the crowd, buoyant and light. It was a little game she liked to play towards the middle of a party, when one had already greeted everyone important, but not yet seen all the rest, when whatever amusements the evening might hold were still waiting to be revealed. She greeted Percival Gallagher with a gentle brush of the edges of her fingers against his arm, and waited while he fetched her another glass of something sparkling and light; she promised him a smile that meant nothing, and floated away once more, not so aimless as to quite be wandering, but rather letting the crush take her where it would.

The tides seemed to part, and she was left face to face with an unexpected partner in the odd little dance of the evening. Genevria smiled, eyes glittering like the cut-glass chandelier not too distant. “Anatole,” Genevria tilted her head ever so slightly to the side, a rich warmth suffusing her voice. “How unexpectedly delightful.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Fassoulet Ballroom • Uptown

Evening on the 51st of Roalis, 2719

We missed you,” he was saying, “at Pierre’s dinner –”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Anatole’s hand found Dr. Lévesque’s shoulder, somehow. It was less a blur or a haze, more a riot of sound and light, like every little chatter or laugh or caprise was vying for his attention. He forced himself to focus on Lévesque’s face – Claude? Claude Lévesque? – and when he took his hand away, he began again, “You must tell me, Claude: how is Marie? I haven’t, ah –”

Tom felt breathless, suddenly. Like some flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t do much good; he’d lost his train of thought. Godsdamn, but he’d got out of practice, and he couldn’t remember.

But Claude smiled, smiled that rabbit’s smile down at him. “Much improved, much – much improved. It saddens me you could not see her, but I fear tonight would have simply been too much. We are having a luncheon in a week and a half, and you absolutely must…” A flicker of something passed over the younger towhead’s face. “Are you quite all right?”

“Quite,” murmured Anatole, passing a hand over his brow, “quite all right. It’s only –”

Lévesque was already clicking his tongue. “I’ve been telling you for months, Anatole, that you need only say so, and – well – Arushi is very good, and Marie’s recovery has been galloping apace,” he said, his voice grown more hushed, words coming more quickly.

The incumbent’s hand was still at his brow, massaging his left temple; his eye was all a-twitch. His other hand was shaky, for just a moment – it jittered, champagne jumping to the rim of the flute, glinting with refracted light.

He shook his head, recovered himself as best he could. Turned a thin twist of a smile on Dr. Lévesque, raised a hand. “I’m very well, thank you. But perhaps – I have paid my respects to the ambassador, and it may be time for me to take my leave,” he said, apologetic enough.

Lévesque bowed a deep galdor bow, and he followed suit. There was a trick to it, bowing golly-low without spilling your drink. He’d got the hang of it, he thought. “I hope to see you in a scorenight,” came Claude’s voice, and he said something – something affirmative – as if he weren’t leaving town; soon as he moved away, the exchange was slipping from his mind.

There were things you could do.

It was funny, the weight of that glass in his hand, and not in a good way; they didn’t stay full long, in Tom’s experience, and a full glass was like an itch you hadn’t scratched yet. Especially in a place like this, when you needed a buzz the most. A buzz, at the very least. A full glass was a means to an end, a saving grace, a first sip you looked forward to when there wasn’t anything else. You met a full glass at the beginning of the night, or you met a full glass when you’d already had one or three.

But a full glass was a means to an end, and it was one of the things you could do. First time he’d tried it, he’d thought somebody’d notice. Anybody. Turned out, one of the other things you could do was move around, and keep moving around: nobody could tell – leastways, that was the hope – if you didn’t talk with them long enough to finish a drink. You gestured with it, moved it around, maybe put it close enough to your face that they’d swear they could remember you taking a drink.

Most of all, if you already had a drink in your hand, nobody could get one for you. Nobody’d say a damn word about it, for the most part. Being honest, it’d seemed counterintuitive, at first; Tom hadn’t thought he could trust himself to hold a drink and not do anything with it. This was the way, though. If you had just enough willpower to hold it and keep it away from your lips, you were set.

On the other hand, the Fassoulet ballroom was a dizzying whirl, and Tom’s head ached like the vengeful dead. He didn’t think it’d been this bad in a long time, or maybe he’d forgot. Everywhere he looked, color and motion. Everywhere he looked, splotches of pale green, ruffles shivering. Green like sick. Above, those chandeliers like smashed glass windows mid-flight, suspended. But the windows themselves were tall and dark, like slabs of obsidian, and they might as well have been walls.

He kept moving, moving. He held onto this or that with his mind, as long as he could. His hip hurt; his lower back hurt; they whispered to him to sit down, but he couldn’t, because then there was Belle Charbonneau, asking after Diana, introducing him to Edmund Poirier, who was visiting from Brunnhold; then, of course, Plourde and his mole, and then someone else he didn’t know –

A sheaf of red hair, catching the light like silk, a red dress, the flash of one mant flooding ruby. It was that ruby his eye caught on first, before it crept up to her smooth, fine-featured face. A perceptive field. His name. Unexpectedly delightful. He blinked, face blank for only a second, maybe two.

He fit that thin smile to Anatole’s face again; he tried to banish his weariness. “Ah!” By now, he made that laugh without thinking; he felt it rumble up from his diaphragm, hum in his throat. “I was wondering,” he said, “if I would see you here this evening.”

For what must’ve been the hundredth time, he swept a polite bow. When he rose up, he tried to look – happy to see her? Ne, ne, not too happy; half-happy, maybe, polite-happy, something like that. He didn’t like that warm flush in her voice, and he wondered how he was supposed to know her. It was best not to look too happy, when a woman greeted you all warm-like. Not if you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He felt a funny prickling at the back of his neck, but he elected to ignore it. Not much further, now. He got through this, he could dust.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 51st Roalis, 2719
The Ballroom of the Fassoulet Townhouse, Uptown

R
umors of Anatole’s field, Genevria noted, had not been greatly exaggerated. Donahue had described it as a snarl; Penelope had laughed, and said no, it was like nails on a chalkboard. A shame, Genevria thought, that whatever incident had caused it could not have killed the old fool outright. A shame that the mona had taken pity on him, and had left him with the opportunity to repent and rebuild.

Genevria caprised him gently, curiously; her own, sleek, well-ordered perceptive field mingled curiously at the edges of his own. Like a carriage wreck; one could not look away, but neither would it to do linger too long, or to go to deep into such misery. She eased her field back and away, and if the caprision was a bit deeper than for a mere acquaintance – well, it was only natural to be curious, was it not? None of the discomfort of the encounter showed on her face; she kept her smile warm and friendly.

“Were you?” Genevria asked, smiling still, one eyebrow lifting gently. “I had heard you were much recovered.”

There was, Genevria thought casually, only one reason Anatole might have been hoping to see her, or only one that she could think of. She had been rather clear, seven years ago – it had been seven, had it not? Yes, Genevria thought; quite a long time, more than long enough for a man to grow restless, to regret the choices he had made. After a period of illness, perhaps…? Would such things make one long for the familiar, the comfortable, or year to shed them like so much dead skin?

He did look rather recovered; rumors had had him a decrepit wretch of a man, hardly more than skin and bones, shaky and fatigued. He looked old, naturally. It took some men that way; they looked young and vibrant for years, until abruptly it caught up with them, all at one. The better ones seemed to know how to avoid it – or, perhaps, it just had not come for them yet, but it would, in time. Either way, it had come for Anatole.

He was not so poorly dressed; he wore much the same fashions he had always favored. Well, he had always preferred the familiar. And yet… he had wanted to speak to her, tonight.

She had told Anatole, all those years ago, that he would regret his choices. She hoped now that he did; perhaps she would yield, if he begged enough. Perhaps. She thought Anatole could afford her forgiveness, if he were so inclined, but she would not let it come cheap. He had not made any effort to approach her at her home, at any of the houses, or at Pendulum; perhaps he had thought she would be gentler with him, if he did it publically. The fool.

Well, Genevria thought; there was little point in beating around the bush. She had never liked Anatole, and the sooner they got to business, the sooner they might conclude it. He could hardly have expected that she would get down to the heart of it in the middle of a party? Perhaps he could, but certainly she would not oblige him.

“And your little bird?” Genevria asked. “Is she still well? It has been a long time.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Fassoulet Ballroom • Uptown

Evening on the 51st of Roalis, 2719

Curiouser and clocking curiouser, but Tom felt worn down to his bones, and he just wanted to go home – or whatever served as home now. Open up the window in the study, curl up in the seat, try to fall asleep with the late Roalis breeze ruffling his hair. Maybe read, if he could focus through his headache. He’d’ve given anything just then to be gone from this godsdamn ballroom, to dump the rest of that champagne and not look at another bottle or glass for the rest of the night. He’d’ve given more to throw in the towel and take a drink, but that was why.

Still, it wasn’t too hard to keep that out of his face and his mien. The woman in red caprised his field slow and polite, like gentle fingers probing a laoso bruise. That perceptive field, he thought again, smooth and slick as silk, and he fought down a shiver that threatened to rattle through him. He thought her caprision might’ve lingered longer than a stranger’s, and he wondered again, exhausted, how he was supposed to know her.

He was going through his options when she replied, lifting one perfect eyebrow. Coquettish, almost, but – something. Her smile, her manner, was still warm and friendly. That prickling at the back of his neck, again: watch it.

Tom hummed with another laugh, deep in his chest; he kept that bemused, thin smile on her. “I was indeed. I am quite recovered, thank you.”

He kept his back Anatole-straight; he found one hand curled neatly behind his back, the other gesturing delicately with the flute of champagne. Like he’d been taught, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t hard, not anymore. Not even after his trip to the Rose. There was something comfortable about keeping his shoulders back, despite the ache. Something natural about keeping his hand there, dignified-like; being honest, at this point, he wasn’t sure where else to put it. Where would he have put it before?

The woman spoke again, the rich waterfall of her hair shivering, catching the light with its coppery sheen. The words she said didn’t make sense, at first, but she’d said then so casually that he felt like he ought to know exactly what she meant.

“Ah, my little bird,” he repeated neutrally. His lip quirked.

Little bird? The word “bird” filled Tom’s mind with the thought of hawks and sparrows, coin flowing along the Vein, of upping an ante. The image was so out of place here that he couldn’t help the faint amused look on his face. He shook those thoughts away fair quick, of course, turned his mind to Uptown things.

For a moment, he was at a loss. She didn’t mean a literal bird; he wasn’t that mung. (Maybe Anatole’d had a flooding parakeet? Havakda.) It struck him like something from a rhyme, some riddle for bochi. Maybe a name for a lover, but Diana didn’t seem like a little bird. Anatole’s girls, maybe? But that didn’t seem right; he wasn’t too close with either of them, and he didn’t know how this woman’d know them. It had to be Diana, then. Some pet name Tom had never heard.

It was strange enough, but Tom reckoned he could go with it. “She is more than well. In fact, she asked after you very recently,” he added, feeling more confident. “Hence – well – coincidences abound, this evening. But how have you been? It’s been so long.”

It had been a long time, the woman’d said; it had been a long time since she’d seen Diana. It’d been a long time since she’d seen Anatole, too, by Tom’s reckoning: he hadn’t seen her in the past seven months, leastways. He held onto that. Not long now, he thought, not long.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 51st Roalis, 2719
The Ballroom of the Fassoulet Townhouse, Uptown

T
here was a little smile that flickered across Anatole’s face – pleased, and amused, a subtle shade of difference from his usual thin-lipped almost sneer. It was the smile of a man thinking of something private, something that amused him. Genevria watched the smile flicker and fade away, curiously, wondering what he was thinking of; it didn’t seem like a man who had come with the purpose she’d thought of. It didn’t fit, not quite, and he had never been a terribly good actor.

Well, Genevria thought, she supposed it made sense after all. Anatole, after his illness, back to all his usual habits, his usual pleasures. Back to the comfortable, the familiar. Men, Genevria thought, and it was very nearly a challenge to resist the urge to sigh. Just when she thought one might surprise her. She really have ought to known better, by now.

“Very well, thank you,” Genevria said, smiling. Now this was unexpected; she felt a tingle of sudden interest, of something like curiosity. So long, Anatole said, with a confident little weight to it; as if he meant to challenge her again. She had not been challenged in a long time; he had not been the latest, of course, but she did think he had been the latest to succeed. And yet, if he were still happy – what more could he possibly have want?

Or was it something that she wanted? Hard to imagine, but then – Anatole had always been rather susceptible. Sad, really, that he had not thought better of his weakness in the days of his recovery. But even so… no, it couldn’t be. He must have had his own reasons for this. There must be something else that he wanted, something more.

Genevria could hardly fathom it – and that was rare indeed, these days. She could not quite think of the last time she had been so surprised. She did not, of course, let it show; she did not let any of the thoughts swirling underneath penetrate the smooth, cool mask of her face. Strong emotions did age one so; best to avoid them, or, if one could not avoid them entirely, best at least to pretend one did.

“There is always so much to do,” Genervia said, with something like a little sigh, cool and delicate, tinkling through the air. “One’s little diversions make all the difference, don’t they?”

Genevria paused, as if thinking it over still, and let the seconds tick by – one, two, three – as if the idea had not come to her immediately, as if she were not intrigued by his little hint – as if she were not faintly outraged by the audacity of it, in a way that she had to admit delighted her. What did he want? She really could not fathom it, and she could think of only one way to find out. It was a strange little game, the one he seemed to want to play. Genevria supposed it would be wiser to walk away; she had lingered here a moment or two too long already, although one could naturally be forgiven for catching up with a man so recently recovered from such a dreadful illness.

And yet…

“I’ve a lovely idea,” Genevria said, and let her teeth shine through red lips. “Why don’t the both of you come to Pendulum on the fifty fourth? It’s been so long since we’ve seen you there,” she smiled a little wider. “I'm hosting a little event – something private, naturally. Intimate. You’ll fit right in.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Fassoulet Ballroom • Uptown

Evening on the 51st of Roalis, 2719

Thank the clocking Circle.

What a strange woman. She didn’t respond to his talk of Diana – not directly, leastways, which struck him funny, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. He could feel something significant’d passed between them, but, as usual, he was helpless to define it; he was too tired to look too hard at it, ’cause even if looking might yield some kind of answer, he’d no godsdamn clue where to look. The important thing was the smile that lit up her face, smooth and polite as ever. He reckoned that meant he’d said the right thing.

So, more and more confident, he smiled his thin-lipped not-a-smile back. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, kept holding his champagne.

This chip, he thought suddenly, probably’d had some spat with Diana, and that was what this was about. It was what he’d said about Diana asking after her. It could’ve been a thinly-veiled insult, a reference to whatever Diana’d actually said about her; it could’ve been a gormless husband’s attempt to smooth things over, to get through an awkward meeting with his rosh’s off-and-on ballroom nemesis without causing any casualties by proxy. That had to be it, he was sure. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more he felt his nerves settle.

If her next words surprised him, he didn’t let on. His left eye twitched slightly, just a flicker, at one’s little diversions, Anatole’s old tic. Tom swallowed, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raise up again. But his smile only got more thinly pleasant, more politely, snidely cheery. He thought of some empty words. “Naturally,” he replied, “what with the bustle of rainy season, and now the business with Mugroba. One needs something to get one through, mmm?”

There was a pause, though it wasn’t a long enough one to be awkward. It was a polite pause, a pause that should’ve been pleasant, thoughtful. It was not a pause that allowed you to excuse yourself. Tom stood in that pause, swearing he could hear a clock ticking in his head – one, two, three – how many seconds? – watching the red-haired woman’s face, with its smooth, macha smile, wondering why she was keeping him, wondering what he’d have to do to get permission to leave.

An opportunity presented itself, then, in the parting of her red-painted lips and the flash of her straight white teeth and her lovely idea. Tom was so relieved to hear a note of conclusion in her voice – a note of, one last thing, and you can go, – that he hardly cared what she was saying. It was like the scrape of fingernails on an old blackboard just to let her finish, though he knew he didn’t dare interrupt.

The Pendulum. Tom blinked. Despite himself, something like keen interest entered his expression. Some dusty gears in his head’d started turning again. This was an opportunity, he thought, if he could only just - focus. Well, there’d be time to focus himself later; he’d been invited, and he’d go to this thing with Diana. He’d get himself sorted before he went, maybe reconvene with Ava. Make a plan.

“What a fine idea.” Tom restrained himself, still. No excitement. He drawled the words out slow, keeping Anatole’s deep voice smooth. “A fine idea,” he repeated, “indeed. I haven’t been to the Pendulum in ages, and I’m certain she’ll be more than pleased to see you again.”

Something private, naturally. Intimate. The galdor’s eyes glittered, he thought, like broken glass. Like the chandeliers. There was a piece he was missing. Private, intimate. He’d fit right in.

“You may expect us there,” he said nevertheless, warm, but not too warm.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 51st Roalis, 2719
The Ballroom of the Fassoulet Townhouse, Uptown

"W
onderful,” Genevria said, smiling pleasantly beneath the glittering lights. "The festivities should start around 25 o'clock." She took a small sip from the glass in her hand. More than pleased, she thought to herself, amused. Had Anatole actually developed a sense of humor? It was rather hard to fathom. And if not – what was driving him, here?

But despite herself, Genevria felt a faint thrill at Anatole’s acceptance of her offer. She could not quite see what he was driving at; she could not quite understand what he meant by his mention of Mugroba, of all things. Had his illness so addled his brains? Or, perhaps – just perhaps – had it sharpened him? She studied the worn, gaunt lines of his face, so terribly aged, and wondered if further secrets lay beneath.

It was, Genevria thought, the most excitement she’d had in simply ages. The nerve of him, to approach her at a party like this! There was, of course, something delightful about playing these little games in public, but one did grow tired of the foreplay rather quickly; Genevria congratulated herself on finding an appropriate solution. Pendulum was rather the perfect setting for all of this.

“Genevria,” Percival Gallagher was hurrying back towards her, a bright look on his narrow, pinched face. There was something faintly stupid shining in his eyes, an almost wet sort of look beneath all the Twemlaugh he had drank. He paused, hovering, and bowed politely to Anatole. There was a faint jerkiness to the motion, a faint look of poorly hidden distaste that flickered over his face at the brush of Anatole’s field, and the physical mona within it shied away from the incumbent's. “Ah, Incumbent Vauquelin. If I might – borrow Mrs. Trevisani?”

Normally, Genevria thought, she would need to discourage such behavior, but an easy parting from Anatole was welcome, just now. She smiled over her shoulder at the towheaded galdor, and turned back to Anatole, cocking her head ever so slightly to the side. “Unexpectedly delightful, Anatole,” she had not bowed when he first greeted her, but she did now, a delicate easing at the waist, smooth; the liquid in her glass did not so much as twitch.

With that, Genevria settled her hand into the crook of Percival’s waiting arm, and let him draw her away, back into the crush, without so much as a look back over her shoulder. The sour look on his face faded; he was prattling on about some duel taking place outside, wet and eager, insisting that she simply could not miss it. Genevria laughed as appropriate, a low, soft sort of laughter that rose up above the din of the party, for just a moment hovering in the air.

Yes, Genevria thought, best pleased, one never could quite predict what amusements an evening might hold. Tonight’s had been odd, to be sure, but she had to admit she rather looked forward to the night of the fifty fourth.

[Tom Cooke]

The Fassoulet Ballroom • Uptown

Evening on the 51st of Roalis, 2719

Twenty-five o’clock, he thought to himself, twenty-five o’clock, willing it to stick. Twenty-five, fifty-four. Gods, but he was tired. He couldn’t think of much else, seeing the woman take a delicate sip of her champagne, wanting nothing more than to do the same. His headache throbbed rhythmically through his skull, now, and it felt like the crowd buzzed and swelled and chattered and laughed in time with it. But he could leave soon, and he’d got far more than he’d expected. He’d send a note to Ava tonight, he thought, or in the morning, letting her know he’d got the invite, letting her know he’d go and see what he could sniff out –

“Genevria,” said a familiar voice.

Right off, Tom didn’t understand. Swallowing dryly, he looked round. Cold fingers walked their way up his back, even underneath the too-many-flooding-layers of his shirt and his waistcoat and his jacket. There were always fields brushing his, perceptive, physical, quantitative, even clairvoyant, here or there. Gollies everywhere: wherever he looked, he saw the sheen on red hair, pale, delicate faces. So many of them were women.

A physical field suddenly doetoed round his, and he half-turned. Percival Gallagher, he thought; that’d been the voice, too. Mung toffin. He had his eyes set on the woman like a needy dog, and he was edging his way into their space, edging round Tom’s porven like you’d tiptoe through detritus. He was, Tom thought, asking for a Mrs. Trevisani, but Tom suddenly couldn’t think.

“Of course,” murmured Anatole, faux-cheerily; “I have kept her for too long already.”

Genevria Trevisani bowed at the middle with a shiver of hair like red silk; she bowed at the middle, and she didn’t wrinkle that benny fabric in her dress, and the thread-thin foamy line of champagne in her glass barely wobbled. Familiar, seemed to Tom. Not a wrinkle. Just a little dip of a bow, delicate-like. Not a wrinkle in her dress.

“Benea light your path, Mrs. Trevisani.” He let out a delicate little hum of a laugh.

Tom felt his mouth moving, felt the words bubbling up from his diaphragm, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from saying them; he barely knew what he was saying. He felt like he’d got possessed – the other way round, this time. He stood fair still, half-smiling, almost-sneering, looking faintly satisfied, he thought, if he was any judge of how his face felt. It felt frozen.

Despite the cold sweat beading between his shoulder-blades, he felt the urge to tear at his collar. He skimmed the ground with his eyes. He couldn’t find her again; he couldn’t even find the bald spot on the crown of Gallagher’s head.

My little bird. Something to get one through. His stomach lurched dangerously; something tingling and dark pressed at the edges of his eyes, washed his vision watery-dark, ebbed and left a swarm of floaters. More than frozen, his face felt numb, a stiff mask. He was conscious of the fact that he’d been standing in his spot for awhile, but he didn’t know how long.

Some living mona mingled, careful-like, with his field, pulsing gently. He felt a presence pressing in at hs elbow, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn. “Anatole,” said a familiar voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it; they were all familiar, but none of them ever stuck. There were so many of them, after all. All the time. “Anatole, how – oh – are you quite all right? Forgive me,” said the voice, then paused, then continued – “you look quite pale,” said the voice.

“Ah. Hmm.” Another hum of a laugh, like clockwork.

He felt a paw on his arm, a pat on his back. He didn’t know when he’d started walking, but he was being floated through the crowd, now, toward some quieter corner, and there was still some kov at his arm, just a jumble of features, just some light in a lick of blond curls. He turned his head once, caught eyes like amber. “It is paramount that you avoid overexertion,” the voice went on. “It’s this Roalis heat, and then all these people. You must let me speak with Dr. Arushi for you; you simply must. He is the best in the Six Kingdoms for this sort of thing…”

The voice went on, and on, and on. Tom’s churning stomach began to settle; his buzzing head began to quiet. A note, he thought. He had to clear room in his head. Wouldn’t do to be weak. Not now. A note, he thought. When? Tonight, at the latest. He had to get a note out.

Diversions, he thought, and he felt something in him tilt, and he knew he couldn’t think about it. He felt a sting of awful guilt, and he couldn’t dwell on that, either. Wouldn’t do to be weak. You give me a job.

“– of course, we shall see how it progresses,” continued Dr. Lévesque.

Anatole laid a hand on his shoulder. “I look forward to seeing her in good health, Claude,” he murmured, with just enough of a smile. “Now – you’ll forgive me – I’m feeling much more myself, but I really must retire.”

“Of course, of course. I will see you there,” said Claude, raising his pale brows.

“Naturally.”

“Be well, Anatole.”

“Mm.”

You give me a job, he was thinking as he wove back through the crowd, steadier on his feet. The thundering in his head wasn’t any better, but something like anger was winding its way up through him. Anger at himself, oes – plenty. And the thought of Genevria Trevisani’s face – he couldn’t think. He had to check himself, that his hand didn’t shake on the flute, that he didn’t dash champagne on the next golly in his way. But he didn’t have to check himself to keep from drinking it.