Constable Inspector Delacore,
I’m aware that it hasn’t been long since you’ve heard from us, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that your recent dining experience with Diana and I was less than typical (or enjoyable, unfortunately). I will not patronize you with an apology, because an apology is not enough, and there is little I – or anyone – can do. I’m afraid I’m a man of fewer words than I used to be, and I hope you’ll forgive me for my brevity.
If you are still receptive to my offer, please send a letter to the enclosed address. For the next week, I will be out of Vienda on business. If, on my return, you would like to initiate the partnership we discussed, you need only say so. If not, I will not disturb you again.
-A. Vauquelin
Fucking benny, Cecily,” said Tom. The candlelight flickered over the passive’s face; even this close, he couldn’t puzzle out her expression, couldn’t make heads or tails of the tense, thin press of her lips. It was something like a twitchy smile. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but then hesitated, hovered – let it fall back to his side. Instead, he just said, “Benny. Great.”
They were in the incumbent’s study; Cecily was sitting in his chair, hands folded in her lap, finished with her work. Tom was behind her, one hand on the back of the chair and the other twitching at his side, peering over her shoulder. The letter sat before them, the still-wet ink glistening in the warm light. There was another piece of parchment a little to one side, more than a little crumpled and covered in a very different hand –
Constable Inspector Delacore,
I know it hasnt been Im aware you heard from us recently and Id be remiss if I didnt acknowlege that your dining experience
That was where Tom had given up.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“I’ve always –” Cecily’s shoulders drew up around her ears. She turned her face away from him; the candlelight shivered shadows over her face, caught gossamer highlights in her red hair. “I just – well. Sir. I, er. I’ve just always been good at it, sir. If that’s not –”
“It’s fine. It’s more than fine.” He tried to offer her a smile, though he knew by now it wouldn’t do any good. The best thing he could do, he reckoned, was move away. So that’s what he did: his hand slipped off the back of the chair and he slipped away, silent, padding through the dark toward the window, where Osa and Benea made the frost glow and illuminated the wood paneling in ghostly white.
“Thank you, sir. Am I dismissed, sir?”
He turned a little. She was tiny next to the great wooden desk, head down and face pitted with shadows. “Of course,” he replied, trying to sound easy. Nonchalant. “You can come and go as you please, hey? Now, I mean. I don’t bite. Though I’d be fair grateful if you’d help me out with this again – in the future. If you could.”
“Whenever you wish, sir,” she said, standing up carefully. She bustled out of the room without another word, stiff-backed, stiff-necked as if frightened to look over her shoulder.
“Only for that,” he called after her, feeling like an idiot. “Not for – I mean, just for that.” He bit his lip hard, staring at the empty door, then turned back to the window. His hands twitched; he wrung them, not sure what else to do with them. “Clock the fucking Circle,” he whispered. “What did you do, Anatole?”
After the clocking mess of that dinner, he was surprised she’d agreed so readily; now, here he was, standing outside of a nondescript door in a nondescript hall after having stood on a nondescript landing, shivering in the cold, bracing himself against whatever was to come. An image of the constable hung in his mind, a sort of shuddering double-vision: a strangely awkward woman in a pantsuit, looking uncomfortable with galdor formality; and a woman in green, cold as the Ophus wind, staring down a barmaid with violence in her blue eyes. Both of them perfectly coiffed, perfectly made up. What did it mean?
But in a strange way, she was like a lifeline to him. Something about the way she’d talked about the mona earlier that month had given him pause. It was like she’d shrugged off some mantle she always wore, if only a little. He’d seen something then – something he almost wished he hadn’t seen. Gollies weren’t human, but he didn’t know how else to say it. In that moment, the constable had seemed almost human to him.
Funny, that. Fair mung. He wasn’t even human anymore.
He’d piled on the layers, wearing his thick coat, his scarf drawn up around his nose and his hat covering his red hair; it hadn’t been hard to get around Uptown unnoticed and alone, especially in this weather, when nobody who wasn’t bang moony wanted to be out taking a stroll. He’d slipped in the ice once or twice on his way over. The whole world felt blanketed in it now: the sky was white, the ground was white, the walkways were dusted; it lay thick on the awnings of the shops, and icicles dangled from the eaves of the townhouses. It was quiet.
Now, inside, his gloved fist hovered over the door. He drew in a breath, swallowing thickly – was that the beginning of a sore throat? He frowned deeply underneath his scarf. Then, with another shuddering breath, and another, then –
Knock, knock.
He pulled his scarf down around his chin and took off his hat, tucking it under an arm. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. His fingers were numb to the knuckle.