When the life crept back into her eyes, he found himself forgetting about it. Now, he was perched on the edge of the seat, leaning in to listen despite himself. To have something to do with his hands, if nothing else, he took his teacup back from the table; he ran one fingertip around the rim absently.
At the news that they’d parted ways two years ago, his eyes widened faintly. A few of the pieces slid together in his head. As he rose to your – position – Tom suddenly thought about D’Arthe and Azmus and all those other faces sitting around the table, reminded again of the looming threat of Hamis; he felt the pulse of somebody else’s heart in his throat. In what circles had he suddenly risen? What did all this mean? It was like a tapestry full of holes, but he was starting to make out the shadow of an image.
A guilty –
“Oh,” he breathed without meaning to, a timid little noise. She didn’t finish that phrase. He nearly fumbled his teacup.
Suddenly, Ava got up. Out of instinct – forgetting himself entirely – Tom rose, too, setting the cup back on the table with an awkward clatter and starting to move. Then he froze. He stayed quiet as he watched her turn and take a few steps away. The sight of her fingers curled tight around the fabric of her skirts, the bowed line of her shoulders – he opened his mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut.
Her breath caught, and so did his. To his surprise, he realized she’d let out a sob. He stood silently, fingertips trembling on the arm of the chair, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was sitting or standing. Then he sank back down. Tears prickled at the edges of his own eyes; there was wetness down both of his cheeks, and though he burned with embarrassment, he knew it was pointless to wipe them away. His fingers curled tightly around the upholstery on the arm of the chair.
“’Course, ’course.” He tried to sound light and easy, but his voice came out shaky, too-high. “If you want me t’ go an’ come back another time,” he offered, “or –” Tom broke off, looking down at the teapot and milk and sugar situated neatly on the tray, at the two half-full cups opposite each other on either side. Finally, he wiped at his face with a palm, sniffing and wincing at the sound. He shook his head. “I been goin’ so long, I forgot. A stranger askin’ you all these questions, when – hell, maybe you had questions for me. We don’t got to do nothin’ right now, nothin’ you don’t want to. Nothin’ but sit an’ drink tea.”
The bitterness of the tea clung to his mouth with its faint, pleasant twist of spices. Their names swirled around in his head; he found himself repeating them like a mantra to calm himself: cinnamon, cardamom, orange peel... It was a little on the bitter side, but he didn’t mind. He couldn’t help but feel like his life had carved him into a blunt weapon, and here, damn him, he needed to be anything but. He’d got so swept up in the news that he’d forgot the two of them had not long ago been standing opposite each other at the counter, trembling like brittle branches in the wind, just on the verge of breaking.
No, he thought. This wasn’t the time for clocking reconnaissance. For right now, this business was for the hatchers. In the surreal, warm space of the back room, Uptown Vienda might as well have been Anhau. Right now, he wasn’t much in the mood to hear about what Anatole’d been up to, either; there’d be time for all that rubbish later, when both of them felt more up to it. Even getting used to it – what she’d so elegantly called this – either of them – was going to be an uphill battle, if it was one that could be won at all. Start small, he thought, taking a deep breath.
“It’s a clockin’ mess, I know,” he said softly. “Let it be a mess. It’s all right, rosh. Feel whatever you’re feelin’.”