Occasionally, he brushed the drapes aside a pina, peeped through the crack. They’d gone from the broad, clean, well-paved lanes of Uptown to the winding labyrinth of the Dives, and before this was over, they’d be back Uptown again, back to the neat-trimmed shrubs and rows of townhouses and wrought-iron gates. And then –
Oes, then.
It’d been two days, and he was as ready as he could be. He'd practiced in the past, course, but it had never seemed like enough for Trevisani. He'd thought he'd have more time – he didn't know what he'd thought. But he reckoned that if he wasn’t the most Auntie he’d ever been at this thing, it’d all be for naught. That was the plan.
What else could he’ve done, now he’d caught the shark’s eye? So much riding on this little caoja – on his ability to perform at this caoja, oes – and not just for his own skin; so much hung on their ability to perform at this caoja, but he trusted Ava enough to know she wouldn’t be the weak link. Besides, she was playing a role she’d played before. The thought made him want to shrink back into his seat, but he kept sitting upright.
And sit upright he did. He kept his shoulders back, his knees slightly parted; he didn't think he'd slouched or crossed his legs in the last two days. The memory of Ava sitting on the couch across from him, playing Anatole for him in the lamplight, was seared into his mind. In the past two days, hed tried to feel it – in his squared shoulders, in the proud set of his weak jaw. He breathed and spoke from his diaphragm, and he used every centimeter of his voice, and he enunciated each syllable. In the past two days, he'd worn all of it like a mantle, awake, sleeping; he'd wrapped himself so tight in it that when he'd woken that morning, he'd forgot his own name.
He'd been to Anatole’s barber and, despite himself, had got his hair cut. It’d been cut and combed, the red curls wrangled into tidiness with great success. He was well-dressed, dark and neat, all waistcoat and silk shirt and well-tailored jacket, the fit too good for his comfort, too good to be Tom; all silver watch-fob and silk necktie, all – all laoso, he thought, trussed up in finery. The light flickered over the thin, freckled hands in his lap, and he felt a cold knot of disgust tighten in his stomach.
But there was no time for that, not now. He peered out the window. Settled back again. Shut his eyes. He hummed, deep in his throat; he practiced a soft, low laugh. He mouthed the words, An excellent mimic, drawling out each syllable, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
Then, almost without warning, the carriage rattled to a halt.
He sat very still. Knees slightly apart; shoulders back; jaw set. He felt like he was wearing a mask, and for a moment, he felt it was almost painful, the way it pulled at him. The door opened; someone was being helped into the cab. Light filtered round a shape.
All he saw was movement in the dark beside him; he couldn't quite turn his head to look. The door shut with a muffled thump. There was quiet, then, like a chasm, and the chirping of the crickets didn’t fill a sliver of it. The carriage roused itself like a sleepy beast and the wheels creaked to turn, and the box started jostling, jostling, again.
Like the cabin of a ship. What could he say? Hey, hey, he thought, junta, Ms. Weaver, far’ye; it was patronizing, and it would’ve been more for him than her. To remind him he still had his voice, when that was the last thing either of them needed. He wouldn’t make her do his godsdamn half of the job for him.
You all right? – empty; neither of them were, or both, or it didn’t matter – he respected her too much for that, and he wanted her to respect that he could do his job. That was the most important thing, now. There’d be time later, time to pick up the pieces and paste them back together.
After a moment, he said, “I was speaking with Incumbent Rousseau yesterday.” The sound of his voice surprised him; he cleared his throat, ignoring the sinking feeling in his guts. “He’s Pendulum, but he must not be –” He waved a hand. “He'd caught wind of this, and he was terribly curious. While I was dissuading him, he mentioned something – about an east library, not the big one, he said, close to the back of the house. He said he wandered in once and heard all manner of noises; he advised me to avoid the ghastly room.”
There was a hint of something in his voice; his lip twitched. Finally, he glanced over at Ava, pale eyes settling on her face. It was hard, for him at least, to make out much in the dark.
“Flooding clandestine, all this,” he murmured, bitter-dark, brushing the curtains with his fingertips. He said flooding like Anatole might have; it was bitter, too, in his mouth.