Ink Blood Sister Scribe, page 8
Maram moved deliberately into his field of vision and raised a single dark eyebrow. She was a small, sturdy woman with golden-brown skin and black hair now showing some gray, and often dressed in similar shades—tawny silk blouses, long camel coats, onyx earrings in silver bevels. Tonight she was in umber brocade and a black silk wrap. This color palette gave her the overall impression of a sepia-toned photograph, a person in perpetual pose, and her face was arranged now in a snapshot Nicholas knew well: the line etched above her oft-raised brow, the slight smile, the steady gaze.
“‘Fake’ is inaccurate,” she said, always a stickler for semantics.
“Fleeting, then,” said Nicholas.
“Everything in life is fleeting,” she intoned, though Nicholas could hear the smile in her voice; she knew how he despised hackneyed philosophy.
“How’s the scene inside?” he said. “Sir Edward still playing Jesus for his adoring masses? Have they started kissing his feet yet?”
“Why?” she said. “Would you rather they kiss yours?”
This stung a bit. He wanted credit, not genuflection. “And ruin my shoes with lipstick?” he said. “No.”
“Richard’s having a good time, at least,” Maram said, and Nicholas followed her gaze through the glass doors. Past the vague distortion of city lights and his own reflection, he could see most of the party, and it was easy to spot his uncle’s handsome, ageless face a head above most of those gathered, laughing. Nicholas’s father, Richard’s younger brother, had supposedly also been tall, and so as a child Nicholas had expected he would be, too, eventually, but he’d been cheated out of this particular family promise and sat pretty at a cool five foot nine.
“He’s in his element,” Maram said, which was true. The guest list was all wealthy people who fancied themselves patrons of the arts, and Richard was no exception. He was less patron and more collector—art was in fact the least of the valuable things he collected—but he loved any chance to rub shoulders with other enthusiasts.
Nicholas attempted a single eyebrow raise himself, though he could feel it was a disaster. Years of practicing Maram’s brand of intrigue in the mirror and he only ever managed to look comically surprised.
“Wish he’d let me come along to that West End wrap party last week, instead,” Nicholas said. “I like actors.” His mother had been one, a Scottish stage actress whose programs Nicholas still kept in his bedside table.
“Naturally you like actors,” said Maram, drawing her wrap tighter around her body. Her hair was glittering with mist. “Narcissus in the pond.”
Nicholas ignored the jab. “All I’m saying is, this wasn’t what I meant when I asked to come out, and you know it.”
Another raised brow. “You wanted what, Nicholas—a club? Music so loud you wouldn’t be able to yell for help if something happened? A dance floor so crowded Collins wouldn’t be able to reach you in time?”
“I don’t need a club,” Nicholas said. “A pub would do. With, you know, people under thirty for once?”
“Collins is under thirty.”
“People who aren’t paid to be near me.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it, because Maram’s face—usually so arch and controlled—went suddenly soft with pity. He felt himself flush and turned away. He’d let himself forget that she was one of those paid attendants.
She’d worked for Richard and the Library since before he could remember, first as the secretary in charge of organizing his late father’s notes, then as Nicholas’s head tutor, and now as chief librarian and Richard’s—well, girlfriend, Nicholas supposed, though that seemed a childish way to put it. Partner, then, in every sense of the word. Maram had always made it clear she had no interest in being his surrogate mother or even an aunt, yet she was still the closest Nicholas had ever really had to either; and now that he was more or less grown, he sometimes slipped up and considered her a friend.
But she was not. She was an employee of the Library, same as Collins, same as his doctor and his chef and the people who brought him breakfast and did his laundry. Same as everyone else in his life except for his uncle, because Richard was the Library. One could argue even Nicholas was technically his employee, as well as his nephew and the Library’s heir.
“I know you’ve been lonely,” Maram started. Nicholas twitched away from the hand she placed on his arm, the last of his fleeting wine sloshing in its glass.
“I’m bored,” he said, “not lonely.”
She’d succeeded in gripping his wrist, however, her red-painted nails digging into his skin even through the wool of his dinner jacket, and he realized her touch was not consolation, but warning. A man was opening the sliding door and stepping out to join them on the balcony—someone Nicholas did not know. He could see Collins emerge from the shadows by the door, his brow furrowed, clearly deciding if he should follow or not. Maram gave him a quick, subtle shake of her head and he melted back.
“Brrr,” the man said, shutting the door. “Cold as a witch’s tit out here.” He was white, over middle age, with a strong American accent and a set of perfect teeth that were no doubt meant to make him seem younger but had the adverse effect, aging the rest of his face around their false youth.
“Mr. Welch!” Maram said, giving him the smile she reserved for people she didn’t like, all cheeks and no eyes. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Five years,” he said, shaking her hand. He held on a beat too long. “Shoulda known I’d see you here. Lord knows there’s enough people in this crowd who could afford your—” he choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and found a way around whatever he’d been going to say. “Your product.”
Maram gracefully extricated her hand. “And I supposed Americans considered it impolite to speak of finances at a party.”
Mr. Welch laughed in a way that he probably imagined was “hearty.” “Well, you can take the Texan out of Texas, but even after a few years here in merry ol’ England, I like to keep things honest.”
Nicholas was working to place him and must have appeared too interested, because Mr. Welch glanced his way.
“You’re Richard’s nephew, am I right? You a part of the—” another cough, this one harsh and painful-sounding. “A part of the—the—”
Even if Mr. Welch hadn’t proclaimed himself a past client, Nicholas would have known from the forced pauses in the man’s speech that he was under one of the Library’s nondisclosure spells.
“The family business?” Nicholas finished for him. “Goodness, no. I haven’t the head for it.” He extended his own hand—quite wet now from the fine rain—and gripped Mr. Welch’s, pumping it too vigorously. “I’m at Oxford, St. John’s, reading theology.”
He was, in fact, registered at the college—or at least, his name would appear on all the lists, if anyone followed up.
“Theology,” Mr. Welch repeated.
“I’ll admit I bullied Dr. Ebla into offering an independent advisory on my thesis—she got me access to the Laudian vestments, quite extraordinary needlework, have you had a chance to see them?”
“Can’t say I have,” Mr. Welch said, clearly bored by the lie, as Nicholas had hoped. His attention was back on Maram. “Oxford must be where you got that Doctor in front of your name.”
“That’s right,” Maram said.
“But you’re not English, originally,” said Mr. Welch; a leading question that would have piqued Nicholas’s own interest if he hadn’t heard her evade it a thousand times before.
“I’m not,” she said, still smiling, though the tenor of her smile changed subtly.
“Wouldn’t have guessed from how you talk,” said Mr. Welch. “You sound like the Queen herself.”
“However did you guess, then?” Maram said pleasantly, then added, “I suppose you could liken my accent to . . . oh, to a good forgery, say.”
Nicholas was interested to watch Mr. Welch’s ruddy face grow pale. “Well,” he said, backing away, “I’d better skedaddle before my wife comes looking. Nice to meet you, young man. Dr. Ebla, always a pleasure.”
He let himself back into the party and Maram said, “We ought to go inside, too. You’re shivering.”
“No, I’m not,” said Nicholas, then winced at how juvenile he sounded. “I am,” he amended. “But I’d rather be out here shivering than in there making nice with—oh, for heaven’s sake.”
He’d caught sight of Richard passing Mr. Welch inside, both men nodded at one another as Richard made his way toward the balcony, and a second later, his uncle was sliding the door open. So much for coming out here to be alone.
“What did Mr. Welch want?” Richard said immediately, bending over Nicholas in concern. “Did he want to talk to you?”
“He was interested in Maram, not me,” Nicholas said. “And, just a thought—perhaps chasing me out here isn’t the cleverest way to deflect the attention you seem so worried about? At least Collins had the good sense to stay inside.”
Richard looked startled and then sheepish and made a visible effort to relax. He glanced at Maram, who gave him a reassuring nod.
“It’s fine, darling,” she said.
“How are you feeling?” Richard said, settling a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder and peering at his face. “It’s frigid out here and you look a bit . . .”
“I look fantastic,” Nicholas said. “Thank you for noticing. The tie’s vintage.”
Richard smiled but couldn’t quite conceal his worry. Worried, worried, Nicholas thought—he was always so worried. It was exhausting to bear the constant brunt of all that kind concern. Richard himself never got sick and had never seemed to know precisely how to handle Nicholas’s own health, or lack thereof.
“Perhaps it’s best to get you out of here,” Richard said.
Nicholas frowned. “Mr. Welch was a curious client; so what?”
“For one thing,” said Maram, “he’s the one who commissioned that forgery glamour you were so upset about, to sell a fake de Kooning—”
“Ugh, that commission was undignified.”
“—and it’s possible, even probable, that some of the magical forgeries he’s profited from were sold to people at this very event.”
Nicholas couldn’t help but laugh. That put Maram’s comment about her accent and the man’s hasty retreat into perspective.
“For another thing,” Maram went on, “you aren’t having any fun. You said so yourself.”
“More fun than I’d have locked up in the Library with Sir Kiwi!”
But she’d put a hand on his elbow and was steering him off the balcony, which he allowed only because he was, in truth, quite cold. They stepped back into the warm drawing room, which smelled like cologne and wine and the awful little canapés that had been served before the reading and were now being passed around by house staff dressed all in black. As they came in, Collins ate a mini-quiche like it was attacking him.
“Collins,” said Maram. “The car.”
Collins nodded and ducked away through the kitchen.
“This is ridiculous,” Nicholas said. “If you sent me home every time someone asked me a question, I’d never leave the Library. Ah, hang on. I never do leave the Library.”
“Bringing you here was a risk, anyway,” said Richard. “I’ve already had several people asking about you.”
“People are only interested in me because they’re interested in you two, in the Library,” said Nicholas.
“No,” said Maram. “You attract your own attention.”
Nicholas shrugged. Objectively, he was no different from any other standard-issue white man in his early twenties; perhaps a little better-looking and better-dressed, but even he, an alleged narcissist, could admit that was mostly money. Yet he was used to people—total strangers—glancing at him and then doing a double-take, squinting a bit as if they thought they should recognize him.
The only traits that might’ve made him stand out were his numerous neat scars, usually covered by clothes, and the prosthetic left eye that perfectly matched his sighted right one in appearance if not quite movement. But both these things were very hard to spot unless a person was looking for them, which few people ever were. Yet somehow, though Richard and Maram ought to have been more noticeable on the whole, it was always Nicholas that people focused on, as if they could somehow sense the power in his blood.
“That’s not my fault,” he said.
“No,” Richard said. “It’s my fault for allowing you to come tonight in the first place.”
Nicholas took a long, slow breath, attempting to manage his simmering anger and failing. “You know, my father’s choices make more sense to me every day.”
The three of them were on the fringes of the gathering, facing the drawing room like actors playing to an audience, but at these words Richard half turned, barely restraining himself. He looked more anguished than angry, and Nicholas felt a twinge of guilt.
“Your father’s choices got him and your mother killed,” said Richard, very quietly. “And I’ve spent my entire life making sure the same thing doesn’t happen to you.”
“You’ve spent my entire life, you mean.”
“And I’ll spend the rest of it the same way,” said Richard.
For a moment, Nicholas couldn’t speak. This was an old argument that had surfaced many times through the years, and until recently Nicholas’s protests had been half-hearted, more to flex his independence muscle than to actually use it—but lately any thoughts of “the rest of his life” sent him tailspinning into a kind of grasping, frustrated hopelessness he couldn’t articulate.
The problem was he knew exactly what the rest of his life looked like: a continuing monotony of marble hallways, needles, simmering cauldrons of blood, stinking herbs, crisp new paper, cramping fingers, doctor’s visits, iron supplements, the same faces day in and day out. Once in a while, like tonight, he’d be trotted out on his short leash and allowed to sniff a few ankles before being tugged along home again.
The last time he’d felt this airless, this desperate for change, was ten years ago in San Francisco, when he was thirteen. Back then he’d been raging at Richard for weeks, alternately begging for and demanding more freedom, and what had happened? All Richard’s fears had come true. Nicholas had lost an eye—and nearly his life, like his parents before him.
A tremor of remembered panic ran through him, and his anger defused suddenly, like a wire had been cut.
“I understand how you feel,” Richard said, looking down at him with so much pitying affection that Nicholas couldn’t return his gaze. “But being in danger is its own kind of lock and key. There’s a freedom in safety, Nicholas. Remember that.”
“Richard!” called Sir Edward from across the room, waving him over, “I want you to meet someone!”
A possible client, probably, which was no doubt why Richard had deigned to attend this farcical party, and why he would stay. To promote the product. The product being Nicholas, whom Richard dispatched with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before stepping onto the carpet and disappearing back into the crowd.
“Come along,” Maram said. “The car will be waiting.”
A member of the staff fetched their coats, and the remains of Nicholas’s anger vanished as he settled its weight onto his shoulders. He’d been constantly riding these waves lately, these little surges of rage followed by exhaustion, one feeding into the other in a feedback loop. He needed more sleep, probably. More exercise. (More iron, his doctor’s voice droned in his head.)
Instead of any of that, he got a long, silent elevator ride down to a wet black London street and a lightly falling November rain, headlights shining off the pavement. Collins was waiting for them, arms crossed. One of the Library’s cars, a sleekly anonymous black Lexus, rolled to a stop in front of Nicholas and Maram, and the valet climbed out and dropped the keys into Maram’s outstretched hand, looking doubtful. No doubt he’d been expecting a professional driver, not a woman in a floor-length dress. But drivers were out of the question: only Richard and Maram’s blood was on the Library’s ancient wards, so only Richard and Maram could even find the place—and Nicholas, of course, because magic couldn’t touch him as it touched other people, but he didn’t know how to drive.
Nicholas climbed into the spotless leather back seat of the car and was joined by Collins, whose broad shoulders made the space suddenly seem smaller.
“Have fun tonight?” Collins said, smirking.
“Not as much fun as you had,” said Nicholas. “Guarding the most precious treasure at the party.”
“You mean babysitting,” Collins said.
Collins had been hired six months ago and while he was probably not the first of Nicholas’s bodyguards to disdain him, he was the first to show it—and for some reason Nicholas found this relaxing. His last bodyguard, Tretheway, also American, had been wide-eyed and deferential to Nicholas, but so casually cruel to other members of the staff that he’d asked Richard to let him go, unnerved by his double-facedness. Collins had only one face: a scowling one. It was evident that he resented being bossed around by a guy his own age, a guy he considered spoiled, soft. This only made Nicholas want to boss him around more.
“Put your safety belt on,” he said.
Collins ignored him, busy loosening his tie and flicking open the top button of his shirt.
“Fortinbras,” Nicholas tried.
This got a reaction. Collins’s lips twitched and he shook his head. “Real close,” he said. “Any day now.”
“Pity. Fortinbras Collins has a nice ring to it.”
The tires shick-shicked across the slushy pavement and Nicholas watched out the tinted back window as the building undifferentiated itself and became just one more light in a city made of them. He thought of Mr. Welch’s distasteful commission; and then of how most of his commissions were distasteful, no artistry to them, only blunt demands. Even this last book, for all its interesting challenges, was ultimately nothing but fatuous nonsense, all hedonism and status.
Had it always been like this? Tiresome? Or was Nicholas just getting older? It was more difficult these days to bounce back after he’d written a book, his blood seemingly slower to replenish itself, leaving him weak and shaky and slow for days. And for what? Money? He didn’t need more money. Nor did he need people to kiss his feet, obviously—but a “thank you” would be nice, or even a bare nod of acknowledgment from someone other than Maram or his uncle. For once, he wanted somebody to look at him and see what he could do. And to see, maybe, what it cost him.
