“I just wanted to make sure you know that our agreement still holds.”
“Agreement?” He sounds genuinely confused.
How very awkward. “I did not mean for this marriage to tie you to a dry bed,” I say. Look at me, Owen. Look at me. I’m being so adult about it all. Aren’t you proud? The words spit in my head, but I know that outside I look calm, as if there is nothing I could care less about than Jannik’s little engagements . “You know you have my permission – my understanding – that you can go where you will and with who.”
“Ah. That agreement.” He stares at the leather-bound book.
“All I must ask is that you keep whatever relationships you have discreet. It cannot do to give the Houses ammunition to use against us, however slight it may seem.” I am such a hypocrite; when I have just visited vampire whorehouses, and all so that I could make him think I was better than he believed. That I could believe it too.
He laughs. “You don’t have to tell me this, Felicita. It doesn’t matter. I have a tendency to bestow my affections on those I cannot have and who don’t deserve it. It makes me the very epitome of discreet.” Jannik snaps his attention away from the much-maligned Traget. “So what did your jaunt into the rookeries reveal?”
So we’re not going to talk about this. I’m relieved. Or at least, I should be. “This.” I hand him the names.
“And?”
“The rookery head implied that these are houses who have either recently bought vampires – paid the full silver - or made inquiries towards such an end. It may be somewhere to begin.” I think of the newspaper story, the dead body, faceless and mutilated. It could have been one of those names on the paper who bought him, broke him, and left him to rot. Even more than making Jannik proud of me, I find that I cannot get that image out of my head.
Sometimes the body has a face.
“Begin what, exactly?” Jannik holds the paper out, and passes it back to me as if it is something he finds repulsive.
“To find out what is happening, to bring that poor dead boy a little justice.”
“Why?”
I take a step back. His mood has changed direction and he is snapping at me like a cornered street cur. “Because he deserves at least that. And who else will speak for him, or others like him? They are, in their own way, our people.”
Sometimes that face is Jannik’s.
“No. Felicita, they are my people. It has nothing to do with you.”
The words are unexpected. I swallow, half expecting to taste blood as if I have been slapped through the face. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just the morning-sourness of waking from ill-dreams. “I see.” I fold the paper again, tuck it into my purse. “I will speak with Harun then, perhaps he and Isidro will be more reasonable.” We’ve had a few stilted evenings with them – not enough to call them friends, perhaps, but enough that the first thin bridges are being built. At the very least, Isidro and Jannik are spending more time together in something resembling civil conversation. Although Gris knows what it is they talk about, they speak so softly.
“Isidro is nothing close to reasonable,” Jannik says. Then he sighs. “Fine. Give me a moment to get my coat and I’ll come with you.”
PAPER MARRIAGES
“Does this mean anything to you?” I shove the paper into Harun’s face.
“Felicita,” Jannik murmurs, “do give us a chance to actually get in the house.”
He has a point. I draw my hand back and wait as Harun rather mockingly bows to welcome us into his ugly home. “You’re playing at servants, are you?” I ask him.
“No.” He shuts the door behind us, and the dreary red light of the sunset is replaced by choking gloom. “We’re having troubles again.”
“Troubles?”
“The servants tend to make a mass exodus every few months, and then we have to hire new ones. The latest little drama happened just hours ago.” He says each word very carefully, as if he is
“Agreement?” He sounds genuinely confused.
How very awkward. “I did not mean for this marriage to tie you to a dry bed,” I say. Look at me, Owen. Look at me. I’m being so adult about it all. Aren’t you proud? The words spit in my head, but I know that outside I look calm, as if there is nothing I could care less about than Jannik’s little engagements . “You know you have my permission – my understanding – that you can go where you will and with who.”
“Ah. That agreement.” He stares at the leather-bound book.
“All I must ask is that you keep whatever relationships you have discreet. It cannot do to give the Houses ammunition to use against us, however slight it may seem.” I am such a hypocrite; when I have just visited vampire whorehouses, and all so that I could make him think I was better than he believed. That I could believe it too.
He laughs. “You don’t have to tell me this, Felicita. It doesn’t matter. I have a tendency to bestow my affections on those I cannot have and who don’t deserve it. It makes me the very epitome of discreet.” Jannik snaps his attention away from the much-maligned Traget. “So what did your jaunt into the rookeries reveal?”
So we’re not going to talk about this. I’m relieved. Or at least, I should be. “This.” I hand him the names.
“And?”
“The rookery head implied that these are houses who have either recently bought vampires – paid the full silver - or made inquiries towards such an end. It may be somewhere to begin.” I think of the newspaper story, the dead body, faceless and mutilated. It could have been one of those names on the paper who bought him, broke him, and left him to rot. Even more than making Jannik proud of me, I find that I cannot get that image out of my head.
Sometimes the body has a face.
“Begin what, exactly?” Jannik holds the paper out, and passes it back to me as if it is something he finds repulsive.
“To find out what is happening, to bring that poor dead boy a little justice.”
“Why?”
I take a step back. His mood has changed direction and he is snapping at me like a cornered street cur. “Because he deserves at least that. And who else will speak for him, or others like him? They are, in their own way, our people.”
Sometimes that face is Jannik’s.
“No. Felicita, they are my people. It has nothing to do with you.”
The words are unexpected. I swallow, half expecting to taste blood as if I have been slapped through the face. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just the morning-sourness of waking from ill-dreams. “I see.” I fold the paper again, tuck it into my purse. “I will speak with Harun then, perhaps he and Isidro will be more reasonable.” We’ve had a few stilted evenings with them – not enough to call them friends, perhaps, but enough that the first thin bridges are being built. At the very least, Isidro and Jannik are spending more time together in something resembling civil conversation. Although Gris knows what it is they talk about, they speak so softly.
“Isidro is nothing close to reasonable,” Jannik says. Then he sighs. “Fine. Give me a moment to get my coat and I’ll come with you.”
PAPER MARRIAGES
“Does this mean anything to you?” I shove the paper into Harun’s face.
“Felicita,” Jannik murmurs, “do give us a chance to actually get in the house.”
He has a point. I draw my hand back and wait as Harun rather mockingly bows to welcome us into his ugly home. “You’re playing at servants, are you?” I ask him.
“No.” He shuts the door behind us, and the dreary red light of the sunset is replaced by choking gloom. “We’re having troubles again.”
“Troubles?”
“The servants tend to make a mass exodus every few months, and then we have to hire new ones. The latest little drama happened just hours ago.” He says each word very carefully, as if he is
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