A Surfeit of Annas
It had been months since Ariadne—now Ari—Bridgestock had been to the Hell Ruelle. Tonight, to her surprise, she found she had missed it.
She glanced over at Anna Lightwood, rendered almost a silhouette in the crimson light of the entry hall, trying to read her expression.
Ahead was the sequence of high-ceilinged, opulent rooms that made up the salon, and all around them in the tiny corridor was a sound like a roaring ocean: a torrent of conversation and gambling and dancing and carousing blended to a rumble that seemed to shake the building itself.
Anna had a faraway look on her face. “Was it always this loud?”
“Usually there’s also someone singing,” Ari said. “Usually badly.”
Ari snuck another look at Anna in the dimness. Her beautiful Anna, with her strong jaw and luminous eyes. Ari was worried about her.
In the time since the terrible events of Belial’s brief takeover of London, more than a year past now, Anna had mostly remained at her flat.
At first this was not at all strange: Anna had lost her brother Christopher in battle, and a part of Ari was almost relieved to see that Anna was giving herself space to grieve.
Ari, too, had needed time to recover—from the battle and the loss that had come with it, as well as the end of her relationship with her father and his fall from power.
Even when some time had passed, Ari hadn’t minded that Anna wanted to stay in.
In a short time Ari had gone from yearning for Anna from afar, convinced they could never be together, to sharing her home and her bed.
So when sometimes Ari would suggest, shall we go out tonight?
and Anna would stretch herself out languidly, her body shifting delightfully, and say, mm, or we could just stay here, Ari was usually inclined to agree.
But it had been over a year now. And while choosing an evening in bed over an evening out in Soho was usually fine with Ari, she was aware that it represented a very different Anna than the one she’d fallen in love with.
One of the things that so attracted her to Anna in the first place was her love of festivities and joy, of people and crowds; on Anna’s arm, Ari had always felt, life was an ongoing adventure, a sort of party that never ended.
Only recently, and rather abruptly, it had.
Only the news that Matthew Fairchild was back in town, and throwing himself a party at the Hell Ruelle, had gotten Anna to leave the flat on Percy Street.
Matthew had brought back from his year abroad a Frenchman named Sylvain Allard, of the Paris Institute, with whom he had apparently struck up a relationship during his travels.
Both Anna and Ari were rabidly curious to meet him.
Now, as Ari watched Anna hesitate on the threshold of her favorite London haunt, she hoped that Matthew’s return would buoy Anna up. “Is all well, darling?” she asked lightly.
Anna’s smile was luminous. “Merely making sure my tie is straight. There will be a lot of eyes on us tonight.” Her gaze raked Ari up and down, lingering on Ari’s face, the hollow of her throat—a slow, appreciative look that never failed to cause a powerful resonating hum within Ari.
“Although I cannot imagine,” Anna went on, “how any of them will be able to take their eyes off of you to notice my tie, or anything else.”
Ari felt a strong urge to lean over and kiss the line under Anna’s jaw, the place she could always feel her pulse as it sped up—but she reminded herself that home awaited them soon enough. “I always fear the cruel assessments of the Hell Ruelle, so I hope I acquit myself decently.”
“Shall we?” Anna said, holding out her hand.
“Let’s,” said Ari, and they passed through into the tumult and the smoke.
The Hell Ruelle was, as the noise had suggested, packed full, both with those here to celebrate Matthew’s return and those who would be here for the gambling, drink, and depravity regardless.
Ari let herself be led by Anna, enjoying the strange sights of the Ruelle as they went by her in a streaky blur: a pink fizzy punch bowl full of six-inch-tall faeries with butterfly wings splashing about; a few vampires comparing fang teeth; and a werewolf throwing a tantrum over a roulette loss.
The croupier had seized up a nearby silver dish to protect himself, his expression bored and long-suffering. Snippets of conversation floated by:
“Did you see Arabella here? The mermaid that tried to poison Madame Vex?”
“Really? How on earth did she get out of prison?”
“Apparently her uncle is the Knight of All Storms. You know faerie politics; it’s all favors and pulled strings.”
Following the surreptitious gaze of this last gossiping werewolf, Ari observed a beautiful woman with flowing green-and-blue hair sipping champagne at a table beside a large potted fern.
Out of water, she had long, shapely legs, encased in a fitted silk skirt.
She was gazing avidly at Anna, as if she were starving and Anna was a buttered crumpet.
Ari looked away, uncomfortable.
They found Matthew eventually, holding court with a group of rapt listeners.
He looked well, Ari thought, strong and tanned, a dusting of freckles across the backs of his hands.
As they got close enough to push their way into the circle around him, he was saying, “—and I could hardly believe it myself, but the parrot knew all the words!”
Next to Matthew was a handsome, strong-featured boy with black hair, watching him with a calm amusement—Sylvain, Ari assumed. Matthew caught sight of them and beamed in delight.
“By the Angel!” he cried. “It’s Anna and Ari.”
Several of Matthew’s companions, Ari noted, looked over with interest. One woman, a faerie with sleepy gold eyes and forest-green skin, murmured, “Why, Anna Lightwood, it has been a long time.”
Matthew came to greet Anna and Ari with hugs. “You both look ravishing, absolutely ravishing. Delighted you’re here, and still together.” He winked at Ari. “Anna is not an easy one to tie down.”
Ari smiled sweetly at him. “I find tying her down isn’t that difficult if she’s in the mood for it.”
Matthew grinned, that luminous, heartbreaking grin that had become famous among his friends.
There was something different about him, Ari thought.
She’d always liked Matthew, his kindness and easy humor, but now he seemed as if he were settled, somehow.
As if something restless within him had found rest.
Along with Sylvain, they followed Matthew to an empty table.
A waitress appeared as if by magic (possibly, Ari considered, actually by magic) with a tray of champagne glasses fizzing and golden, and one tall tumbler of clear liquid with a kumquat floating in it, which Matthew took immediately.
Sylvain and Anna waved the waitress off, but Ari felt that the evening was going well and took a glass for herself.
“Only soda water for me, you know,” Matthew said, gesturing at the tumbler. “With a squeeze of kumquat.”
“Why a kumquat?” asked Ari.
“Because it’s unusual, and difficult to find,” Anna said. “Because we are all living the bohemian lifestyle”—she grinned—“but Matthew is also an aesthete.”
Matthew toasted her with his glass and took a sip. Ari brought the coupe glass to her nose and let the bubbles tickle it before taking a drink, feeling the energy of the crowd and the drink and the night warm her skin pleasantly.
Small talk ensued. Sylvain and Matthew had come from touring Constantinople with James and Cordelia; James and Cordelia were still there, in fact. They had liked the city very much and had wanted more time to explore it.
“Understandably,” Matthew added. “Constantinople is inspiring. But I wanted Sylvain to meet everyone at home, and I did start to feel a bit guilty about my parents handling two Fairchild babies all on their own.”
It turned out that Anna and Sylvain had met a few times, though didn’t know each other well.
“It’s because when I go to Paris, I don’t avoid the Institute like I’m wanted for arrest,” Anna explained, eyeing Matthew wickedly.
“I pay my respects to the residents and then I go shopping; that is how it is done.”
Sylvain smiled lazily, stretching his arm along the back of Matthew’s chair. “Matthew has terrible etiquette. We’ve discussed it many times.”
Matthew leaned back against Sylvain’s arm. “Charles and I have an agreement. He manages the etiquette, and I embarrass the family name and spread scandal.”
“It’s what I like about you,” said Sylvain, and brushed a kiss against Matthew’s cheek. Matthew blushed, the blush of the completely besotted. Ari imagined the way he was looking at Sylvain was much like the way she looked at Anna.
Sylvain and Matthew explained that they would be staying in London for a few months, but in the long term planned to split their time between London and a flat in Paris.
Oscar, Matthew’s faithful hound, would of course accompany them back and forth.
“He’s very good on boats,” said Matthew.
He also produced a gift for Anna brought from Constantinople: a beautiful yatagan, its hilt inlaid with gold and jet.
Anna held it up to admire it, letting the gold catch the light from the chandeliers above.
“But I haven’t got you anything,” she said apologetically. Which was also unusual for Anna. Normally she would have brought Matthew a gift.
“That’s all right,” Matthew said. “I’m long overdue for a shopping jaunt with you in Jermyn Street. You can get me something then.”
As he was saying this, Ari saw his eyes flick to the side; she followed them to see a tall, willowy woman approaching their table—a warlock, Ari quickly realized.
Her eyes were completely green, with no white and no iris—just a field of gleaming gold-green.
It was striking, Ari thought, and not unattractive, though a bit unnerving not to be able to tell where she was looking.