Chapter 22 #3
And I went down to meet a smiling Sophie and an impatient Melody, on their way to Sophie’s parents’ house after they made the handoff, and then I returned to Isolde with an armful of wriggling silver fur, alarmingly big paws, and an eternally wagging tail.
The look on Isolde’s face…I wanted it commissioned in marble and frescoed on my walls. How often had I seen it prior to this? Maybe the night I took her virginity on her father’s desk and maybe on Samhain? A look of terrified joy, of hope, of happiness .
“Mark,” she whispered. “What…”
“An Irish wolfhound,” I said and carefully handed over the squirming puppy.
She started licking Isolde’s face, and Isolde laughed— she laughed —and I could be the king of the world and not have been happier than I was in that moment.
“Melody and Blanche found her at the farmhouse when they went back to look for some of Ricker’s things for the funeral,” I said.
“She was under the porch and cold and seemed to be hungry, so they took her with them when they went back to the town house. They can’t find an owner or where she came from, and the vet thinks she’s been on her own for a little while at least. And I thought… ”
I stopped. It felt grim to say on Christmas morning, too grim to say while Isolde was giggling with a puppy in her arms. But that was our lives, wasn’t it? Pleasure in darkness and dolor in the sunlight.
“I thought you might feel less alone,” I said.
When our eyes met, I couldn’t tell if it was happiness or sorrow or both humming between us.
In the here and now, at the funeral reception with Lady Anguish, I say, “Tristan will be staying at Lyonesse until New Year’s, along with Hugo and Kayden and Isabella. I hope—well, I hope it will cheer both of them up.”
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” Anguish says.
She nods toward the house, where we can see straight through the conservatory windows to the kitchen and the living room.
“If you want the club to believe that you don’t have an affair being carried out under your nose, you’ll need to stage-manage the two of them very carefully. Just look at them now.”
Yes, I can see it. Isolde ostensibly in conversation with a congresswoman who knows Isolde’s father, Tristan nodding at a three-star general with his hands behind his back.
And yet it doesn’t matter that they’re across the room from each other, that they’re in completely separate conversations.
Their eyes keep finding each other’s, and their bodies unconsciously shift toward an invisible shared point of gravity between them.
It’s like watching two very pretty magnets do their best not to collide.
“Don’t stare too long,” advises Anguish. “You’re doing a very good job hiding your feelings, but it won’t matter how aloof you appear if you can’t stop watching them.”
I rip my eyes away, down toward my drink. This jealousy…it’s worse than being shot, worse than being stabbed. Except why then do I enjoy stabbing myself with it?
“I knew you were screwed the moment I saw Tristan,” says my companion. “He looks far, far too much like Maxen. Prettier, maybe, and sweeter and sadder. But a green-eyed hero nonetheless, except a submissive this time.”
“And also not hopelessly in love with his vice president,” I mumble.
Anguish pats my shoulder. “I promise not to hold your little crush on Maxen Colchester against you forever.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
A thoughtful pause. “But you’re not the only one who likes a green-eyed hero. Isabella Beroul seems quite taken with Tristan, doesn’t she?”
“You’ve heard what happened at Armorica, I’m guessing.
I think a little hero worship is probably inevitable.
I’m sure he was gallant and kind from the moment he arrived in Montreal, and then he went and saved her life.
All while having the nerve to look like an illustration from a book of fairy tales. It’s very unfair of him.”
“Isolde has noticed Isabella.”
I snort and take a drink. “Yes, I’d say so.”
“So you are jealous of Tristan and Isolde. Isolde is jealous of Isabella. Isabella is probably jealous of you and Isolde, and Tristan is presumably too preoccupied with grief to realize he’s snared in a web crawling with three different spiders. But at any rate, it might be useful.”
“Ah. Isabella’s feelings, you mean.” I consider this. “It would be messy to put her infatuation on display.”
“If Isabella and Tristan are going to be at the club, it might be on display anyway. Why not at least use it to your advantage?”
And with that, she lifts her wineglass and leaves. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I answer it while staring at the messy love triangle unfolding in my sister’s living room. A love triangle that is absolutely pointless because two of those triangle points belong to me .
“Trevena,” I answer.
“I’ve got a location for Cara Sims,” replies Lox.
“I’m texting you the link to my report now.
As for this Regina Springer, I can’t find anything that points to a connection with Cashel or any other cardinal.
She’s unmarried, no kids, owns a mechanic’s shop in Albany.
She’s sick—lung cancer—but they’ve been able to keep it at bay for five or six years.
The only potential wrinkle I can see is that her sister ran away from home when they were teenagers, and it was long enough ago that I can’t find anything else about her.
The sister probably landed somewhere and started over with a new name. The seventies were a simpler time.”
“Indeed,” I say. “So no connection with the Vatican? Or anyone higher up in the Church?”
“Nothing that I can see. Regina seems to be wholly uninterested in any organized religion at all and spends every Sunday in her shop. I couldn’t even find baptismal records for her or for anyone in her family.”
I scratch at my forehead with the thumb of the hand holding my drink. “Okay. Any progress with the Revelata Scientia images I sent over?”
“Since I don’t know what I’m looking for, I don’t know how you’d define ‘progress,’ but we found a handful of scanned versions online, so that should help us get to a workable translation at least. You’ve brought me weird shit before, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt like you’ve brought me homework. ”
“Thanks, Lox.”
“I could say anytime , but I wouldn’t mean it. Bye now.”
She hangs up, and I lower my phone to tap on the link she sent over.
A moment later, I’m calling Goran at the club. “Are you busy? What about Nat? I have a small job for you two…”