Chapter Seventeen #2
“I didn’t know you knew each other,” Max said, largely to buy himself time.
“We met at some party or other years ago, when you and the son—Frederick, is it?—were friends. But I hear it’s not the son who’s caught your attention at the moment.”
“Aren’t the Holloways magical?” Jamie asked, then proceeded to take a revoltingly large spoonful of pudding, which he seemed to inhale largely without chewing.
He had also eaten a third helping of everything served for lunch.
Max didn’t often feel that old, but he’d forgotten how hungry he’d been when he was a decade younger.
“Yes.” The reply was curt, and did not invite further questions.
This, naturally, did not deter anyone present.
“I didn’t know you would deign to associate with anyone magical, Max,” Maud said. “I thought you considered them all a bunch of—what did you call them?”
“Posh wankers,” Jamie informed her helpfully.
“No—well, yes, he’s said that too, but there was another one, a bit more colorful…”
“Inbred hedge witches,” her father said, and she snapped her fingers.
“That’s the one!”
“I’m sorry, have you all gone mad? I didn’t realize I was sitting at a table full of magical sympathizers,” Max said waspishly, though he was well aware that his own sentiments toward the entire magical system, and the families who practiced it, were much stronger than those of his family.
Maud gave him a pitying look. “Max, you really don’t know how to have any fun at all.”
“ ’Specially now that he’s a Flea,” Jamie said with a sad shake of the head. The words came out a bit muffled, due to the large quantity of sticky toffee pudding currently in his mouth, but Max was unfortunately still able to easily understand him.
“F.L.E.A.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, it isn’t—why am I bothering to argue with you?”
“I think the real question is why you have a job as a professional killjoy,” Maud said, licking her spoon.
“The magical families are coasting along on centuries of privilege and are now gleefully flouting the law—”
“Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before,” Maud said, sounding terribly jaded and disillusioned for someone who was not yet twenty. “That still doesn’t explain why you have to be the one to uphold this ridiculous law.”
“Maud, leave your brother alone,” Paul said quietly. He tended to keep largely out of family squabbles, being easily the mildest-tempered of the Ashbridge clan, but he was perceptive enough to recognize when someone was pressing on a nerve.
“If this has to do with your father,” Florence began, but Max interrupted.
“Dad is the only father I care to have.” He jerked his chin at Paul, whose expression softened as he looked back at him.
“And it’s not a ridiculous law,” he added for Maud’s benefit, though he realized as he spoke that he didn’t feel quite as fervent about this as he had a fortnight earlier.
“I think everyone’s rubbing along perfectly fine without magic, anyway. ”
“Speak for yourself,” Maud said, pouting. “I’m desperate to try one of those appearance-modifying potions—Elsie said every time she drinks one, no matter who she ends up looking like, she has the most adorable dimples in one cheek. I wouldn’t mind dimples.”
“You don’t need dimples,” her father informed her. “You’re going to cause us enough sleepless nights as it is, I expect.”
Something niggled at the edge of Max’s mind, just out of reach. Something that felt… important.
His mother, clearly torn between pressing on this further and letting things lie, gave him an anxious sort of look, but then redirected the conversation to what she obviously really wanted to discuss:
Romance.
“Leaving all that aside, then, what are you doing with the Holloway girl?”
“Vesper.”
“Ah, that’s right,” she said vaguely, though Max was unconvinced; his mother had an excellent memory for faces and names, and Max didn’t believe for a second that she’d forgotten Vesper’s.
“It’s for work,” he said shortly. “And I can’t say anything else about it.” Which was true, more or less—and God knew he didn’t trust the twins not to have loose tongues, fond as he was of them—but it was also a convenient excuse to end a conversation whose direction he didn’t like one bit.
“Hmmm,” said his mother.
“Hmmm,” said Maud.
“Hmmm,” said his dad.
“Is there any more pudding?” said Jamie.
Later that evening, Max found himself in Marylebone, with no good reason to be there.
It wasn’t too late—only around eight—but as it was a Sunday, and the weather continued to be poor, the fog having thickened over the course of the afternoon, the crowds on the streets were thin, most people at home, tucked up cozily before the fire with their nearest and dearest. Max had lingered at his parents’ house into the early evening, reluctant to return to the quiet of his flat, which always felt particularly noticeable after an afternoon spent at home, especially when the twins were present.
When it had finally come time to leave, he’d walked out the door, paused—and then, instead of turning his steps toward home, he’d walked to Hampstead station and caught the Underground to Baker Street.
Which was how he found himself here, in the quiet cobblestoned mews that housed Vesper’s flat.
He stood outside her green door, hesitating, feeling more foolish by the moment.
He wasn’t used to uncertainty; he made up his mind about things, and moved forward.
The habit had always served him well, particularly at work.
But now he felt unsure—he and Vesper were meant to be working together, nothing more, and yet he knew, if he were honest with himself, that describing their relationship as strictly professional would not be entirely accurate.
There had been that kiss at Grenoble’s, of course; a kiss that had kept him awake at night as he replayed it in his mind, recalling the heat of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the faint, urgent sounds at the back of her throat.
But, equally, there had also simply been… moments.
Moments when their eyes caught, or when her mouth quirked into a smile; moments when she teased him, but with affection in her tone that he didn’t think he was imagining.
Moments that made him wonder, now, if being alone with her again in her flat was a good idea.
However, foolish as he was beginning to feel, he would feel even more foolish if he were to turn around without knocking and make his way home again—it would have been a waste of Tube fare, to start.
So instead, he knocked, not certain whether he hoped she would answer or whether he hoped she wouldn’t.
Several long seconds later, she was at the door, her eyebrows raising at the sight of him.
She clearly hadn’t been expecting company—her blond hair was damp from the bath, beginning to curl a bit around her chin, the unruly curl near her ear having already started to frizz, and she was wearing a dressing gown made of green silk that matched her eyes.
He tried not to look at the hint of her collarbone that was visible, or notice the crescent-moon-shaped birthmark just above it that he’d spotted once before.
“Ashbridge. This is—”
“Rude of me, I know. I wanted to speak with you, though.”
“I was going to say ‘unexpected,’ but come in.”
She stepped back, allowing him to walk through the doorway and into her flat, which felt smaller, somehow, when she was not fully clothed. No sooner had the door shut behind them than there was an inquisitive mewl, and he looked down to see the sheep-cat winding its way about his legs.
“Traitor,” Vesper muttered, reaching down to extract the livestock/pet and scoop it up in her arms. She placed a kiss atop the cat’s head; based on the creature’s baleful expression, Max was not sure whether or not this gesture had been positively received.
“Not at the club tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My father’s there—someone else from the family goes one night a week so I can have an evening off. Anyway, I was there this afternoon, training a new hire.”
He blinked. He supposed business had to go on, and the club couldn’t afford to be short-staffed, but… “Weren’t you nervous about hiring someone new, given…” He offered a broad gesture meant to encompass the current state of affairs in the magical world.
Vesper shrugged, looking a bit sheepish; Sheep the cat offered a chirp in protest. “It was Gus—the bartender from Plenus Venter.”
Max stared at her. “I thought you said the clubs didn’t like to hire from other clubs.”
“We don’t, but—well, none of it feels fair, him losing his place. I thought it was the least I could do.”
She turned, still clutching the cat, and led him into the sitting room; Max trailed behind her, his gaze fixed on her slender figure, wondering if he would ever stop being surprised by Vesper Holloway.
Vesper, not privy to the complex tangle of his thoughts, invited him to take a seat on the sofa, deposited the cat next to him, and vanished into the kitchen, where he heard some clattering and splashing.
“Do you like chocolate?” she called.
“Er. Yes,” he said, distracted by the unnerving eye contact the cat was offering him.
After a moment, it climbed onto his lap, and he held his breath, not liking the look of those claws one bit.
However, his fears were for naught, because the cat curled up on his lap and, after a moment, began emitting a sound like a rusty motor that he belatedly identified as a purr.
Vesper reappeared, clutching two mugs in a shade of yellow that reminded him of the Mediterranean sun. Her eyes landed on the cat on his lap, and she looked amused.
“It’s making friendly advances,” he informed her, accepting a mug from her and trying to take a subtle sniff of it.
Apparently not subtle enough. “It’s not poisoned, you know.”
“Just wanted to know what you were attempting to ply me with,” he said, taking a cautious sip. It was hot chocolate, thick and rich. “Did you make this with cream?”