Chapter Nine
CHAPTER
Nine
IN ANOTHER BOOKSHOP, far from Chiron’s cloistered street, a meeting is taking place.
Six figures sit at a round table, like knights of old, all wearing gold masks.
Even the person taking minutes is wearing a mask, though his disguise is somewhat less successful; his ears stick out comically, and there is a red flush at the top of his neck that he’s trying to pass off as a beard.
The meeting room itself is not underwater, though it has a subterranean, fish-slick feel. Shadows oscillate on stone, and beads of condensation gather in the mortar. Although there are candelabras flickering with weak candlelight, the ancient chandelier hanging from the ceiling is empty and dark.
“Temperance is speaking,” says a man in a dark, shapeless gown. “I would like to know whether there’s been any progress on our, ah, little problem.”
The man across from him inclines his head pointedly to the empty chairs around the table. “The Hanged Man would like to point out that we’re still waiting on fellow members to arrive.”
True to his alias, the Hanged Man wears a top hat and a three-piece suit. The rope around his neck is supposedly for symbolism, but more than one person at this table has longed to throttle him with it.
Though all of them have expressed a dislike for the costumery, this rule predates the current group at the round table.
It was decided after one particularly disastrous meeting—three dead; one severely injured; the Lovers divorcing in the middle of the murder trial so that there were briefly two living Hanged Persons, and then two very dead ones—that disguises were a regretful necessity.
One could not kill an enemy, if the enemy was unknown to them.
Theoretically.
Assassination attempts between members have declined. But the society is still few in number, where they were once twenty-two. The empty chairs are stacked up haphazardly on either side of the room, forgotten most of the time.
“It hasn’t escaped my notice,” Temperance says tersely. “But—”
“It’s society business,” the Hanged Man says. “Which requires the society to be present.”
“Or you don’t have anything to report.” Temperance drums his fingers on the table. “And you’re just wasting our time.”
The Hanged Man bristles. “Well, if the Magician hadn’t decided to abandon his research halfway through, perhaps we would have made more headway. Anyway, I don’t have to take this from you, of all—”
“The Empress thinks you’re full of shit,” says another, this one in a bejewelled one-piece corset and thigh-high boots. “The Empress thinks you just aren’t working hard enough.”
The minuter’s quill hovers in the air. “The—the Fool would like to know if that should go on the minutes. Please,” he adds with a tremor.
The Empress shakes her curls irritably. “You’re supposed to announce that you’re speaking before you actually speak, Kevin.”
“Empress, please, no names—” the Hanged Man starts to say.
The Empress’ gaze flashes at the Hanged Man, who falls silent.
“And where the fuck are the Magician and Judgement?” she continues.
Even though the masks cover grimaces well, it turns out that eyes alone can convey an entire spectrum of emotion. Temperance and the Hanged Man exchange a glance so heavy it’s practically a conversation.
The Moon and the Sun, who have not yet spoken, both nod their heads in accord. One is in silver chiffon; the other in gold velvet. Jewellery drips from their wrists. They almost never speak at these meetings, but it would be a mistake to think they aren’t paying attention.
The Moon leans forward, their voice barely audible. “We wait.”
“I agree,” the Hanged Man says primly.
Temperance just rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” the Empress says huffily.
Kevin looks up from his notes. “The Fool… agrees?”
No one has bothered to explain to Kevin that the role is mostly ceremonial, and his vote counts for absolutely nothing. Absently, he scratches at his fine red curls.
They don’t have to wait for long.
Abruptly, the door opens, and even though the sound is soft as a breeze, everyone falls silent.
Judgement walks through the door in their black regalia, the train of their skirt trailing behind them.
They stand behind their chair, and the room is suddenly filled with the sound of footsteps and scraping as the others hastily follow suit.
“Judgement is speaking,” they say. “I have news.”
Kevin leans forward, pen poised in the air. The Empress feigns disinterest, but even she settles down, apart from a lingering glare at the Hanged Man.
“The Magician is dead,” they say.
The silence thickens.
“Also,” Judgement continues, a wicked smile in their voice, “Chiron’s bookshop is open again.”
The table erupts with noise.
By and by, the details are revealed, each more perplexing than the last. Chiron’s heir is a woman in her late twenties, or perhaps early thirties. No history as a bookseller that they know of. Actually, not much history at all.
It’s as though Chiron has conjured her from thin air, one last chance to say fuck you to the society.
“She won’t be one of us,” the Hanged Man says, later on, in the bar.
They have removed their masks for this more social occasion, but on tacit agreement, nothing has changed.
They are still anonymous, in this breath of a space between the bar and the stools they perch on.
Tonight, it’s just the three of them: the Hanged Man, Temperance, and the Empress.
Although it’s hard to call this friendship, no one else from the society is ever invited and nothing strays beyond the confines of this bar, spoken or otherwise.
The Hanged Man is doing his best not to look at Temperance looking at the Empress’ long, bare legs, left stiletto dangling off her toes. Temperance catches him watching, and eases his gaze deliberately back to his drink.
“No,” Temperance says. “It’s bad timing.”
“For her,” the Hanged Man says.
The Empress shoots him a look that would melt glass. “For all of us.”
So, no gold mask for the new owner. No elaborate costume and name to don, to pretend anonymity. No equally elaborate, equally pointless ritual to peel herself away from the other, lesser owners. No chance to choose the winning team.
Not that there are many left, now.
“Still, we should toast,” the Empress says decisively. “To Chiron, at least. May the bastard rest easy.”
The Hanged Man clinks his glass to hers and runs a hand through his fair hair. “Sure, why not.” He adds, with alcohol-fuelled optimism, “May Lady Fate turn the wheel and restore our fortunes.”
Temperance eyes his drink sourly. “May Lady Fate forget about us all.”
They drink until there’s nothing left.
Much later that night, alone in their bookshops, the society each whisper the new owner’s name to themselves. Cassandra Fairfax. A soft name. A name fit for a gentle literary heroine. A name so very easy to snuff out.
Unbeknownst to anyone else—or indeed, each other—one by one, the society are already plotting the best way to remove her.
Scraps of paper, discarded in Chiron’s wastebasket. The hand is shaky; ink splatters across many of the unfinished sentences.
Dear Cassandra,
I am so very sorry for everything I’m about to burden you with.
Forgive an old man his debts, his weaknesses, his flaws, his sins.
For I have sinned so completely when it comes to you, and I suspect forgiveness is beyond both of us now.
I should have told you the truth. But now it’s too late, and everything will be undone unless
My darling Cassandra,
For years, you brought such immense joy to these halls, with your little stumbling footsteps.
That is how I try to recall you, even with all of those lightless days ahead of us, and no way to dispel the dark.
I tried, Cassandra. But you were so stubborn, so relentlessly fractious—to a fault.
And look at what you have since made of yourself.
Perhaps it would be better if you never received this letter at all, or
Cassandra,
Whatever you do, no matter how much I beg and plead and grovel in these pages—
Don’t come back to the bookshop.