Chapter Thirty-Seven
CHAPTER
Thirty-Seven
TEMPERANCE IS EARLY to the society’s meeting, as usual.
He likes the few extra minutes of peace before the others arrive, bringing their complaints and petty fights with one another.
Sometimes he uses it to strategise, to visualise the moves ahead in this endless chess game of power and see how he might subvert them.
Other times, he simply walks the circumference of the room, reminding himself of what it must have looked like, once.
The lick of candlelight on the walls, the table full.
And the society not laden with bickering fools, scraped from the barrel of quality.
No, the conversation would have been of other matters: customers and clientele; offerings to the river; hell, perhaps the weather, if they indulged in small talk.
Before the schism over the paradox books, before the war that had cleaved their membership in two.
When he’d joined, the suggestions of a reunited society had already died away.
Too many battle lines had already been drawn, with casualties on both sides.
Too much bitter feeling to set aside. And, in truth, the society had already won.
Why extend the hand of grace when victory was already in their fist?
He wonders what it would have felt like, losing the enemies that had once been allies, losing themselves, inch by inch. When they finally realised what was happening. All that struggle over who was right, only for it to be entirely pointless in the end.
The door swings open, slamming against the wall. Temperance turns around, a sigh on his lips. If the Empress is in a bad mood, it’s going to be an awfully long meeting.
But it isn’t the Empress.
The Moon is rarely early, and even less inclined to make themselves known so loudly. But not today, apparently. Temperance has just enough time to take in the glitter of a crumpled beaded robe, the tilted mask, before the fist hits him.
It doesn’t quite take him off his feet, but he staggers back, swearing as he clutches his jaw.
“What the hell—”
Another punch veers wildly towards his face, but this time he has the presence of mind to move.
Twin tears streak down the Moon’s face, tracking black mascara.
“You murdering scum. Hartley—they didn’t deserve that—”
Temperance ducks the knife, but only just. “What are you talking about? What happened to Hartley?”
There’s just the breath of a pause. Temperance realises his mistake seconds later. To name a society member is anathema—unless they’re dead.
“How dare you pretend you don’t know what you did,” they hiss. “You’re not even good at it.”
Temperance steps back again, only to find himself backed up against the wall, nowhere else to go. He has to get a handle on this situation—quickly. But the Moon has planted themself squarely in the path of escape.
“And you had the nerve to sit there and ask where they were. Like you didn’t already know. Like you were concerned.” The Moon laughs bitterly. “Well, consider me fooled.”
The Moon lifts their fist again, and this time Temperance catches something gleaming within it: a knife.
“I should have done this years ago,” they snarl.
A gunshot rings out.
The knife falls from the Moon’s hand. Their mouth goes slack. Then they topple backwards, clutching the hole in their chest.
It all happens in less than a second.
The Empress stands in the entryway, still pointing the very small, very shiny pistol in front of her. She eyes the body of the Moon, face down on the flagstones, and nudges it with one stilettoed toe.
“Never liked them anyway.” Then, almost casually, “Did you do it?”
Kill the Sun, she means.
A beat. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Temperance says.
It doesn’t escape Temperance’s notice that the Empress waits for his reply before she puts the gun away. It disappears into a pocket, though Temperance finds it difficult to conceive of a corset with enough space to hide anything, never mind a pistol.
A thought occurs to him. “Was it you?”
“As if I could be bothered.”
But someone was bothered enough to do it. Someone killed Kevin. Someone killed the Sun. And with the Moon’s body cooling on the flagstones between them, the Empress has already proved she’s capable of murder.
Behind them, someone stops, gasps, retches noisily in the corridor.
Without looking behind him, Temperance knows that it’s the Hanged Man.
The Empress rolls her eyes, steps over the Moon’s body, and gracefully sinks into the nearest chair.
Blood freckles faintly across her mask and hair, but she makes no move to wipe it off.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she demands. “There’s still a fucking meeting, isn’t there?”
It’s a truth hard to argue with, so Temperance sits down. The Hanged Man averts his gaze from the body as he joins them, as far away as possible.
For five minutes, the room is silent, save for the occasional gagging from the Hanged Man.
Then footsteps sound in the corridor. A moment later, Judgement slams open the door.
They glance at the Moon and their mouth curls into a sneer, before they sweep past. There have been one too many dead bodies of late for anyone to feel much beyond the dull blow that yet another member of their society has fallen.
“Where are we on Chiron’s usurper?” Judgement demands.
Ah, Cassandra Fairfax. The woman who has interrupted all of their plans. The last blockade between them and the heart of the river.
“She won’t give up the bookshop,” the Hanged Man says.
“And she has allies,” the Empress adds grudgingly.
One last battle, to win the war, Temperance thinks. One person to tip the scale: fatally from their favour, or towards unshakeable victory.
“She will have weaknesses. We can break her,” Judgement says. “But we are running out of time.”
The room falls quiet, Temperance contemplating Judgement’s words. They’ve tried persuasion. They’ve tried violence. Cassandra Fairfax is a cockroach, springing back up at every opportunity. What else is left?
Temperance’s eyes glitter behind his mask. “I have an idea.”
No.145469 society meeting minutes,
compiled by the Fool, Kevin Hensley
Stolen by the Magician
Attendance: Judgement, Temperance, the Hanged Man, the Moon, the Sun, the Magician, the Tower, the Empress, the Hierophant
Updates regarding the previous minutes:
Preparation for the auction continues—budgetary concerns resolved.
New readers A—through F—identified.
The Magician declines to name an heir. The Empress notes that the Magician is stubborn as pig shit.
The bookshop below has been lost to the following members: the Tower, the Hanged Man, the Sun, the Hierophant, the Empress…