March of the Third Autotomic Brigade
Every step Aster takes is another violation of her contract, each minute of truancy a year of labor she will owe her patron.
But now, with the air coming clear and sharp in her lungs, she stuffs away her guilt, her terror, and tells herself an invulnerable man has no use for loyalty, no matter how naturally he commands it.
It’s well past dark by the time she reaches Rebirth, trotting along the boulevard cloaked in a raincoat and essence of creeper moth.
Rain patters against broken statuary and mushroom caps, browning the ivy and shriveling the lilacs.
Exposed skin stinging, she folds her umbrella and ducks past the broken statuary, climbing the steps to Mallory’s portico.
The door, by virtue of being a melted chunk of sap, is open.
The lights are on in the foyer, but when she calls into the house, no one answers.
Spores shudder down from the chandelier, and rain drips through the fissures in the ceiling.
She hugs herself, fighting off angry tears when she realizes she’s missed him—but she’s determined to wait, alone and cold and dauntless as a dog, for him to return from whatever show or scheme occupies his night.
When she steps into the foyer, a silverfish skitters past, circling a small table at the base of the stairwell.
A tray of cocktail fixings sits on it, generously and, upon further inspection, recently used.
Aster strains her ears. Muffled laughter, and the tones of a phonograph, creep in from above.
Aster ascends the stairs, following the sound of Mallory’s southern cadence, and, as she creeps toward the bedroom, what she realizes is Elspeth’s laugh.
She removes her shoes by the phone, then leans against the door, slightly ajar.
She peers through the crack, and her heart tightens.
After a few seconds of watching the two figures in the flickering lamplight, she releases a despondent sigh.
At least she is not the only betrayer of the evening.
“You really should try to get along,” Mallory says.
He reclines on his side, one leg exposed, draped in Elspeth’s emerald wedding gown.
A half-completed masterpiece, the fabric ripples with jewels, with the haphazard shapes of his embroidery.
He sports an imperial headdress, and his silk gloves rise nearly to his shoulders.
In his right hand he holds a sheathed rapier, in his left, a snifter. “You and Dee have a very similar wit.”
“That’s the problem,” Elspeth replies, stroking her canvas. “You should’ve seen us at that last photo shoot. Like putting two cats in a box and shaking it.”
Mallory laughs. “You liked his performance in The Lilies well enough.”
“Please. It was my performance. Kneeling all calm and pretty with that hideous flower on my head. All Dee had to do was not get diced by Ludovico.”
“Well, that’s a great deal harder than he made it look.”
“Yes—fine. But he’s too … literal. He doesn’t appreciate that any real insurrection has to be abstract. If he wants to be the poster boy for the movement he’s going to have to put down the sword—”
Aster opens the door. A chill falls over the room. Immediately, Mallory stiffens, and Elspeth darts to her feet. Color draining from her face, she locks her eyes not on Aster, but the empty hallway behind her shoulder. “Who is it?” she whispers. “Who’s there, Mal?”
“Crypsis,” Aster says, with a twinge of despair.
“Oh, God. Don’t sneak up on us like that.
” Elspeth collapses into her chair. Evidence of their artistic conspiracy lies scattered from the hearth to the bed: strips from her altered wedding dress, embroidery loops, dozens of sketches of Mallory dressed in finery from his father’s closet.
A portrait of him in her wedding dress sits unfinished on the easel.
Despite the wildness of its strokes, it is a surgical cut to the Chancellor’s dignity.
“Where have you been, Aster?” El says. “We both tried to call you.”
“I … The Marshal kept me busy.”
“Oh dear. You sound miserable. You must be soaked.”
“Did something happen?” Mallory asks. He sets his saber aside and heaves himself from the couch, unsteady as he kicks off his golden heels. “Did you walk here?”
Aster’s heart pounds, yearning for anger, for jealousy. She wants to demand an explanation, to pull the scraps of his handkerchief from her purse and shake them at him, but what she wants a great deal more is a strong drink and a good sleep. “Do you have a cigarette?” she asks.
“Of course, dear.” Elspeth turns, knocking over an empty cocktail glass. “Oh, Mal, will you fetch my purse?”
He nods, helping Aster out of her coat. The way the gown hugs his shape sends her head spinning. “What’s with the crown?” she asks.
“You like it? I found it in the closet. It’s supposed to be Larbella.” He drapes her coat over his arm and makes for the doorway. “I’ll fix you a drink, vralen.”
“Please.” After he goes, Aster turns to Elspeth. They stare at one another as an arietta seeps from the phonograph.
“I told you he’d let me paint him,” El says eventually.
“I didn’t think you’d do it.”
“This is my best work. I’m serious—it’s the only good one I’ve ever done.” She grins. “I might even finish it.”
“When the Chancellor finds out, he’ll get out the bone saw. And he won’t stop at your thumbs.”
“Well, are you going to tell him?”
“God, no. Florian couldn’t torture this out of me.” She stares at the portrait, as beautiful and incomplete as the rest of them. She can’t say she’s surprised, she can’t even say she’s displeased. But she is afraid. “What are you doing, Elspeth?”
“Preparing for my wedding. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’ve gone insane.”
“Makes two of us, love.” She flicks a little paint in Aster’s direction. “Does the Marshal know you’re out dancing in the rain?”
“No.” Aster removes her gloves and sinks into a chair, amid Elspeth’s nest of oils and brushes. “He thinks I’m at the Sanitarium right now.”
“Oh. Bold move, Aster.”
She watches the doorway. “Not as bold as what you’ve done with that dress.”
“Isn’t it good?” Her grin returns. “Mal’s a brilliant man. I’m telling you, that dress’ll be my weapon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well—” She opens her mouth, thinks, then closes it again. “Shit. Do I look sober enough to explain myself?”
“You rarely are.”
She laughs. “Really, I’m just doing the exact same thing as you, dear. Fraternizing with”—it takes some effort to push out the final word—“undesirables.”
Mallory returns with a tray and a pack of cigarillos. “Here—one for Aster—”
“And one for me, please,” El says. She stands, swaying to the phonograph to change the record. “No more of this Aufhocker shit, Mal. I’ve got something new. Aster, you’ll love this.”
“Will I?” Aster asks, watching Mal set down the tray and fix another round.
A bright, amelodic pulse fills the room as he passes Aster a coupe of something red and smoky.
She downs it immediately, cringing at the heat.
Mallory makes her another, then moves to deliver one to Elspeth.
As he traverses the room, loose threads fan out from his unfinished needlework, rippling with the music, lifting their ends in response to something more substantive than static.
Aster says nothing, unsure if it’s exhaustion, alcohol, or something else that makes the lines of green and gold and blue writhe from the fabric like worms.
“This recording is awful,” Elspeth says from the phonograph. “You really can’t capture this Extemporist stuff, can you?”
“That’s the point, vralen,” Mallory says.
“We’ll have to resort to something else.” She turns, eyeing Aster and Mallory. “God. I’m crashing. I have a pick-me-up in my purse. Pure as a witch’s ashes. You have a razor, don’t you, Mal?”
“Bathroom.”
“Great. I’m going to…” She tips, then catches herself, grasping at Mallory on her way to the door. “Help me find it.”
He obeys, following her into the hall. After they disappear, Aster leans to watch the bathroom door slam shut. Something clatters behind it, the sink runs, masking a slurred conversation, then a soft, animal moan.
Neither returns for a few minutes. The phonograph drones on, emitting something less like music than the sound of a captive instrument suffering.
Aster pulls the needle from the record, seats herself again on the chaise, and slips the handkerchief from her pocket, but what blocks her throat now is only her fluttering heart.
She attempts to cough, can’t muster the phlegm, and makes herself another drink instead.
A door creaks, then closes. Mallory reappears with an amused mutter, skirt hiked, sweat dampening his forehead. “Pick-me-up, she says. Sure thing. That girl is heavier than she looks.”
“How … is she?” Aster asks cautiously.
“Abysmal.” He collapses next to her on the chaise. “Everything missed the toilet but her forehead. Let’s hope the bruise fades before rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Did she make it to bed?”
“Bathtub. Crawled inside and refused to get out, so I tucked her in with some towels.”
“They teach you that kind of chivalry at military college?”
“If you can call the beatings teachings.” He sighs, leaning back into the cushions, and she slumps against him.
The weight of the day, the week, the months and years, made a little heavier by drink, pull her into a kind of reverse vertigo.
Head on his shoulder, she watches his threads spin and squirm while the world eases to a stop.
As she takes in his scent, a hundred questions hover at the tip of her tongue, vying for precedence.
Out of all of them, only one seems remotely sufficient.
“Who are you?” she whispers.
He shifts beside her, shaking off the headdress with a rustle of ivory beads. “Empress Larbella. Can’t you tell?” His smile is beautiful in the flickering lamplight. “I’ve half a mind to wear this thing to the wedding.”