by Mackenzi Lee
“Well, you can’t. Ladies aren’t allowed.”
I nearly stepped on her train as she cut the corner of the landing in front of me. “If you are scheming about the alchemical cures, please do it where I can hear.”
“We aren’t scheming. We’re . . .” I didn’t get to a fib fast enough, and Felicity’s eyes narrowed. She darted up the step in front of me, cutting off my progress.
“You are scheming!”
“Just stay in the box and keep an eye on Dante, won’t you? See if he goes anywhere.”
“Don’t give me some nonsense task to make me feel included.”
“It’s not nonsense, just . . .” I didn’t know how to finish, so I just flapped a hand at her.
Felicity tore her fingers from my arm, straightened her dress, then stuck her nose in the air. “Fine. Don’t include me. Perhaps I’ll scheme on my own, then.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, then grabbed Percy by the hand and dragged him away.
The gambling hall is gauzy with smoke and hotter than the summer air outside. It’s a great effort not to loosen my cravat as soon as we enter. As we wait at the bar for whiskey, I recount to Percy what I overhead.
“From what I gather, they’re meeting someone here tonight,” I finish. “Do you think we could find out who it is? Maybe we should get back to the box and follow Dante if he goes anywhere. Bit conspicuous, though, I suppose. What if it’s the duke he’s rallying with? Maybe that letter I found was instructions for a meeting time. I’d bet it’s the duke—what if he followed us here from Marseilles?” I resist the urge to look around, as though he might suddenly materialize at our side.
I look to Percy, hoping he might lend some shears to my intellectual hedgerow, but he’s pulling at his coat, fanning the collar against his neck. “God, it’s hot in here.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Course I am. But I think you’re getting excited over nothing.”
“Hardly nothing—”
“Just because you found one letter from Bourbon doesn’t mean they’re on familiar terms.”
“Then who else would they be meeting?”
“Perhaps it’s nothing to do with the alchemy. Or their father. Or us.”
“Helena stopped awfully short when she realized I was listening.”
“Well, you were being rude.”
“I wasn’t being rude!”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“No eaves were dropped, I was just standing about. It’s their fault they weren’t speaking softer. And that’s not the point! The point is, something is going on and I have a sense we’re being conspired against. We need to find what we can about Mateu Robles’s alchemical cures and then get away from here. Why aren’t you as worked up about this as I am?”
The bartender delivers our shot glasses, and Percy slides one down to me with a smile. “Because I don’t want to worry about that right now. I just want to be out with you. We’re here, aren’t we? In Barcelona. At the opera. Let’s enjoy it.” He traces the rim of his glass with a finger, and it hums at his touch. “We won’t have many more nights like this.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“No, it’s not, because we are going to find whatever secrets they have about alchemical cures and then you’ll be well again.” On the stage, the soprano starts in on a punishing first aria at a pitch that makes the air tremble. I wince. “Here then, let’s play a game where we drink every time someone sings something in Spanish.”
“Italian.”
“What?”
He tips his head toward the stage. “This is Handel—it’s in Italian.”
“Is it?”
“Definitely Italian.”
I decide not to mention how adorable I find it that he knows all that just by hearing a few bars. The soprano strikes another blistering note and I grimace. “Doesn’t matter, I hate it.” I tap the rim of my glass against his. “To beauty, youth, and happiness.”
He laughs. “Do we qualify for any of those of late?”
“Well, we are indisputably young. And I am happy—at least right now, because I haven’t had a proper drink in a fortnight and I’m quite excited about this. And you are . . .” I trail off, my neck starting to heat.
Percy turns to me quickly, his eyes catching the light and reflecting a mischievous glint. I’m suddenly aware of my body in a way I wasn’t a moment before, every twitch and blink, the way my shoulders sit inside this too-big coat, the bob of my throat as I swallow hard, every point of my silhouette that his gaze touches. Love may be a grand thing, but goddamn if it doesn’t take up more than its fair share of space inside a man.
I could tell him. Right here, right now, let it out in the light. Percy, I could say, I think you are the most beautiful creature on God’s green earth and I would very much like to find a hidden corner of this opera house and engage in some behavior that could only be termed sinful.
Percy, I could say, I am almost certain that I am in love with you.
But then I think about that kiss in Paris, the way he pushed me away once I let slip a hint that it might mean something more than a random romp. He’s been so fond with me since we reached Spain, in a way he hasn’t since before I put my mouth on his that disastrous night, and that feels fragile as spun sugar, too sweet and precious to risk its collapsing.
“I’m what?” Percy asks, mouth curling upward.
The singer breaks off, the orchestra lapsing into an interlude. Percy’s eyes flit away from me, toward the stage, and I slap him on the shoulder. “Yes, Percy, you’re very handsome,” I say as flippantly as I can muster, then toss back my whiskey in two quick swallows. It burns as it hits my throat.
When I turn back to him, that drowsy hint of a smile has vanished. He shifts so he’s propped backward against the bar on his elbows, tugging again at his coat collar to ward off the heat. Then he leans suddenly in to me and says, “Here, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. When we were in Paris . . .”
He halts, and my stomach drops. When I look over at him, his eyes are fixed on a point across the room. “What about Paris?” I say, trying to be dead casual about it, but he doesn’t seem to hear. “Percy?”
“Look, it’s Dante.”
“What?” I whip around and follow his gaze across the room. Amid the tables, there’s Dante, hands in his coat pockets and shoulders pulled up, like a turtle drawing into its shell. He’s talking to an older gent in a white wig and a fine gold coat, his fingers curled over a silver-handled cane. The man smiles kindly at Dante, who looks to be stuttering something, but then shakes his head.
Both Percy and I keep silent, though we’re too far away to hear anything being said. The man bends down, forcing Dante to meet his eyes, says something that makes Dante go red, then makes to clap him on the shoulder, but Dante steps out of the way and instead he ends up swatting the air between them. The man smiles, then starts off toward the gambling tables while Dante flees the other direction, through the doors and back out to the boxes.
“Do you think that’s—” Percy starts, but I’m ahead of him.
“We need to talk to him.”
“Who, Dante?”
“No, whoever that is.” I flail a hand at the white-wigged cove. He’s already settled himself at a hazard table across the room—for a man with a cane, he’s a speedy bastard. “Let’s have a game, get him talking, ask about the Robleses, see if he’ll tell us anything. Maybe he knows about their connection to the Bourbons or what their father was doing with his alchemy. Or anything about them.”
I start toward the table, but Percy catches me by the back of my coat. “Hold on, they’re not going to let you sit at a gambling table for a chat. We’re going to have to bet.”
“Oh . . .” I glance over—there are only three empty seats left at the man’s table, and one gets snagged almost as soon as I look.
“I’ll get chips,” Percy says. “You corner him.
”
“Brilliant.” I start away again, but then double back to him. “You all right?”
“Fine,” he says, though he’s plucking at his shirt. “It’s so hot, is all.”
“We’ll make this the quickest card game of our lives. Meet at the table.”
I sidle through the crowd, trying not to look like I’m making a charge for those two empty seats. A pair of swains are standing behind them, talking, one of them with his hand resting on a seat back, but I dive in before they can and fall, a little less gracefully than I had hoped, into the chair beside the man Dante was conversing with.
He glances up from his chips and gives me a smile. I offer a big one in return. “Not too late, am I?” I say in French.
“Not at all,” he replies. “Welcome to Barcelona.”
“Sorry?”
“You sound foreign.”
“English. My friend and I are on our Tour—he’s gone for chips.”
“We don’t get many English tourists here. How did you make your way so far south?”
Oh, this is going splendidly. “We’re visiting friends. The Robles family.”
His eyebrows meet in the center of his forehead. “Oh, are you?”
“Wagers, please, gentlemen,” the caster interrupts. “We’re ready to begin.”
I resist the urge to glance around for Percy. “Do you know them? The Robleses.”
“In a professional capacity. I spoke with Dante earlier tonight, actually.”
I’m not what might be called accomplished at subtlety, but asking forthrightly And what did you two speak about? seems excessively bold, so instead I say, “What’s your profession?”
“I serve as warden of the city prison. Rather grim, I know.” That was not what I was expecting. He shuffles his chips between his thumb and forefinger, then tosses a few on the table for the caster. “Good for those poor children to have some company after all they’ve been through with their parents.”
I’d hardly call either of the Robleses a child, but I don’t correct him.
There’s a tap on the table in front of me, and I look up. The caster is frowning. “Your wager, sir.”
“Ah, just a moment.” I lean in to the warden. “I’m quite concerned about Dante, actually, I haven’t seen him since his father died, and he’s been so tight-lipped about it ever since—”
“Died?” the warden interrupts. “He hasn’t died.”
“But he’s . . . What?”
“Sir,” the caster says, “the wager.”
I try to swat him away. “My friend’s on his way—”
“Sir—”
“What do you mean, he isn’t dead?” I demand.
The warden looks rather alarmed by my vehemence, but says, “Mateu Robles is a Hapsburg sympathizer, jailed for refusing to aid the House of Bourbon when they took the crown.”
My heart is really going now. “You’re certain?”
“I’ve been charged with his care by the king. He’s housed in my prison.”
“Do his children—”
“Sir,” the caster says, “if you won’t be wagering, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Fine, I’ll . . .” I stumble to my feet, searching for Percy. He’s a hard fellow to miss, but the crowd is thick and the air smoky and I am more than a bit flustered. “I’ll be right back,” I say, partly to the caster, but mostly to the warden, then shoulder into the crowd. He’s alive is thumping through me like a heartbeat, and I’m tripping myself trying to work out what this means. Mateu Robles is alive, though both Dante and Helena had assured us he was dead. Dead as Lazarus, and here he is, risen again.
I do two laps around the hall before the realization that I can’t find Percy kicks its way through my discovery. He’s not at the chips table, or at the bar where I left him. I can’t think where else he would have gone, and I’m starting to get frantic.
Where are you, Percy?
And then I spot him, slumped on the ground beside the door, his head between his knees and his hands shoved into his hair. My heart stands still for a moment, then begins to pound again for a new reason entirely.
I shove through the crowd, with no care whatsoever for who I’m smashing into, and drop to my knees beside Percy. I touch his arm and he starts more than I expected. When he looks up, his face is drawn, thin beads of sweat gathering along his hairline. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
“What’s wrong? Is it . . . ? Are you about to . . . ?”
He pushes his face into the crook of his elbow. “I don’t know.”
“Right. Well . . . right. How about, maybe . . . maybe . . .” I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m fishing bare-handed in my stream of consciousness for some way to take charge of this situation and be what he needs, and I’m coming up empty. Do something, you imbecile. “Let’s go,” I say, which seems like a good place to start, and I help Percy to his feet. He sways unsteadily, though that might just be the crowd jostling us. I slide his hand around my arm and lead him out of the hall, the truth about the Robleses taking second place to Percy.
Everything will always be second to Percy.
I’m not certain if he’s about to fall into a fit, or how long we’ve got if he is, or if there’s anything I can do to stop it. He’s clutching my arm as I lead him down the stairs and through the lobby, into the courtyard, which—thank God—is cooler than inside and nearly deserted.
In one corner, a grove of lemon trees clings to the stone wall, branches bowing under the weight of ripe fruit. I walk Percy over, hoping there’ll be a bench or at least a hefty rock, but he doesn’t seem to give a whit about the seating, for he sits down on the grass, then falls backward with his knees up and his hands over his face. He’s breathing rather fast.
“Please, not now,” he murmurs, so soft I’m not certain he knows he spoke aloud.
I’m fighting the urge to go fetch Felicity because she’s so much better at this than me—probably would have if it didn’t mean leaving him on his own. I haven’t a clue what to do, so I clamp onto the first idea that arrives before I have a chance to really consider it: I crouch down at his side and put a hand upon his elbow. It is perhaps the least comforting place upon which a comforting touch can be bestowed, but I’m committed to it now, so I don’t move.
I am doing the wrong thing, I think. I am doing the wrong thing and I am going to do the wrong thing and I am never going to be what he needs.
For a time, we’re both silent. Above us, the canary-yellow lemons sparkle among the leaves, their rinds swollen and slick with starlight. Interwoven with the glittering chatter from inside the opera house, sounds of the city play from the other side of the courtyard wall—the clack of carriages and the soft shush of fountains emptying their throats. The thin peal of a watchman’s voice sings the hour. Barcelona is a handsome symphony all its own.
“Are people staring?” Percy asks. His breathing is evening out, but he still looks poorly.
“No.” I glance around the courtyard. A lady and a gent perched near the wall are giving us a glare that plainly implies we interrupted what was about to be his hands up her skirt. “Want me to lie down as well? It’s less strange if there’s the pair of us.”
“No, I think it’s passed.”
“Certain?”
“Yes. I just got a rather odd feeling and I thought it might be coming on.” He sits up, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again, and I nearly collapse with relief. “You can go back inside.”
“Absolutely not, we should go.”
“I’m fine, I promise.”
“Come on.” I climb to my feet, brushing my hands off on my coattails. “Back to the house.”
“What about the others? Shouldn’t we tell them?”
“They’ll work it out.” I hold out a hand to him, and he lets me pull him to his feet, a little unsteady on the slippery grass.
We take a hired carriage back to the Robleses’. A few streets from the opera house, Percy nods off, his head slipping
onto my shoulder, then down to my chest. When the hack stops, I sit for several minutes longer before I shrug, very lightly, so that he raises his head. “We’re here.”
Percy sits up, pushing his knuckles into his forehead. “Did I fall asleep?”
“A bit. Ah, look, you’ve gone and slobbered all over my jacket.” I take a swipe at my lapel.
“Dear Lord. Sorry.”
“You were only asleep five minutes. How’d you manage to drool that much?”
“Sorry!” He pulls his sleeve up over his thumb and tries to wipe it off and instead ends up smearing it into the silk. I bat him away and he covers his face with his hands, laughing. He doesn’t seem quite himself yet—I’m still braced for the fit to come on—but he looks less flimsy than he did in the gambling hall, and when we climb out of the cab his step is steady.
The house is stifling, but a window is open in the parlor and the lamps are still lit, so it’s there that I leave Percy curled up on the sofa, while I muck about in the kitchen—nearly lose a chunk of my hair and the skin off my palms trying to get water boiling and spill at least ten shillings’ worth of leaves from the jar.
When I return to the parlor, I am victory personified with kettle and teacup in hand. Percy raises his head as I approach and regards my offering with a peery eye. “What’s this?”
“Tea. I made you tea. I could get something else, if you want. There’s wine around somewhere.”
“What are you doing?”
“I dunno. Helping? Sorry, you don’t have to drink it.”
“No, that’s . . . Thank you.” He takes the cup from me and has a cautious sip, then coughs once and claps a fist sharply to his chest. “This is . . . tea?”
“Did I ruin it?”
“No, no, it’s—” He coughs again, which turns into a laugh, and then he’s laughing with his head tipped back. I kick the sofa leg and he’s nearly unseated. A bit of the vile tea sloshes onto the upholstery. I set the kettle on the side table and sink down on the other end of the sofa, mirroring his body so we are face-to-face, curled up like question marks with our feet off the floor and our knees together.
