by Kara Silver
“Winding back the mileage on cars he’s selling, to make the car look like it ain’t got many miles on the clock,” Chandy snapped. Then she sighed. “Sorry. That’s not important though.”
Kennedy…kind of thought it might be. “So what is important?” She held the phone away from her ear to see the time and, wincing, started walking, jamming the phone to her ear to catch as much as she could.
“One of the idiots left some weed in the car and the client found it when he took his car back. He went ballistic, started examining the car, and twigged what’d been done to it originally. Hit the roof majorly. Ayaan’s in big trouble and blaming it on his juniors and apprentices, making out he’s as clean as a whistle.”
“Oh no.” Kennedy halted a second to pull a woolly hat on.
“Yeah. So he’s kicked ’em all out, told ’em they’re on their own, and told this client to do what he has to do with them.”
Reception crackled a little then, but Kennedy thought she had the gist, that the boss was keeping his hands—or his garage—clean in that way, making out he was the victim, and hanging the young mechanics out to dry.
“What’s Karl going to do? Apologise to the customer? Look for another job?” she asked, only to have her questions overlap with Chandy telling her it meant Karl would lose his place on the course at the college, too, now his employer wasn’t sponsoring him.
“So his training allowance’s gone with it. No salary, no allowance, no reference…”
Kennedy didn’t know what to say. She had a feeling there was more on the horizon.
“And God knows what he’s gonna be facing, from the client complaining. Police…”
“Police?”
“Yeah. So we were thinking about you, like.”
“Me? How me?” She had to raise her voice, and attracted glances. Again, things went patchy, but she caught the gist. “Chris? What could he do? He doesn’t even work in the same district, never mind the same station!”
“At least you could find out what’s what.” Chandy’s voice sharpened. “We can hardly go in to the cop shop and ask what’s gonna happen to Karl to get prepared in advance, can we?”
“I don’t really—”
“So you won’t even ask your boyfriend? We’re not expecting him to do anything—of course he’ll side with his cop mates—but just give us an idea of the steps involved. What could happen and what we could do.”
“I see.” Put like that…but it sounded so vague. “I’ll try.”
“And text me right away, if you get anything from him?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “Chandy, I’m so sorry about it all. I hope Karl gets another job. Look, the phone reception is really bad and I have to go.”
As soon as she disconnected, a message buzzed. Chris! As if her talking about him had summoned him. And…it wasn’t his first message. Damn. She should have checked in with him today. She’d had her phone off, during the performance last night, and…well, all day today. Chris had seen the play. At least, she thought he had. He hadn’t hung around to see her after. But then, she hadn’t gone to seek him out. The general miasma of guilt swathing her wisped a bit higher, like, say, thigh level now. Makes a change from all the fear of last term, though.
Passing through the gate, she slowed to read the latest message, stilled to a stop, then looked up. Sure enough, Chris was outside, leaning against, thankfully not a squad car, but a normal car. “You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no.” He indicated her phone. “Thought you’d finish about now. It’s knocking-off time, in general.”
“Sorry!” Kennedy shoved her phone away. “I only just switched it on and saw. I meant to text. Just got caught up, well, catching up! How are you?” she enquired, at the same time he did.
Chris grinned. “So, are we on?”
Kennedy tried to pretend she’d finished reading his text. “And it would be when?”
“Well, now! Thought hot chocolate would be a good change from coffee.” He pulled the ends of her scarf, his nostrils wrinkling as he did so. She should have washed it, after unearthing it from the lost property box.
“Iced hot chocolate?” she teased.
“That sounds disgusting! But how does my ice skating idea sound?”
Ah. That was the gist of his text. There was a winter rink at the castle for a month or so. Local bands played music in the evenings and kiosks sold beverages for city charities.
“I can’t this evening. Tonight. I have a performance. I should be on my way there now.”
“Oh?”
She tried to interpret his look. Guys should come with a manual, she felt. Not just guys. Stone guardians, especially. In lots of different languages. “Yeah. For a few days. Evenings. Just to help out. Well, you know that.”
“Yeah. I didn’t realise it was so…involved.”
“Erm…I’m a bit late. Sorry.” That was it. She was soooo going to keep a tally of how often she apologised in a day. Then she’d show Aeth and he’d…probably still be gone. Both Aeth and Tristan were on her mind, and she wasn’t exactly sure how she’d left things with Chris, when she hurried off. She’d remember to text him later. Tomorrow at the latest. And she’d look up what was likely to happen to Karl, if a complaint was made against him, and confirm her thoughts with Chris. He might be able to do something. It wasn’t impossible—
“There you are!” Her uncle grabbed her into a hug, pulling her onto the island, which still had that layer of calm to it, despite the excitement of the fair. “You’re late, but so pleased you’re here! You knocked ’em dead yesterday—ready to slay again? You’re just about in time for the play.”
“Yes. Hang on.” Something had been bothering her. In the evening shade, Kennedy caught sight of her cousin in the distance. Isabella had presumably been making the rounds of the fair with the rest of the players, performing the small snippets designed to attract the crowd to the main show. And notch up another guilt mark. “Is Isa okay with me, well, taking her limelight, isn’t that what you call it?”
Giacobb hustled her into the tiring tent, assuring her her cousin was pleased to have another family member in their troupe.
Kennedy stuck her head through the flap. “And she’s okay in general? I mean, not too ill? What’s, well, the matter?”
“Oh.” He twisted his lips. “She hasn’t been…eating properly. She has some, I don’t know. Fads? Hang-ups? Beliefs?”
“I see.” Relief swamped her, that her stupid suspicion about Isa and Tristan, about the cause of Isa’s health issues, were wide of the mark. And yeah, she’d known more than a few girls with the problems Giacobb was hinting at. “Any point asking if she’s seen a doctor?”
“We sent her to talk to il Dottore, yes. He mixed her up a potion. She’s feeling a lot stronger.”
“I meant…” She twisted to see who was shouting her. “We’ll discuss it later, yeah?”
Kennedy made a seamless swap with Isabella, taking her place in the stage tent. “It’s different!” she tried to signal to Tristan with her expression. The scenarios and exchanges of dialogues weren’t exactly the same as they’d been for the last performance. Oh. Maybe that kept it fresh, especially for the actors, or players, who did this all the time?
Kennedy had had the chance—well, she’d done that rather than academic work—to read up a little on the commedia dell’arte while in the library earlier. Even with her brief exposure to i comessi, she’d learned from her hasty research that the troupe employed some extremely traditional, ultra-classical aspects to their art, costumes and masks, and music and even tropes not usually seen these days. Some of them were even considered lost. Good gimmick, she supposed.
People filled the benches, even more than yesterday. No point trying to spot Chris. He wouldn’t be there. Or was he? Kennedy felt the weight of eyes upon her, as though someone was watching her. Of course, they were—it’s called an audience, you moron! Even so, she wriggled under the feeling. The scrutiny? The examination? Whatever, it creeped her
out. Was that what actresses or dancers, or female performers in general, dealt with? She cast as many discreet glances as she could out into the rows of people watching, but didn’t see anyone staring. Anyone stalking. She must have been imagining it, but it was a horrible feeling.
As before, she had no problems following and keeping up with the action, the scenes. Whereas yesterday, the audience had been on the edge of their seats to see Tristano and Beatrice enjoying some alone-time and growing closer picking flowers in a pastoral garden, tonight they gasped and clapped to see The Lovers as students in the same dance class. Good job I’m playing a pupil, learning the moves, Kennedy thought. Had the troupe written the scene this way after reports of her trying to dance the classical steps?
Again, she experienced that slimy, cold sensation of someone watching. When it was her turn to sink into a low curtsey, slightly off to stage left while Tris took centre stage, being tutored by the female instructress, Kennedy took the opportunity to scan the audience. Still nothing. It must have been all in her head.
The music became dreamier, softer, and she and Tristan twirled into each other’s dancing space and approached each other again and again, nearer and nearer each time, their hands reaching, never clasping—until at last they made contact. The spectators let out their collective breath. Tristan’s eyes shone a deep green over his mask and his curls bounced, wild, begging to be petted. His movements were courtly, mannered, but still incredibly sensual, that costume helping, showing off his toned, muscled legs, and what at last he took her hands to spin her into him, Kennedy hoped her gasp was lost in that of the audience.
Tristan pulled her into his warmth and held her against his heat, his strength. But just for one second, their bodies barely touching, before he whirled her away, to the soundtrack of “Noooo!” from the spectators. He held his arms high, nodding at her to do the same so their clasped hands made an arch, or a bridge, for them to take tiny steps forward, him copying her, then her him, to meet underneath it. Their toes touched and their torsos leaned forward. Any second now…
She jumped at the loud exclamation from Pantalone, entering the dance studio to see her and Tristano entwined, about to embrace, and the crowd yelled its protest as the rest of the troupe hurried into formation between The Lovers, leaving them on the extreme ends of the row they formed.
Kennedy felt bereft, lost, but she needn’t have worried. The dance played out and music swelled, reaching a crescendo and both she and Tristano were twirled from player to player, so they whirled along the row of bodies to land in the middle, at which point the others stepped back, leaving them together, alone, centre stage,
Tristano held her tightly yet not straining, making her feel safe. Cherished, was the word that sprang to her mind. She thought she might have mumbled it. Hoped not, Then Tristano dipped her low, one hand holding both of hers imprisoned behind her back, one hand coming to frame her face, His lower body pressed alongside hers and he leaned lower and lower, bringing his face to her—and then the show ended, the lights fading to black. The crowd went crazy, standing and cheering, clapping and whistling.
And the world went crazy for Kennedy, too, because as the lights faded, Tristan cupped her cheek, brought his lips to hers and kissed her.
14
He surrounded her, his heat, his strength, until she was drowning in him, imprisoned by him, caged by him. And where normally she’d have fought swiftly and efficiently to free herself, now Kennedy melted at the hard press of Tristan’s mouth against her, the tiny nibble at each lip in turn, and the sly lick of a tongue along their seam, opening them up. Tristan insinuated his tongue tip inside and Kennedy braced herself for a deep, slow glide of his tongue. His kiss would be searching, deep—devastating. And she was more than ready. It felt so right, so yes, so now, so this. Her place. She’d found it!
But it never came. The light shone on them again, the applause intensified, roaring in her ears, and Tristan whipped away, straightening and pulling her with him so she stood next to him, to sink into a curtsey as he bowed. And she did, on autopilot, staring straight ahead, not casting a glance to the side. To Tristan. She didn’t need to, not with his hand still in hers, holding it tightly, squeezing and releasing in a message she was perhaps supposed to understand. He loosened his hold and she almost fell, catching herself before she did.
“Beatrice? Kennedy?” came from behind her, but she didn’t turn. Couldn’t, not as long as Tristan was rubbing tiny circles with his thumb into the back of her hand. How could she talk to other people, join in conversations, act rationally when her nerve endings were firing? “You…you’d better let go,” she muttered, wondering if he’d hear her, hoping that perhaps he wouldn’t, or that if he did, he ignored her.
He turned her so she faced him. “Are you sure?”
“No,” she replied, in all honesty, and his grin in reply was liquid heat in her veins. With a final flourish, sweeping her arm high and down again, Tris let go of her hand. A chill shot through her. Oh, right. It was one she recognised. Lived with. Guilt. Guilt that she was letting someone down, wasn’t keeping her promises, wasn’t honouring her commitments. And this one she could pinpoint. Chris.
She scanned the emptying tent, smiling, thanking and giving answers to members of the audience who’d come up to congratulate them or ask questions. No, no sign of him tonight. But would he have seen anything? Although her wrists tingled where Tristan had held them, her cheek burned where he’d cupped it and her lips stung from his kiss, it had happened in the dark. One spectacle the spectators had been denied.
Although she didn’t doubt that the players knew exactly what had happened once the lights had gone out. God, what must they think of her? Her uncle, her aunt, Tristan’s grandfather? She had to get away. Ought to. Should. Yes. She began inching towards the tent flap and it proved easy enough to dodge and snake around people and groups to get to the female dressing tent, especially if she avoided the pools of lantern light.
Probably only me who uses the tiring tent, anyhow, seeing as how all the other players seem to wear their costume all the time. So I’ll just— Throw a sickly smile at Emilia. Busted. “Erm, it went well, don’t you think?” Kennedy asked, scooping out cold cream to smear on her face with one hand and snatching up a wodge of cotton wool to wipe it, and her makeup, off with the other with a bare few seconds’ gap between. Twisting around to grab her clothes, she knocked the overhead lantern and it swung, casting crazy swathes of light across the tent.
“What’s the hurry?” her aunt enquired.
“Oh, things, stuff…” Kennedy jerked her head in the direction her college probably lay.
“Not because you and Tristan—”
“No!” Kennedy wanted to put her hands over her ears, only she was struggling into her clothes. “Well, yes.”
“And?” Emilia eyed her via the mirror. She took up a pot of what Kennedy had discovered was lip colour and applied some.
“Well, I’m… I have a boyfriend.” Kennedy almost whispered it, for some reason. “So that was wrong. A mistake.”
“A boyfriend? Or…someone you date?”
“Isn’t…it the same?”
Emilia put down the brush and shrugged, as if she didn’t have much of an opinion. Wasn’t it the same? Okay, they’d been on a few dates. But they hadn’t… And hadn’t had any kind of talk about exclusivity. For all she knew, Chris was whooping it up with a different woman police officer every night he wasn’t with her. But that’s no excuse.
“Beatrice.”
Kennedy was startled to find herself looking up in response to the name. Emilia hugged her.
“Don’t think so much! Don’t stress yourself. Be happy. Please?”
Kennedy, not very touchy-feely, hugged back, wanting to curl up in the affection, bask in the warmth. “Thanks,” she said.
“You’re very young,” her aunt said. “Enjoy yourself. Go!” And she turned her and gave her a gentle push to the tent flap. Kennedy stumbled through, to find Tris
tan waiting.
“Up for it?” he enquired.
“It?”
“Did la Signore tell you? About the party?”
“When?”
“Now!” He tipped his head back to assess her. “You’re going to stay, right?”
“I don’t think—”
“Good! That’s it!” Emilia praised, brushing past her.
As she walked by, her dress rippled…exposing the edge of a mark on her shoulder blade. A mark Kennedy thought looked very familiar. Familiar. Family. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t discovered anything about them. About herself. And that was the whole point of her doing this, wasn’t it?
“Here?” Kennedy asked, pulling her coat tighter around her.
Tristan made a face. “Hardly. Somewhere a little more…hip.”
She giggled at the slang coming from him. Then the word he’d used caught up with her. Party. She’d been to a couple last term, and it had been terrifying. “Party. I’m not…good at them,” she tried to explain.
“I’ll be there. It’s with friends.” Tristan pointed at a small group up ahead, who were gesticulating at him to hurry. When she hesitated, he sighed. “Card on the table: I just want to go to Narnia! Have you been?”
“The…land in the— Oh! The bar!” Did she feel stupid. “No! I’ve heard it mentioned.” By richer, fancier students at meals and in corridors, waiting for lectures or practicals.
“And now you’ll see it for yourself. Come on!”
Unbelievably, Kennedy found herself racing over the bridge from the island, along the walkway and out of the park, Tris holding one hand and Isabella, laughing and half-dancing, the other. The other people in the group were about her own age or slightly older, and two of them claimed to know the backstreet the bar was in, but had differing views, so the whole thing became a rally or treasure chase through the winter streets, until finally, breathless, heated, they stopped outside a closed door in a side street.
“Narnia!” Kennedy pointed to the small brass plaque low down on the wall. “How do we get in?” It was by pressing the buzzer and answering a question, she learned. It took them three goes to give a good enough answer. She hadn’t drunk anything but felt half-smashed, entering the building to find a wardrobe painted on the wall at the end of the corridor, and having to enter through that and descend stairs.
