The Friday Society

by Adrienne Kress

  “Run away?” he said, utterly indignant.

  “Yes. Run away. Run away, and then, when your enemies chase you, turn and fight the one who has caught up to you. Defeat the leader, and then . . . run away again. That way the group will turn into one fighter at a time and you may, just may, have a chance at surviving.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “It’s a very common practice, trust me. No one expects a warrior to run away.”

  “Well, that’s true . . .”

  “And if the danger is too great . . . don’t turn and fight. Just run. Run like you are teaching me how to run.”

  The last wasn’t a samurai technique. It was her own private suggestion. To protect a ridiculous boy.

  And seeing his expression, she knew he didn’t like it one bit.

  Too much frustration now.

  “Let’s have tea.”

  The mood changed almost instantly as they headed down into Callum’s formal sitting room. All the furniture was covered with white dust cloths, which they both happily pulled off and tossed into a corner. They sat on the plush, floral-patterned, upholstered chairs, and Koukou brought them English-style tea, despite the late hour. Neither of them particularly liked or understood the milky, sugary-sweet substance, and left their cups half full.

  It was clear that there was something about Hayao’s youth and energy that brought Michiko out of her shell. He was the younger brother she’d never had. That she never knew she’d wanted to have.

  He reminded her a bit of the Monkey-King, Gokuu, all energy and climbing over everything, his talking back, his pride—did that make her the monk, Xuanzang, that tamed him?

  They talked a bit about Japan, which Hayao barely remembered and Michiko worried she was romanticizing a bit. She talked of the temples and cherry blossoms. And white screen doors and the simple but expensive decorations in her home. She didn’t talk about her parents, about their plans for her future. Of the men she’d met as the old geisha’s kitten. Nor of Kyoshi Adachi. Whom she’d never had a chance to defeat, something every student must do at some point with their master. It was all music and poetry, honor and tradition. All good things.

  Hayao’s eyes got heavy, and he tried to hide a yawn. Michiko told him to lie down on the couch.

  “Rest, little monkey,” she said, grabbing one of the white cloths and covering him with it like a blanket. “Sleep for a few hours, and then we’ll go out and do some running.”

  He smiled at the suggestion and was asleep almost immediately.

  She pushed his hair away from his face and looked at him fondly.

  You can’t. You can’t care. The more connections to this earth, the less willing you are to leave it. To face death without fear. To be a true samurai.

  She pulled her hand back quickly and cleared the tea set instead.

  35

  Meanwhile . . .

  “WOW, YOU FINISHED it,” said Andrew, sounding a little more impressed than he ought to be. After all, Cora thought, it was pretty obvious that she’d find a way to finish the goggles, just as she had finally finished the other device. This was what she was good at.

  “You’re surprised?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and holding the goggles up in the light.

  They were really quite a beautiful creation, leather straps and molded sockets that held the glass for the eyes. Held by thin metal joints off to the side were two other lenses that, neatly, with an easy flick, could fall in place in front of the glasses and change the view to night vision. Only after they had been secured in place, of course, with the automatic lock, and the gas between the two lenses was released from its small container near the ear. Yet it all looked so compact, almost delicate. It was, well, a work of art.

  “Not surprised,” he said quickly, though it was clear he was. “Just impressed. Always impressed. You are very impressive.” He was standing behind her and leaned down, placing his cheek against hers, wrapping his arms around her.

  Why did she feel like he was holding her prisoner and not just being affectionate?

  Still . . . he smelled nice.

  “I know,” replied Cora, and turned her head. He kissed her gently and then stood up again, clapping his hands.

  “Come on! We need to celebrate! Let’s go for a drink.”

  Cora sat upright. “I don’t think I can. His lordship . . .”

  “. . . is out. God knows what he’s up to.”

  Cora knew what he was up to. He was playing cards. Probably gambling away a fortune. And drinking. But of course he called such activities a “business meeting.”

  “If he comes back and finds that I’m not here . . .” She’d been lucky up till now. He hadn’t caught her sneaking back in late several nights in a row. But how long would her luck last?

  “He won’t. We’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin, I promise.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, how is it fair that you have to stay in twiddling your thumbs while he’s out having a grand old time just because you don’t want him to feel bad that you have a life outside of the one he gives you?”

  Cora looked at Andrew and was impressed at how spot on his argument was. It wasn’t fair. It had just always been that way. She’d always felt she’d had a kind of freedom. But it was only freedom up to a point. Freedom so long as his lordship knew her every movement. Going out this week hadn’t prevented her from doing her work or being there for him when he needed her. Why couldn’t she do what she wanted to when the job was done?

  Damn it all. She was going to the pub.

  * * *

  THE DUKE OF York was not your typical local. It was posh, with high ceilings and vaulted windows, a place where lawyers met after work, and where the high-ranking bankers (no clerks) and gentlemen-about-town could experience the cozy comfort of the neighborhood pub without the usual riffraff.

  It was also where a few brave ladies of substance, independently wealthy writers (possibly the odd novelist and those who contributed to ladies’ magazines) and the like could feel reasonably comfortable. The carpeting was immaculate. The bar shone in the lamplight. And the electric lights along the long wall buzzed in a superior fashion.

  No one seemed to notice Cora as being anything out of the ordinary. Still, she did feel a little out of place, since, aside from herself and Andrew, it seemed the youngest person there was thirty. But when they passed into the low-ceilinged back room and found a large round table surrounded by Andrew’s friends from his “Eton days” (his “Eton days,” as if they were a far-off memory and he’d not graduated just last year), the whole thinking that she’d be more comfortable around folks her own age thing? Not so much.

  Not that they didn’t try to be affable, all rising while Andrew pulled out a seat for her, and paying for each round of drinks. But every action they made came across as a kind of mockery almost, as if her presence was the biggest joke of all.

  It didn’t feel good.

  “Cora, Cora, Cora,” said Dipper (they all been introduced to her by these nicknames that she couldn’t for the life of her figure out), “now, what have you done to our chap here?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. She really didn’t like how he took the liberty of using her Christian name so casually, but she chose to let it go.

  “Well, ever since he met you, he’s been a whole different fellow.”

  “You mean that his arrogance and pretentiousness are a new affectation?” Cora asked in mock surprise.

  Dipper guffawed, and he slapped the table hard.

  “Oh Lord, what’s he been on about this time?” asked Wibbly, a short, pale-faced boy with a receding hairline who simultaneously looked like he was entering middle age and just leaving middle school.

  “Haven’t you heard about his Jekyll and Hyde theory?” asked Cora with a grin at Andrew who sighed and shook his head.

  “I know that one!” said Mops, clearly not out of the prep school mind-set, his hand flying up i
n excitement.

  “Yes, Mops,” said Cora, pointing to him and speaking as if she were his teacher recognizing his raised hand. The boys laughed at that.

  Mops just grinned, oblivious to the joke, but happy he’d provoked the laughter. “It’s that ‘two sides to every person’ philosophy of his, the whole . . . oh, damn it all, what’s the word . . .”

  “Duality?” offered Cora.

  “That’s it! Duality.”

  “What’s this, what’s this?” asked Dipper, leaning forward and looking at Andrew, cocking his head to one side.

  Andrew smiled and took a puff on his cigar. “I’ve told you,” he said, blowing out the smoke.

  “I dare say I’d remember.”

  “Yes, Captain, I think we’d all remember. Especially that you’d actually read a novel,” said Wibbly.

  Andrew leaned back farther, tipping the chair off its front legs, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “It’s about embracing both sides of ourselves, including the side that society would prefer we keep under wraps. Cora understands.”

  He glanced at her, and she rolled her eyes.

  “What does a woman know about two sides?” said Pheasant.

  “What a stupid question,” said Cora looking at the pig-faced boy directly across from her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Pheasant’s cheeks flushed a deep pink.

  “You honestly don’t think a woman would understand the restrictions that society places on a person?” She was taken aback. Stunned, really.

  “Yes,” came a quiet smooth voice from beside her.

  Cora turned in her chair to look directly at Iago, the boy sitting directly to her left. Aside from Andrew, he was probably the most attractive fellow there, dark blond curls growing a little long, his suit nicely tailored to fit his broad shoulders.

  “You boys think you’re all so clever, and that you are the only ones with intelligent thoughts to articulate.” Cora spoke as calmly as she could. “That we girls just sit and listen and take it all in, and otherwise marvel at how pretty a flower can look in the morning sun. You think this because we don’t say anything. But we don’t say anything because no one listens. No one lets us speak, and, if we do, our voices are silenced by an affectionate pat on the head. We have opinions. We can problem-solve. There’s much more to us than you think.”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem sharing your thoughts,” said Iago.

  “I’m unique.”

  “That you are,” said Dipper in an easy dismissal.

  “I think you’re drawing a false conclusion, Cora,” said Iago, with a smile.

  “Am I?”

  “Not everyone is capable of rational thought to the same degree.”

  Cora scoffed, “And how do you prove that exactly?”

  “Why do you think people end up where they do in society? If they had the capacity of being truly brilliant, they’d not be where they are.”

  “So you are saying that women are second-class citizens because they can’t function at a higher level?” Calm down, Cora, calm down. He’s just trying to goad you.

  “Not just women. Of course, look at the poor. If they were capable of greater intelligence, then don’t you think they’d have figured a way out of their situation?”

  Despite her best efforts at staying calm, Cora was becoming upset. What frustrated her the most, though, was that, despite how wrong she knew he was, she couldn’t think of a quick enough comeback.

  Iago saw her silence as his victory and turned to Andrew. “So what are you hiding from the world, then, Captain?”

  “My Hyde side you mean?” asked Andrew, falling immediately back into the conversation as if the recent tangent had never happened. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same passions as any man.”

  “What are those passions, then?” Cora said sharply. “Go on.”

  She and Andrew looked at each other for a moment, and Cora wondered just what would happen next. He seemed to be holding back. Getting angry, but keeping it to himself.

  Oh, just show us your Hyde already.

  “You’ve read the book,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, and I know it’s very careful not to specify exactly what terrible things Hyde got up to, as if reading about it might influence the reader. Except for the murder bit. You interested in that?”

  “I believe every man is capable of killing for a reason.”

  It was a very clearly pronounced sentence that fell on his audience heavily.

  “What are you going on about?” whined Pheasant. “Are you murdering people, Captain?”

  Andrew shook his head and laughed. “It’s all philosophical, Pheasant. Stop being so dramatic. But haven’t any of you ever wondered what it would be like to take someone’s life?”

  “Not really, no,” said Mops, his voice cracking.

  “I have,” said Iago.

  Andrew nodded at him. “The energy, the power. Fascinating.”

  Cora was starting to feel sick. She thought of Alice. There was no energy that had flowed from the dying flower girl. It wasn’t fascinating. It just felt awful. Sad. Helpless.

  “That’s not what it feels like,” she said quietly.

  Iago raised his eyebrows at her. “Killed someone, have you?”

  “No. But I’ve seen someone die. I’ve seen someone bleed to death on the street, the life evaporate from her eyes. Have you?”

  She knew the answer. The closest thing to death any of these boys had experienced was shooting rabbits on an estate in the country.

  “I think you’re missing the point,” said Iago.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “It isn’t about the dying. It’s about the killing. And I think there is something animalistic in all of us that would get something out of it. Something . . . primal. We all have these basic instincts, basic desires and drives. To think otherwise is irrational. It’s part of the conflict of being human. The duality. Reason versus instinct. Animals don’t empathize. Don’t reason away every impulse like some in this room might.” He gave her an unnecessarily pointed look. “They just act.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You’ve never wanted to do something wrong, that went against what society tells you to do? I find that really hard to believe, Cora.”

  “We’re not talking about that. We’re talking about one very specific thing . . .” How many drinks had she had? She was feeling dizzy. And overwarm. And royally pissed off that she couldn’t articulate the thoughts she had on the subject. All she knew was it was more complicated than these boys were trying to make it out to be. She definitely knew that wanting to break free from the restrictions she felt put on her was one thing and that killing someone was quite another.

  And she knew it was time to go home.

  Cora stood.

  “Thank you so much for a lovely evening, but it’s time for me to turn in.” She looked down at Andrew. “Good night, Mr. Harris.”

  With that, she pushed her chair back and left the room, the pub, the whole stupid evening, and started on the short walk home.

  “Cora!” Andrew ran up beside her and fell into step with her.

  “What?”

  “Don’t be angry,” he said.

  “No, I think that’s exactly what I’ll be.”

  He stopped and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to stop, too.

  “I’m sorry about all that. I’m sorry about the things I said. I know how it must have sounded . . .”

  “You do?”

  “It’s just thoughts people have, and people can have some pretty dark thoughts, at times. It’s safe to share them with your friends.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “Cora, you were the one who brought up the whole concept of duality, not me. I just wanted to celebrate your invention.”

  Cora thought for a moment. His logic didn’t seem right. But he was accurate. She had brought it all up.

  He hadn’t seemed to mind, though.

&nb
sp; “I have to go home.”

  “Let me walk you.”

  Cora shook her head. No. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. Talk about instincts. Since the beginning, it hadn’t felt right.

  He was kissing her.

  How did that always happen when she least expected it?

  Why did it always feel so nice? Even when it tasted like alcohol and cigar smoke.

  “See, you like me,” he said when they parted, touching his forehead to hers.

  I don’t think I do, Cora thought, hoping the realization wouldn’t be transferred from her brain to his with their foreheads touching like that.

  “I think . . . you’re wrong for me . . .” she said quietly.

  “Well . . . what’s wrong with wrong?”

  Everything. By definition, wrong wasn’t right.

  “I . . . can’t . . .”

  “Yes, you can.” He kissed her again. Pulled her in tight. He was so warm in the cold night.

  She pulled away from him. “Why do you like me?” It had to be asked.

  “Because you’re different. You’re not like other girls. You’re not exactly easy to win over.”

  “I’m a trophy then? Something to put on the mantelpiece?”

  He laughed. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’d like to have you bronzed, if you don’t mind.”

  It was one of his fine jokes. He was so good at jokes.

  But he hadn’t denied it.

  “I’m going home now.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No, Andrew.”

  “He’ll never find out.”

  “Who won’t?”

  “Lord White. I’ll be sneaky. I’m good at it. Let me come over. Let me . . .” He trailed off.

  She was meant to complete his thought, though she was pretty sure he himself was unsure what came next.

  Now he was looking at her in a meaningful way. Yet for the life of her she had no idea what he was trying to communicate.

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” she said.

  He coughed a little and took a step back.