Page 37 of Til Death Duke Us Part
She snaked her arm around his and pulled him closer. Of course it was cold, and he was warm, and her pelisse was terribly thin. But more than that, she… rather liked it. The nearness to him. She’d been doing it as often as she could—touching him, leaning on him, seeking his warmth and strength. And he’d never once pushed her away, always eagerly clasped her hand in his or nestled her into his side. He always made himself into a place for her. Perhaps that was why she kept doing it. In the last months of her marriage, Percy had shoved her away, and since his death, the only human touch she’d known were fleeting hugs from Sarah and the insignificant weight of holding Sarah’s babes close.
She worked for the dead, and her body was eager to connect with the living. Starved of touch, she lapped at Victor like a thirsty cat at a puddle. That he never questioned this, that he gave himself over to her need with such ease—likely a sign of his moral deterioration. If so, it was saving her from a slow, cruel touch-starved death she’d not known she’d been suffering.
He welcomed her touch now, threading their fingers together, and allowing her to draw him down low enough she could speak into his ear. Now was her time to spin the web that would catch him, turn his purpose around and perhaps his life as well. If she snagged him now, he need not marry a rich alchemist’s daughter.
“Imagine,” she said, stretching her arm toward the crowd as if to paint a scene. “As the alchemist is speaking, you are painting.”
“I don’t paint. I’m not an artist. And why am I imagining?” He arched one imperial brow into his hairline.
“You are an artist. An artist of the glamour. Remember how good you are.” She patted his solid forearm. “Now is no time for humility. Return to the scene. The alchemist presents his invention. And behind him you craft, out of air and light and imagination, a hot air balloon. You show it blowing out of control. You show a passenger, terrified and frightened, a captain unable to bring the balloon back to the ground. You show a tree. You show the balloon crashing, screams.”
“Dramatic,” Victor drawled.
“Precisely your style.”
He shrugged. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’m well aware. Now do attend. The scene vanishes and is replaced by another—a new balloon, a new captain and passenger. A wind comes along for this one too. But instead of the balloon careening out of control, the captain immediately corrects its course and speed. He is a master of the wind. And his passengers scream only in delight. The crowd is pleased. They understand now what the alchemist was saying, and he finds investors as quickly as you were able to conjure the glamour. And because he is so thankful to you, he?—”
“Liberally greases my palm with gold.”
“I knew you were intelligent. What do you think? Here’s a perfect opportunity. Here is a sustainable future that is not built on lies and theft.”
“I see.” Victor uncurled her from his arm and took a large step away from her. “I see that even people who are not transcendents can weave their own glamours. Your story is an illusion as useless as the ones I create.”
“Victor.”
“No.”
“Yes! It is a purpose, and isn’t that what you’re looking for? It is a magic that will keep people safe. Make travel easier.”
“It is the alchemist’s magic that will do that, not mine.” He turned back toward the inn, his broad shoulders, so rigid, put panic in her heart.
She hurried after him. One hand about his wrist was enough to stop him, to turn him back around. She could not change his expression, though—frozen and hard.
Still, she must try to make him see. She held his hand in both of hers. “But the alchemist cannot do that if people do not understand him! If people cannot see the potential behind his device. You have that power. You can help. Just think of it. Let it excite you, drive you.”
“Persephone.”
“Yes?” Hope fluttered like little birds in her chest.
“Where is the cemetery?”
Flutters gone. Birds belly up, feet sticking in the air. Dead, the lot of them.
The sun was sitting behind the buildings, and the crowd at the library was dispersing. The alchemist who’d done his best to share his vision with others, trudged down the steps alone, shoulders slumped.
Persephone felt his disappointment acutely. “Come along, then.” The cemetery was to the east.
“Persephone?” The voice came to her on kitten feet, hesitant and familiar.
She looked up. “Mother?” The woman’s familiar face was pale, and a hand encased in lace gloves partially hid her mouth. She looked almost exactly as she’d appeared years ago, the evening Persephone had left Manchester—beautiful and blond and lovely. She’d aged not a bit while Persephone… she felt as if she’d aged a hundred years.
“What are you doing here?” The deeper voice came from the man standing beside her mother.
“Father,” Persephone said, “I… I… I’m?—”
“She’s here with me, as my sister’s traveling companion.” Victor stepped closer to her. He wore his own face, and a haughtier face she’d never seen before. He looked down his nose and may have glamoured himself a few inches taller and broader. He cast a shadow on her parents, who looked up, up, frozen but for their craning necks and bulging eyes.
