Page 62 of Better in Black
“I do have a question for you, Kieran,” she said.
Kieran smiled down at her. “What is it?”
“Well, we knew you had redecorated the Court, but I wasn’t expecting such—”
“Minimalism?” said Mark.
Kieran looked amused.
“Everything is gray and black and sparse and severe,” said Cristina. “It’s just not how I think of you.”
“I was trying to give as little of myself to this place as possible,” Kieran said. “To keep my inner self hidden.”
Cristina could not help but think of all the things Kieran had done to help make the cottage a home. The seeds he had planted in the gardens. The old well he had repaired. The nixie in the stream he had befriended, thus ensuring them a safe place to swim.
“It seems to me,” Mark said, “that you are trying to split yourself in half. But that is not necessary, at least where we are concerned. When we decided that we loved you, it was the whole of who you are, not just part.”
Cristina propped herself up on her elbow. “The land of Faerie was once united, but has been split in half. And one day a high monarchwill need to reunite the two halves. Someone who will take the burden of ruling off your hands. And then the two halves of you, Kieran, can be whole and healed too.”
“I fear that day may be far off,” Kieran said.
“I feel it is closer than we might think,” said Mark. “But in the meantime we will make the best of what we have together.”
Kieran smiled a smile that lit up his face. “And it’s a very good best, isn’t it?” he said, and reached to draw them both into his arms.
A Surfeit of Annas
It had been months sinceAriadne—now Ari—Bridgestock had been to the Hell Ruelle. Tonight, to her surprise, she found she had missed it.
She glanced over at Anna Lightwood, rendered almost a silhouette in the crimson light of the entry hall, trying to read her expression. Ahead was the sequence of high-ceilinged, opulent rooms that made up the salon, and all around them in the tiny corridor was a sound like a roaring ocean: a torrent of conversation and gambling and dancing and carousing blended to a rumble that seemed to shake the building itself.
Anna had a faraway look on her face. “Was it always this loud?”
“Usually there’s also someone singing,” Ari said. “Usually badly.”
Ari snuck another look at Anna in the dimness. Her beautifulAnna, with her strong jaw and luminous eyes. Ari was worried about her.
In the time since the terrible events of Belial’s brief takeover of London, more than a year past now, Anna had mostly remained at her flat. At first this was not at all strange: Anna had lost her brother Christopher in battle, and a part of Ari was almost relieved to see that Anna was giving herself space to grieve. Ari, too, had needed time to recover—from the battle and the loss that had come with it, as well as the end of her relationship with her father and his fall from power.
Even when some time had passed, Ari hadn’t minded that Anna wanted to stay in. In a short time Ari had gone from yearning for Anna from afar, convinced they could never be together, to sharing her home and her bed. So when sometimes Ari would suggest,shall we go out tonight?and Anna would stretch herself out languidly, her body shifting delightfully, and say,mm, or we could just stay here,Ari was usually inclined to agree.
But it had been over a year now. And while choosing an evening in bed over an evening out in Soho was usually fine with Ari, she was aware that it represented a very different Anna than the one she’d fallen in love with. One of the things that so attracted her to Anna in the first place was her love of festivities and joy, of people and crowds; on Anna’s arm, Ari had always felt, life was an ongoing adventure, a sort of party that never ended.
Only recently, and rather abruptly, it had.
Only the news that Matthew Fairchild was back in town, and throwing himself a party at the Hell Ruelle, had gotten Anna to leave the flat on Percy Street. Matthew had brought back from his year abroad a Frenchman named Sylvain Allard, of the Paris Institute, with whom he had apparently struck up a relationshipduring his travels. Both Anna and Ari were rabidly curious to meet him.
Now, as Ari watched Anna hesitate on the threshold of her favorite London haunt, she hoped that Matthew’s return would buoy Anna up. “Is all well, darling?” she asked lightly.
Anna’s smile was luminous. “Merely making sure my tie is straight. There will be a lot of eyes on us tonight.” Her gaze raked Ari up and down, lingering on Ari’s face, the hollow of her throat—a slow, appreciative look that never failed to cause a powerful resonating hum within Ari. “Although I cannot imagine,” Anna went on, “how any of them will be able to take their eyes off of you to notice my tie, or anything else.”
Ari felt a strong urge to lean over and kiss the line under Anna’s jaw, the place she could always feel her pulse as it sped up—but she reminded herself that home awaited them soon enough. “I always fear the cruel assessments of the Hell Ruelle, so I hope I acquit myself decently.”
“Shall we?” Anna said, holding out her hand.
“Let’s,” said Ari, and they passed through into the tumult and the smoke.
The Hell Ruelle was, as the noise had suggested, packed full, both with those here to celebrate Matthew’s return and those who would be here for the gambling, drink, and depravity regardless. Ari let herself be led by Anna, enjoying the strange sights of the Ruelle as they went by her in a streaky blur: a pink fizzy punch bowl full of six-inch-tall faeries with butterfly wings splashing about; a few vampires comparing fang teeth; and a werewolf throwing a tantrum over a roulette loss. The croupier had seized up a nearby silver dish to protect himself, his expression bored and long-suffering. Snippets of conversation floated by:
