He had sat in bed for some time holding the list in his lap, smiling at it like an idiot and remembering that conversation he’d had with Thaddeus Beck a thousand years ago that morning at the Flaming Fox, the one where he’d insisted all he wanted in life was to be told what to do with himself.
As of the early evening, he had achieved most of the things laid out for him, and returned home to find all the townhouse doors standing open again and the smell of paint and glue wafting out onto the street on the tails of several curling strips of deceased wallpaper in a pile near the porch stairs.
As though summoned by the strength of memory, Thaddeus Beck himself was hovering near the approach, looking uncertain about the chaos as he twisted a hat in his massive hands.
“Beck?” Ambrose called, trotting up to the other man.
“Aster,” he answered, looking relieved. “Is my sister in there?”
“Probably not,” Ambrose answered with a little chuckle. “She tends to flee until the smells dissipate. Do you need her urgently?”
“Not urgently; I just wanted to stop by and say hello. I have not seen her since the wedding.” He frowned, peering into the open door of the house again. “Is she gutting your entire house?”
“Probably,” said Ambrose.
Beck nodded, perhaps wondering why his own apartments hadn’t received the same treatment, and glanced down at the sheet of paper in Ambrose’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” said Ambrose, chuckling and handing it to the other man, “a list of assignments for the ball we are throwing. She is terrifyingly organized, your sister. Did you know that?”
Beck made a face rather than answering. “She expects me to waltz,” he said, his eyes running over the tasks. “I do not know how to waltz.”
“I would wager your wife does,” Ambrose said, accepting his task list back. “If not, I can always lend you Zeller for a lesson or two.”
Beck gave a dry chuckle. “No, thank you. How is the puppy?”
“Oh, an absolute disaster,” said Ambrose happily. “I’m besotted.”
There was a pause, wherein the house appeared to cough up a cloud of plaster dust and spill it out onto the street with both men observing politely.
Beck took a breath and looked at Ambrose for a moment, his head cocked to the side. “We haven’t seen you at the Fox in quite some time,” he said.
“Oh,” he replied, realizing that was true. “I suppose I’m terribly missed.”
Beck smirked. “Terribly. You seem … different, Aster. More alert.”
“Well, now,” said Ambrose with a grin, “I was always alert enough to win, wasn’t I?”
In the end, he assured Beck that he would pass along all fraternal concerns and well-wishes to Vix and that they would all have dinner together some night soon. Beck did look less than enthused about that last suggestion, but it only made Ambrose feel all the more determined to ensure the thing happened.
Perhaps his wife’s antagonistic glee was rubbing off on him.
He took dinner at a nearby public house before wandering home, pleased that when he arrived, the wallpaper corpses had been carried off and the doors were firmly shut again. The glue and paint smells had not fully dispelled, but they were fainter in the evening and the windows were all open, so it was more bearable.
The house, he admitted to himself, was looking a lot more alert as well.
Brighter colors on the walls, wax on the wood floors, rugs spooling out in new patterns and hues. He spotted two new maids he’d never seen before as he took the stairs toward the bedroom, already loosening his cravat in anticipation of flopping into bed for the night.
The place was nigh unrecognizable already. And she’d told him in no uncertain terms that she’d be coming for the parlor eventually. He’d made a fuss about it, of course, purely because he was expected to, but he was looking forward to that as well.
He sprung into the bedroom only to stop short half a step over the threshold. Vix was seated on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, her hair damp and half combed, her body covered in a translucent pink dressing gown. There was a steaming copper tub just in front of her and one of her feet was resting on top of it, her toes tapping on the rim.
“Ambrose,” she said lazily, glancing up at him as she pulled the comb free and parted out another section of her hair. “Come and bathe.”
He exhaled, drawing himself up and swinging the door shut behind him with a snap. “Vix,” he said, as calmly as he could muster. “What is this?”
She blinked, batting those glossy black lashes at him. “It is a bath,” she repeated slowly. “Surely you’ve seen one before.”
He gave her an impatient little smile, jerking off his cravat and tossing it onto the chair by the door. “I have, matter of fact,” he said. “That is not a bath. It is a trap.”
