The wind had perked up. What secret? The trickster had many, many secrets, and the wind knew almost all of them.
“You don’t know this one,” the boy had said, and the wind had flicked his ear, because he sounded smug, which was not an appealing trait.
Still, the boy had smiled and strolled out of Hell Gate, and the wind had stayed behind.
It wished it hadn’t. There was nothing new to learn. No secrets to collect.
For a moment there, it had been exciting. After the boy had left and the wind flew back to the dining room, the solemn one had crouched over the trickster and held out his hand.
“You weeping on the floor was one of the best moments of my life,” the solemn one had murmured, leaning close. He’d gripped the trickster’s arm and pulled him halfway upright. “I especially liked the part where you screamed like a gutted growling.”
The trickster had shook his head, and the wind had ridden on his spraying droplets of blood. He’d grinned, red staining his teeth. “Hello, Knife. Are we playing again? It’s funny. I thought you wouldn’t want to after I set your kitchen on fire. You seem like the sort who takes things personally. But now look at us. Allies. Foe-friends. Playing.”
The wind had tripped over the solemn one’s vicious grip.
The trickster had twisted his hand, and suddenly, the solemn one was standing rigid. He was as still as the breathing statue men who painted themselves silver and posed for money in Times Square. The wind had hummed over his hammering, livid pulse.
The trickster had carefully pulled his arm free, adjusting his sleeve. He’d smiled at the solemn man. His lips had quirked up, soaked with red. He’d leaned in and murmured, “So we’re playing. All right. Listen closely. Some people play by the rules. Others realize they can twist the rules. But me? I make the rules.”
The trickster had stood then, shoving the solemn man. As the solemn one fell, the trickster had twisted his hand, releasing him from his stone-statue hold. The man had crashed to the floor as the trickster strode away.
And that was the most interesting thing that had happened in the candelabra-lit dining room.
What else had there been?
Creamy pea and mint soup, with tiny pea shoots that had floated on top in glossy globules of cream.
The cruel one’s sister discreetly conjuring black widow spiders, biting centipedes, and scorpions to crawl on the girl. She’d snickered with delight when the girl unraveled them before they could sting her. That fun had only lasted long enough for the girl to lean close and whisper, “You can’t conjure if you don’t have hands.”
After that, the cruel one’s sister had kept her attention focused on the trickster, glaring at his amused, bloodstained smile. Whenever he caught her looking, he’d raise an eyebrow and curl his lips higher.
Once, he’d lifted his wineglass and murmured softly to the cruel one’s sister, “To our blissful future.”
What else?
Salty cinnamon and brown sugar ham, with the perfect amount of spiky, sweet clove. Sweet potatoes whipped into snowbank-high mounds, topped with a glass-like caramelized sugar brûlée. A red bordeaux from Queen Victoria’s reign, so old it made the wind wildly dizzy as it swirled around the glass in a tilt-a-whirl fashion, until finally, it had hiccupped and shot out of the glass like a cloud of ash forcefully ejected by an angry chimney sweep.
But oh, other than that, they’d only spoken of conjurer things.
The wind had decided long ago that everyone wanted to rule the world. The conjurers were only a little more open about it.
It checked on the innocent one. He chewed slowly and tried very hard to swallow all his food. His tendons vibrated with the tension of holding in his fear at being so close to so many conjurers. The wind patted his cheek, but he didn’t notice.
The cruel one was enjoying the dinner now he saw a way to defeat the solange-eyed one.
“Will the Ward be a problem for us?” the cruel one asked.
“No,” the Clark answered. “We all know the Wards keep to themselves. He may not align with us, but he would never align with a Smith. In the end, if a choice must be made, he will choose to avenge his father. The Smiths made a mistake killing Philoneas.”
“I suppose,” the cruel one said, running his long pointer finger over the steak knife next to his plate, a dark gleam in his eyes as he stared at the girl. He often stared at her.
Could he remember the Ward’s game when he was married to the girl? Or had the solange-eyed one taken the memory from him? The wind didn’t know. Still, the twisted taste of the cruel one made the wind shiver.
After a time, the muted light, the warm scent of roasted vegetables and baked ham, and the clink of silverware against china lulled the wind. It turned in a circle, swayed and hummed, and then settled quietly on the trickster’s shoulder. It wasn’t tired . . . It was only . . . it was only . . .
“It was only torture,” the man said, sweat dripping down the moon-pale line of his haggard face.
Ah. The wind had fallen into a memory dream. A wind-dream. A recollection of secrets long buried. It didn’t dream often. What was a dream to the wind? Yet here it was, lulled to sleep, seeing the man once again. Then the wind forgot it was remembering and settled into the past.
