Still, he kept careful count, cut costs where he could, put every spare cent toward the number that determined where he could live, what he could eat, how he could speak and dress and act. It shadowed every facet of his life, coloring his conduct, his company, even his personality in ways he had never dreamed. Only its elimination would set him free, and, as a younger man, that had been all he wanted. To be set free.
It was why he took it on in the first place.
But as the years went by, and the number did not grow very much smaller at all, no matter which way he tortured his budget, he resigned himself to what was to be the rest of his life and started spending his spare earnings on things that brought him pleasure, improved his demeanor, his appearance. This gained him wealthier clients, clients who had not been impressed by his talent until they were also impressed by his looks and his charm. Clients who paid enough to keep a roof over his head, and a little extra – enough to buy things that brought beauty into his life. Tickets to the symphony, a bottle of perfume, fresh cut flowers. To pay for his own dinner and drinks. To buy his own silk robe.
To spend time in another’s company, by sun or by stars, and imagine the number between them did not matter quite so much.
And he stopped keeping track altogether.
But fifty thousand sovereigns. That would just about cover it.
Unfortunately, David was right about one thing. He couldn’t exactly manage it alone.
Half an idea flitting about his skull, he pulled the last two copper bits from his purse in the wardrobe and shoved them into his pocket.
Within the hour, the duchess’s personal messenger arrived with a note.Dearest Sylas, I would be delighted to host you. Please do come at once.
With a sigh that lifted a strand of blond hair from his forehead, and a longing glance at his abandoned cigarette, Sy straightened his shirt collar, adjusted his cuffs and his earring, strapped his satchel across his shoulder, and set forth for Äbender Heights.
CHAPTER TWO
The walk from Upper Bunting to Äbender Heights was almost disgustingly pleasant. Sy’s tiny apartment in Upper Bunting put him close enough to Edgard to be at his beck and call, but far enough to be able to afford a roof. To the south and the west, and parts of the north – really, anywhere Edgard could not see from the palace windows – the streets became less picturesque. But to the east of the palace, the streets were blindingly white, stately and serene.
That way was Äbender Heights, the city’s premier residential neighborhood, empty most of the year. All along the way, every street was paved, every pathway bereft of litter or solicitors, every vendor safely ensconced behind a varnished shop front or restaurant awning charmingly adorned with blooming flora and pastel ribbons and wrought iron gaslights.
A soft, almost cloying scent drifted on the wind. Past the ten-foot iron gate into Äbender Heights, blossoming cherry trees lined the avenue, littering the pristine stone in a riot of pink. Petals drifted around Sy like snow. He caught one in his gloved palm, feelings its softness with his bare fingertips before letting it flutter to the white stone pavement. He let a small smile slip past his lips. It might still be a rose-colored day.
As he approached the duchess’s white-faced and black-gabled manor, however, he felt his smile start to fade. Adjusting his earring, he pasted on a better smile: a brighter, more impressive one. A smile not his own, one equal parts approachable authority and subdued deference. His finest accomplishment, perfected over years. Though his spell work had always beenimpeccable, and he wouldn’t have gotten far without it, that smile did more to earn him clients than the finest education money could buy, than hard work, ever had.
Sy expected Hugo’s wrinkled smile to greet him at the door, but a stranger answered and led him inside. The new footman walked with a subtle but distinguishable limp. Hugo was always good for a chat; this man was silent.
Sy let his curiosity get the better of him. “Where is Hugo? Promoted, finally?”
“Dead,” said the new footman. “Sir. Of pneumonia.”
“Ah,” Sy said, startled at both the news and the man’s bluntness. “I’m – I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“We’re all very sorry,” said the new footman. “I am, however, quite grateful for the employment.”
“Of course,” Sy agreed, suddenly even more uneasy, and nostalgic for the man’s silence.
The new footman brought him without ceremony to the sitting room, where Duchess Abigail Skeylor awaited, tea already in hand. Even familiar with her beauty as he was, Sy’s breath caught a bit at the sight of her. It was more than her immaculate looks. Her brown eyes sparkled with rest and delight. Her cheeks glowed with a diet rich in fat and candies, red meat and luscious fruits. Her aura radiated a pure ecstasy only simple happiness could buy. Simple happiness, comfort, and a bottomless coffer.
And, of course, a touch of magic.
She wore a gorgeous tea gown of white and blue silk damask, the bodice and skirt embroidered with turquoise and what could be paste but certainly looked like diamonds. Effluent tiers of lace spilled from her shoulders. Her earrings, also turquoise and diamond, took the shape of bows.
Today, her hair was the color of a golden sunrise, glistening when she turned with highlights of pink and blue. One of Sy’s own spells, penned the last time he had visited. Duchess Abigail professed to trust Sy – and only Sy – with the responsibility of her beauty, and he must admit: she was a vision.
My greatest work of art, he thought bitterly, sitting directly across from her. The colors in the room should clash, but if there was one thing Sy admired about Abigail, it was her way with color. Bright canary armchairs crouched on a deep burgundycarpet embroidered with ruby and gold florals. Her cherry wood tables and chests were decorated with artfully arranged glass lamps, lace doilies, glass flowers, vases of various shapes and brightly painted porcelain figurines.
The pink trees outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast the room in a dewy rose glow. While she chatted, filling him in on all the gossip since his last visit, his gaze rested on a new painting on the wall behind her. Broad strokes and vague colors. A landscape of the latest style. Damn, what was it called? He used to know these things. He wondered if he knew the artist.
Beneath it, a tiny yellow parakeet perched in an iridescent mother-of-pearl cage, hopping about and chirping incessantly, drawing his attention back to the room. If he was feeling fanciful, he could almost imagine it was calling for help.
“I do think,” said the duchess, finally, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, “I would like them the color of the cherry blossoms.”
He forced on his smile. “A wonderful choice. It would complement your hair beautifully.”
