Dan Vyleta - Smoke

This thought catches Thomas short. He hesitates, reaches into the box for one more cigarette and breaks it in half. Some tobacco flutters out, and something other than tobacco, also brown but darker and grainy like salt crystals. He lays the broken cigarette crosswise over the neat rows underneath, closes the box lid, fiddles the lock until it snaps shut. Then he returns the box to the night table, stacks it in between the books. Charlie observes all this, the setting sun bright on his face and narrowing his eyes into dark slits.

“You want him to know.”

Thomas shrugs. “You were right all along. Breaking in here, it’s wrong. A violation. Let’s see what he does about it.”

He imagines the chessboard again, moving his king out from behind a wall of pawns.

Perhaps there is a type of chess where it pays to bluff.

ф

They take the stolen cigarettes back to their room, line them up on one of the starched pillowcases. Sit on the other bed, staring at them. After some minutes, Thomas gets up, searches his pockets, digs out a box of matches. He fetches one of the cigarettes and sits, holding it under his nose. Smelling it. His stomach cramps. It takes him a while to admit it is from fear. Thomas does not understand it. His body is rebelling against this smell. He wonders if it would be the same if you held a poison mushroom under your nose. If smelling it, your body would scream at you not to take a bite. Charlie is watching this silent struggle. It should be frightening, the fact that someone can read you like this, simply, like a book. But it isn’t. Not when Charlie does it.

He reaches over, takes the cigarette away from Thomas.

“I’ll do it. Light me a match.”

Thomas does, then sits motionless, the flame burning brightly, curling the spent wood. When he lights the second match, Charlie quickly reaches over and takes it from him, but the speed of the motion extinguishes the flame halfway to his mouth. Thomas strikes a third match, then pinches the flame dead before the cigarette is lit.

“Don’t, Charlie. It does not feel right. There must be another way of finding out what they do.”

“What other way?”

“I will ask Lady Naylor.”

Charlie nods, then frowns.

“Ask Livia,” he says. “She knew about sweets. She may know about these.”

“The little nun?”

“She’ll help us.”

Thomas repeats the question Charlie asked him earlier, concerning Livia’s mother.

“Do you trust her?”

Charlie does not hesitate. “Yes.”

“You like her?”

“She makes herself hard to like.”

Thomas accepts this. He remembers the letter that’s still sticking out of Charlie’s pocket and points to it now.

“What would your sister say about her? The one who is convinced that I am handsome.”

“Oh,” says Charlie, “she’d despise her from the bottom of her heart.”

ф

They find Livia in her own quarters. Thomas is not prepared for how playful her rooms seem, with their patterned rose wallpaper and china figurines, the rich burgundy curtains that frame the windows. Livia interprets his look and scowls. In one corner, a dark, heavy lectern stands, quite out of keeping with the rest of the furnishings. It’s a piece from a monastery dragged into a princess’s chambers. A copy of a book lies open upon it, the pages held down by a lead ruler. Thomas notes distractedly that Livia must read standing up.

She leads them to a group of sofas and chairs near the window and begs them sit down. It is as though she is about to serve tea. But her face is cold and hostile, her attention on Thomas. She is making him responsible for the intrusion.

“What can I do for you?”

Charlie speaks before Thomas can answer. “We broke into Julius’s room.” He says it like it was his idea; does not soften it or excuse it, simply presents her with the fact. “We found these.” He nods to Thomas to pass over one of the cigarettes. “They are not what they seem.”

Livia takes the cigarette from Thomas, smells it, then immediately returns it. It is clear that she has recognised them at once.

“And?”

“What are they?” Charlie asks.

“You didn’t try one?”

“No.”

“Nor you, Mr. Argyle?”

Thomas shakes his head, holds her eyes. “I was afraid.”

“Do it,” she says. “I understand the effect is not permanent.”

Again Thomas produces the box of matches, again he hesitates, his blood rebelling against the smell. Or is it? There is, mixed into his fear, the faintest thread of longing.

Again Charlie intervenes.

“I will try it,” he announces. “If Livia says they’re harmless, I will.”

She shakes her head, as though wishing to stop him, then thinks better of it.

“All right then, Mr. Cooper. Here, I will hold the match.”

Charlie takes the cigarette from Thomas’s hand; Livia reaches over and snatches up the matches. Her face, as she looks at Charlie, holds a peculiar expression. Renfrew looks like that, when he asks one of the clever boys a question that is particularly difficult. Hopeful. But expecting failure all the same. Between them, they have turned Thomas into a spectator. It sits ill with him, but he does not intervene as Charlie holds the tip of the cigarette into the flame. Charlie coughs a little, exhales the barest breath of grey, takes another drag.

“And — how do you feel?” Livia asks.

Charlie speaks very quickly.

“I feel normal,” he says. “Just the same as before.

“Good,” he says. “I feel really good.”

He gets up from the chair, starts pacing the room. Livia is not looking at him, speaks to her hands, folded in her lap as though in prayer. The words are so meek, it takes a while to digest their meaning.

“Mother says it makes boys ‘amorous.’ Girls too, but I think she is referring to something anatomical.”

Charlie frowns at this, turns away from them, paces.

Thomas, unnerved, walks over to him.

“Are you all right?”

When he places the hand on Charlie’s shoulder, his friend shakes it off with sudden violence, steps close to Thomas, presses his forehead into his.

“Am I all right?” His voice is joyous, but there is an edge to it Thomas does not like. “Never better.” Charlie leans his weight into him, pushes Thomas back a step. “You should take a drag.”

There is something to Charlie’s eyes as he turns his attention from Thomas to Livia. Something lewd, suggestive: so unlike Charlie that for a moment he is as though transformed.

“Or you should, little Miss Prim. It’d do you a world of good.”

Charlie moves the cigarette back up to his lips. Thomas slaps it out of his hand before he can inhale. Next he knows Charlie has pushed him into the wall. The strength of it surprises Thomas, knocks the wind out of him: an unfettered Charlie, his strong young body free of restraint. Three heartbeats they stand eye to eye.

Then the real Charlie returns. There is no other phrase for it. It’s his kindness, his patience, rising up again through his features. They settle around the eyes, inflect the curve of his mouth. Within another second they are followed by shame. Charlie bends to the still-burning cigarette, pinches the tip then crumples it in his fist. Livia is watching him.

“That’s like throwing away pure gold.”

But Charlie’s mind is elsewhere.

“I didn’t smoke,” he says.

Even as he speaks a shiver goes through him. He reaches inside his shirt and his hand comes back stained. It isn’t Soot and it isn’t Smoke but something in between: a black, oily smear that oozes a fine stream. Then, the very next moment, it is as though it catches fire, and in the blink of an eye, Charlie’s hand emits a tar-black breath of Smoke. The Soot that forms is a fine white ash. It scatters by his feet like flakes of chalk.