Celia Friedman - Crown of Shadows

After a moment the ornate handle turned and the heavy door swung open. “I thought I ordered-” Andrys Tarrant began. And then he saw her-saw who she was—and all speech left him. For a moment he just stared at her, his green eyes wide with astonishment. It was clear that she was the last person in the world he had ever expected to find on his doorstep. At last he whispered hoarsely, “Mes Lessing.” He was dressed in a loose white shirt and crumpled pants, and had obviously just rolled out of bed. His golden-brown hair was tangled about his head, his eyes faintly bloodshot. He blinked heavily and drew in a deep breath; he was clearly struggling to compose himself. “I didn’t... I’m sorry ... I thought it was breakfast.”

She glanced toward the hall window with a smile, acknowledging the fading sunlight. “Little late for that, isn’t it?”

He brushed the hair back from his face with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly; a lock of hair fell back across his eyes as soon as he released it. “I had a late night,” he managed. Then a smile flitted across his face: awkward, self-conscious, but sparked with genuine humor. “Or maybe I should say, a late morning. I didn’t expect company today, that’s for sure." Least of all you, his expression seemed to say. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn’t make some apology for disturbing him and just give him the item he had left in the shop, so that she could beat a hasty retreat. It seemed a more merciful course for both of them. But then he stepped back, giving her room to enter. “Come in. Please.”

She did so, acutely aware of his closeness as she passed by him. “If this is a bad time—”

“Not at all. Really.” He closed the door gently behind her; she barely heard the latch snap shut. “We played late, that’s all. I should have been up hours ago.” He dared to meet her eyes then, and it seemed to her he hesitated. “Forgive my poor manners. If I’d thought it was you at the door ...”

The words faded into silence. He brushed awkwardly at his crumpled attire, ran his hand again through his mussed hair; he was clearly not accustomed to receiving women in such a disordered state, “I’m hardly dressed for company,” he dared.

Despite herself she smiled. “It’s my fault. I should have let you know I was coming. If you’d like to change ...” Why did his awkward vanity attract rather than repel her? So many other men with similar qualities had done just the opposite. “I can wait.”

He brightened visibly at the suggestion. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” she assured him. She was offering him more than a minute in which to change his clothing, she knew that. She was giving him time to adjust to her presence, a few precious moments of privacy in which to compose himself. And she’d be giving herself the same thing, too. She wondered which of them needed it more.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he told her. “I promise.” His bedroom was apparently at the far side of the parlor; he made his way there hurriedly, awkwardly, clearly conscious of her gaze upon him. Not until he was safely inside, with the door shut behind him, did she dare to draw in a deep breath and try to relax. Infinitely grateful that circumstances had gifted her with a minute in which to do so.

She looked about at the apartment he had chosen, a master suite in one of the city’s most expensive hotels. The parlor was as lavish as the lobby had been, but infinitely more tasteful. It was decorated in the Revivalist style: high vaulted ceiling, polished stone floor with finely patterned rugs, slender windows with stained-glass caps. The furniture had been chosen to match that style, all except for half a dozen gilt chairs that were gathered around a table at one end of the room. Those were lighter and more graceful in form than the rest of the decor, and were clearly inspired by a later period; the stylistic mismatch seemed jarring to her, but she doubted that the hotel’s guests would be sensitive enough to notice it. There were cards strewn across the table and two dozen bottles of various sizes on and about it. Drawing closer, she saw piles of wooden chips set before two places, others scattered across the silken tablecloth. There were several bottles on the floor as well, and one bright red thing that winked at her from underneath a—chair. She leaned down to see what it was, then picked it up. A woman’s shoe: high-heeled, velvet covered, smelling faintly of wine. Holding it in her hand, imagining its owner, she felt suddenly faint. What am I doing here? What do I know about this man? She tried to put the shoe down, but her hand wouldn’t release it. This isn’t my world.

“I bought that for two hundred, so she could stay in the game.”

It was Andrys, dressed now. He walked toward her with an easy grace, as if his confidence had been restored along with his attire. Gently he took the shoe from her and placed it on the table, his fingers brushing hers as he did so; the touch left fire in its wake. “I’d have gotten the other one, too, if her luck hadn’t changed for the better.”

He had put on a sleeveless jacket, black velveteen with narrow bands of dull gold trim; it fit him tightly, a deliberate contrast to the flowing white sleeves which accentuated his shoulders. In such attire, with his golden-brown hair gleaming, his green eyes alive with flirtatious energy ... no woman could resist him, Narilka thought. Least of all she, who had so little practice in such things.

“How was your luck?” she managed. He grinned. “Pretty good, until about three a.m. After that... it’s all kind of hazy.” He ran a hand through his hair again, as if trying to force it back into place; it fell back in his eyes as soon as he released it. “So what brings you here, to this den of iniquity? I can hardly believe I made such a good impression the last time we met.”

She managed to look away from him long enough to find the object she had brought for him; drawing it forth from her shoulder bag she explained, “You left this at the shop.” Rolled canvas, nearly two feet in length: she held it out to him, an offering. “Gresham was going to mail it, but parcel service is pretty slow around here; I thought you might need it sooner than that.”

He didn’t take it. He didn’t respond. For a moment he just stared at the rolled-up canvas with an odd look on his face, as though it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see. At last he said, in a voice that was strangely distant, “Did you look at it?” She shook her head.

With a sigh he shut his eyes. “I thought I might have lost it on the street. I made myself go back and search, but there was no sign of it. I think I was ... relieved.” He put his hand on the roll of canvas but didn’t take it from her; his hand was so close to hers that she could feel its heat. “I guess I owe you an explanation” he said quietly. The words were clearly hard for him. “That other day, in your shop—”

Someone knocked on the door then, hard; the sharp noise made Narilka jump.

“Room service,” he muttered. He went to answer it.

She followed more slowly, the canvas roll still in her hand. What was inside it, that upset him so greatly? It had taken all her self-control not to look at it there in the shop, when she had found it, but she’d wanted to respect his privacy. Now a part of her regretted that choice.

Andrys opened the door, and a uniformed hotel employee wheeled a small cart into the room. When he was done Andrys reached into his jacket pocket for a suitable tip, then spilled coins into the man’s hand without even checking their value. What was such small change to him? His manner made it clear that he expected the servant to withdraw immediately, and the man was quick to obey. The tray he had brought in was neatly laid out with breakfast, Narilka observed, each item in its place, each accessory expensive: toast and pancakes on a silver tray, coffee in an engraved carafe, slices of pale fruit and some nondescript cereal in bowls of translucent china. All of it balanced on a fussy little cart that suited the hotel’s lobby better than it did this sleek Revivalist chamber.