“She does have a certain way about her,” Christopher said. He looked over at James hopefully. “Eh?”
“We should have gone to the Pouncebys’ sledding party,” said James.
“Perhaps a quiet evening upstairs?” said Thomas sympathetically. “I’ll cut a path through the crowd.”
As they followed Thomas through the surge of Downworlders, Matthew, who had been selling tickets for private sessions with Claribella, saw them and leaped down from the stage.
“Seeking the beautiful solace of solitude?” Matthew asked, taking James’s arm. He smelled like Matthew always did—cologne and brandy, singed with a bit of smoke and sawdust.
“I’m going upstairs with the three of you,” said James. “I wouldn’t call that ‘solitude.’？”
“Quiet, then,” said Matthew. “？‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time—’？”
As they reached the steps, Ernie the tavern owner jumped up on the stage and attempted to dance with Claribella—but with only a pair of stubby fins, she easily eluded him and leaped headfirst into the tub of gin inhabited by Pickles the kelpie. She emerged a second later, blowing a spout of gin as Pickles neighed in delight.
They made it to their private rooms upstairs, Thomas bolting the doors firmly behind them. It was cold, and a steady leak was dripping water from the ceiling onto the worn carpets, but James found it a welcoming sight anyway. This was the headquarters of the Merry Thieves, their bolt-hole, their place away from the world, and the only place James wanted to be right now. The snow had picked up and was coming down in whirling white gusts against the leaded glass windows.
As Thomas carried over an empty pot to catch the leak, Christopher knelt in front of the fireplace and examined the logs laid within it, damp with melted snow. He took an object from his pocket, a metal tube attached to a small glass flask—a delivery method for a chemical fire starter of his own invention that he had been working on in recent weeks. He threw a switch, and the flask filled up with a pinkish gas. There was a small pop and a brief flash of a flame shooting out the end of the tube, but it quickly extinguished itself and thick black smoke poured into the room.
“I didn’t expect that,” Christopher said, trying to stopper the tube with the end of his handkerchief. James exchanged an exasperated look with Matthew, and they ran to open the windows, coughing and gasping. Thomas grabbed a tattered book from the shelves and tried to fan the smoke toward the window. They opened the rest of the windows and doors and grabbed whatever was at hand to wave the acrid smoke around the room until it finally dissipated, leaving a bitter stench and a scattering of black soot on every surface.
They slammed the windows closed. Thomas went into the adjoining room and returned with dry wood: this time, when Christopher tried to light the fire—with ordinary vesta matches—it caught. The four of them crowded around the circular table in the middle of the room, all shivering; Matthew caught James’s hands and chafed them between his own.
“Well, this is a fine way to spend the eve of your wedding,” he said apologetically.
“Nowhere I’d rather be,” James said, his teeth chattering. “You’re the only ones who know the truth about this wedding, for one thing.”
“Thus freeing us from the usual expectation that this penultimate evening must be enjoyable,” Matthew said. He let go of James’s hands and set out four cups. Picking up the brandy bottle, he poured a measure into each.
His tone was light, but there was an edge to his voice, and James wondered how much Matthew had had to drink before he’d even arrived at the tavern tonight.
“The regulars seemed to enjoy Claribella’s performance,” Thomas said.
“Did you know she was a reverse mermaid?” Christopher asked, his lilac eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
“Er,” said Matthew, refilling his mug, “not as such, no. I mean, the booker said she was backward, but I just thought he meant she was poorly educated, and I didn’t wish to be a snob.”
Thomas snorted.
“You might have asked to see her before booking her,” James said. He took a sip from his mug; the brandy began warming up his insides as the fire, now crackling, had started to warm his outside.
He’d meant it as a joke, but Matthew looked wounded. “I made an effort,” he protested. To Thomas and Christopher he said, “I didn’t hear any magnificent ideas from the rest of you for tonight.”