Page 40 of Peculiar Engagements

“She’s like this because I’m the eldest,” Yves said.

“She’s like this becauseyou’relike this,” Tony mumbled. Yves and Sybil turned their glares to him, and Tony hunched his shoulders. “But it’s my fault for saying it, sure.”

Yves was about to tell his mother to go back home and worry about the rest of her children when he remembered what Charon had said the last time Yves received a summons. He didn’t need to meet her at a place of her choosing, but he didn’t have to outright reject her, either.

“I’ll see you at the Honeybee Court in half an hour,” Yves said. “It’s a cafe in the Crescent Garden. Don’t worry, I’ll cover the bill.”

“For everyone?” Harriet asked. Pearl smacked her on the arm, but Harriet looked unaffected.

“Of course,” Yves said. “I can afford it.” He smiled sweetly at his mother. “Whoring is lucrative.”

“We can cover our own costs,” his mother said. “We aren’t destitute.”

“Did I say you were?”

“Not again,” Tony groaned. He slumped back toward their mother, and Yves kept smiling brightly until Pearl and Harriet urged the horses forward. He didn’t drop his expression until they’d disappeared behind the line of pleasure houses, then immediately scrambled upstairs to change.

Charon met him in the hall between their rooms. He looked slightly disheveled, and his black hair curled in his face as though he hadn’t yet had the time to brush it and tie it back.

“Yves.” There was an odd sense of urgency in his voice, but Yves barely noticed it, too preoccupied with the imminent threat of tea with his mother.

“Sorry, Charon, I’m meeting the general for war talks.” He opened his door and started digging through his closet. “What is it?”

“War talks?” Charon stood in the doorway, frowning.

“Meeting my mother at the Honeybee,” Yves said. He pulled out a shirt and wriggled into it. “She’s probably dragging along whatever husband candidate she chose to bring me to heel. And anyone who will joinheron a trip to intimidate me into clipping my own wings has to be an ass.”

“Do you need someone to come with you?” Charon asked.

Yves snorted. “Absolutely. But I don’t want to subject you to my mother.” He stepped into some trousers—tight ones, just a touch too flashy to be respectable. “And here I’d had such a lovely night.”

“I heard,” Charon said, and Yves hesitated in the middle of tugging on his boots. Did Charon know that he’d kissed one of the dancers? Not that it mattered, of course. Yves could kiss anyone he wanted to. It was only that the kiss the night before had felt right in a way Yves still couldn’t name, and when he lingered on it too long, he started to feel that low, deep ache in his chest again.

“It was eventful,” Yves said. “It was a shame that you couldn’t make it.”

“Yves,” Charon said, as Yves smoothed down his hair. “About the ball last night…”

“I’m so sorry.” Yves shoved a ruby ring on his index finger. “I really do want to talk about it, Charon, but I have to get to war right now.” He stopped to get on his tiptoes, brushing a lock of hair out of Charon’s eyes. “Let me get that. You look nice with your hair down, you know.”

“You always look—” Charon started to say, but Yves was already turning to the stairs. He stopped and twisted around.

“Sorry? Did you say something?”

“I’ll tell you when you return,” Charon said, “unless you’d rather have someone there with you.”

“I’d need an army,” Yves said, and ran back down the rest of the stairs.

He took a hansom cab to the Honeybee. The cafe was mostly outdoors, with a small kitchen in a brightly painted shed and tables set around the garden. Most of Yves’ family was waiting for him when he arrived, seated in a half-circle of tables with Yves’ mother and a tall, squirrely older fellow next to her in the middle.

“Yves!” Yves took a step back as Sunny bolted out of his seat. He was big for his age, about thirteen and already towering over the rest of his siblings. He grabbed Yves in an embrace that almost cracked his ribs.

“Ma’s about to explode,” Sunny whispered. “I asked her to take me to an opera yesterday and she looked like I was asking to join you in the House of Onyx.”

“I’ll take you instead,” Yves said. Sunny claimed he couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, but he was always asking Yves to describe operas for him in his letters. Out of all of Yves’ siblings, Sunny was the one who loved city life the most, and he’d said more than once that he’d like to follow in Yves’ footsteps one day.

“You’ll have to sneak me out.” Sunny took Yves’ hand—just like he had when he was young, even though most people his age would have been mortified to be seen holding their brother’s hand in public—and led him to the center table.

“Leave us here to talk, Sunshine,” Yves’ mother said. Her dominance was oppressive as usual. Sunny instinctively looked down, but he didn’t let go of Yves’ hand.

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