Page 18 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“He was interested in Maram, not me,” Nicholas said. “And, just a thought—perhaps chasing me out here isn’t the cleverest way to deflect the attention you seem so worried about? At least Collins had the good sense to stay inside.”

Richard looked startled and then sheepish and made a visible effort to relax. He glanced at Maram, who gave him a reassuring nod.

“It’s fine, darling,” she said.

“How are you feeling?” Richard said, settling a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder and peering at his face. “It’s frigid out here and you look a bit...”

“I look fantastic,” Nicholas said. “Thank you for noticing. The tie’s vintage.”

Richard smiled but couldn’t quite conceal his worry. Worried, worried, Nicholas thought—he was always so worried. It was exhausting to bear the constant brunt of all that kind concern. Richard himself never got sick and had never seemed to know precisely how to handle Nicholas’s own health, or lack thereof.

“Perhaps it’s best to get you out of here,” Richard said.

Nicholas frowned. “Mr.Welch was a curious client; so what?”

“For one thing,” said Maram, “he’s the one who commissioned that forgery glamour you were so upset about, to sell a fake de Kooning—”

“Ugh, that commission was undignified.”

“—and it’s possible, even probable, that some of the magical forgeries he’s profited from were sold to people at this very event.”

Nicholas couldn’t help but laugh. That put Maram’s comment about her accent and the man’s hasty retreat into perspective.

“For another thing,” Maram went on, “you aren’t having any fun. You said so yourself.”

“More fun than I’d have locked up in the Library with Sir Kiwi!”

But she’d put a hand on his elbow and was steering him off the balcony, which he allowed only because he was, in truth, quite cold. They stepped back into the warm drawing room, which smelled like cologne and wine and the awful little canapés that had been served before the reading and were now being passed around by house staff dressed all in black. As they came in, Collins ate a mini-quiche like it was attacking him.

“Collins,” said Maram. “The car.”

Collins nodded and ducked away through the kitchen.

“This is ridiculous,” Nicholas said. “If you sent me home every time someone asked me a question, I’d never leave the Library. Ah, hang on. I neverdoleave the Library.”

“Bringing you here was a risk, anyway,” said Richard. “I’ve already had several people asking about you.”

“People are only interested in me because they’re interested in you two, in the Library,” said Nicholas.

“No,” said Maram. “You attract your own attention.”

Nicholas shrugged. Objectively, he was no different from any other standard-issue white man in his early twenties; perhaps a little better-looking and better-dressed, but even he, an alleged narcissist, could admit that was mostly money. Yet he was used to people—total strangers—glancing at him and then doing a double-take, squinting a bit as if they thought they should recognize him.

The only traits that might’ve made him stand out were his numerous neat scars, usually covered by clothes, and the prosthetic left eye that perfectly matched his sighted right one in appearance if not quite movement. But both these things were very hard to spot unless a person was looking for them, which few people ever were. Yet somehow, though Richard and Maram ought to have been more noticeable on the whole, it was always Nicholas that people focused on, as if they could somehow sense the power in his blood.

“That’s not my fault,” he said.

“No,” Richard said. “It’smyfault for allowing you to come tonight in the first place.”

Nicholas took a long, slow breath, attempting to manage his simmering anger and failing. “You know, my father’s choices make more sense to me every day.”

The three of them were on the fringes of the gathering, facing the drawing room like actors playing to an audience, but at these wordsRichard half turned, barely restraining himself. He looked more anguished than angry, and Nicholas felt a twinge of guilt.

“Your father’s choices got him and your mother killed,” said Richard, very quietly. “And I’ve spent my entire life making sure the same thing doesn’t happen to you.”

“You’ve spentmyentire life, you mean.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of it the same way,” said Richard.

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