He puts an arm around her, letting her lean against him as they walk along the river. He’s buzzing with life energy, as the sun is going down. “Come home,” he says. “Come home with me. Come home.”
He’s always up for it when he’s had a drink. He can’t even function when he hasn’t.
She’s fuzzy, and she lets a possible clue go by, still thinking of what he said before. “You’re a hero,” she says dreamily. “You patrol the borders in time of need.”
“That’s right. And now I know you want to express your gratitude.”
“The Siege of ’83? Was that you?”
“Now, which ’83 was that?” he teases.
She nuzzles his shoulder. “You know. The one with the Turks. The coffee siege.”
“Oh, look!” He stops suddenly, in the middle of the street. “I used to have a house here!”
She looks. They’ve stopped in front of a kebab joint on the border of the tourist and the red light districts. The houses are old, but so is most of the city.
“Or maybe it was a little farther down. Hey, this place used to be a bakery. It smelled like heaven in the morning. ”
Diversionary tactics. She lets it pass, because even more than truth and history right now, she wants to get him home and get him into bed.
They can be late to the party. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.
He brings her flowers that week. And the week after that. On her actual birthday.
“You’re getting sentimental,” she says, and he answers, “You’re addictive.” She tries to lie awake figuring what that means, but she always falls asleep with him beside her, warm with the gift of her blood. Little, tiny gifts, like sips of fine old cognac. He enjoys her thoroughly and deeply, in ways no man ever has before, or will. He’ll do a lot for her. She’s figuring that out. He’s beautiful, but he’s not young. He does what he can.
But she still can’t leave it alone. “Tell me,” she says, sometimes with his mouth still at her throat. “Tell me about the last king’s court. Tell me about the Spanish Embassy and the Treaty of Ockrent. Tell me whether the duchess Octavia really had an affair with her governess and her maid.”
“It was a long time ago. What’s at the movies? Let’s go out.”
“Tell me the first time you saw electric lighting. Tell me how long it took to walk across the city in 1708.”
“You can’t expect me to remember that.”
“Tell me what your mother liked to eat. How did you learn to drive? Did you ever fight a duel? Tell.”
“I can’t remember,” he says.
He knows. She knows he knows.
“Will you remember me?”
“Of course,” he says. And maybe he even means it.
The Perfect Dinner Party
by CASSANDRA CLARE & HOLLY BLACK
You walk into the dining room, alone. You’re wearing a green shift, pale as grass, and have pulled your hair back into a glittering barrette. You’re biting your lip.
“Lovely,” Charles says, and you look pleased. You dressed up for him, after all.
You explain that you’re sorry that your friend Bethenny couldn’t come. She had a dance recital and besides, she was too chicken to sneak out of the house. Not like you.
I bet you met Charles the way he always meets girls. He hangs around the mall just like he used to when he was alive. Back then, he wore skinny ties and listened to new wave. He’s excited that skinny ties are back. See? He’s wearing one tonight.
You look over at me nervously. You probably think I’m too young to drink the bottle of wine you stole from your parents. You think I’m not going to be any fun.
Or maybe you’re just wondering what happened to the rest of the guests.
When I smile at you, you look away uneasily. That just makes me smile wider.
When I was a littler girl than I am now, there was this boy who would always hang around. One day he was over at the house annoying me (he would do this thing where he put his finger on my chin and asked me, “What’s this?” and when I looked down, he would bop me in the nose and laugh), and I realized the cupboard had a package of almond-flavored tea in it.
Since this was back in the eighties, cyanide was in the news a lot. We all knew it tasted like almonds. It was a pretty simple thing to make us mugs of tea — mine, plain, his, the almond-flavored kind.
Then I started telling him how sorry I was that I’d poisoned him. I kept it up until he started crying. Then I kept it up some more.
Our dinner parties always remind me of how much fun that was.
Charles pulls out your chair and that seems to reassure you that things are going just the way you thought they would. You see a pair of teenagers, dressed up in their church clothes, using their parents’ good china to have a dinner party in the middle of the night.
A grown-up party, with candles burning brightly in silver candlesticks and glass stemware and napkins folded into the shape of swans. Charles pours from the bottle of wine he’s already decanted an hour ago.
You take a big sip. That’s the first strike against you. Clearly you have no idea what to do with good wine — how to catch its scent, how to swirl it around the glass to see the color. You glug it like you’re washing down a handful of pills.
You put the glass down with a bang on the table. I jump. “That was great!” you say. There’s lipstick smeared on your teeth.
Charles looks over at me. I frown at him. Disapproving. He could have done better, my look says.
Charles gets up. “I’ll get the first course.”
Silence falls between us as soon as he’s out of the room. I don’t mind. I can be silent for hours. But you’re not used to it. I see you squirm in your chair. Put your hands up to fiddle with your barrettes, unclasp them, close them again. Fiddling. You say, “So you’re Charles’s little sister, huh? How old are you, anyway?”
“Fourteen,” I lie. I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, because there is nothing worse than a disagreeable hostess, but it’s hard. Charles is nearly grown, old enough to pass for an adult, while I am struggling to pass for fourteen.
With your flat chest and wide eyes, you look fairly young yourself. Another strike against you.
Charles comes back a moment later with bowls of soup. He places yours down first. That’s proper. He’s turning into a real gentleman, Mr. DuChamp would say.
“Are your parents on a trip?” you say. “They must really trust you to leave you here alone.”
“They trust Charles,” I say with a sly smile.
That makes you smile at Charles, too, entrusted to take care of his little sister. And it makes me think of my parents, down in the dirt basement, buried six feet under with pennies in the sockets of their eyes.
Mr. DuChamp said that that was so they could pay the ferryman to take them to the shores of the dead. Mr. DuChamp thought of everything.
You pick up your spoon and dig it into the soup like you’re scooping out a melon. I am fairly sure that when you do start eating, you will make slurping sounds.
You do. Strike three. I look over at Charles with my eyebrows up, but he is ignoring me.
“So,” you say, around your soup, “did Charles tell you where we met?”