“I do know,” she said. Drily, I thought. “And for yourself?”
“Um, no. I really need to be going.” Now, quickly, while he slept; while I still could. While I was steeled to it, and before he started to argue. “I’ve brought enough trouble on my friends, this last twenty-four hours. Do you have a back way out that you could show me? Something more private than Reno’s, if possible. They know about that.”
“Of course.” Diplomats and presidents passed through this place; so did mobsters. So did the Overworld. Privacy must be inherent. “I’ll meet you at the lift.”
“Thanks, Julie. I’ll be two minutes. I just have to dress.”
I
F
I
WAS
any longer than that, it was only because I couldn’t find my jacket. Until I figured out that of course the mirror in the hallway was a sliding door, and of course there was a wardrobe behind it, and of course that was where she’d hung our brand new jackets, after she’d had them cleaned. His was so much bigger and friendlier, it looked like it was reaching out to hug mine, or at least dip its sleeves into my pockets. I had to bite my lip, and steel myself all over again.
Steely, then, I took the lift down, half anticipating an argument at the bottom: the kind of argument I was slipping away, leaving him snoring, to avoid.
I underestimated her. A bloke, I think, any bloke would have argued.
It’s dangerous to go alone. At least wait till he wakes up, talk to him, make plans. Let him know where you’ll be, who you’ll be with. Who’ll be looking out for you, who’s got your back. He’ll want it to be him. You can’t just go off into the blue this way, not when he’s just found you again.
Like that. Lots of common sense, lots of heartstring-tugging, none of it any use to me at all.
The blessed Julie was made of sterner stuff, girl-stuff. The lift doors opened and she was there as promised, with her arms full of gifts.
“Breakfast,” she said, handing me a heavyweight paper sack that oozed warmth into my fingers. “Fresh from the bakery, easy to eat on the move. And the biggest, strongest coffee we can do. You look like a coffee girl to me, and Jacey can’t have it all. And I cleaned your phone up and charged it for you. What else, now – do you need money?”
“No,” I said. “I’m good for cash, thanks.” Realising as I said it that chances were she knew exactly how much cash I was carrying, she’d obviously been through all my pockets, and she was offering anyway. I could have asked for anything, I think she would have found it. And maybe charged it to the room, but I wouldn’t have cared about that; Jacey’s dad could afford me.
Jacey’s dad was getting me cheap, if he was getting me at all. I stood firm, and she nodded.
“All right, then. Laptop? MP3 player? Anything? We get a lot of kit left behind, one way or another.”
I was sure they did. And it struck a resonant blow as she said it, and, “As above, so below, eh?”
“Yes.” Her quick controlled smile flickered into place. “We are... something of a mirror image,” though she still wouldn’t let Reno disgrace her hallowed halls if she could help it. More than her job was worth, perhaps, to have a mutilated angel blunder into public view – except that I was starting to wonder about that job. Her name badge only said her name, which meant that she was either very junior, which I didn’t believe for a moment, or else she was very specialised and everyone who needed her would know just what she did, she wouldn’t need a label to explain it.
Might as well just ask, then. “Are you, um, are the Cathars your particular responsibility?”
“That’s right.” That smile again: snapped on, snapped off. “I suppose technically I come with the suite; but the suite is exclusive to the Cathars and their guests, so... So am I.”
If she was a man, they’d probably call her a butler. As she was a woman – well, I thought she’d refuse
housekeeper
. I thought she probably had.
“Uh-huh. And, what, that includes Jacey, does it? Coming with the suite, and being exclusive?”
Oh. Oops. Apparently that was my out-loud voice. Yesterday must’ve taken more out of me than I’d realised. Including my tact, my good judgement, my good manners. Either that or I was counting on my Aspect to intervene, but sadly I’d left that on the floor upstairs.
Weirdly, it didn’t seem to matter. Her first response was a stiff silence, the pure professional, remembering her badge and her position; but that didn’t last. It was followed by a smile that didn’t flicker so much as flare, that was pure wickedness and not at all Savoy for the brief moment that I saw it.
She said, “Actually, no. It was the other way around: first Jacey, then the job. I... was somewhere else, before. He put me in here.”
He might have found her the place, but she got to keep it – I could see – by being very, very good at what she did. No doubt she’d have a manager, someone she reported to, who’d be in charge of all Savoy/Overworld interactions; she was young yet, but in five years, I was willing to bet, she’d have that job. Maybe not so many, maybe she wouldn’t wait so long.
I did briefly consider being nasty again, out loud again, something about how Jacey making a servant of her was somehow a promotion – but my heart wasn’t in it, and the words died with the impulse. I liked her too much already, to want to sting that sharply.
She really was very, very good at what she did. Making random women like her, enough to be polite? Yes, that would be a part of what she did.
It could simply be true, anyway, that thought I might have stung her with. Some of the places he might have found her, the things she might have been doing – yes, this could be a promotion. Better than that. This could be a rescue. Even it it meant picking up Jacey’s filthy clothes and doing his laundry for him.
His and hers, whichever random woman he’d brought with him...
“This way, now,” she said. “It may not look like it, but this is the VIP exit.”
She led me through a staff door, hidden behind another mirror. I was expecting to feel like Alice stepping through the glass, finding a completely other world the other side; but not so much, actually. It didn’t seem that different. Broad corridor, soft lights, soft carpet underfoot. The doors had people’s names on them instead of numbers, Mr This and Mrs That, but even so. Everything still said high-end hotel. You could still positively smell the money.
Again, that feral smile from Julie. She knew just what I was thinking. “It should be seedier than this, right? What the public don’t see: cramped quarters, bare brickwork, sordid conditions. But the public do see this, that’s the point. At least our public do, our guests. Our favoured guests. We used to take them through the kitchens, but... Well. That’s no way to treat the super-rich. So the last renovation, this happened. The managers got an upgrade, and nobody has to tread in anything nasty. Not that we have anything nasty, you understand: not in the Savoy. Not any more. Everything got an upgrade.”
It didn’t really matter whether I believed her or not, whether she was telling the truth or not. Maybe she was just being properly corporate, but I didn’t imagine I’d get the chance to catch her out. I didn’t imagine I’d be coming back.
Goodbye, Jacey.
Again.
She was still reading my mind, apparently. “Did you leave him a note?”
“Uh, no.” I was a bit ashamed of that, and a bit defensive. I wasn’t sure which was worse, to sneak away without a word or leave a Dear-John letter on the mantelpiece. After a moment, I said that, all of that in my out-loud voice; and then, “I was kind of hoping you’d say goodbye for me.”
Help him understand. If he needs the help. I’m sure you’d do that, it’s probably part of your job.
“And to Reno too, tell her I’m sorry I can’t stay to help with the clean-up, but...”
“But you’re a part of the problem, not a part of the solution. Quite. If you stay, something else will come, and it can only be an escalation.”
It occurred to me, a little belatedly, that I was being hustled out of here. Certainly this was a part of her job. As long as I stayed with Jacey, I was a guest, and she and everyone here would do everything they could to protect me. As soon as I started to leave – well. For the hotel’s sake, for Jacey’s and everyone’s, the sooner I was gone the better. She’d do everything she could to speed that happy moment.
That was fine by me. Two minds with but a single thought. Even when she went on, “You do realise, though, that Jacey’s going to be coming after you? As soon as he wakes up?”
“Not before breakfast.” But yes, of course I did. That was fine too. Of course it was. “If there’s one thing I’ve grown good at over the years, it’s keeping ahead of Jacey.”
She eyed me askance, and said, “That was when you didn’t want him to catch up with you.”
Ouch. Not just askance, astute with it. Even so...
“Even so,” I said determinedly. “Try to misdirect him if you can, distract him, anything.” Not that I have much of a martyr complex, but – well. Maybe a bit. There was this total turn-around in my head. I used to be all about protecting myself from him, I thought I had to do that; now I just wanted to protect him from me, my influence, what was coming after me. What I’d done. One long day, one too-short night wasted mostly in sleeping: twenty-four hours was enough to turn me around, but the end result put me exactly back where I’d started. Needing distance still, between him and me.
Making a gift of him, apparently, as if he really were still mine to give away.
This time it was the professional smile she gave me, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. “I’ll do my best,” she said, which wasn’t enlightening either. I didn’t know whether to feel encouraged, or dissolve in a burning, blistering, boiling lava of jealousy and hatred. One or the other, and it was quite hard to choose.
“Here we are,” she said, opening a door and leading me out into a private underground garage. The car that waited there looked like a perfectly standard black cab. “We find they attract less attention than a limousine,” she went on smoothly. “The driver will take you anywhere you want to go. Shetland, if you want to go that far. And we’ll charge it to Mr Cathar.” In context, that meant Jacey’s dad. Which did at least give me a flicker of pleasure, even if it wasn’t enough to lift the gloom that gripped me; and she said it with not so much as the hint of a conspiratorial wink, and I wanted to applaud, if only that wouldn’t spoil the effect.
“Thanks. Um, it had better be Heathrow, then, put an ocean between us.” Jacey, and Jordan, and Oz: none of them would be expecting that.
Her eyebrow flickered. “Passport?” She knew I didn’t have one on me; she’d been through all my pockets.
“Stashed at the airport,” I said. “Just in case I ever had to cut and run.”
She nodded. “Good luck, then. Here” – her card, pressed into my hand – “keep in touch. I can be a point of contact, if you need it.”
“Good. Thanks...”
And the car door slammed, and we were away.
CHAPTER NINE
T
HE LITTLE TWIST
of road in front of the Savoy is famously the only street in England where you have to drive on the right. I kept quiet while he did that, let him concentrate until we pulled out into the Strand; then I leaned forward, tapped on the glass and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Make it London City Airport, will you?”
Julie might work for the Savoy, she might have discretion tattooed on her soul; she still worked for the Cathars on a daily basis, and she still harboured a soft spot for Jacey. And no, I was not about to trust her. One scenario played out in my head, where we rolled up to Heathrow and I stepped out of the cab and there was Jacey to meet me, forewarned and sneakily come ahead on the Tube. And there was a crow overhead to spot us, what more likely than aerial surveillance at an airport? And then something devastating fell upon us both, all because I’d trusted Julie...
No. Distraction, misdirection, all the tricks I knew. While I was still this close, all the lies I could tell.
“Got another passport stashed there, have you, love?”
“As it happens, yes.” This might look like a regular London cab, but; he might look like a regular London cabbie, but. I’ve read enough spy fiction to know that you never take the first that offers. He might be working for the Savoy or for the Cathars, or both; he might be working for anyone.
He might be a truthsayer. I was going to be very careful, just in case. As it happens, I have passports stashed at various airports, in various names. Just in case.
Then I started in on breakfast, my best excuse not to talk at all. Warm flaky pastries and hot strong coffee: I chewed and slurruped with a kind of honest greed – not a word of a lie, even when I wasn’t saying anything – while the streets of the city unwound around us, with Jacey – I hoped! – left further and further behind.
If he tugged at my heart like a fish on a line, well. Let it unreel. All the way.
He wasn’t the only one, and I’d run from Jordan yesterday, and it had hurt just as much. Today was Jacey’s turn, that was all.
Jacey’s and mine. It was always my turn.
Gods, but I was sick of running.
B
RIEFLY,
I
DID
think about Shetland. Or heading north, at least, and a long way north. One cab was hard to pick out from the air, hard to tell from another; I might be safe from crow-spies, and I could get a good long way and know that the driver wasn’t ratting me out. Except that he’d need toilet breaks, and I could hardly frisk him for a phone before he vanished into the gents, out of sight and out of my control. And his cab might have an electronic tracer in any case, something beeping even now in Julie’s private office to tell her just exactly where we were.